7.

Dr. Flite

Tuesday, March 12 - 8:30a.m.

Mike flailed his arms and legs as he woke up from a nightmare gulping for air. His left wrist seared with sharp, residual pain. In his dream, he had been held down by several men, and one of them had driven a stake through his wrist. He rubbed the wrist as the dream memory faded.

The early morning sun invaded the comfortable darkness that wrapped around him as he lay in bed. The sun poked through the curtains and stung his eyes as he peered outside. He thought about the dream. Why were they holding him down? Why was someone driving a stake through his wrist? What had he done to provoke them? As he thought about it, more details came back. The men in the dream had called him names, shouted obscenities and spat at him. Blasphemer. Liar. You’re gonna hang, they had jeered. That's it, he decided, first the “why have you forsaken me” bullshit and now this dream. Goldberg was right. I should see a real hypnotherapist.

He found the phone book sitting open by the telephone. He started thumbing through the pages under H. “Ah. Here it is: Hypnotists.” He ran his thumb down the page until he came across an ad adorned with roses. Roses are symbols of love, and he liked that. The guy must have heart, he thought. The ad was for Doctor William Flite, certified hypnotherapist.

Then he had second thoughts. Since he was starting to have weird dreams, he thought maybe he should make an appointment with a psychiatrist instead, a therapist who could straighten him out. He thumbed the Yellow Pages to the “P’s” and then turned the pages until he got to Psychiatrists. The first ad that caught his eye was for “Dr. William Flite, licensed psychiatrist.” The same guy. It struck him as an odd coincidence to run into the same guy under two categories, but he believed that there are no coincidences; everything happens for a reason. Boy, he thought, this guy must have some good credentials. I just hope he’s not too expensive.

He called the number in the phone book and spoke to the receptionist. By coincidence, there was a cancellation that left a spot open at 10:30a.m. It was more expensive than he hoped, but he made the appointment anyway. That twelve hundred bucks is sure not going to stick around long, he thought.

Tuesday, March 12 - 10:30a.m.

Mike tooled up to Dr. Flite’s office on his Harley. He got off the bike and went inside.

It didn’t take him long to tell Dr. Flite the story about the stage hypnotist and the strange words he had spoken. It helped that Flite was a man. Flite suggested hypnosis, and Mike agreed. He gestured Mike to a couch and said, “We’ll get started in a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

He walked over to his suit jacket, which was draped over a chair, and he fished through the pockets until he produced a small prescription bottle. He opened the cap, shook out two pills, popped them into his mouth, then replaced the cap. When he saw Mike watching him with a worried look on his face, he said, “Migraines. I’ve had them every day since I was twelve.” He walked back over to the sofa, switched on a cassette recorder and sat down. He took out a nifty strobe light, switched it on and started the process of hypnosis. He took longer than usual to hypnotize Mike, taking extra care to make sure he was in the deepest possible trance.

“Okay, Mike, I want you to go backward in time, back to when you were on stage being hypnotized by Zolli. When I count to three, you will remember exactly what Zolli said to you. One. Two. Three. Mike, tell me what Zolli is saying.”

Mike’s eyes remained closed. He spoke slowly, mechanically. “He’s asking me to go back to my tenth birthday. He’s asking me to tell him why I’m smiling.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him that my mom said I get to ride in the front seat of the car because it was my birthday. Then I told him it made my sister mad.” Mike smiled with the memory.

“Go on.”

“He told me to go back even further, back to when I was one year old. Then he asked me to tell him what I saw.”

“What did you say?”

“Well, I was only one year old, so I didn’t know how to talk yet. All I could say was ‘Ga’.”

Dr. Flite leaned forward in his chair. “And then?”

“He’s asking me to go back even further in time.”

“Tell me exactly what Zolli said to you, word for word.”

Mike’s voice changed to a fake Dracula accent. “When I count to three, you will go even further back in time. Back to a time when you felt the joy of entering a new world. One. Two. Three. Tell me what is happening.” Mike’s breathing became more labored.

Flite could tell by the tone and speed of Mike’s voice that his trance had deepened even further. “Mike, we need to go very slowly now. Whatever happens, you must not rush ahead. Do you understand?”

“Mmmm.” He nodded.

“Was Zolli trying to make you remember your own birth?”

