Jocelyn sat at the kitchen table fidgeting with her lighter and glaring at the back of Paul’s newspaper. Sunlight fell across the table to her teal dress as she lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew a plume of smoke through the sunbeam. Her breath made the headlines quiver
between Paul’s calloused hands, and she read them again: Yankees top Dodgers, 4-3, in the World Series.

“Honey. I can feel you staring a goddamned hole right through this sports page.” Paul said, taking a slurp of coffee and waving the smoke away.

“Do you think you can just put the paper down for a second?”

Paul slowly lowered the newspaper, trying unsuccessfully to mask his look of annoyance.

“Joss, it’s perfectly natural for a seven year old boy to be outside. Besides, the doctor says the fresh air and exercise are good for his asthma, unlike those....” Paul gestured towards the smoldering cigarette and disappeared again behind the sports page.

Jocelyn twisted her face into a sarcastic smile and balled the cellophane from her cigarette pack, launching it into a high arc towards her husband’s head. He swatted it aside just before it landed in the pile of scrambled eggs on his plate.

Timmy chuckled, staring into his half-eaten cereal, reminding his parents he was still in the room.

“Last summer he was content watching cartoons and keeping me company while I tidied up around the house.” Joss said, “Now he seems worried and preoccupied. He can’t escape this house fast enough. He’s in those woods all day with lord-knows-who doing who-knows-what. How about spending some time with him this Saturday instead of sleeping the day away?”

Paul’s chest heaved beneath his t-shirt and red suspenders. He folded a crease down the middle of the paper and laid it down beside his plate.

“Guess reading the paper isn’t in the cards for me this morning. How about you and me do some man stuff this weekend, buddy?”

“Yes!” Timmy squealed, wiggling his legs under the table.

“We’ll have fun. Now eat some sausage. Those Cheerios won’t give you muscles like these,” Paul said, hoisting his arms into the air and flexing his biceps.

Joss pushed back her chair, and came around the table, and hugged Paul from behind. “Now momma can take a break to get her hair done.”

Paul glanced at her sideways. “Raising a boy is like running a marathon. You can’t worry about every little thing. You have to conserve your energy, or you’ll go batshit crazy.” Paul said rolling both of his eyes clockwise in circles while wiggling his ears.

“My, what a talented man you are.” Joss laughed, planting a kiss on Paul’s cheek.

He wiped the waxy smudge of lipstick from his face with the back of his hand.

“Now off to get a few winks. One day you’re protecting the world from the Nazis, the next you’re building washing machines while everyone’s tucked into a warm bed.”

Joss searched her husband’s face for a moment, “It’s good honest work.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Paul smiled, pushed his chair back, and shuffled down the hall towards the bedroom.

---

A gentle gong sounded. Tim sat slouched on the leather couch. His eyelids were heavy, and his sweater was riding a few inches too high at the waist.

“Okay, Tim, your session is up. When I snap my fingers, you will be right here with me, the therapist whispered.

Tim slowly came to and looked around with ever-widening eyes. “Dr. Schiller, it was so real. It felt like I was back in the 50's. I could smell the Folgers brewing in the percolator. Hell, I even caught the scent of my mother’s Chanel No. 5.”

“Please, call me Rachel”, the therapist said, glancing over the top of her glasses, “a small percentage of clients respond immediately to psychedelics-enhanced regression therapy. You appear to be one of the fortunate ones.”

---

After the first consultation, he learned that this drug was different. The effects of N-Dimethyltryptamine (DMT) lasted under an hour. Tim also read on the internet that proponents of the drug called it “the spirit molecule” and believed that was like a reset button for the human brain. This intrigued him further.

---

“I forgot how much of a character he was, my Pop. He always knew how to relate to me at that age.”

To think Tim almost talked himself out of answering the ad seeking test-subjects for the experimental PTSD therapy. He’d always been curious about psychedelics but the fear of being completely out of control coupled with the chance of an hours’ long bad trip always discouraged him from dabbling. After the first consultation, he learned that this drug was different. The effects of N-Dimethyltryptamine (DMT) lasted under an hour. Tim also read on the internet that proponents of the drug called it “the spirit molecule” and believed that was like a reset button for the human brain. This intrigued him further.

Tim sat up as straight as his aching body would allow. He grunted as he tugged at the grey cardigan until all of its buttons were aligned.

Tim felt a subtle but undeniable shift after this first session. Almost immediately, he felt more intune with the moment. Colors, especially that certain shade of coral that covered Rachel’s lips, were dazzling and the sunlight spilling from behind the blinds appeared to be more golden than before.

“Doc, I think we’re on the right track here,” Tim said, slapping the brown leather cushion with his palm.

“Maybe this will finally set me right and put an end to the nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” Rachel asked.

“I’ve had them for years. It’s the same almost every time. The man I am now comes face-to-face with the man I could have been. He’s someone who has made a real difference in this world, someone who’s faced their challenges, not someone who’s spent his entire life running away. The regret I feel afterwards is like a black hole for everything good and it lingers for days on end.”

Rachel stood, offering her hand to help slide him off the couch. As Tim made it to his feet, she locked eyes with him.

“We can’t change the past. How about we concentrate on making you feel better about the person you are right now? We’ve found a thread: that’s the hard part. Now if we tug on it carefully, in just the right way, we might start to untangle something vital.”

“Thanks Doc. I’m willing to see where this leads.” Tim said, as he shook the doctor’s hand and shuffled, slowly, out of the office and into the reception lounge.

He scheduled a follow-up appointment, completed the required questionnaire, and walked to the subway station. He pushed through the turnstile barely before rush hour. Riding the train was always uncomfortable for him but the rush hour was to be avoided at all costs. He hobbled down the metal stairs onto the platform and forced his way onto the crowded L train back to his apartment in Brooklyn and found a coveted empty seat.

At times like these he had to remind himself over and over again why he chose this city. It was one of the few places left that allowed a person to hide in plain sight. Tim could barely count on two hands how many people here even knew his name and on one hand how many of them gave a shit. It was just as he wanted it.

Read On

---

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