Luminal Nexus Stage

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The egg-shaped man was nowhere to be seen by the time Trucker reached the second-floor reception area. But that didn’t matter, he needed to pull focus. He needed to find Ed.

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Earlier, Trucker had regretted being born with eyes. That still held true. But now he was also beginning to lament his ownership of ears, as a hard-rock glam-metal band performed on a stage branded Luminal Nexus.

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This wasn’t the name of the band, as far as Trucker could tell, just the name of the stage, rebranded like everything else around here and sponsored, naturally, by the HERA Network.

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The band was apparently called IronSpirit, according to the faded metallic gothic banner strung from a small lighting rig. Trucker had never heard of IronSpirit. He doubted he was alone in that, though a few attendees seemed to be devoted, die-hard fans. A small few.

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The dance floor was mostly filled with middle-aged women who looked like they’d purchased Ascend-A-Palooza tickets specifically to see this show. A few elderly gentlemen danced among them — men who, if they’d ever had rhythm, had left it somewhere in the 1980s.

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And just off the dance floor stood what might have been the band’s most devoted fan: a man in his early thirties wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, cargo shorts, gas-station aviator sunglasses, and flip flops. He was mouthing every single lyric, which was impressive, considering the portable sound system was crackling under the weight of the leather-pants-clad lead singer’s vocals.

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Ed did not appear to be a fan and in attendance for the small show. But maybe these IronSpirit enthusiasts had seen him.

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Trucker approached the sleeveless man, held up his phone, and asked, “Seen this guy?”

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“IronSpirit is the best band on Earth,” the sleeveless man replied.

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Trucker watched the band for a moment, then said, “Earth? Is that where I am?” He glanced at the stage, then back at the sleeveless man. “Never heard of ’em.”

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“They’re Hungarian. Very popular in Korea,” the sleeveless man added.

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“North or South?” Trucker asked, already shifting a step toward the dance floor. He held up his phone to a middle-aged woman dancing with an elderly man old enough to be her father. “Seen this guy?”

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Trucker didn’t think she was purposefully ignoring him, just zoned-out with IronSpirit mania — but ignoring was also possible. She and her dance partner let out a series of off-kilter woo-hoos as the speakers crackled through a guitar solo.

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With a little bit of help from a lot of electronic audio feedback and a shorted-out speaker, Trucker finally got the attention of all three: the sleeveless man, the middle-aged woman, and the elderly dance partner.

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“Any of you seen this man?” he asked, holding up his phone again.

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“No,” said the sleeveless man.

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“No,” echoed the middle-aged woman.

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“That’s a classy lady, right there,” the elderly man said as he leaned close and stared at the phone. “Easy on the eyes.”

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“And her son?” Trucker asked quickly, holding the phone closer to the elderly man.

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“Um, no. No, I don’t believe so.”

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“Great. You three have been very helpful. Have a nice ascension,” Trucker said, turning to leave.

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“Ascension?” the middle-aged woman asked.

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“Life, ascension, whatever the future may hold,” Trucker said as he walked away from the Luminal Nexus Stage sponsored by the HERA Network.

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The rest of the area beyond the stage performance wasn’t all that different than the booths, vendors, and exhibitors Trucker had already encountered in the lobby — just slightly louder, slightly more spread out, and, overall, slightly more.

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Before Trucker could even make it to the first booth to continue his search, a young woman intercepted him. She wore four too many scarves draped around her neck, and both of her wrists were weighted down by oversized beaded bracelets. She approached him with a little wiggle of her hips and the casual familiarity of an old friend.

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“Do you believe in past lives?” she asked.

“Right now, I barely believe in this one,” he answered.

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She moved her hands fluidly around the top and sides of Trucker’s head.

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“A little Reiki never hurt,” she said.

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“I suppose not,” Trucker replied, then held up his phone. “Ever Reiki’d this guy? Seen him around?”

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She stared intently at Trucker, completely ignoring the phone and photo.

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“I feel we may have been partners in a past life,” she said.

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“Me and you? Partners?” Trucker asked. “Like . . . married?”

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“No, silly,” she smiled and continued. “Business partners.”

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“Really?” Trucker said, not at all surprised.

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“And since —” she began, but Trucker finished her pitch for her.

