Johnny Wraith Stories

Before I tell you how I tumbled off the bridge, I will tell you how I ended up on the bridge in the first place. It all began with debauchery, the kind involving the consumption of Absinthe and shrooms while vacationing in Amsterdam. Why I was vacationing in this particular city has already been partially answered: Absinthe and shrooms. Granted I'm probably too old to be partaking of such things, at least according to prudent minds, but I'm still searching the depths of my soul, or at least I was. Some may say this is because I was lost, dissatisfied, depressed, enduring a mid-life crisis, or otherwise trying to compensate for personal failings. It doesn't matter now anyway, even if it did matter then, but I won't reveal why or how this is the case just yet. We'll get to that part by the end of this tale. For now, there is no reason to be concerned with the fact you may never know me but through these words, whether they reach your eyes from your computer screen, a book, or a pamphlet. Enjoy the story, for it is one of folly and adventure, but most importantly it is a form of personal instruction. Nevertheless, there I was in Amsterdam, searching, playing hide and go seek with things that would certainly alter my mind and body, but the hope was that I would find enlightenment as well.

That day I had an omelet and a triple espresso for breakfast, and then toured the city on foot. I saw the Anne Frank House, visited Vincent van Gogh paintings in the art museums, and strolled the Red Light District for the purpose of peeking in the windows at the girls for sale. On numerous occasions in-between, I found myself sitting on barstools, doing shot after shot of Absinthe. By suppertime I was drunk, tripping and stumbling over cracks in the cobblestone streets and apologizing each time I lost my balance and tripped into tourists. I think the hashish lollypops may have caused some of the trouble, and may have been a contributing factor to my vomiting into a public trashcan to relive my upset stomach. Funny how even in Amsterdam, a city tolerant of drug experimentation and hallucinogenic alcohol, sex shows, and hookers, you still receive a few sneers and rude comments from passers by when you are heaving sickness into a public trashcan. And the worst of it wasn't the bad publicity. It was that even after I had partaken of enough drink and candy to puke, I still wasn't hallucinating. Instead, I was only half awake, sitting on a bench, barely able to stand and walk, and my mouth tasted like puke. But, as I was sitting there pondering whether to give up or keep going, whether I would be coherent enough to find the train back to my hotel, let alone the train station, I realized I was sitting across from a small pizza parlor. By cupping one hand over an eye to offset the double vision, I was able to read the sidewalk menu board. The special of the day was:

"Cheese Pizza with Shrooms = $10.5 E."

I think it was frozen pizza and the place didn't serve any booze other than wine and beer, but the meal wasn't too bad. The tomato sauce was sweet and the little white, diced mushrooms abundantly sprinkled on top were raw and strangely bitter. I ate the entire pie. Washed it down with a carafe of house wine. Paid the bill, and got out of there. Disappointed I was still only feeling drunk after such a promising meal, I decided to find my way back to the hotel and get some sleep. It wasn't an easy task. With every step I had to fight for my balance, and a few times I tripped over a cobblestone crack and fell down. My skinned knees bled through my jeans after a couple falls, but I didn't hit my head or break any bones. On my way, I crossed over many bridges. Amsterdam is a city with many canals, and bridges.

I kept hearing my name called out each time I went over one of the numerous bridges.

"Johnny! Johnny!"

Was I imagining things? Maybe the shrooms were beginning to work.

"Johnny! Johhny!" said a high-pitched voice as I crossed yet another bridge. It was coming from below.

"Johnny! Johnny! Look down. I'm down here! In the water."

I stumbled over to the stone edge and looked down. An orange fish with a human face was looking up at me. It was about the size of a cat.

"What the..." I spoke aloud.

"What the..." replied the fish. "What is a fish? I am a talking fish. You may have never met a talking fish, but you have never had pizza with magic mushrooms before, have you?"

"Well, no. You have a point there. I'm Johnny, by the way."

"I know your name, you idiot. How else was I calling you by it? Think before you speak, why don't you?"

I was enjoying myself. The shrooms were working! This is going to become a great story. Just go with the flow, talk to the fish. See what happens next. Of course, I was imagining things. I knew that much. I was having a vivid dream while still awake. A blessing brought on by medicinal fungus. A good pizza.

"My name is Vatsulu," declared the fish as it rose up out of the water on its fluttering tail and proudly flapped its fins. "I was once a human, like you, and I've been a number of other things. I've been a flower, a bear, an insect, a dog, and a cat, not to mention a number of other things, perhaps a thousand or a million. I am to be your animal guide."

"Who told you to guide me?"

"No one. We simply crossed paths when you were in tune to the Otherworld. In fact, we spoke yesterday. That's when we had our formal introduction."

"I didn't talk to you yesterday. I would have remembered that."

"We did to talk. Or at least I spoke to your True Self. He was running about a day ahead of you, at this very bridge. I don't expect you to understand because you think in terms of Time, as if things really happen in a particular order, and things don't really happen in a particular order. You'll never fully grasp what I'm saying in this life, but to make a long story short, as a flesh and blood being, you live in a realm with only one dimension. All you've ever known is a flat world when the world is round and full of many curves."

"Vatsulu, if I've ever seen a curve, I think I'm seeing one now."

"Quite the contrary my friend. You are not seeing a curve. You can't see such a thing with your eyeballs. You are feeling the curve."

"But I am seeing a talking fish."

"No, you really aren't seeing me. You aren't hearing me either."

"So I am imagining things?"

"Yes and no. No, because this is more to it than imagining, as you typically define it. Yes, because you are imagining something real. Usually your brain imagines things that don't really exist, but when you are really tuned in, as you are now, you can imagine real things. That's the only way to do it because your senses are too dull to see, hear, touch, taste, or smell the Otherworld. Only because you are filled with magic are you able to sense the higher reality, its chaos, splendor, randomness, and answerless puzzles and conundrums. Still, you are like a blind man feeling your way through a place brightly painted in rainbow colors."

"Vatsulu?"

"Yes?"

"You are full of a beautiful abundance of shit, and I like it."

"Are you ready to join me on an adventure you'll never forget?" Winked Vatsulu as he spun about on his tail, flapping his fins.

"How do I join you? You're a fish. Unless you can sprout legs and come out of the water."

"Quite the contrary my friend. You are going to sprout fins, a tail, and gills so you can join me in the water. After all, there is a lot more water than land, and in water you can swim in any direction. Up, down, upside down, and sideways. You can ride the currents wherever they go. On land you can only go one way, and that is straight. You are also too heavy and wingless to follow the wind. Just jump in! Time is being wasted, to put it metaphorically, because after all, there is no such thing."

This was the part of the shroom trip I'd been warned about. The urge to jump. Just the day before, while hanging out in a coffeehouse smoking a bowl, I'd heard a story about a Japanese kid on shrooms. He'd stripped naked and climbed out onto the railing of his 15th floor balcony, held his arms out like wings, and jumped. He thought he could fly. Perhaps he'd met Vatsulu in bird form. Needless to say, the kid dropped like a rock and bounced down 15 flights of fire escape. Apparently he survived, but at the cost of broken bones and splattered organs. I may have been drunk, stoned, and delirious, but I wasn't so far gone that jumping into the water to swim like a fish seemed a good idea.

"Sorry Vatsulu, I'm going home and going to bed," I declared over the railing.

"You don't have a choice," winked Vatsulu, and with that wink there was a flash of light.

"Later tuna man," I insisted. Then I took a step back onto something slippery and squishy. I barely had time to catch a glimpse of a banana peel. Next thing I knew, I was tumbling head over heels and into the water.

"HELP!"