In the South, folks have told stories from their front porches for eons, most of them tall. And more often than not, they will end the tale with, “I kid you not, this is a true story!” Now, I don’t know if it’s the heat, the religion, our history of hysteria, or our hysterical history, but the place breeds peculiar natives. With this many peculiar people on one land mass, peculiar happenings are just part of the landscape. “This—is a true story.” This just means, if you’re a Yankee, and you think what I’ve just told you couldn’t possibly have happened, then think again. ’Cause this shit might not happen in Bangor, Maine, but you can bet your sweet ass it happens here.
There is a brand of mind control called the Silva Method that’s been around since the sixties. Developed by a pseudoscientist from Europe, it entails whipping yourself into a state of alpha where, through creative visualization, you can accomplish anything: write the Great American Novel, climb the corporate ladder, heal your body from disease or—my favorite—heal someone else’s body for them. You can imagine my enthusiasm when I saw there would be a class taught in Mobile, an hour away.
It’s really very simple: One sits on the edge of his or her bed every morning upon rising. This is where the magic happens. The first week is preparation. One starts the day by counting backward from fifty—slowly—in complete and utter silence. That’s it. For the first week.
But then…you pick what you want to do—and you picture it—eyes closed. This puts you in alpha. For the second week.
Then, as soon as you feel comfortable, you tilt your head up, keeping your visual intact, but your eyes closed. Tina and I were told that this initially makes most people feel light-headed, like someone kicked the feet out from under them. And it was no different for us.
So pay attention, ’cause now you’re ready for the big guns: TRANSFER YOUR VISION TO THE LEFT.
So. That’s:
This is where things get a little dicey, and frankly, from a storytelling point of view, I have no yardstick to measure any of it against. So this is exactly what happened:
I was hoping to get the morning paper before Puffy got up and off her stoop. Instead, I find her standing on the grass below our front porch steps, top lip aquiver. “Hello, Puffy,” I say, kneeling slowly to pick up the weekly edition of The Dixie. “You ugly little motherfucker.”
“HEEEEERE, PUFFY-PUFFY-PUFFY!” Jewel Ann hollers, making a beeline for me and the miserable little Yorkie before I turn quickly and head back up the steps like my pants are on fire. “Phil!” Jewel Ann shrieks and I grudgingly turn around, bracing myself for another acid reflux anecdote. “What was the counting this morning?”
I pull my robe close around me to prevent any awkward surprise appearances. “Huh?”
Jewel Ann scoops up Puffy, checking the pooch’s ragged little nails. “I heard counting this morning. Sounded like counting—coming from this direction. A man, best I could tell. Loud, no voice I knew. Sounded like somebody counting backward. Did you hear it?”
Since Tina and I were the only two who took the class and, so far, hadn’t shared any of the details with Joe nor anyone else, I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Since the two of us would have been counting in silence, as instructed, all I could offer Jewel Ann was a weak “Hu-uh” before going back inside.
Later, while reporting the story to the other members of my family, there was no explanation. No one seemed particularly spooked by the tale. It was just this creepy, crazy story that I’m sure in my later years will disappear completely from my radar. But I hope like hell it doesn’t.