Water Into Wine

Doug Mercer

Water Into Wine

Published by Butterfly Creek Books

www.butterflycreek.net.nz

ISBN 978-0-473-30344-0

© Doug Mercer

eBook 2014, 2017

Print 2017

This book is copyright. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing, no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Infringers of copyright render themselves liable to prosecution.

1

They faced each other silently in the gloom, he in the armchair and she on the sofa. Outside, in the shadows of the approaching dusk, the wind whipped and wailed, bending branches and driving leaves and dust against the window pane. He reached over to the table and took the teaspoon. He was about to fill it from the flask when she spoke.

Wait, I've changed my mind. I'm going to take it too. We have to do this together.

You can't. It's a bad idea and you don't need me to tell you why.

Yeah, well I've been thinking about it and I've changed my mind. I'm betting this isn't going to work, proving yet again that you're full of shit and you've just wasted my time and your money. Not to mention the risk I took of being caught. But if it does work it's going to be major and I want to be part of it. So go get another spoon.

He left the room and returned a few moments later with another teaspoon. He handed it to her and resumed his position in the chair. Without saying a word he took the lid off the flask, reached over the table and waited for her to extend her teaspoon. He filled it and then his own.

Sit back and be comfortable, he said.

Don't tell me what to do, she huffed. You're the one that hasn't done this shit before.

Ok, point taken. No worries. On the count of three. One, two, three ...

They placed their teaspoons on their tongues, swallowed, and waited. Neither expected anything to happen immediately and neither spoke.

Moving only his eyes, he surveyed the room. His room in his house. He contemplated the high colonial ceiling. The ornate plaster scotia and the intricately patterned ceiling rose were water-stained but original. The coat of paint he had planned when he bought the house two years ago was yet to be applied. He hoped the fresh paint would cleanse the house of its musty smell, the result of decades of damp and neglect. Like other houses in the area it had slowly declined from its former grandeur. Nowadays Newtown was lifting itself from decay and becoming a place of urban chic. Many houses had been renovated and predictably sported recycle bins at the front and raised vegetable gardens at the back. Proud statements that their inhabitants cared, in that smug and irritating manner affected by spoiled middle-class couples with double-income mortgages.

Every now and then he felt a twitch or a tingle or some slight sensation and his hopes would rise, then fall again as he realised nothing had changed. Minutes were passing but they seemed like hours.

She too sat in silence but her thoughts were far from the room. She still had moments when her mind took her to dark places. Places she had been in the past and vowed never to return. As quickly as these thoughts arose she supplanted them with cheerful imaginings of a happier future. It was a coping strategy that after many years had become automatic. It was into this bright landscape that her mind wandered now. Occasionally she was distracted by the clamour of a wind gust against the roof. There was something about Wellington's wind that made her edgy and irritable. When the wind relented it was a city of undeniable beauty. The sea, sky, bush, and hills harmonised like nowhere else on earth. But when the sky darkened and the wind blew it became a bleak and inhospitable outpost at the bottom of the world. This bleakness began to creep upon her now. Checking her senses she was somewhat relieved that all appeared normal.

Twenty minutes had passed and he was ready to concede defeat. He felt hollow inside. He lifted his head and looked across at her. There was something odd about her expression. What was she thinking? Was she angry with him? No, it was more than that. Something he couldn't explain was happening behind her eyes. A moment later he knew exactly what it was because it happened to him too.

The room began to spin with increasing violence but his chair remained stationary. Then there was an exquisite explosion of colours and patterns and geometric shapes and he knew things would never be the same again.

*

Two hours passed during which both had slept. He had been awake for some time but lay so still that she thought he was still sleeping. His head lolled back on the top of the armchair and his eyes were closed. He had a lot to think about and was struggling to get his thoughts into any sort of coherent order. He knew he would soon have to make her understand the true implications of what they had done. But how could he when he lacked clarity himself? He was wondering if he had made a mistake getting her involved in the first place.

So what do we do now? she asked.

She had recovered a few minutes earlier and was sitting in silence waiting for him to come round. Finally he stirred, straightened from his slump, and looked into her eyes and smiled.

The bucket is empty, he said, with a grin so wide he looked silly. The bucket is empty, he repeated, emphasising the word 'empty'.

So what? The bucket is empty.

Don't you know what this means? It's even better than I thought. I never considered the possibility but now that I think about it, it's obvious.

Are you still tripping or has that poison damaged your brain?

Don't you see? We should have been sick. That's what the bucket was for. I expected both of us to come out of this with vomit trickling down our chins. That's what always happens with ayahuasca.

Well thanks for telling me after the fact. I thought you said it was just a precaution.

