I had always believed that unlikely people were found only in unlikely places, but my experiences at the beginning of the summer after high school graduation conclusively proved me wrong. The mundane, it seems, often walks shoulder to shoulder with the arcane.

On the day after graduation, my best friend Geoffrey dragged me over to Monk, an unextraordinary local bar that was accustomed to admitting anyone with a five o'clock shadow, even if that shadow had taken three days and an afternoon to grow. As was typical with my friend, he was soon lost somewhere in the shadows with someone, most likely a woman he'd only met since walking in the door. Such was not usually my luck, though, and so I sat at the bar counter, ice water in hand, trying to hold the attention of a cute Asian girl whose long, straight, black hair acted as a red flag to my hormones. She'd float by and chat and then would be off, like a butterfly tittering around a field of flowers. It wasn't very satisfying.

After she flitted off for the third or fourth time, there were empty stools on both sides of me, so I just sipped my ice water and took in the music--a fine mosaic of oldies from the Sixties and Seventies that was thankfully less than deafening. I was a little tired and as I hadn't made any progress with Madame Butterfly, I wanted some company.

So when a striking looking fellow took the seat next to me and ordered a glass of red wine, I was happy. I say "striking" because although you see people sporting the sort of look he had, they almost never pull it off as well as he did. He was obviously an aging hippie, probably a veteran of the flower power days who, after thirty or so years of refinement, had at last evolved a demeanor that was polished yet low-key enough to be acceptable--even respectable--but still enriched with a sparkle of dangerous eccentricity.

He wore his hair long, about halfway down his back, neatly bound in a ponytail. A shiny metallic color, it gave one the impression he had blanketed his head with a coat of silver spray paint just before walking in the door. He was lean and wiry, like some good boxers I've seen, and was clothed in a plain black T-shirt and blue jeans.

But it was his face that really caught my notice, though I only saw it for a second or two as he sat down, and then studied it in profile for a while before we actually spoke. It was the sort of face one imagines a great mystic must have, or perhaps a well aged model. His forehead was high, creased by a few thin lines. His nose was strong but well shaped, the jaw square and clean-shaven, and his eyes a beautiful fluorescent blue that probably would have glowed if the lights had been turned out.

He seemed a quiet sort, as if the world inside him were bigger and more deserving of attention than anything that might lie around him. It made me think for an instant of how vainly we try to distract ourselves, and how miserably unsuccessful we usually are. As such thoughts are not run of the mill in a place like Monk's, I think they were what prompted me to speak to him.

"Hi," I said, sort of weakly, "I'm Richard. So what kind of things are you into?"

The bartender had already served the man's red wine. Without saying anything, he reached out for the glass and took a long, delicate sip. Replacing the glass on the bar counter without releasing his hand from it, he turned his head slowly and seemed to look right through me with those eyes. I experienced a sudden itching sensation in the back of my throat and I swallowed. I felt cold. The beautiful Asian girl sat down on the other stool beside me, but I hardly noticed her.

"What am I into?" he said, as if he were not ordinarily asked questions and was amused by the novelty of the experience. He nodded knowingly and asked me, "Let's find out first what you're into."

Although I found having my question thrown back at me without an answer a bit annoying, I felt somehow relieved. "What am I into?" I asked myself, almost not understanding the smile that slowly spread itself across his face at this third repetition of my question. "I like Asian culture and Zen, rock climbing, classical music--anything new and interesting, really. Science."

He nodded again, somewhat patronizingly, and asked in a quiet voice, barely audible over the din, "So what's the most interesting thing that ever happened to you?"

"Oh, maybe the time I took mushrooms. That was pretty wild."

"Uh-huh," he agreed. "And what was that like?"

He asked the question just as a break in the music came along and I heard him then, plainly, for the first time. If molasses could speak, it would sound like that--an infinitely smooth, bass growl of a voice. I wanted him to say something more just so I could listen to him, but suddenly realized he'd asked me a question and I was stalling.

"It was kind of like the world blowing up and folding in on itself," I said. "Or, like an old memory you forgot and then it’s there." I wanted to say more but I got stymied looking into those deep blue wells that happened to be his eyes. I had a fleeting, almost erotic sense of drowning, then his voice brought me back.

"So," he said, "I guess you're a pretty open minded young man."

"I suppose," I answered, trying to sound humble.

"Do you know anything about UFOs?"

Somewhat startled by such an out-of-the-blue question, I said stupidly, "You mean unidentified flying objects?"

He smiled. "Yeah, those things."