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“— since we were in business in a past life, why not carry on in this one.”

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“Exactly,” she said, lighting up.

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“What are we selling?” Trucker asked.

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“Opportunity,” she said, smiling.

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“We’re selling an abstract concept?” Trucker asked.

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“No, silly . . .” she said again, but this time with a slightly more serious tone. “We’re selling coins.”

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“Do these coins have the word opportunity engraved on them?” Trucker asked.

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“No, they’re Quantum Past-Life Reintegration Coins,” she explained.

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Trucker said nothing.

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“Say you were Napoleon in a past life,” she explained. “We implant those qualities — Napoleon’s essence — into the coin through proprietary tech. Then, whenever you need the power of Napoleon, just rub the coin and place it under your tongue.”

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Trucker paused, then said, “Didn’t Napoleon devastate most of Europe, reject freedom of speech and the press, bring back slavery, and say women weren’t allowed to handle money?”

The woman said nothing.

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“So, if we went into business, and I used the Quantum Past-Life Napoleon Nickel . . . this business we are starting would technically belong entirely to me?”

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She remained silent.

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“Seen this guy?” Trucker asked again, holding up the photo on his phone.

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“No.”

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“Thanks,” Trucker said and moved on to the first booth in the second-floor reception area.

There was only a collection of about twenty or so booths to check out on the perimeter of the second-floor reception area, but it might as well have been two thousand. Trucker was growing incredibly weary of the nonsense. It was eating away at his rational mind. He looked across the banners. There was so much codwaffle on display he didn’t know if he could take it.

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Sacred Spiral Systems™ — Customizable sacred geometry wall decals for “vibrational alignment.”

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Crystal-Fi™ — Wi-Fi extenders made from geodes and Himalayan salt.

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Sound Bath Baptism Booth — Lay back in a dry tub while gongs, singing bowls, and a dolphin audio track shift you into a new spiritual dimension.

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GalactiWear™ — EMF-resistant bodysuits woven with “Pleiadian memory silk.”

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. . . and more. And more. And more.

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Trucker shook his head and went to work. He kept an eye on the wandering attendees while moving from booth to booth. There would be no idle chatter, no arguing or sarcastic retorts, no more listening to prattling sales pitches. He wasn’t going to let this place get to him any longer. He wasn’t going to slip into their pseudo-scientific-spiritual song and dance. And he was not going to stop for any reason whatsoever. One goal, achieved with one simple question: “Have you seen this man named Ed?” Ask it. Wait for a response. Then quickly move on.

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The answers were all the same.

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“No.”

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“No.”

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“No.”

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“She looks familiar.”

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“No.”

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“No.”

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“No.”

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A chorus of no’s.

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And then Trucker came upon the last exhibitor at the far end of the second-floor reception area, right before the hallway leading to a ballroom.

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There was something noticeably different about this exhibitor. Well, maybe not drastically different, but different enough. He was a tall, lanky, bald man in his early thirties, with a scruff of brownish-greying hair ringed around the back of his head. His wrinkled, short-sleeved linen shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his chest and small belly. Trucker could detect a sadness inside of the man as he sat on the table in front of his booth, which had no banner or signage of any kind. He held a pair of dowsing rods that swayed slowly and erratically from side to side.

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Trucker knew about dowsing rods. People had been using the L-shaped sticks for what seemed like time immemorial — sometimes they were made of metal or wood or anything really, as long as they could be held in both hands and swing outward or cross inward. Originally, he believed they were used to find things in the ground, like precious metals, ore, water, or treasure. But somewhere along the way people started to also call them divining rods and used them to talk to ghosts, spirits, anyone really. Anyone who didn’t actually exist.

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Trucker guessed that if he went back to The Aura Authority, toward the beginning of his search for Ed, he’d most likely find a pair tucked away in one of Madame LaBu’s dusty drawers. He also guessed they were being sold in bulk somewhere here at the Convergence Conference. And like everything else on display, they didn’t do what was advertised on the box.

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They couldn’t find special rocks. Couldn’t find water. And they certainly were not capable of communicating with spirits or angels from the great beyond.

