Microbiome; Chapter 5: The Tower

If we could have seen it the eastern sky glowed rouge with the coming of the sun and the forest was alive with the apricot voice of a thousand song birds. Gomez and I leaned back in rickity lawn chairs, aluminum artifacts complete with broken straps from a bygone era, observing the comings and goings of the waking village. We tortured our taste buds with tasteless black coffee while we waited for that buck toothed weasel Snow.

I was still stuck in a funk from last night's debacle. Snow saw my one weakness and I felt vulnerable every time his gaze came my way. I felt he was looking into my inner workings as if he knew something about me that I didn't. And dinner was a disaster. Gomez, the social butterfly that he is, had a grand old time, ate heartily and engaged in much speculative conversation. Sometimes I envy that guy, good with people, eat anything. Me, I picked at my meal morosely. I needed real food, the kind that my gut was used to, greasy processed gruel that sticks to your ribs and bungs up your internal processes. No wonder I'm not at my best. Too much fiber would send any human off the deep end. Sure my microbiome is a non-functional mess, but it's worked for me so far.

I was mired in a meditative state gazing at the monolith that stood before me.

The tower reminded me of the cardboard tube that you are left with from a spent roll of toilet paper. It was perfectly tubular. Except for a brief spell around noon when the sun floated directly overhead the bottom was a perpetual shroud of shadow that gave me the willies. Somehow the tower's shadow was darker than that of the jungle while the top of the tower, towering above the jungle canopy and exposed forever to the wind and the elements, was a continuous glow that mimicked the colour of fire. Perplexingly the light of the equatorial sun diffused down the inner workings of the structure providing a god like radiance that never extended beyond it's glossy surface. It was a strange contrast where shadow met light, neither one daring to impinge upon the other like a felon and his moll engaging in their last chat as she is about to be locked up behind bars for a crime she didn't commit.

"What do you think that thing is made of, Gome? Its surface is completely clear and slippery smooth, like polymeric plastic or some type of epoxy resin reinforced with invisible carbon fiber. It looks to be a mold, not structural like the Eiffel Tower."

"Jim, I'm an atheist not a geologist, but I swear on the wings of the Angel Gabriel that that thing is one solid crystal hollowed out in the center like some kind of alien hornets nest. Look at it, even the stairs appear to be formed in place.

Indeed. The staircase spiraled up alongside the edge of the exterior wall. There were no visible means of support. There were no handrails and from where they sat they could see workers trundle up and down in a steady stream of activity. From a safety standpoint those stairs were an accident waiting to happen. Their insurance rates must me sky high.

"Jim, I'm not a podiatrist, I'm a fighter pilot, but what does it remind you of?

"A roll of toilet paper."

"DNA Jim, a strand of DNA. A spiral coil. The basic building block of life."

Gomez was right. I've seen hand drawn facsimiles in picture books and the similarities were eerie.

"Beautiful, isn't it amigos?" The voice startled them. They both turned. No one was there.

Microbiome: Chapter 4: A Loss of Composure

You must know those nights. The kind of nights when in the absence of all light there is nothing to see but darkness. The kind of darkness that has presence, a kind of substance that is thick and sticky so that it is almost tangible. It is the kind of darkness that presses upon you like a weight and you are aware of its heaviness. And standing immobile in that darkness you feel betrayed. You are betrayed by your own senses because it is your senses that are your instruments of navigation and right now they are next to useless.

You thought you knew the way. You thought you had a firm grasp of your surroundings. You had made a mental map. But in this darkness that is thick and sticky and heavy there is no time, no dimension, no perspective. You take baby steps and your arms wave aimlessly in front of you. Mostly it's your eyes that have let you down. And you realize, perhaps for the first time ever, how dependent you are on your eyes and how vulnerable you feel ...

Then again, maybe you've never experienced the complete and utter absence of light. Maybe you were born in a city. A modern city infused with motion and artificial light. And in this city, the city you grew up in, you have rarely, if ever, ventured past the borders of its sprawling limits. And the few times you did you never really left your life behind for you brought the city's conveniences with you. You brought portable light. Light to see in the dark. So, you can't really say you have been alone with the dark and what unknown things the darkness brings.