"Well, I did a lot of reading on UFOs back in junior high school. Never saw one, though, but I've met people who have."

"Would you like to see one?"

"Sure, but--" I snickered. "But that's hardly the kind of thing you can just arrange, like you're going to a movie or something. I mean, nobody even knows what they are. Some of them, at least."

"Oh, don't worry. I know what they are. And I can arrange for you to see one. Or several."

I then had the thought he was trying to lure me into a prank or hoax of some kind, like he needed a guinea pig to pull one over on. "Is this some kind of joke?" I asked.

"No, it isn't."

"Then you tell me about yourself," I said.

"Okay, then. Let's just say I'm a researcher into the paranormal. A UFOlogist--someone who studies UFOs as a professional discipline. People see things they can't understand. Sometimes I see them. I take pictures--when I can--and investigate. And I write. Things researchers do." He sipped his wine with a what-do-you-think-of-that look on his face.

"Have you published?"

"Yeah, but not my most interesting stuff. Some of the stuff I have would get me on government lists nobody would ever want to be on. And with nasty consequences."

"What sort of consequences?"

"Well, put it this way: how'd you like to be tracked by the CIA the rest of your life? I've known good people--researchers--who got blacklisted for efforts to publish sensitive work."

"And what happened then?"

"They got harassed. They couldn't get a job or loan or anything else normal people take for granted. You know, we all have to eat, and the Feds have lots of ways of making you feel uncomfortable."

"So what then, is there some sort of conspiracy or cover up?" I asked, starting to think this was sounding a little far fetched.

"Put it this way, there are lots of things the government doesn't want the little guy on the street to know. 'Cause if he did know--well, let's just say the soft stuff would hit the fan in a really bad way. The Cuban missile crisis would look like a poker game by comparison."

"Why? What's the big secret?"

"If you saw, you'd know."

"Well, why would you want to show me? Why not the bartender or some poor Joe in a 7-11?"

He rotated on his stool ninety degrees to face me head on. I flinched back, expecting to get blasted for being a smart-ass.

Instead, he flashed me another patronizing smile, and said, "Your karma, I guess. Call it my whim that tonight I should let you in on this most sensitive matter. You see, people like you or me can't write about these things. Not if we value our asses, that is. But people should know. They should definitely know. If I thought'd be helpful, I'd stand in front of the White House with a big sign telling Captain Bill that aliens were coming to kidnap his daughter and Sox the cat, too, and that all the secret service guys in the world wouldn't help him worth shit. But what would happen to me if I did that?"

I nodded my head, stunned into silence by the urgency in his voice. "They'd drag you off to a hospital, I guess."

"Or worse."

"So how do you propose to show me a UFO?" I asked, wanting to get back to business.

"I'll take you up--"

Just then Geoffrey came over to the bar counter and sat next to me. It appeared the Asian girl had left without my noticing.

"So what's up?" he asked. "Ready to go?"

He saw my companion and nodded to him, extending his hand. "Hi, I'm Geoffrey."

The two shook and the man nodded. "Carl. Hi."

"Wow, I'm sorry," I chimed in. "I hadn't even asked your name. Mine's Richard."

"Okay, Richard," and he extended his hand to me for a shake.

"So, do you think you could tell Geoffrey about all this.... uh.... stuff?" I gave Geoffrey a condescending pat on the shoulders.

"You could both come, if you like. But there will be one important stipulation."

"Wai-wai-wai-wait," Geoffrey intoned, his hands pleading for a slowdown. "What're you all talking about?"

"Believe it or not, UFOs," I said with a self-mocking roll of the eyes.

"Huh?"

"Would you like to see a UFO, Geoffrey?" Carl asked, sounding like a salesman making a pitch.

Geoffrey gave him a wry grin, then glanced at me. "What's he been drinking, Rich?"

"Red wine," I answered. "Now let's hear what he has to say. You were telling us Carl...."

"As I was saying, I will take the two of you in my car up to a spot I know in the Sierras. There you can experience something you'll never forget. Only there is one proviso: I consider it impossible for most people to deal maturely with the shock of a genuine close encounter, so to soften the experience you have to have a little, shall we say, medicinal help. Since you've already had some experience with them, you'll need to take some mushrooms."

"Are you serious?" I said, a bit let down.

Geoffrey, still confused, butted in. "Rich, could you at least tell me about this guy before we take off in a space ship with him?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but Carl stopped me with a wave of his hand.

"May I?" he asked.