No, ayahuasca always makes you vomit. It makes you nauseous and gives you a wacking great headache. Unless your experience was different to mine, we experienced none of that.

So would you like to explain what that means? Preferably using language that I might understand.

'Well, it's really quite simple when you think about it."

He paused for a few moments to gather his thoughts.

Actually it's not that easy to explain. There's a bit of science involved and I might have to get technical. I'd better start at the beginning.

Ok, you're starting to scare me now so I've changed my mind. It's late, I'm tired and I don't think I can handle any more of your bullshit tonight. I need to sleep. Can I crash here?

Sure. There are clean sheets on the bed in the spare room. Help yourself. I'll see you in the morning.

Without replying she pushed herself up off the sofa with a muffled grunt and left the room. He headed for his bedroom a few minutes later.

*

The next day, a Saturday, was fine and still. In Wellington that never fooled anyone. A glass-like harbour was only a temporary respite, allowing the winds to regather themselves before blasting back with even greater ferocity. Today a fresh onslaught would arrive from the south, headlong from Antarctica. Spring would be put on hold.

When he entered the kitchen at eight o'clock she was in front of the stove and in full flight. Two pans were sizzling, one with scrambled eggs and the other with tomatoes and mushrooms. On a chipped white plate in the centre of the table a small mountain of toast was accumulating. A plunger of fresh coffee sat ready to be poured. Two places were set.

Have I ever told you that vegetarians are arseholes? You could at least keep some sausages or bacon in the fridge for guests, she said.

I don't often have guests, present company excepted. Anyway, you seem to have coped. Breakfast looks great.

She dished up the fried food and they sat down to eat. After a period of silence while toast was buttered, coffee poured, and condiments applied, it was she that spoke first.

Right, I think I'm ready to hear your bullshit story so away you go. And don't leave anything out. I'm not going anywhere until I fully understand what happened last night.

Ok, I'll try to start at the beginning.

2

The beginning for Jo was two weeks earlier while she was running on the bush track in the hills behind her house. As she crested the ridge and came within sight of the harbour, Kurt Cobain rasped for her attention from her tracksuit pocket. 'A mulatto, An albino'. She ignored it. 'A mosquito, My libido'. Whatever Kurt wanted could wait until she had returned home and showered.

Home was a two bedroom cottage she had owned for five years and grown very attached to. It was the only place she had been able to call home since she was ten years old. Home back then was not something she remembered with any fondness. She had considered the army home but only because she had nothing better to compare it to. Now, as her 36th birthday loomed, she had finally found that sense of contentment that arises from deep within when roots take hold and person, place, bricks and mortar become entwined.

Her freshly painted house gleamed yellow in the lowering summer sun and the green shades of her garden dappled haphazardly in the breeze. A narrow gravel path curved from the front gate across a pocket-sized front yard. When it reached the side of the house it ducked under an arched trellis of climbing roses, squeezed between the house and the boundary fence, and made its way across a sloping back lawn and up to a paved terrace set into the hillside. As the sun lowered further across the harbour to the west, the canopy of mahoe trees that could normally be relied upon for shade were no longer up to the task. It was onto this terrace that Jo now stepped, freshly showered, damp-haired and clutching a tetra-pack of orange juice in one hand and her mobile phone in the other. Before attending to the phone she allowed herself a few moments to admire the sunset. This was the only place on her property where she had a view the sea.

The first three emails were spam which she deleted without reading. The remaining email was a complete surprise. It was from Floyd Carpenter, a childhood friend from whom she had heard nothing for several years. He wanted to meet her.

She and Floyd had been close once. Close by her standards anyway. They had grown up in the same street, were the same age and went to the same schools. They were an unlikely pair. She was a slightly wild and sometimes aggressive tomboy. He was outwardly normal, albeit slightly malnourished in appearance, but a social outcast. It was their lack of conformity that had brought them together although their underlying adversities were quite different.

For Jo it was an unhappy home. For Floyd it was the different way his brain was wired. Not different enough to merit a Latin name but different enough for other children to steer clear of him. They had been more like sister and brother than friends. When Jo was fifteen she dropped out of school and started getting into serious trouble and their relationship effectively ended. Occasionally they would make contact over beer or coffee but Jo had heard nothing from Floyd since she left the army seven years ago. She sent a reply. She would meet him at a local café tomorrow morning at eleven, the first Saturday of Spring.