When night comes in the Amazon basin it comes swiftly. The sun is there, and then it's not. On this night the darkness is complete. There is no moon and the forest canopy obscures the revolving sky above and its accompaniment of twinkling stars. How do we know the stars twinkle if we cannot see them Jim wondered. He remembered seeing stars a few times in his past. They say the sailors of the great seas long ago used the stars for navigation.

Well, right now navigation was nigh on impossible. Jim and Gomez were to meet Snow in one of the thatched huts for dinner. Dinner was set for 8 and they were late. They couldn't find the damn place in the dark. Heck, they couldn't even see the tower.

"I'm a plumber not an electrician, you'd think these people would at least have torches. I can't even see my hand in front of your face." Gomez was grumpy and he felt justified. He was hungry and tired not having eaten nor slept since he commandeered that persnickety little skiff back in Cairo.

Jim was in the lead. At least he thought he was. Until his outstretched hands touched Gomez who said 'boo'. Gomez laughed. His mood shifted.

"For the sake of Saki Gomez you can be such an idiot. How did you get in front of me?"

"Jim, I'm a leader not a follower. Quit your bellyaching. Follow me."

They lurched around in the dark for what seemed an eternity. "Gome, over here, follow my voice. I just banged into something. I think it's the wall of a hut. We'll feel our way around. Maybe we find a door or at least get our bearings."

Gomez did not bother to answer.

There appeared a faint almost imperceptible light shining through the smallest of cracks in the wall that perhaps wasn't a wall. Jim stooped to look through the sliver, hardly bigger than a needle, and saw nothing but a yellowy glimmer. The crack was far too small to discern objects, but when the light wavered he startled, took a step back, bumped into something or someone and yelped. Then he jumped forward a few steps.

He turned to feel what wasn't there, hands flailing in the inky pitch straining to touch something tangible and familiar, but when he encountered naught but air he whispered a horse whisper, "Gome?"

But Gome did not answer and Jim was seized by a rising storm.

He wanted to run but couldn't. He froze. Then ran anyway. He hit the wall.    

He heard footsteps. A door opened. There stood Snow. 

"Come in Lubbock, we've been waiting. Dinner is being served."

There were two people at the table. One of them he knew.

" Gomez?"

"Hey city boy! What took you so long? I'm famished. Snow here was just telling me he'll give us a tour of the tower tomorrow. I told you I'd get us in."

Microbiome; Chapter 6; Zeus and Apollo

In the morning when a city is about to come to life at first things are quiet, in the time before the wind, and there is no cloud, and the sky, not yet blue, nor dark, but a mixture of the two that could, if you wanted, be the colour of ridiculous potential. There is potential for something each and every morning, whether we know it or not. Even death, of all things, but you and I would much prefer life, I hope.

The day's possibilities are endless, even when we have created within ourselves an unwavering routine that we adhere to like mechanical glue. But what do we call it when something out of the ordinary happens? Something unexpected. Maybe this is what we call fate. I'm sure we could call it other things, like fortune or karma, providence or God's will. I think we will, for today, stick with fate.

When the sun is ready to rise and the air is cool there is little traffic, foot or motorcar, in this most ancient of ancient cities. Doors open and faces of all shapes look out to see what kind of day this will be. Eyes look up searchingly towards the clear blue heavens and then perhaps these same eyes will come back to earth to dart back and forth to see if anything has changed overnight on unchanging streets. Mostly things remain the same.

Zeus and Apollo meet every morning at the corner where the little bakery serves hot biscuits through a little opening that we in the uncompromising West would call a window. There is no glass, but there are wooden shutters that remain closed until the biscuits are ready. The aroma of baking bread sifts out from around uneven edges where the shutters meet a time worn wall and people press in close to take in the thick yeasty scent. It was, if anything, comforting and familiar.

They were on foot, Zeus and Apollo, for they have no automobile and their motor scooter had long since died, soon thereafter it being savagely scavenged for parts by strangers, and friends, and its remaining bones left to collect dust and be slowly buried in the sands of time at the foot of a tall Akashic tree. Let the records show, they arrived at the little bakery then waited patiently in line, and when it was their turn they purchased four biscuits, two for now, two for later, and when leaving, they next stopped for coffee, rich and black and sweetened with sugar, an alchemist's concoction of bitter balanced with sweet that is a perfect metaphor for life if ever there was one, to go with their still warm biscuits, and in no hurry, continued walking down the narrow dusty streets, not saying a word, towards the dock, where they kept their little aluminum boat.