I motioned that he should have the honors of informing my friend and he continued. "I'm a researcher into the paranormal, Geoffrey. Specifically, a UFOlogist--someone who studies UFOs. As I was telling Richard here, I can arrange for you gentlemen to have what is referred to as a close encounter. If you've got the balls for it, that is." He cast us an expectant glance and downed the last of his wine.

"And we've got to drop some mushrooms?" Geoffrey asked, still sounding doubtful and unimpressed.

"Yeah, but you should know, since as Richard here tells me you've already tried them, you don't lose track of reality any more than, say, if you do pot. A little sensory distortion and mental expansion, sure, but you know what's happening."

"Okay, okay. Then we'll go ahead and do it that way." I looked at Geoffrey. "Are you in with me?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

"Oh, hey, does your brother still have that stash of mushrooms he picked?" Geoffrey's bother was a real acidhead and on the rare occasions when we did some experimentation of our own, he was always our supplier. He was the only person we knew who could consistently pick his own mushrooms, both edible and psychotropic, without landing himself in an ER for a stomach pump.

"Far as I know. I don't think he'd mind passing us some."

I turned back to Carl. "So when do we do it?"

"Are you free....say....Friday evening?"

"Sure," I said, and Geoffrey seconded me.

"Okay then." Carl took a scrap of paper from his back pocket and a pen from his breast pocket and proceeded to write something down. He handed it to me and I read:

Carl Willitz 293-8998

"So, Mr. Willitz I presume..." I said, and wrote out my number for him. "Are you going to call us?"

"Friday afternoon."

"Sounds like a plan," I said, and we all shook hands, paid our tabs, and headed out of the bar. Once in the parking lot, I watched Mr. Willitz stride off among the cars--in order to find his own, I assumed. Glancing ahead momentarily, I spotted my dusty Corolla and then turned my head again in the direction Carl had gone.

I didn't see him. Not anywhere. Even though I stopped to survey the half-filled parking lot--Geoffrey asking me all the while what in hell I was doing--I couldn't spot him. Nor were there any cars leaving the lot. It was a dark, overcast night, yes, but lights from nearby establishments and one large parking lot light not too far from our car made it easy to see. He couldn't have gotten lost in the shadows that easily--I guessed. Despite the existence of any number of explanations, the experience of seeing him there and then suddenly not seeing him gave me an unsettled feeling.

I told Geoffrey what had happened as we got into our car, but he seemed to think little of it and so I shut up. By the time I dropped Geoffrey off, I'd stopped thinking about the whole thing and just wanted to get home and go to bed.

* * * * * * *

Friday afternoon rolled around and I was back from job hunting, waiting for Carl's call. It came at 4:45 and he asked directions to our home and told me to make sure Geoffrey was ready to go.

Right after an early dinner alone--much to my mother's displeasure--Carl came by and off we went. I had to fend off a few suspicious questions from Mom, but it wasn't too much of a hassle--"He's just a musician," I told her--and soon we were on our way to get Geoffrey.

Once the three of us were together, we started into the mountains. It was a pleasant enough drive. The road Carl took rose quickly through the foothills into fairly rugged, densely wooded terrain. We learned that Carl in fact was a musician, and he played a tape by his band. It had a smooth, jazz-fusion sound that helped one settle into the seats and just feel good watching the trees and rocks roll by.

We didn't talk too much, even though I had lots of questions. A lazy, comfortable feeling had seeped into me and I wasn't in the mood for conversation. Geoffrey seemed similarly overcome, but he was a little more talkative than I was. We learned that Carl was fifty-one years old, had a doctorate in cognitive psychology, and had written a number of books on UFOs and paranormal phenomena--"What can be written." He was a free-lance writer, unmarried, and floated mostly among circles of spiritualists and paranormal researchers.

Night slowly fell and as we gained elevation the early evening warmth turned into a refreshing coolness. The roads here were sparsely traveled and the dark forests thick and impenetrable. For the first time since meeting Carl I began by degrees to become aware of the extremely unusual, even eerie, situation I had landed myself in.

My mind began to churn out increasingly wild and unpleasant speculation about what we were actually going to see, and it struck me as odd that I'd never bothered to ask specifically about that. I guess it was because I'd assumed Carl would just tell us to "wait and see." Now though, as we became further and further removed from civilization and any chance of help or assistance from others--should we need it--faded, I was wondering if I really wanted to see anything special at all. My mind seemed unwilling to accept any middle-ground: either I felt I would end up very disappointed and consider the whole outing a waste of time, or I was in for the fright of my life, something that might send me home quivering like a mass of gelatin and unable to function for the next couple weeks.

