Transformations: Morpheus Ch. 2
Comments welcome.
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Morpheus
Every civilization before Christianity had gods. From the Babylonians to the Egyptians, the Greeks to the Romans, and the Scandinavians - each had gods that guided the world and ruled over man. Somewhere along the way, the gods died, either in great battles or through treachery, or they simply flew away. In modern times, we believed these gods to be superstitions, myths used to explain the eruption of volcanoes or the rising and setting of the sun.
I was thirty years old in 1967, attending Berkeley on an art scholarship. Truth be told, my art had suffered from the counterculture I found myself drowning in. Drugs and sex had replaced charcoal and paint - of course, I wasn't alone in my aimless existence. It seemed like the entire world was taking one long LSD trip. I lived in a simple apartment surrounded by half-finished paintings. My scholarship paid for the room and my tuition, but it left little for food and my recreational activities.
I would supplement my income by selling my blood, doing odd jobs, and occasionally by taking part in paid studies at the university - drug trials and the like.
One day, I saw an ad on a bulletin board for a drug study that paid two hundred fifty dollars - quite a sum for the time.
I went to a building on campus at the specified time. Over a hundred of us showed up, most of us strung out on something or other. I was fairly clean at the time, but some of the people were pretty far gone. I remember one girl who stripped naked and danced around the room saying she could see everyone's aura and we were all so beautiful.
The ones who were really amped up got tossed out. They didn't want anyone so high they couldn't function.
They led us into interview rooms one at a time.
Inside the room was a chair and a desk. On the desk was a stapled stack of paper and a pencil.
A blonde nurse came into the room. She wore standard nurse's attire for the day: a white dress, white flat shoes, and a white nurse's cap. She was young and pretty. Her green eyes sparkled when she saw me.
She looked away quickly when I returned the stare. "There's a test on the table. It's multiple choice. You have twenty minutes."
I sat down and smiled at her.
She looked down at her watch. "Hey, you have twenty minutes. Get started - if you don't pass, you don't get to be in the study."
I opened the test. It was an IQ test with math, verbal, logic, and stranger things involving spatial awareness and pattern identification. I began recording my answers.
"Do you live in San Francisco?" I asked as I circled my answers.
"No talking," she scolded.
"Just making conversation. I haven't seen you around here."
"It's a big city," she said.
"Oh, I would have remembered you if I had seen you."
She blushed. Then she shook her head and looked at her watch. "Fifteen minutes."
I flipped the page. "I know this great Greek place a few blocks from here. I'd love to take you there."
She chewed her fingernail. "I'm sure most women find you very charming, Mr. Morrison. But I've been inoculated against your particular brand."
I laughed and flipped the page. "And what is my particular brand?"
"Oversexed starving artist," she said and flashed me a venomous smile that would have sent most men scurrying.
"Well, I'm hardly starving, and one can never be oversexed." I matched her gaze and she faltered a little in her icy demeanor.
She looked at her watch. "You have five minutes."
I leaned back. "Actually, I finished five minutes ago."
She stared at the closed paper on the table. "What? How?"
"Oh, I just marked at random. Four choices per question - statistically, I should have at least 1/4 of them correct."
She picked up the paper and turned it over. I saw her startled look. On the back, I had drawn her in detail, standing in her nurse's uniform, chewing her nail. Beside this was her profile, emphasizing her flowing blonde hair and big eyes. Beneath this, she lay nude on a bed, covering her breasts and looking at me with a shy expression.
I stood up.
She was mesmerized by the drawings.
"So, you were only right in your estimation of me in one out of three. I'm not starving, I'm not oversexed, but I am an artist."
***
I sat in the waiting room. She had mumbled I should stay there till they graded my test; however, she felt sure they wouldn't accept my random answers.
I had lied about that last part.
A few minutes later, she came into the room. "Eric Morrison."
I stood up and she blushed again. "Follow me." She turned and walked back toward the interview rooms.
I caught up with her. "I would gladly follow you anywhere."
"Don't do that," she whispered.
"What?"
"Don't flirt with me. I need this job, okay? The drawings were bad enough."
"Oh, did they grade those as well?"
"Four men graded your test - I feel like they all know what I look like naked now."
"Hmm, yes, I have a good eye. I thought I had you about right. Of course, for your next sitting, I'll need to get you naked."
"That is never going to happen."
"I wouldn't bet on that - let's face it, your track record on estimating my chances thus far is abysmal."
She sighed and glared up at me. "How can somebody so intelligent be such a..."
"Prick? Tool? Dick? Which word were you looking for? I'm sure it was phallic in nature, whatever you were about to say." I smiled and she blushed.
She gritted her teeth. "I was going to say 'asshole'."
"Darn. I was hoping your obvious sexual infatuation with me would show through. By the way, what's your name?"
"You can call me Nurse."
"Nurse what?" I asked as we walked past the interview rooms to a dark staircase.
"I'm sure we'll never see each other again."
"Oh, there you go making predictions again - honestly, you should steer clear of Vegas."
She stared straight ahead, and I was mesmerized by the motion of her hips on the stairs. At the next floor, she said, "Hutchins. I'm Nurse Hutchins."
"First name or last?" I asked.
When she stared at me I feigned a look of innocent curiosity. "You know damned well that's my last name." She stopped by an old style frosted glass door. "Inside."
"No," I said, leaning on the door frame. I stood close to her.
"Don't do that," she said.
"I don't take orders from you."
"They're waiting on you. Inside." She avoided my eyes.
"Let them wait. I need a first name."
She sighed. "Please just go in."
"First name, and then I'll do whatever you command. I'll be an obedient little patient. I'll even stop trying to stare down the front of your uniform." I smiled down at her.
"Melody. Melody Hutchins. Now, would you please go in?"
I smiled and bowed at the waist. "Nurse Melody Hutchins, your wish is my command."
"You are such a prick," she whispered.
"There, that's my girl. Just keep that phallic imagery till we meet again." I said as I opened the door.
She turned with a huff and rushed away.
I watched her go. A few steps from the stairs, she seemed to sense my eyes on her. She stopped, stood up straighter.
"Look back," I whispered to myself. "Come on. One little look."
She stopped on the top step and looked shyly over her shoulder at me.
I was smiling at her.
She turned quickly and flew down the steps.
"Mr. Morrison?"
I turned back to the door I had just opened.