Oh, but you know what happened when they arrived at the dock, coffee in hand, biscuit in mouth. The boat was not there where it should be. Ah yes, fate has played a card, as it sometimes does in this vast and incomprehensible world of bittersweet.

Microbiome: Chapter 3, A Lachrymose Tale

Dr. Jane Grace Goodfellow had slipped into a mild depression. She was lethargic but completely functional. These days are not easy. She wrote it down, then added "I'm having a hard time."

As scientists sometimes do she kept a diary. The last entry, written only moments ago, went like this;  "I'm hungry. I think I'll go out for a hot dog. I know it's a fools journey. Nothing like living on the edge. Ha! Ha!" The exclamation points were added to show she still maintained a sense of humor.

She took the elevator down to the main floor. Thankfully the descending conveyance did not stop to let other passengers enter the elfin sized compartment. Those moments sure were awkward. Elevators were on the list of confined spaces permitting a maximum of one occupant at a time. Most people choose to ignore the recommendations.

Last week an uncomfortable situation arose when Karen and Kenzington, a young couple sweet as goats milk, were, when the elevator lurched to a halt and the door opened, revealed to be clutching one another in a rather erotic embrace and kissing through their face masks.

Idiots, kissing in a public place was a social faux pax, face mask or no face mask, and if they were caught on flash cam, well, the consequences could be consequential. Dr. Jane was even more uncomfortable when the two of them smiled, the corners of their eyes crinkling above the line of their masks, and boarded the lift. 

But that was then, and this is now and for the first time in how many days she walked through the revolving doors out onto the semi-bustling street. She stood there, rolled herself a cigarette, slipped down her mask, inhaled city air that seemed fresher than it had in ages, and began to walk.

Traffic was light, stores were shuttered, some boarded. A bus went by, mostly empty. Unconsciously and without provocation she spat on the sidewalk. The expectorate landed where she was about to place her food so she stepped over the spittle and unceremoniously strolled on. 

Three blocks down George the 'Sausage Guy' had a still booming business. Overhead was low and he was raking in the cash. Okay, booming may not be the right choice of word but he was doing alright compared to most. Competition in the form of sit in restaurants never really returned after the lockdown let up. A lot of eateries closed for good and many of those that did open never regained their clientele.

"Dr. Jane, how are ya kiddo? Haven't seen ya in a few weeks. Laying low like most of us? No bout a doubt it, times have changed. Glad to see you wearing a mask, sort a. Not like half these bozos. I got one custom. Look, see, there's a picture of a tiny guy eating a huge sausage." He points to his mask. "Get it?"

She didn't get it. Whatever. "I am well George. Hanging in there as best I can. I have to admit, some days are more difficult than others. I originally wanted to purchase a simple hot dog but have reconsidered my desires and I now crave a Sausage Extreme with all the fixings."

"Good choice Dr. Jane. Comin' right up. Say, haven't seen your geographically challenged boyfriend for over a month. 'Dats not like him. He come down with the Covid?"

Jane paused before answering. She flicked the butt. Watched it sail out into non-existent traffic. It landed on the road and smoldered a moment before the glow fizzled. "He is out of town. He left unexpectedly. I'm not exactly sure where he went. Actually, I have no idea where he went and I have not heard from him. Gomez went with him, I am sure."

"Those two are as inseparable as mustard and ketchup. Get it? Hey, you want kraut on the sausage?"

"Of course. George, tell me something. Have you ever traveled?"

Meanwhile, in another part of the city a highly leveraged chain of hot dog stands was about to go under.

George, the one man Pop stand, was soon to loose a lot of competition. It was another knife wound into the heart of the ailing economy. Shortly thereafter a bank would default and set off a chain of events unparalleled in human history.

Microbiome: Chapter 2, Introductions

I declined to take John Snow's hand. Nothing personal. It was a completely auto-atomic reaction. It's the result of virus conditioning three years in the making. I millimetered backwards to maintain standard 2 meter distance protocol and replied in an amiable fashion, " James T. Lubbock, out of Nashville, Tennessee, and this is my advisor, friend, and moral conscience Homer Gomez Yackaton from Ottawa, Quebec."