Just then I remembered the mushrooms Geoffrey carried in his bag. I figured we were this far committed and had to go through with it, so I blurted out, "When do you want us to take the mushrooms?"

Carl, who sat alone in the front seat, looked into the rear view mirror. I saw the dim reflection of his face there and the dark wells of his eyes. "Now's okay. We're getting close to the meeting place."

The words "meeting place" jarred me and I wondered for a second just whom we were meeting. Carl had never mentioned anyone else being involved.

Oh yeah, I thought, aliens. I tried smiling to myself, though it really wasn't very funny.

I nudged Geoffrey. "Get out the mushrooms."

Geoffrey took them out of a small plastic bag and handed me about a gram's worth. I felt some anticipation and excitement as I popped the spongy fungus into my mouth. I rolled it around on my tongue, bathing it in saliva and letting the bitter tasting plant slowly dissolve and trickle down into my stomach. Some people find the taste of psychotropic mushrooms practically unendurable, and I've heard of some people vomiting. To me, though, they were not so bad, and I'd never had any troubles.

About forty minutes later I began to feel the effects. Geoffrey was a little slower in coming on, but a few exchanged glances and an easy laugh let us both know when the drug had taken effect in the other.

The experience of so-called magic mushrooms varies from person to person, and different species of the fungus can also have slightly different effects. But what it basically amounts to is a heightening of the powers of perception and observation. Things routinely seen that have lost their interest suddenly become wonderfully fascinating, as if you had been given an infant's eyes. I always wanted to be out in a forest or on a mountain, looking, playing, and rolling about laughing.

Our enjoyable ride became even more so. The moon was transformed into a dazzling, naked white orb that I felt so close to I could almost reach out and touch it.

Enthusiasm for everything percolated through us and the tape of Carl's band, which we heard now for the second time, was transformed into a hallowed, ethereal sounding composition. Soon, though, we were both itching to get out and explore the evening world with our newly awakened eyes.

"When are we going to be there?" Geoffrey asked impatiently.

"We're there," came the voice from up front.

The car slowly rounded a corner and then pulled off the shoulder onto a gravel embankment. Under the light of the gibbous moon we could see what appeared to be a meadow spreading out below the road.

Not waiting for any further words from our driver, we leapt out of the car and down the hill, bounding into the meadow and stopping here and there to examine whatever caught our attention. We both laughed like little kids, picking up rocks and studying them under the moonlight. Then we heard Carl call from the top of the hill.

"Listen up, gentlemen!" We ceased our frolicking and stood in the knee-deep grass peering up at his dim silhouette about fifty yards off. "Just stay down there. I'll be here at the car. Arrival time is just five minutes off."

"Who's coming for dinner?" I yelled back.

"Friends!"

We saw him open the car door and the interior light came on. His dark form sat on the passenger's side, feet on the ground.

I quickly turned and called Geoffrey to me. "Look at the stars!" I said, and proceeded to nestle down in the tall grass, head on my hands, gazing up at the vast spread of the heavens in happy wonder. Under the influence of the mushrooms, even the itch of the grass on the back of my neck and its coolness on my bare arms became exquisite sensations that my mind burrowed into in its quest to feel more and more.

My eyes surveyed the sky, looking for constellations.

After a minute or two, Geoffrey nudged me. "Look at that star over there."

He pointed off to a section of sky on our right.

I looked for something unusual, then saw it. "It's moving," I noted.

"Maybe it's a flying saucer," he said, and started laughing uncontrollably.

I gazed intently at the little point of light. It was about twice the size of an average star, looking something like what Venus would if it decided to cast off its moorings and go roving the heavens.

"Geoffrey, it's getting bigger," I said. "And.... I.... think.... it's coming this way."

I rose up on my elbows.

"No way!" he said, jumping to his feet. I also got to my feet, and we stood shoulder to shoulder, watching.

There was now no doubting that the thing was descending toward us. As we stared with rapt, drug-enhanced attention, the tiny ball of light steadily expanded until it appeared as a vast, brilliant sphere, swallowing the moon and bathing everything around us in its luster. The last thing my eyes caught before it engulfed the sky and everything else in its light was a bright flash off the car windows. I had a sudden, wrenching thought that Carl was abandoning us.

Not a sound issued from the huge craft and only a slight breeze preceded it. Then it stopped, suspended in the air above us like a miniature sun.

It was impossible to say how high above the field the object was, for the light and the thing itself seemed one and the same, and looking up I could see only an awful glare which was yet, strangely, not painful to the eyes. There was no way to estimate its dimensions.