Mike’s face became puzzled. “I. . . didn’t. . . feel. . . great joy. . . when I was born.”

Of course not, Flite thought. Being born probably feels like you’re a watermelon being run through a garden hose. Having your head crushed in a vise is not a pleasant way to enter a new world. He wondered if the stage-hypnotist had been trying to elicit a past-life false-memory to entertain the crowd. “What did you think he meant?”

“I thought. . . he meant. . . to go back to an earlier lifetime. . . to when I died and it was joyful.”

Flite was surprised but intrigued. He had read some research-papers on past-life regression, but he had never tried to do one himself. The researchers often claimed that death was a joyful experience because it was a release from pain and a reunion with dead loved ones. He was skeptical about the whole subject. He believed past-life memories were fabricated by the subject to satisfy the wishes of the hypnotist, even though he had several close colleagues who swore they were real. This was his first opportunity to explore the strange phenomenon, and he didn’t want to influence the outcome of the session or bias the results. He decided to continue the session, but carefully. He checked his tape recorder to make sure it was running.

“Mike, when I count to three, instead of going back to that same time. . . ” He paused. He didn’t want to say of your last death because that was leading the witness. He continued “I want you to go back in time one day prior to where Zolli took you. One. Two. Three. Describe what is happening.”

Mike’s face changed. His eyebrows became narrow and his face took a very serious expression. Then he started speaking in Hebrew, much to Dr. Flite’s surprise. Flite had also read about this strange phenomenon–xenoglossy–where patients can speak fluently in foreign languages in a hypnotic state. He believed that the unconscious remembers every little scrap of every language we’ve ever heard spoken and can surface with great accuracy under hypnosis. He decided he would have to study the recording later, but for now, he wanted answers. “In English, Mike. Tell me in English.”

“I’m sitting at a big table, and I’m eating dinner with my followers.”

“What do you see?”

“I’m in a long, narrow room, maybe fifty feet long with stone pillars. We are sitting around a big table, eating. There are baskets on the table with bread inside. Casks of wine. People talking.”

“How many people are there?” Mike paused. His eyes moved back and forth beneath his closed eyelids.

“Um. A dozen, plus the servants.”

“What are the people wearing?”

Mike sat very upright in his chair, like an important leader. “Robes and sandals.”

“Where are you sitting?”

“At the table. In the middle, so my followers can hear me speak.”

“What are you saying to your followers?”

“Mmmm.” Mike paused and craned his head as if listening.

“What are you saying, Mike? In English.”

“I said one of them will betray me. They’re acting surprised. They don’t believe me.”

“Who will betray you, Mike? Do you know who it is?”

“Mmmmm.” He nodded. He turned his head from side to side, as if looking at the people gathered at his table.

“Who will betray you?”

“Judas.”

Dr. Flite’s mind was reeling. He only knew of one person named Judas, and that was Judas Iscariot, the man who betrayed Jesus Christ. The name just seemed to lose its popularity after that incident; people stopped naming their kids Judas. Flite didn’t know how to explain what “past-life” memories were or where they came from, but it seemed clear that Mike was somehow identifying with the life of Jesus. He wanted to get more information, but he knew he had to be careful not to plant suggestions in Mike’s mind. He finally decided on the direct approach.

“Mike. Do you know who you are?”

“Yes.”

“Mike, what is your name?”

Deep in the state of hypnosis, Mike thought about his name and how he could give Dr. Flite the most accurate answer possible. He didn’t have a last name, because back then people were identified by their city and their parents. He only had a first name, and it was Yehoshua, an ancient form of the name Joshua, but he knew that wouldn’t have any meaning to Flite, and Flite wanted meaning. Yehoshua, in ancient Hebrew, meant “Yahweh Delivers” or “The one who will bring God’s victory.” However, names change as they pass from culture to culture, much like the name for the native American tribe “Ojibway” was translated as “Chippewa.” Mike knew that his name, Yehoshua, would later be translated into Greek as “Jesus,” and that was a name Flite would recognize. Finally, Mike answered. “Jesus of Nazareth, son of Joseph.”

Dr. Flite wanted to make sure he heard correctly. “Can you repeat that?”

“Jesus of Nazareth, son of Joseph.”

“Mike, did you say Jesus?”

