Welcome to the Show - Part 4b – Hank’s Story
“Now, tell me about 1994.”
The good doctor Petroff van Dyson turned on his video camera. Hank Gupta hated that thing. The little red dot glared at him like an angry eye. A television screen, facing away from Hank, was broadcasting his every facial feature.
Van Dyson’s office was decorated in southern California’s typical High Sierra look, reflecting the natural surroundings of the clinic. Spanish artwork and wall hangings accented the tasteful, though not indulgent, furnishings.
Very well. He would explain it again.
It was the summer of 1994, Belize. The University of Pennsylvania, in cooperation with the Programme for Belize, sponsored a field season in the northern part of the country. Hank, along with about sixty other people, went along. The expedition was directed by Dr. Paul Hughbanks, who wanted to complete a new survey of a large, empty stretch of northern Belize, as well as conduct several excavations.
The season was very unlucky, with equipment failures, transportation troubles, and logistical mishaps from the very beginning. After a particular nasty stomach bug swept through camp, the season finally started to look up when a survey team heard rumors of a large, unregistered site in the nearby jungle, a place called El Cacao. There was no record of it, and nobody had ever excavated there or even surveyed the place. Dr. Hughbanks leapt at the news, hoping that a major find might turn their season around.
The only voice of protest raised was Kyle Woodson. Kyle pointed out that the group had no permits to dig at El Cacxao and that drug smugglers were supposed to be lurking in the area. Hughbanks would not be dissuaded, however. He assembled a survey team, and set out on the long hike to El Cacao. The team got to the ruins, only to find that they weren’t deserted…
“No, it wasn’t deserted,” said van Dyson. “The police reports indicate you encountered a large band of cocaine smugglers that were camping among the grounds. Then what happened?”
Hank hesitated. “There was a…misunderstanding. Four students died. They chased us all the way back to the camp.”
“Who chased you?”
Hank lowered his head.
“Who, Hank?”
“The Grays,” he whispered.
“The Grays?” asked van Dyson. “Do you mean the aliens?”
Hank spoke slowly at first, and then it came out in a rush. “I keep having dreams. Dreams of bleeding from the ears. And there’s these…aliens, with scalpels. One of them leaps out of a pantry, wearing a funny pink outfit and surgical mask. It plunges a scalpel into my forehead…”
“But that’s not what the report says,” said the doctor. “Dr. Hughbanks lost his tenure, his job, and any chance of ever doing archaeology again. But no mention of Grays. There were sixty witnesses with you, Hank. You said so yourself. Don’t you think someone else would have mentioned aliens?”
“I…I don’t know…”
“We’ve been over this. It’s been nearly a decade since the incident and you’re not making much progress.” Van Dyson pulled out a pen from his front pocket. “We’re going to have to up your dosage…”
Hank shook his head. “No more drugs.”
Van Dyson peered at Hank over his glasses. “Now Hank.” He put one hand on Hank’s knee. It was all Hank could do to avoid jerking back from him. “Your father committed you to the Van Dyson Center. Nobody else would help you, remember?”
“Yeah.”
After his breakdown in the Army barracks, Hank’s father sent him to the Center, in Samson, California, for experimental therapy. It specialized in the study and treatment of schizophrenia. When the military booted him mid-tour, Hank had nowhere else to go. Van Dyson’s published notes “You Are I,” promised free treatment for subjects experiencing schizophrenia. And his father liked free.
So here he was, having private sessions with Dr. Van Dyson, the darling of daytime talk shows everywhere.
“The kinds of drugs I’m prescribing are very expensive. Your insurance won’t cover it.”
“I don’t have insurance,” said Hank meekly. “Not anymore.”
“Exactly my point.” Van Dyson flashed him a brief smile. “Look, it’s clear you experienced something very traumatic. I would normally diagnose you as suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, but your history seems to indicate you suffer from schizophrenia. Remember your uncle Ben?”
Hank struggled to nod. Van Dyson’s patronizing tone was getting on his nerves.
“I never said uncle Ben was schizophrenic.” It was short for Benali. His uncle used to claim the world was going to end around the time of the new millennium. He said that demonic forces were at work, trying to rule men’s souls.
“No, you didn’t.” Van Dyson allowed himself another brief, secret smile. “Your uncle Benjamin claimed he was getting messages from spirit guides. Have you ever read “The Demon Haunted World” by Carl Sagan?”
“No.”
Van Dyson resumed writing. “Sagan essentially states that one man’s demon is another man’s alien. Superstitions change with the times, Hank. Now I’m going to give switch your prescription to LY2140023. It targets the glutamate receptors of the brain rather than dopamine and has few side effects.”
Hank hesitated. “But Uncle Ben…”
“Failed to take his psychiatric medications,” snapped van Dyson. “He committed suicide by taking an overdose of pills at age 56.”
“But my father said he died from a heart attack.”
Van Dyson sighed. “You were five years old at the time. If I had kids, I might obfuscate too.” He tore off the sheet he was writing on. “Here’s your prescription, we can mix it right here at the Center. I’ll give it to Hector and he’ll be sure you fill it out.” The doctor paused. “There’s one thing I’ve been wondering, Hank.”
Hank had started to rise. He froze. “Yes?”
“Why did you travel to Belize? You’re not an archaeologist. Your major was in engineering, if I remember correctly.”
Hank straightened. “That’s correct.”
“So why did you go?”
Hank’s lips became a thin line. He didn’t so much as refuse to answer as hesitate for a very long time.
Van Dyson chuckled. “It was a woman, wasn’t it?”
Hank eyed the camera, but he nodded.
“Who was she?”
“Rachel. Rachel Hayward. We met at the University.”
Van Dyson stood up. “Ah, the course of love never does run true.” He looked down at his notes. “I don’t know her, but I know you, so I can guess how things went after you witnessed the murders. You couldn’t stand to be together because it reminded you of the incident.”
Hank nodded. He had joined the Army after that.
“I’m so sorry, Hank.” Van Dyson glanced at his watch. He rose to his feet.
Hector Simone, a graduate student at the University of California, opened the door and waited patiently for Hank. They had been through this routine before.
“We’ll talk about her more next session,” said Van Dyson. “In the mean time, I want you to practice the mental exercises we talked about.”
“Yes, doctor,” mumbled Hank.
As Hector closed the door behind him, he caught an odd exchange of glances between graduate student and doctor.