I was not afraid. Intense interest was uppermost in my mind, an attitude that has to be credited to the mushrooms. Later, when I remembered Carl's words to the effect that hardly anyone could deal reasonably with a close encounter experience, I was thankful for his foresight.

I did not move, nor did I feel any heat from the object; in fact, my body was quite cold, as if I'd been lying in a snow bank. I realized I was shivering, yet still I did not think of moving or attempting to flee. The cold was just another sensation. Only when my teeth began to chatter did I want to leave.

I turned to look for Geoffrey, and saw him on the ground on all fours, as though he were looking for something. He made no sound, and the whole night, I then noticed, was silent--silent, and lit up as if by a hundred frozen suns.

I wanted to go, to stop the experience, and then I felt as if floating in water. I looked down and saw the dark grass, a foot or two below my feet, receding slowly. I kicked my legs and reached for Geoffrey, but touched nothing. Tracer streaks flashed from my arms--a drug effect--and all my actions had the feeling of being under water or floating through some macabre dream. Slowly, irresistibly, I was drawn upwards into the terrible glow of the ship. It was then I thought I must have been hallucinating.

Maybe I passed out; I remember coming to and reaching for the covers of my bed. But when my eyes blinked, there was no bed, only blackness. And still I touched nothing. Like an astronaut in space I had no sensation of weight or up and down and just hung there, stiffly, waiting in the emptiness.

"Geoffrey," I called out, first softly, then louder.

There was neither echo nor any sense of a sound going anywhere. My voice, however loudly I called, gave the impression of stopping at my lips. Only in my head did I hear anything.

I shouted several times, at first with the thought of calling Geoffrey, then just to indulge in the unique sensation of talking inside my head. I hugged myself, tried to walk or swim, but had no sense of going anywhere. I wanted to feel something, anything, even pain, to be somewhere.

Suddenly remembering where I was, I thought I had to find Geoffrey. I pinched myself and a sudden snap, like metal striking wood, sounded in my skull. A light flashed on.

I lay on the floor of an endless open space. Lines criss-crossed the floor, marking off squares about a yard long on either side. Wherever I looked I saw them, stretching off into the unseen distance. A grunt sounded somewhere behind me.

Turning, I saw Geoffrey standing about twenty yards off, facing away from me. I called his name, and was glad to hear my voice in the normal manner. He didn't turn, so I guessed he hadn't heard me. I yelled again. I got up and began to run toward him across the dimly lit floor, taking in almost three squares at a stride.

Like a ballerina, I sprang off the floor and flew in a slow, graceful arc, landing gently. With another long stride I sprang again.

But no matter how vigorously I jumped or fast I ran, the figure of Geoffrey came no closer. I stopped running and tumbled in a pile on the floor. I looked up and saw the figure turn slowly, and the face swam out of the shadows.

It was not Geoffrey. Whoever he was, he wore nothing save a filthy, torn loincloth. His skin was tattered as if by repeated lashes from a whip, and on his bent back he bore an enormous wooden cross. From his brow, dark red rivulets of blood ran down, running over his cheeks and dripping off his beard.

It cannot be real, I thought.

The man's mouth moved, opening and closing soundlessly. Either he was chewing something or trying to speak, but I heard only the thudding of my heart.

Without warning the floor began to tilt upward. The man was now somewhere below me, standing or falling I could not tell, and I was plummeting toward him. Air flew into my mouth and I gasped, trying to exhale.

Then I touched something, warm and yielding, and slid into it. It was the man, the crucified Christ. I was slipping into the raw, living wetness under his skin. It was cool and warm at the same time, and in my groin I felt a heat and pressure as though I had an erection. I alternately tensed and relaxed in long, sighing shudders.

Great burning bubbles of heat began to burst up through my back and neck and head. I felt an excruciating itch in my wrists and ankles and knew intuitively it was the nails thrust through my flesh that pinned me to the cross.

My eyes, until now staring blankly up into the empty light, presently saw a whole world full of cities and plains, mountain peaks and pale blue sky. I hung in space, so high I could see the planetary curve, so low even the comings and goings of the tiniest forms of life did not escape my vision. I had become a center point for every existing thing.

To describe all the sensations and emotions I experienced at that moment would be impossible, though fear was not one of them. Rather, an unquenchable sense of love for the mystery of life engulfed me to where I began to cry, so filled was I. If I had burst and died in that instant, I know I would have done so happily. And in my body there was the feeling that die I might, as violent convulsions and burning wracked my limbs repeatedly. My joints jerked and ached as though I were being drawn and quartered and every limb ripped from its socket. Yet the pains, though I felt them, seemed not to be mine but another's, for whom I bore them. They were like something done to a body I merely viewed with detached interest, as a scientist examines a beetle.