“MMMMmmm.” He nodded.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

Where do you even begin when you’re talking to the Messiah? Dr. Flite decided this charade had gone on long enough. Obviously, he thought, the stage hypnotist did some damage and altered Mike’s belief system. He decided to bring Mike out of the hypnotic state and discuss it with him. “I’m going to count to five, and when I reach five, you will wake up feeling refreshed and relaxed, and back to normal waking consciousness. You will remember everything that happened in the session. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Wide awake. Wide awake. How do you feel, Mike?”

Mike’s eyes started blinking, then he opened his eyes. Then his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. His right hand covered his mouth. All he said was, “Oh my God.”

Dr. Flite put his hand on Mike’s shoulder and tried to reassure him, “It’s okay, Mike. Hypnosis is not an exact science. Much of what we get is open to interpretation.”

“But I remember, Doctor Flite. I remember. I was Jesus Christ in a past life.”

Flite was suddenly very worried. Was his patient experiencing delusions of grandeur? What did Zolli do to him? If you tell a subject under hypnosis that he’s Groucho Marx, he would believe that too, and if you never set him straight, he might identify with Groucho forever. This patient was obviously delusional, identifying with Christ, but what if it was it partly his fault? If he didn’t handle the situation carefully, they could take away his license to practice. “There are theories. . . . ”

Mike wasn’t interested in theories, however. He just wanted to get the hell out of there. So he interrupted, saying, “Thank you very much, Doctor Flite.” He got up and shook Flite’s hand. “I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

Flite wanted to talk more about Mike’s regression. There could be some serious psychosis here, he thought. But before he could stop him, Mike grabbed his leather jacket and headed for the door. Flite yelled after him, “Mike. Wait. Don’t go. At least call me later.”

After Mike was gone, Dr. Flite wrote notes in the file he had created for Mike. “Mr. Tomson is suffering from damaging post-hypnotic suggestions from a stage hypnotist called Zolli. So far this hasn’t affected his mental health. Although it’s too early to tell, my initial diagnosis is that he might be bipolar (manic-depressive). When he’s on top, he identifies with Jesus Christ. I’m worried that when he hits bottom, his depression will be as severe as his enthusiasm is now. More work is needed to undo the damage.”

Then Flite noticed his migraine headache was gone. Wow, he thought, that pill worked fast. He didn’t realize it yet, but that would be the last headache he ever had.

Mike got on his Harley and rode to the strip. He needed time to think, and his favorite way to do that was by walking. Riding clears the mind, but walking organizes it. He parked the bike at the Tropicana and began walking up the strip.

Normally when he walked, he liked to look at people’s faces, reading them, wondering who they were and how they felt inside. On this day, he wanted only to find out who he was and how he felt inside. He looked at the sidewalk as he walked.

The first question he had to ask himself was, “Am I going crazy?” After all, it was absurd to believe he had been Christ in a past life. He immediately dismissed the question. “Of course I’m not crazy.”

The next question was, “Is it possible that I have some kind of past-life connection to Christ?” There were several things to consider. First, there was his strange outburst on stage, speaking words he didn’t even understand. Christ’s dying words. Second, his mom had a touch of “the sight” and she did believe in reincarnation. He did too. He also had to admit to himself that he probably had some psychic abilities too, after his windfall at the Tropicana and his prediction of Lucy’s jackpot. It was pretty hard to deny at this point.

He also considered the fact that both times he had been hypnotized, it felt real. Since his appointment with Dr. Flite, he began to remember remarkable snippets of Christ’s life, but they lacked clarity. He remembered standing on a huge hill with a large lake in the background, facing a crowd who watched him and expected him to teach. He remembered facing another crowd, an angry mob chanting, “Bar Abbas! Bar Abbas! Bar Abbas!” The only past-life memory he could dredge up with any clarity was the last supper scene from the session with Dr. Flite. But could he trust his memory? It had seemed so real in Dr. Flite’s office, but now how could it be real?

There was no doubt that hypnosis was powerful. Entire belief systems could be changed. There were hypnosis tapes designed for losing weight, to stop smoking or to accomplish almost any goal. With such a powerful tool, could he trust his past-life memories, or were they bogus? He had read about false memories where patients will assume any role, even make up memories of things that never happened, in an effort to cooperate with the hypnotist. Zolli even convinced the one guy he was Einstein, for Christ’s sakes. No way, he thought, It can’t be real.