That's where she was when the door swung open and a slightly older looking Floyd stepped in at five minutes past. He peered myopically around the dim room and eventually waved to her across the tables. The Rimu Café was both scruffy and cosy and for Jo it was a second home. The furniture consisted of simple wooden tables and rickety wooden chairs that were the same dark brown colour as the pock-marked matai floor. The walls were hung with artwork borrowed from a local gallery in a vain attempt to inject some colour. For Jo and other locals the atmosphere was far from gloomy. It was their meeting place and a sanctuary from the grind of daily life. A door at the rear led to a spartan concrete courtyard where a sunny spot could be found at any time of day.

After they received their coffees and had traded the usual pleasantries they took their time catching up, finding out what each had been up to over the intervening years. Jo noticed that Floyd's hands were fidgeting under the table.

Ok, spit it out.

Spit what out?

Look, I've known you long enough to know when there's something bugging you. This obviously isn't just a social visit so how about you tell me why you suddenly decided to contact me after seven years.

Alright. I admit I do want to talk to you about something. But I'd rather not do it here. Can we go for a walk or something?

They left the café and walked down Rimu Street towards the wharf. Eastbourne Village always looked its best on Saturday morning. There was a hustle and bustle that was absent during the rest of the week. Up and down the main street cars were chaotically pulling in and backing out of parallel parks. Upper middle class families were spilling onto the footpath and heading into the cafés, delis and gift shops where they could be sure of meeting others of their ilk. Children clamoured for the attention that during the week was only forthcoming from their teachers and nannies.

Just in front of them it looked as if the FBI had arrived as an impossibly large, black recreational vehicle manoeuvred into an undersized parking space. It tooted at them to move out of the way. Overstressed executive, trophy wife, regulation 2.1 children, Jo mused to herself. She frequently lamented how unfortunate it was that a place so pretty and blessed by nature as Eastbourne should attract such human dross. The reason was money, of course, and while the cream always rises to the top, so does the scum. Eastbourne wasn't all rich arseholes, she knew, it's just that they made themselves so much more conspicuous.

They were walking past the library. On the other side of the plate glass was the flip-side of the coin. Elderly people of modest means who had lived in Eastbourne all their lives and had put down their roots long before the sharebrokers invaded in the Eighties. Only a few working-class families remained, those who were lucky enough to rent or buy the ever-decreasing number of affordable properties.

They had reached a raised crossing that led across the road to the wharf. Lounging in the middle of it was a life-size bronze seal looking wistfully out to sea. Its impossibly large and human-like backside thrusted contemptuously towards the village in Freudian splendour. They were now on the wharf. Fifty years ago Eastbourne had a regular ferry service into Wellington and dozens of commuters would disgorge onto Rimu Street every evening. Over the years, time and tides had silted up the sea floor and it became too shallow for the ferries to call. It was now a popular spot for amateur fishermen, mainly recent migrants who were happy to eat the tiny harbour fish that others would only use for bait. They sat on a slatted seat near the end of the wharf.

So what's the big secret then? asked Jo.

It's not a secret. It's just that I want to ask you something, a favour really, and I'm not sure how you're going to react. Promise you'll hear me out before you say no.

No, I won't promise anything, but go ahead.

I want you to get me some drugs.

A short pause followed. If it had been any more pregnant it would have given birth.

I must have heard you wrong. For a moment there I thought you said you wanted me to get you some drugs.

I did. But it's not what you think.

"Ok. How many ways are there to interpret the words get me some drugs?"

Look, I don't want to take them. Well, sort of. It's for an experiment. It's ...

Stop right there. Back up the fuckin' truck. I don't care why you want them. You're not getting them from me. What I want to know is why you asked me in the first place.

The vehemence of Jo's reaction caught Floyd off-guard and he was reluctant to provide an answer.

It's because of what happened to me when I left school, isn't it? said Jo. You think I'm a druggie, don't you?

No it's not. I don't think that at all. It's just that, well, you're the only person I know who has the, you know, contacts, who might be able to get me what I need.

And where are all these contacts I'm supposed to have?

I don't know. I don't really know if you have any contacts but one thing I do know is that I haven't. You know how straight I am. You've had a lot more exposure to that side of life than me and when I was trying to think how I could get hold of them I thought of you. That's all.

You have a point there. But don't think it lets you off the hook as far as I'm concerned because it doesn't. Ok?

Ok. I'm sorry. It was wrong of me. Can you please forget everything I said? Friends again?

You know, if you had accused me of dealing a few years ago, after I got clean, I would have drop-kicked your nuts from here to Days Bay and never spoken to you again. But I've mellowed a bit. We're still friends. But just out of curiosity, why are you wanting drugs anyway?

You know how, when I was a younger, I was always having crazy ideas that would one day make me rich and famous? Well I still do. My latest involves processing narcotics in a special way so that all the harmful stuff is removed. You will still get your high but here's the thing. They will be completely safe and non-addictive.