This sense of empathy steadily gathered like a torrent all the billion sensations that can be experienced in the world of the living. I felt the splurt and crunch of a beetle as it was crushed under a tire--and I was that beetle. I felt a child's sharp, fearful pain as its tooth was extracted--and I was that child. I knew the heart-rending pains and grief over the deaths of countless husbands, wives, children, parents and friends, and I understood then that in every instant countless beings suffered countless torments as they winked in and out of existence.

And I felt too their joys and loves and pleasures: ecstatic copulations, triumphs and conquests, the appeasement of long hunger, the shattering joy of giving birth. The whole living fury of every being that fed and wandered in every realm thundered through this body which was mine but now encompassed the universe. I had become everything, or everything had become me.

* * * * * * *

I blinked into the dirt. My tongue felt stiff and dry with dust. I tried to spit but could not. Lifting my head slowly from the ground, I viewed a midnight black field and overhead the familiar stars of early summer. The moon had moved only a short space in its low course across the sky; apparently, it was not so much later than when I had last seen it.

Slowly I rose, tottering, to stand again on my feet. I coughed and wiped my face with the back of my hand. My muscles were sore, I was dazed, and my eyes felt dry and tired. I could not detect any lingering effect from the mushrooms.

Looking about me I saw a dim figure to my left, also standing, which I supposed to be Geoffrey. It had better be Geoffrey, I thought.

I called to the figure, and it turned, wobbling, almost falling. We gazed at each other through the blackness. "Yeah, it's me," Geoffrey said, "You all right, Rich?"

"I think so." I started in his direction, carefully measuring each step. We met and clasped hands, held each other's shoulders. I looked into his eyes, unable to say anything for a moment. Then I told him, "God, have I got a story for you."

"That makes two of us," he said, grinning.

Saying nothing more, we trudged together toward the hill where the road was.

Carl's car was dimly visible on the hilltop, but when we got there, he wasn't around.

"Let's just get in and wait for him," I suggested.

Sitting down I suddenly felt an enormous weight of fatigue, and my eyes closed of themselves.

Waking with a start, I saw the interior light was on and Carl's face staring over the seat at me. "You survive?" he said.

I grunted affirmatively and shook Geoffrey's arm. I wondered where Carl had been but was too tired to start a conversation.

"Let's go," he said.

Without further ado we set off, driving unhurriedly down the mountain. We didn't talk. I faded in and out of sleep. Geoffrey appeared unconscious the whole way.

I vaguely remember getting out of the car at my house just as dawn was peeking at the world and saying goodbye to Carl and the sleeping Geoffrey. Everyone in our home was asleep and I went directly to my bedroom and did the same. Never in my life had I been so tired.

* * * * * * *

The next day, a Saturday, Geoffrey and I hung out in the afternoon at a Chinese restaurant for a buffet lunch and later at a park. We'd both slept late, but felt refreshed, even better than usual. Talking about our experiences of the previous night, we found we agreed--with but one exception--on the sequence of events as well as on what we'd seen or hallucinated.

This one exception, which was intriguing and disconcerting at the same time, had occurred to Geoffrey just prior to his confrontation with the Jesus figure. He had seen not me, but three, tall, stick-like figures with large heads and eyes and what appeared to be webbed hands. They had been maybe ten feet tall, he estimated. After approaching and almost touching him, they had vanished, replaced by the crucified man.

All else was as I had seen it.

Our main point of contention, however, was whether or not the visions and sensations had been drug-induced hallucinations or something else. Geoffrey felt certain none of it was the effect of the mushrooms. "I've never hallucinated on mushrooms, Richard," he swore. I, on the other hand, considering the utterly fantastic and unprecedented nature of the experience, was unwilling to admit it any reality.

But I conceded to Geoffrey that what he said was true: most people do not hallucinate on mushrooms, except with doses two or three times what we had ingested.

This was despite the fact that psylocibin, the active ingredient in magic mushrooms, was pharmacologically categorized as a hallucinogen. I, too, never having taken such a large dose, had never hallucinated. How, then, could I explain what we had both undergone? And even if I had hallucinated, two people, though using the same substance, would never have identical experiences.

The obvious next step was to get in contact with Carl to hear his account and whatever explanations he might offer. This we did soon enough, when he called me Sunday evening.

"Ah, hello!" I said, "we wanted to talk with you."