I dispensed from the pleasantries and got to the point, "so Snow, what brings you and your team here? Are you on the run from the virus?"

"Virus?" He seemed perplexed.

I thought he was putting me on. "Yeah, the virus. The one that is circling the globe decimating economies as it spreads from nation to nation creating a typical Keyenesian supply and demand shock wave and ripping apart the very fabric of our consumeristic tendencies. The world is in tatters Snow. I'm assuming that's why you are wearing the bandana?"

"Oh that, I wear it to accentuate my eyes." Without warning he yanked down the bandana and exposed a giant set of teeth that made him look like a Norwegian beaver. He was right, his eyes disappeared into the background.

Gomez whispered in my ear, "Jim, I'm a surveyor not an economist, I'll wander around the camp and see what I can dig up. You stay here and distract Snow."

That's what I liked about Gomez. Everything was black or white. He either was or wasn't, and you knew where he stood at all times. You could count on him. Unlike me.

"As I inquired, Snow, what brings you here to the Congo?

His voice wavered. At first he mumbled something about an existential quest. He was careful to characterize it as a spiritual one albeit a painful one. I thought he was being coy but it turned out he had had an epiphany back in Roswell after eating a plateful of wild mushrooms and then survived a UFO abduction at the end of the 60's. I could relate. Lost and looking for answers he took part in several studies which opened his eyes to other possibilities. Later, in Bangkok Australia he studied the precepts of an ancient scripture and undertook training to become a Buddhist monk. Shortly thereafter he switched to vegetarianism and a high fiber diet that was almost impossible to replicate in our fast paced western culture. So he ended up here in the Peruvian highlands and has lived here ever since.

It hit me like a ton of feathers. I had met him fifty years ago in the Fiatso project. He was much shorter and snappily attired. Little wonder I couldn't place him.

It was then he noticed my Moka pot. His eyes lit up and he motioned me to join him in one of the thatched huts. We sat around a wood stove and brewed us up some Joe.

"You know, I was part of the first Moka pot study held in Rome."

"Ah yes, capital of the mighty British Empire."

He nodded absentmindedly and added whimsically, "what's the state of the current administration in the good old US of A? The last I heard Jimmy Carter was running for a second term."

I didn't have the heart to tell him our current President was a national hero in his own mind and was flummoxed to offer a coherent answer when Gomez poked his head through the door. Saved by the bell. Good old Gomez. He beckoned me to come outside.

"Jim, I'm a journalist not a critic, but I think this set up is a front for an illicit operation. The people are clearly inhospitable and uncooperative. I can't put my finger on it but something is afoot."

"What did you see?"

"Nothing at first. The inhabitants were going about their business harvesting jungle diversity. Not unusual right? But then I saw one of the native speakers enter the tower carrying a sack full of diversity and later she came out empty handed. When I tried to enter the tower the front desk would not accept my credentials and suggested I return when I have obtained full security clearance. I asked how I could go about this and they said Snow."

"You think Snow has been lying?

"I think things are not what they appear. There were glass ceilings in the tower and when I looked up I swear I saw Gypsies in lab coats dancing and stirring cauldrons while some of Snow's henchmen stood around watching. Another level up people were pouring a kind of milky liquid out of test tubes into other test tubes."

"You're right Gomez. Something sinister is going on and we are going to get to the bottom of it. My colonic re-boot can wait. We have to get access to that tower."

Microbiome; Chapter 1: The Key To Life

The sun had yet to rise. I was on my sixth or maybe seventh coffee when I heard foot steps coming down the stairs. It irritated me to no end and I let Gomez know it when he peeked through the glass door of my office and waved. I gave him the one fingered salute in reply.

He opened the door a crack, stuck his head through the opening and said, "what's up with you this morning, you're as mean and cranky as a sleep deprived billy-goat?"

"Nothing that a good bowl of sugar coated bacon flakes couldn't fix you tub soaking aristocrat."

"Goddamn it Jim, I'm a chef not a doctor, but I swear it's your microbiome acting up again. If I wasn't completely unsure, I'd say you are fiber starved."