I also remember when you were younger you were always full of shit. You obviously still are.

Not this time. I think I'm onto something. Imagine if it works. Thousands of drug-related deaths and misfortunes could be avoided. Not to mention the misery of addiction. It would be a really big deal.

Jo didn't reply. She didn't like the thoughts that were rising within her. She had known too many people whose lives had been ruined or ended through addiction. Floyd had no idea how close she had come to being a casualty herself.

An elderly Asian gentleman in front of them transferred a wriggling but inedibly small Spotty from his nylon line into a plastic bucket.

Time I headed home, she said. I'll walk you to the bus stop.

*

Three days later Floyd's mobile rang. It was Jo.

What kind of drugs and how much?

*

Floyd didn't take long to prepare his experiment. He just needed a small quantity of any drug that contained Dimethyltryptamine, or DMT, of which there were many. He had reeled off a list to Jo and she had stopped him when he got to ayahuasca.

Ayahuasca is a concoction of plants found in the Amazon rainforest that has been used for millennia to induce hallucinogenic trances. It was, and still is, used by shamans to guide themselves and their tribespeople into the spiritual realm. Westerners later co-opted it for more hedonistic purposes. Many plants contain DMT but when taken straight it oxidises in the stomach before its hallucinogenic properties get a chance to kick in. The Amazonians discovered that by adding a specific jungle vine, Banisteriopsis caapi, to the mix, the oxidisation is suppressed. The DMT is then free to work its magic, which for them meant a deep spiritual experience.

Jo knew someone who grew the necessary plants in a specially controlled environment and made ayahuasca for his own use. He had once asked her for advice on setting up the glasshouse and she had initially refused, thinking he was going to grow dope. But after he explained how it was only for his personal use, and for his spiritual development, she relented and give him some tips. One hundred dollars should be plenty to procure a small quantity. Floyd said he needed no more than would normally be taken by a single person in a single session.

When Floyd was ready he called Jo and invited her to be present while he performed the experiment on himself.

Because someone should be here in case things go wrong. It might as well be you because you are the only person I've told about it.

That was how Jo came to be at Floyd's house in Newtown on that windy Wellington weekend.

3

Floyd lifted the coffee mug to his mouth and sipped but it was nearly empty and he received a mouthful of cold brown sludge. He went for a drink of water then continued with his explanation.

A few months ago I started getting interested in human consciousness, what it really is, you know, scientifically. I read this book that compared out of body experiences across many cultures. It talked about tribes on different continents and how they use all kinds methods to alter their state of consciousness. Most of them use special plants with hallucinogenic properties.

What a brilliant discovery, Floyd. Next you'll be telling me you can get cocaine from coca leaves, opium from poppies and dope from cannabis sativa.

It's not just those well known ones. There are plants all over the world that have similar effects. Magic mushrooms can be found almost everywhere. Anyway, just hear me out.

Sorry teacher.

Thank you. Most of those plants contain a chemical substance called DMT. I wondered what was so special about it and whether there was a way to duplicate its hallucinogenic properties without all the nasty side affects that narcotics usually have. One day I was thinking about it and had a eureka moment. What if the hallucinogenic effects were caused by some property of DMT other than its chemistry?

I've got a feeling you're going to lose me soon so I'd wrap this up quick if I were you. It would also help if you spoke English instead of Geek.

I'm doing my best to keep it short and simple for you. Lots of molecules in our bodies, specially proteins, are effective at their jobs not because of their chemistry, which is the specific atoms they're made of, but because of other factors. It might be their shape, or their electrical charge or something else altogether. So I came up with a process that duplicated some of these other properties that DMT has but in a completely different substance. With me so far?

I think so. I hope you're going to get to the point soon.

That's it really. I applied the process to the ayahuasca you gave me but it wasn't until our experiment that I knew it would work. We both now know that the hallucinogenic properties of ayahuasca were duplicated successfully. We also know that it is non-addictive because DMT is non-addictive. And here's the real kicker. It should also be safe. Plants with DMT usually have all sorts of poisonous stuff in them that make them dangerous. My drug doesn't have any plant material in it so it shouldn't be a problem.

You realise this all sounds too good to be true? If something sounds too good to be true it usually is too good to be true, in my opinion.

It doesn't matter if it sounds implausible. Facts are facts and the fact is, it works. You tried it yourself. My discovery is even better than that though.

Floyd was coming to the end of his discourse and was contented now that he finally had someone with whom he could share his glory.

Go on, said Jo, I know you're going to tell me anyway.

"There are two big advantages with my process. First, you hardly need any plant material to make huge quantities so