"Yeah, I'll bet. How about we get together next Saturday at noon? Twelve o'clock. Come over to my house." He gave me an address about twenty minutes south of town on the expressway, and I told him we'd be there. Our debriefing with the UFOlogist was thus set. It seemed our adventure had reached its climax and was now coasting towards its denouement. But that was not to be so.

* * * * * * *

Geoffrey and I departed from my house at 11:30 the following Saturday. Both of us were eager for the meeting, as neither had really been able to digest what had happened the previous week.

I had finally conceded that our "hallucinations" were in all likelihood not hallucinations, or, at least, not produced by the mushrooms. This of course left open the possibility of outside influence, though neither of us had ever had the impression he was being "doctored" with by anyone--or anything. Only Geoffrey's view of the stick figures gave any indication of what that outside influence might have been, though neither of us particularly wanted to follow that lead to its possible, very disturbing, conclusion.

In the end, all our talk boiled down to idle speculations, the chief subject of which was the nature and meaning of our shared vision. For myself I can only say the following: I've not been a churchgoer for the better part of a decade, and although I've read a few unorthodox interpretations of Jesus and his teachings (along with several on other world religions), nothing could have prepared me for what I underwent that Friday evening. It is the sort of thing that must require a lifetime to incorporate, but if it were possible to fully assimilate its meaning, one would most certainly be a better, wiser and more mature person for it.

Perhaps the vision of universal empathy that I experienced is the vision of the saints. Perhaps it is the inspiration of such lives as Mother Theresa's and Albert Schweitzer's. For how could anyone, by only believing, and without actually tasting their oneness with all other beings, live a life so free of the self that chains the rest of us to comparatively superficial lives? However strange the means by which I was brought to that vision, I am forever grateful that I was so fortunate to have it.

These questions and our musings upon them were what we expected to share with Carl that morning when we set off for a brief ride down the interstate to the smaller town where the UFOlogist had his home. I had an excellent road map in the glove compartment, and that, along with Carl's directions, made it no problem to find where he lived.

It was a small box of a house with little beyond the required four walls and a roof. The yard was noticeably unkempt even in a lower middle class neighborhood where the art of gardening and exterior decoration seemed to have been lost. The grass hadn't been cut in at least two weeks, and old, unread newspapers cluttered the front doorstep. There was no car out front on the road or in the short, uncovered driveway. I pulled up alongside the curb and we both got out.

"You didn't call before we came over?" Geoffrey asked as he walked around the car to join me in the almost knee-high grass.

"No. I didn't think we needed to."

"Well, you know how UFO junkies are," he quipped.

"No, actually I don't."

"Sometimes they just beam up," he said, and laughed at his own joke.

"Well I hope not this time. I've got better things to do than run up and down the damn freeway all day for no reason."

We came to the door. There was no porch, and you could see paint pealing off the door and shutters.

"Man, this place is a shit hole!" Geoffrey said, a bit too loudly for my liking.

"Jesus, man! Shut up! What if he's on the other side of the door?"

"Well, knock and let's find out."

I knocked and we waited. I knocked again and we waited some more. Finally Geoffrey cupped his mouth to his hands and pressed them against the window. "Hey, Carl! You in there?"

I punched his shoulder. "Man, that's fucking embarrassing."

"Well it ain't cool of him to have us come all the way down here and then decide he just can't show up at his own damn house."

"Let's go 'round back," I suggested.

"All right, but it doesn't look like he's here."

We went to the back of the house and found another door, little different from the front door except that it had a large window. Through that we could see into the kitchen, and it was evident that Carl wasn't one to give any more thought to interior decorating than he did to gardening. There was a small, white refrigerator with a box of Oreos on top, a dirty old toaster on the counter, and a shaky looking table surrounded by three chairs in the center of the room. What appeared to be a photo album lay on the table.

We knocked and then Geoffrey impulsively tried the doorknob. It wasn't locked and he started to push the door open.

"Well don't go in!" I snapped.

"Maybe he's taking a shower or something."

"You said you didn't think he was here. And I don't think he is either."

"Well we came this far, so we ought to have some fun."

I grabbed his arm. "It's called breaking and entering, you ass."

He shook me off and went in. "Just entering, no breaking," he said.

I remained at the entrance, my foot on the threshold. Geoffrey stood by the table and surveyed the kitchen. Finding nothing of interest he turned to the photo album.

After he had flipped a few of the stiff pages, each covered by six photos, I heard his low, urgent whisper: "Richard."

"What?" I asked, curious about the photo album, but unable to see any pictures clearly from where I stood.