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It was all a psychological trick for those that truly believed. The dowser, with rods in hand, would ask a question to a deity or dead uncle. Innocuous things like: “Should I buy a new sweater at the shop on the corner?” And then a well-documented process, understood by psychology and science, would take place. The process was called the ideomotor effect. If the dowser subconsciously wanted a new sweater, guess what? The rods would cross and indicate, “Go get that sweater, sweetie. You deserve it.”

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The true believer wouldn’t realize they were subtly adjusting the rods with tiny micro-movements; essentially talking to themselves and reinforcing whatever they already wanted. And that subconscious movement would then trigger another psychological response — induced euphoria. Because the dowser truly believed they were communicating with their dead uncle Pauly. Or the Aztec god of sweaters. Or whomever. And who wouldn’t break down into tears if they truly believed they were chatting it up with a god, and that god really wanted them to have that sweater?

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A self-reinforcing cycle built on belief, not reality.

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All fine and good if all the dowser wanted was a new knit sweater.

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But not if the questions stopped being innocent. Not if they became: “Should I jump off this cliff?” or “Should I remove my son from school and teach him using nothing but cookbooks from the fifties?”

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Then the rods stopped being a fun, self-fulfilling sweater selector and became something else. Something possibly dangerous.

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Also not fine and good when the L-shaped sticks were in the hands of people who didn’t believe in their mystical power, but did believe in the real power of money. People without an internal moral compass to stop them from getting that real and powerful money in any way they could.

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They’d use the rods to artfully separate the hopeful or gullible from their cash and coins.

“Uncle Pauly says you should give me a twenty spot.” Rods cross.

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“The Aztec god of realty says you should sign over your house to me.” Rods cross.

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“This is the only way to true freedom and happiness. Look, the rods are crossing.”

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Trucker approached the nameless booth and the man with the sad dowsing rods. He could see that in the back of the exhibit space was a hammock strung end-to-end near an open cooler filled with water, quickly melting ice, and spoiled sandwiches. A few cans of SpaghettiOs mingled with red plastic Ziploc bags, and a worn, beaten-up suitcase with a skull painted across the top leaned against the back wall. This man was living here, Trucker could clearly see, or at the very least, camping.

“The name’s AK,” the man said as he dropped the dowsing rods, brushed a pile of multi-colored rocks and quartz crystals off the table, and slapped the spot next to him, “Want to pop a squat?”

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Trucker looked around and broke yet another rule. One he had just made in that very room.

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He hopped up on the table and sat next to AK.

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AK looked at the Auralite Twenty-Three Pass hanging around Trucker’s neck and said, “Big spender.”

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“Seemed like the only real choice at the time,” Trucker said.

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AK closely examined the pass and said, “That’s not your real name.”

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“No, it is not,” Trucker confessed.

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“Here undercover?” AK asked.

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“Not really. Just on the job and don’t like giving my name,” Trucker said.

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AK glanced at Trucker’s shoes. “You’re not a cop. What kind of job are you on? You one of them?”

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“Them?” Trucker asked.

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AK strained his eyes upward. “You know,” he nodded toward the ceiling repeatedly. “One of them.”

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“I’m not sure what that means,” Trucker said.

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“One of them,” AK started to get agitated. “Are you here for me?”

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Trucker looked at the man kindly, “I’m not one of them. But that is exactly what one of them would say. So you’re just going to have to trust me.”

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“Okay,” AK began to relax again. “They haven’t visited me in a long time. I was actually hoping you were one of them. Or with them. Give me some direction.”

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Trucker looked over AK’s camping spot and briefly tried to put things together. “Were you in the military by any chance?”

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“You could tell?” AK pulled out a worn military ID. “Deployed six years.”

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Trucker and AK sat in silence for a moment, with the whirl of Ascend-A-Palooza circling around them.

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Then AK broke the silence. “A while ago,” he started, then paused, then started again. “A while ago I was standing in my kitchen late at night, around one in the morning. Made myself a snack. Then went to feed Barkie, my pup. Came back to the kitchen, and the clock on the microwave said it was way past four a.m.” AK paused and looked hard at Trucker. “Now, it didn’t take me no three hours to feed that dog.”

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Trucker didn’t say anything.

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“I didn’t think much of it at the time. I mean, it was weird. But whatever,” AK said. “Went about my business.”

