Sweet Nebu
Sometime during the nineteenth century, British writer Anna Jameson penned, “What we truly and earnestly aspire to be, that in some sense we are.” What an inspiring statement! We dance, and we become dancers. We lead, and become leaders. Sometimes, we go on to actualize our aspirations. Not everyone can, of course, which could be seen as a necessary, and a good thing.
For Charlie Davis, the quotation was secretly a favorite. Secretly, because he would never, ever wish to intimate to anyone that he doubted just who he was. A permanent resident of the Hemlock Hills Behavioral Health Center, Charlie apparently suffered from an acute case of a psychosis called “grandiose delusional disorder”. The onset of the malady had been quite early, and was seen as socially disabling. It affected most of what he did and how he did it. Indeed, even when efforts had been made to train Charlie in a useful skill, they had failed miserably. Even his volunteered effort to help out in the kitchen was a flop. Charlie wasn't seen as dangerous in any way, so he was given a paring knife and was asked to simply peel a bowl of potatoes. An hour later, he was still trying to “will” the peelings away, the knife left uninvolved on the kitchen counter.
But Charlie's parents were quite well-to-do, and so Charlie, who under poorer circumstances might have been placed in a common institution, or worse, become one of the unidentified homeless, was actually quite well-treated at Hemlock Hills, both individually and medically.
And Charlie didn't have a big problem with his circumstances. A deity, of course, can be a deity from anywhere. And he knew he couldn't be kept anywhere forever. After all, with deification came immortality, so that any period of time became fundamentally meaningless. Also, he did have the diversion of his visions. Apparently they were frequent, as Charlie would sit in his chair and doodle on a pad of paper, either intent on something, or laughing, almost maniacally. The laughter was often accompanied by faster doodling. Efforts to utilize these drawings in psychoanalysis had been fruitless. Spirals, arrows that went from light to dark, simple dots. They made no sense to anyone but Charlie, and when asked about their meaning, he clammed up.
Of course, the medications Charlie received may have enhanced his visions, or their frequency. Charlie never minded the medications, and he took them all, although sometimes, he would take one at a time just to determine its effect. He particularly liked the pink ones.
It may have been unrelated to his primary malady, but Charlie did seem to be plagued with a long list of curioddities, and the list seemed to be lengthening. One of the more obvious of them was the sound effects that came with simple walking. Everyone knew if Charlie was moving about in the vicinity. “Pink! Donk! Pink! Donk! Pink! Donk!” And so on.
It seemed likely Charlie did have a gift of some kind, for he always seemed to know when the weather would change. Moreover, he could be depended on to accurately say to what it would change. On one occasion, he'd walked around the facility telling everyone there would be snow the afternoon of the coming day, which seemed quite unlikely since it was June. Temperatures all week had been quite consistently in the high eighties, and the skies were clear. The nurses began to talk among themselves, and one of them turned on the television in the lounge, just to check. It had always been assumed that Charlie had gotten his information from one of the television broadcasts. But every weather broadcast predicted clear skies and similar high temperatures for the coming day. “Well, Charlie blew it this time,” one of them remarked.
The following morning was again bright, sunny and quite warm, but at about one o'clock that afternoon, the skies began to cloud over and the air temperature dropped like a stone, as a bitterly cold air mass swept in quickly from the north. The staff was soon astounded to see nearly an inch of new snow collect on the front lawn at Hemlock Hills, and from then on, anyone on staff who had made plans and needed to know the weather, consulted Charlie.
One day, Charlie was sitting in his chair watching television when a group of white-coated interns assembled at the window to his room. They were receiving instruction from a resident psychiatrist. The rooms were fairly soundproof and the door was closed, so Charlie couldn't hear any of what was being said. The doctor conducting the teaching tour stood to the side so that the interns could observe Charlie, but Charlie could see his lips moving, and he was quite adept at reading lips. That was because he was hard of hearing, and had gradually learned to compensate. The affliction was one he had selected for himself, of course. He was able to think more clearly in silence. He stood, and walked over to the window. If they could observe him, he could observe them.
“This subject believes he is a son of God,” the doctor explained. “The onset of his disorder we believe was at about age six.” One of the interns, a young blonde woman, was incredulous.
“I wouldn't have thought that possible. Are you sure?”
“No, of course not. We didn't have Mr. Davis here until he was in his late teens. But, his case file includes that when he was just six years old, he became obsessed with blessing things. And when his mother asked him what he was doing, she called him by his given name, Charlie. He responded that he was not Charlie, but 'Nebu'.”
Charlie smiled. He was glad the doctor got that right. After all, a deity couldn't be simply “Charlie”.
“I thought you said he believed he was the son of God. He doesn't think he's Jesus?”
“No, definitely not. He thinks he's the other son of God.”
“Isn't that counter to Christianity?”
“Well of course it is,” the doctor replied. “The term “Christian” is based on Christ, known to Christians as God's only Son. Of course, in therapy, I tried to bring that up, myself.” The doctor smiled. “'Nebu' says he's the other son, and they don't talk about him because he's sometimes naughty.”