"Jesus Christ man, get in here. Look at this!"

He sounded like it was really serious, so I stepped cautiously through the doorway and went to his side. I looked down at the photographs.

What I saw caused my breath to hiss out between half closed lips, and my eyes to peel wide in shock.

The first photo I looked at was of a bright metallic disk in a blue sky. A few tree branches poked in at the bottom of the picture. Below that was a night shot of a ball of light in what looked to be a certain, very familiar field. I could make out grass and a few trees. Several figures stood below the glowing sphere, but they were too dark to clearly discern. The third picture was by far the most disturbing, simply because it left nothing to the imagination. A tall figure, very slim, was seen in profile.

It had a large head with several apertures and a bulge on the front. The color of the thing was a light reddish tinge, like the color of some slate rocks I have seen. Its trunk was long and straight, but the picture cut it off and I couldn't see what supported it. As there was nothing in either the back or foregrounds, I had no way to judge its height.

When Geoffrey saw the picture of the figure he planted his index finger on it and said, "That's what I saw."

I swallowed and we looked at the next page. There were more figures and more ships, some on the ground, others in flight. The faces of the figures were the most difficult to look at, because ordinarily one "knows" such things are imaginary.

Now, like it or not, we knew better.

They were all human-like, but definitely not human. The heads were perhaps twice the size of a person's, relative to the neck and body. I didn't see how the neck could even support the weight. A large central sphere protruded from the front of

the head and I guessed it was an eye, though really it could have been anything. A thin slit below that was a mouth, I supposed. There were no protuberances that might have been ears, though a variety of holes that seemed able to open and close (judging by several different photos) could have been noses or ears, or anything else, for that matter. All of the figures were hairless.

The ships were sometimes just blobs of light, but always spherical or saucer shaped. There were no markings on any of them, or anything that indicated windows or doors, though a few had small structures jutting off them. Many of the craft had trees in front of them, as though the photographer--presumably Carl--had hidden in a grove and taken the photos from a distance through the trees. By that it was possible to get a rough estimate of their size. A few seemed as small as fifty yards in diameter, others stretched off the picture, perhaps several hundred yards wide.

We began to flip the pages more quickly, scanning row after row of photos and knowing all the while that ordinary people would dismiss them all as clever fakes, though we knew they were not. In some shots the unconscious bodies of people--normal people--lay on white floors, or on floors with lines in criss-crossing square patterns.

Still we turned the pages, hardly breathing, no longer caring whether or not Carl was around or would return home.

Finally we turned to the last page of the album, and as my eyes focused on the pictures there, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand upright, and a cold lump form in my stomach. I had an urge to run, but horrified fascination held me immobile.

In three clear photographs our own bodies were lying on the floor we'd each seen in our visions. Our eyes were closed, and thin tubes and metallic devices were attached to our heads and chests. Touching my own face was a webbed, reddish colored hand. It had six fingers.

I head Geoffrey's choked voice in my right ear: "Let's get the hell out of here."

As if the spell we were under had suddenly been broken, we both lurched for the door, almost falling over each other. Through the long grass, round the house to my car parked in front, we sprinted like scared rabbits. Into the car, down the road, out of that neighborhood, never looking back--our panic hardly subsided until we were cruising down the interstate. I didn't really feel calm until some thirty minutes later when our car pulled into the driveway of my own home. Only then did I remember to breathe.

* * * * * * *

This was all several weeks ago, and life has become normal again. But one never forgets something like this. It is a haunter, and I cannot vanquish the ghosts of my memory. Killing dragons might be easier.

Carl never answered our phone calls. No one ever did. Finally, about two weeks after we went to his house, a message came on the line telling us his phone had been disconnected.

We looked in the phone book and did not find his name. Information had no record of a Carl Willitz in the area. I think Geoffrey was only half kidding when he suggested we phone Missing Persons. Frankly, though, I doubt even the IRS would have had anything on him.

One thing remained, and that was to search for a sample of his claimed publications. That we eventually found, but only after scouring every used bookstore in the area. Everything he'd every written, it seemed, was out of print. Its title was Eyewitness Accounts of UFO Sightings, copyright 1986. Needless to say, we both read it. Though fascinating--at 310 pages I tore through it in two days--it of course shed no light on the present whereabouts of its author. And I am convinced no light will ever be shed on that.

In one of those comments he is apt to make from time to time, Geoffrey perfectly captured the paradoxically eerie and funny situation we were left with in regards to Carl. I think Carl himself would have enjoyed it. "Old UFOlogists never die, they just get beamed up."