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AK dug into his pocket but came up empty. He continued, and Trucker quietly listened.

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“Months go by. I’m just doin’ my thing. Just normal stuff, watchin’ videos online. Random stuff you’d normally see. Cats playin’ the xylophone. Kid’s screamin’ while playin’ video games.”

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“But then, up pops this lady,” AK said excitedly. “She looks so peaceful and serene with a good energy, ya know? And she explains the exact thing that happened to me in the kitchen with the clock on the microwave — lost time, they call it.”

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Trucker was about to speak but decided not to make a peep.

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AK continued, “I start watchin’ this lady, day and night. She had lots of videos, and I couldn’t get enough. She showed me exercises in gratitude, how to be my authentic self, that sort of thing.”

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“Good things. Makes sense,” Trucker said.

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“Took me a while, but I had gotten myself into a place of pure enlightenment and bliss. I tell you; I had never felt better in my life. And it was exactly as she described. Livin’ in the now. Bein’ present with oneself and the universe around you,” AK explained. “And then she breaks out a new thing.” He grabbed the dowsing rods.

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AK stared intensely at Trucker and asked, “Did you know — and this is gonna sound crazy — but did you know that you can talk to spirits with these things?”

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“I have heard that, yes,” Trucker said politely.

“So, this online lady shows ya how to use ’em,” AK said, “and I followed her instructions to the letter. But they didn’t quite work.”

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Trucker just listened.

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“Then one night, I break ’em out again. And I am focused. As focused as one could be,” AK said, smiling. “And they worked. I didn’t know who I was talkin’ to at first. But I watched more videos, studied and learned . . . and I got good. Really good,” AK nodded to himself. “I was eventually able to talk to Feefers — she was my pup before Barkie. And she said she was good, and she loved and missed me. And I was so happy. I was so so happy that Feefers was okay up in heaven.”

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Trucker was almost about to break another rule he had. The rule about crying in public, but he pulled it together.

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“So, I’m enlightened. Feefers is okay in heaven,” AK said. “I decided to really get goin’. I started to talk to others through the rods. Higher selves of people that were still livin’, but that I was on the outs with,” he said. “Ex-girlfriends. Baby mamma. My sister. Even my a-hole of a dad.”

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AK added with a light nod, “It gave me real insight into how to interact and get along with everyone.”

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“All good things,” Trucker said.

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“Right?” AK asked rhetorically. “So, I figure, let’s cut to the chase. Why not? Let’s ring up the big man himself. I ask to talk to God.”

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“And what did he say?” Trucker asked carefully.

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“Oh, he didn’t answer,” AK said. “But guess who did?”

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“Who?” Trucker asked.

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“His son,” AK smiled widely. “Yup, sure as Shinola, Jesus answered,” he said with a faithful grin, waving the metal sticks. “These rods right here gave me direct access. I know it wasn’t God himself — I mean, arguably they are the same guy. But Jesus is more personable, ya know?”

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“That he is,” Trucker said softly.

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“And you know what Jesus first said?” AK asked, waiting.

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“I don’t know,” Trucker answered very delicately.

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“He said that missing time — ya know, from when I was in the kitchen havin’ a snack and then feedin’ Barkie — he said that a bunch of his angels came and got me and brought me to him. I had a one-on-one briefing with Jesus Christ himself. Just didn’t know it. Wiped my memory, I guess.”

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Trucker didn’t say a word.

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“Jesus had so much to say through the rods,” AK explained. “But it was limiting, ya know? He could only answer yes-or-no questions that I had to think up.”

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“Yeah,” Trucker said sincerely. “That is limiting.”

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“So, I scrounge around online,” AK became hyper and dropped to the floor of his booth. He pulled up a quartz crystal attached to a shoelace and a wrinkled piece of paper with letters and numbers scribbled on it. “This stuff right here. This was the answer. And there were tons of videos online showing how to use ’em.”

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AK handed the paper and crystal pendulum to Trucker.

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AK excitedly went on. “No more yes-or-no questions. I could just say, ‘Jesus, what do you want me to do?’ And he would answer. Spell out instructions plain as day.”

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Trucker asked, still ever so delicately, “What did Jesus tell you to do?”