The same intern spoke again. “That would seem to suggest he's been party to some sort of disruptive behavior. Has he?”
“No, not at all.” The doctor was rubbing his chin. “Unless, of course, you believe him.”
Charlie had been standing at the window, intently watching the doctor speak to the interns. But at that moment, Charlie quickly sat back down in his chair. He was about to have a vision, and his eyes rolled back in his head behind his closed eyelids. Also at that moment, in his fertile imagination he pictured a particular area in the Java Sea that was quickly reaching a critical degree of warmth. Gently laying his head against the back of his cushioned chair, he closed his eyes and observed. The sun blazed upon the relatively small section of water, and cooler water retreated from the surface, resulting in an aqueous swirl. Soon, an updraft occurred, driving moisture skyward, first as tiny streams of fine vapor, then enlarging to near-droplets as mere ounces of moisture-uptake expanded to tons.
“Nebu” smiled, mischievously.
Earlier that same year, one of the nurses had developed an interest in Charlie. Had it gone further, it might well have been considered an inappropriate interest. Charlie Davis was not an unattractive man, and he was only in his thirties. And nurse Cheryl was alone in the world, plain looking but properly educated, independent and without any family living nearby. She'd found Charlie's company engaging, and he'd seemed to really like her. But it was his gaze that had bothered her. His big, liquid eyes seemed to see right through her, as they spoke. Shortly, she realized he was looking her over, up and down. Each time, his eyes came to rest finally on her chest.
Nurse Cheryl had decided to overlook it. She knew something about men, and obviously, Charlie was one of those, and just as obviously, he had no outlet for his personal male drives. So perhaps a look was alright. And most of the time, he seemed so...normal. For that reason, she began to ask questions.
“He looks at all of us that way. Even Wilma,” warned a co-worker. “And I've seen how you look at him. He's a mental patient, remember that. He's not available, and you wouldn't want him if they discharged him.”
“My gosh, I didn't say I would,” she defended. Then she asked, anxiously, “But what makes you say I wouldn't?”
“There's something really discomforting about the guy,” came the reply. “Not only does he think he's a second son of God, he also says he's like, the “black sheep” or something. Now tell me, what does that mean?” Turning back to folding her extra uniform, the co-worker added, “And he thinks he can see through clothing. I'm tellin' you. I'd stay clear of him if I were you. Total, completely whacked-out case. Cheryl, he's a mental patient!”
“Well,” Cheryl replied sadly, “I've met a lot of guys who were crazier.”
“Unlikely.”
So Cheryl had decided her co-worker's advice was good. She didn't see any reason at that point to avoid Charlie, so one day as she was checking charts and dispensing medications, she came to Charlie's room. As usual, his eyes swept over her and stopped, once again, on her chest. And as usual, her crisp white uniform was buttoned up and conservative in style.
“Charlie,” she queried, “Why do you always look right at my chest? What do you think you're gonna see?”
Charlie gently reminded her, “It's 'Nebu'.” Then he added, “Pert. Very, very nice. Extra-long nipples.”
Cheryl gasped. It was as if he had seen. Now, that was spooky.
In his mind, Charlie had been observing air and sea conditions, but now he stood, his eyes still closed, and extended both arms outward like a ballet dancer. His head was thrown back, a smile on his face, and he whirled, once, twice, thrice, perfectly on balance, as if long-practiced. Then, he stopped, still smiling, and gradually lowered his arms, pointing at the floor with the index fingers of both hands. He'd forgotten about the observers, but now opened his eyes to see the group of interns walking away. The female intern who'd asked all of the questions had also seen the pirouettes, and had stopped, grabbing the sleeve of a male colleague to gain his attention. Thus when Charlie “Nebu” Davis opened his eyes, he also saw the two of them gawking at him, drop-jawed.
Now if there's one thing deities appreciate, it's being noticed. In this place, it wasn't all that common. So he threw his best blessing outward, pursing his lips, gesturing with his left hand out in front of him and his right hand drawn back, his eyes startlingly wide, and wiggled all of his fingers together. It was quite a sight to behold.
The male intern exclaimed, “Sweet Jesus!”
Charlie smiled again, shook his head in a clear negative, waggled his forefinger from side to side and plainly mouthed the words, “Sweet Nebu!”
Once not long ago, a popular late-night radio talk-show host dedicated several hours of air time to the phenomenon of weather modification. He called upon his millions of listeners to mentally concentrate together on changing the weather in a massive way, as an experiment. Reportedly, they fully halted the progress of a huge tropical depression that was quickly becoming a massive hurricane - if one can believe what one hears on the radio, especially when the theme of the program is 'occurrences of the weird'. Of course if it did happen, it was probably coincidental, as odd and extraordinary things do often occur.
During a subsequent program, the host asserted that his audience mustn't do any more of it. His reasoning was, if one thing is changed then another will likely be changed as well; then another, and another. He didn't wish to be responsible for the possible consequences.
Who knows of what amazing things the incalculable power of the human mind may be capable?
Seated at his small desk, “Nebu” scribbled swirls on his notepad, laughing.
Nine thousand miles distant, a powerful cyclone tore through the streets of Jakarta.
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