Still, he believed that reincarnation was a fact. Life is so short that it seemed absurd that God would expect anyone to attain perfection, atonement, Union, Satori, Nirvana or whatever we’re supposed to accomplish here, in a mere seventy or so years. Plus, he had once read about one little boy in India who seemed to remember a past life down to the last detail, including his name and that was all done without hypnosis. And with hypnosis, Mike had remembered the last supper with that same degree of detail. Hell, I even remember what food they were serving. I suppose it is theoretically possible, he thought. Maybe I can be the reincarnation of Christ. But what does that make me now in this lifetime? Am I the son of God? Was Christ the son of God? What does that really mean? Can this be possible? Am I going crazy?

He walked up the strip, toward The Aladdin, Bally’s, Paris and the others, trying to probe for past-life memories. He believed that if he had been Christ, he should remember more about his past-life, and he should be able to verify it somehow. A lot had been written about the life of Christ. But he hadn’t read the Bible since he was a teenager, and his memory of it wasn’t very good. He decided he might have to reread it.

Tuesday, March 12 - 1:00p.m.

When Mike returned to his apartment, he pulled out his copy of the Bible–a confirmation gift–and began rereading the New Testament, hoping the Bible would either jog his past-life memory into place, or give him proof that the hypnosis thing was just a pile of subconscious rubbish. The New Testament refreshed his memory about what the Bible actually says, but unfortunately it didn’t solve his dilemma. It just added fuel to the fire of his internal struggle.

He wished there was some way to know for sure if he had been Christ. Then he remembered that his ankle had been healed so quickly. He thought that perhaps healing was one sign of proof. The Bible said that people were healed just by touching Christ. He decided that if people were healed by touching him, too, it might be the proof he needed. Then he remembered the woman from the Bellagio who had risen from her wheelchair after he touched her.

There was too much to think about alone. What he needed was someone to bounce things off of. It’s too bad I rushed out of Dr. Flite’s office so quickly, he thought, but then again, he wasn't exactly unbiased. He was a psychologist, after all, so he probably thought I was crazy. Who knows. Maybe I am crazy after all.

He put his hands in his pockets, only to find the business card of Professor Alice Bailey. If Goldberg was right about Bailey, he thought, she could probably shed some light on the life of Jesus, which might help unlock the jumbled memories in his head. He hesitated at first, then he dialed the number. “Hello, Professor Bailey? This is Mike Tomson, the guy who asked you to identify a language and you referred me to Rabbi Goldberg. Remember?”

She remembered him. She had almost killed herself tripping over his goddam crutches. “Yes, I remember you. Was Goldberg able to help?”

“Yes he did. Thanks for your help. You were right: The words were Hebrew. They were actually words that Jesus said, which is why I called. I’ve got some questions about the life of Jesus, and Goldberg said you might be able to answer them. He said you were quite the religious scholar. Can I buy you dinner or something so we can talk? Not a date or anything. Strictly professional. What do you say?” He was worried she might take this as her proverbial “amusing pick-up line.”

Professor Bailey normally didn’t trust strangers, and rightly so, but Mike had been in crutches, and she figured, what’s the worst he could do? Beat me over the head with a crutch? He seemed sincere enough and now that her class was over, she also felt a little guilty at having pawned him off on Goldberg. She remembered his warm smile and intense blue eyes. Now he was talking about her pet topic, Biblical theology. She never missed an opportunity to talk about it with like-minded people (without the competitiveness of other scholars). When someone brought up the subject of Biblical theology–man or woman–it was just too hard for her to resist such a juicy conversation. She said, “Okay. Why not?”

“How about tonight at seven?”

She said, “You’re on. We can meet at the restaurant. I know just the place.”

After making all the arrangements, he hung up the phone, but still he wondered: would she have answers for him, or just more questions?

Excerpt from The Gospel According to Mike

Someone asked him, “What is the cause of suffering?”

He said, “Attachment. You will suffer if you resist your soul’s purpose by focusing on the material instead of the spiritual, ignoring your life-lessons, trying to be someone you’re not, feeding your ego, trying to make yourself more important than others, and becoming attached to pleasures or desires. Bind yourself only to the purpose of the Creator. Live for God’s loving embrace. Let your only attachment be the freedom of love.”