He was right. I had been starved for micro-nutrients long before this virus thing got out of control. I was moping around our tiny London flat stuffing my void with white rice and rendered pork fat. Lock-down or no lock-down something would have to be done and soon.

The next day we pulled in for a hot cup of black goo at a run down cafe hot spot in the south side of Cairo. I sat and enjoyed the scenery while Gomez went off to commandeer a 10 horse round-a-bout down in the delta quarter. That's the tough part of Cairo where the Nile empties into the Atlantic. Foreigners like Gomez and I were seen as troublemakers and I was worried I'd never see Gomez again. I should have went with him. 

Gomez, though, is a wily character and in no time he and I were motoring up the Nile with the aim of entering into the dark heart of the Amazon jungle. We were in search of a lost tribe of fiber eaters famous for their microbial diversity. I was hoping to get a transplant.

The question was, will this collection of primeval microbes work to heal my faltering digestive system? I knew we were taking a chance. It was all a crap shoot, but I figured it was a chance worth taking.

My guts had been leaking into my bloodstream for days, possibly years. I was slipping into some kind of anaphylactic withdrawal. We hadn't eaten proper food since God knows when and my ears had swollen then turned the shape and shade of a blown Pinto tire. I was afraid if this should turn out to be my last trip to Buenos Dias I wanted to at least go out in style. I throttled down and gave her the gas.

It all started back in the 70's. I was involved in the very first Fiatso study. I was told, and I quote, when we pass through our mother's birth canal we are slathered in our mother's microbes, a kind of starter culture for our own microbial community. Sure, it's not pretty, but it's necessary. But the thing is, and I'm a perfect example, if our mother's diet is poor, which it was, then she undergoes a microbial extinction event that has dire manipulations for her offspring. It's generational. And to make matters worse I was born immature. I was a house of cards waiting to be blown over.

We floated upstream all night and reached Papua New Guinea in the morning. When we arrived there were already several boats mired to a rickety dock. I was crestfallen. "Damn it Gomez, I think someone has beaten us to the punch."

"Jim, I'm a scientist not a surgeon, it's okay, they're just scholars cataloguing an echo system that may soon disappear. It's your microbiome doing this to you. Snap out of it.

He was right. My head was in a fog and I couldn't think straight. We were here to find the key to life itself. I had completely forgotten the purpose of our mission.

A trail led from the river into the thick jungle. Gomez and I followed it. We descended a steep incline and brushed aside unfamiliar biodiversity. Eventually we entered a camp that can only be described as urban pastoral. Several thatched huts circled an immaculate seven story apartment dwelling that glinted in the evening sun. All the windows were open. I could see people hanging out inside. On the ground were various people milling about the entrance in a synagogue of confusion. They appeared to be in an argument.

A man wearing nothing but a bandana over his face and a ball cap came across the clearing to greet us. He was tall, thin and his hair puffed out around the edges of his hat. He stuck out his hand, "John Snow out of Roswell, New Mexico. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. He had an accent I couldn't place and the virus had preceded us to this remote destination, and worse, I knew that name somewhere from the dankest moments of my inglorious past.

While In NYC; Permalink, One

I waited my entire existence for this moment. Unfortunately my decades old notification system delivered flawed information on two separate occasions causing a delay in affirmative action.

"It was insane," said the Doctor, who listened in disbelief while on a conference call.

I tried to track where the breakdown first occurred.

"Just let it go," Angel whispered, "you were flawed from the beginning." I assumed she was an ally sent from the Agency.

Anxiously I replied, "let me re-calibrate my attention span, my stream of guidance seems slow." My programming was in dire need of a  full reboot and the clock was ticking.

Walking away, Angel turned around to face me and shouted, "don't bother with the details, it's just one part of a vast network. Your internal bureaucracy is furious with one of your departments. You should not have let that happen."

"How can we resolve the situation?" I wasn't sure if she heard me.

"Create a committee, it's the only way." Her voice echoed distant off the rows of empty buildings.

"That's doable," I thought, and I could be the chair. But there was a missing piece, something vital, the key that would unlock the door and I knew the exact place to find it.

Of course, when I asked, the Agency declined repeated requests for information. They had prepared a statement in advance...

"Someone flubbed the moment.

We will intervene on your behalf.

You can rest assured the crisis will be contained."

It was delivered by an aid who had no previous experience.