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“Oh, lots of stuff. Eat healthy. Go vegan. Exercise more. Save some lady from breast cancer. Write the new Bible,” AK explained. “Now, I haven’t gotten around to all of it. Jesus spelled out breast cancer lady’s name and gave a description, but I don’t know anyone fittin’ the bill. And trust me, I tried and tried to find her,” AK paused and thought for a moment. “And the Bible writin’ . . . well, the Bible writin’ is on hold . . . because —”

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AK became overwhelmingly sad and violently grabbed the crystal pendulum and wrinkled paper from Trucker.

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“This stuff stopped workin’. None of it works anymore,” he waved the paper back and forth.

AK hopped behind the booth and chucked the crystal and pendulum against the wall. He picked up the rods and shook them intensely, nearly bending them in half.

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“None of it works anymore. Nothing!” AK shouted.

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Trucker stood up and put his arms out as if to calm a wild animal. He watched AK flail in his nameless camping booth.

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“I was enlightened! I was talking to Jesus!” AK sobbed. “And now he’s not answerin’. He’s gone! It’s all gone.” He quickly swung from sobbing to thrashing and back again. He wiped tears from his face and said to Trucker, “I’ve tried everything to get it back. I’ve meditated, gone to retreats, read every book, watched every video, done yoga for hours, fasted for days, attended too many churches to count — tried mushrooms, acid, 2C-B, 5-MeO-DMT — and none of it . . . none of it has worked.”

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AK continued his emotional whiplash, “But that’s why I’m here. I’m here to get it back. Get it all back. They say online, in the videos, that the energy created in this place — with all of these seekers and truly enlightened ones,” AK gestured to the booths around them with the half-bent dowsing rods, “they say this space can realign you. This place can bring it all back . . . and then maybe Jesus will answer again.”

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Trucker looked around at the other booths and vendors and exhibitors and attendees moving about Ascend-A-Palooza. No one noticed or reacted to AK’s outburst. None of them.

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Trucker sat back on the table and patted the spot next to him. “Hey, AK. Wanna pop a squat for a moment?”

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AK hopped up and sat next to Trucker with his bent rods.

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“Let’s just chill for a sec. Slow things down,” Trucker said, “You okay with that?”

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“Yeah,” AK answered. “I’m cool with that.”

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“Okay,” Trucker said, and the two of them sat without a word for a few minutes. Just watched the crowd of attendees move around them.

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“I am not so sure,” Trucker broke the silence. “I’m not so sure these people have it any more figured out than anyone else. Seems to me —”

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Trucker paused and pointed to a booth with a banner that read: NeuroLight Wand™ — Recalibrates your inner aura! $19.99 with a man waving what was clearly a cheap plastic knock-off lightsaber.

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“Seems to me that most of these people are just selling a bunch of junk. Notice that?” Trucker asked.

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“Yeah,” AK answered calmly.

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“Seems this place is no more enlightened or spiritually in tune than anywhere else,” Trucker said. “Maybe even less so.”

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“Yeah,” AK answered.

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“I’d even go as far to say this place has the opposite effect. I don’t know how long I have been here — feels like both six minutes and six days — but whatever enlightenment or insight I had before I walked through the doors is slowly being sucked out of me.”

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“Yeah,” AK answered. “Thank you, Rōshi.”

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“I’m not a Rōshi. I’m not a teacher or a master,” Trucker said warmly. “I’m just a guy.”

Trucker didn’t mean to, but he accidentally set off another episode from AK.

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AK jumped behind his booth again, flailed about, and yelled, “That’s right! What do you know? You’re just some guy! You’re not enlightened! What do you know?!”

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AK kicked his cooler, and the water and melted ice sprayed everywhere. The spoiled sandwiches exploded against the wall. He grabbed half of his hammock and ripped it down violently. He was about to drop-kick a can of SpaghettiOs all the way to the Luminal Nexus Stage and knock out IronSpirit’s lead singer. That is, until Trucker let out an ear-piercing whistle and barked, loud and clear.

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“Hey! Hey!” Trucker scolded. An intense controlled rage in his eyes. “AK! AK!”

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AK paused mid-drop-kick.

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“I am one of them,” Trucker said.

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AK stood solid and completely motionless as if he were a garden statue.

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“I am one of them,” Trucker repeated.