S/G

Dear Matthew:

This is a complete transcription of a session with Mr. Louis Lewis. He’s a friend of a Josh Nacin who - as you know - I’ve been counseling for over a year now. I’ve tried to offer notes where I think appropriate. Thanks again for all your help. You’re analysis, as always, ever-valuable to me.

Mr. Nacin’s issues are centered principally on his relationship to this man Louis, and also with his father

( ! ). A detailed report is contained in the file and I suggest thumbing through that when you get a chance. Louis’ cooperation here would - I thought - allow for a more complete context with regards to bringing some sort of closure on the myriad pathologies gnawing away at Josh Nacin’s sanity. Like Josh and his father, Mr. Lewis spends his days “in character”. Bound to happen no? If you start counseling Jesus and his dad, pretty soon the other guy’s going to show up for his no? I love this business!

Thanks for taking a look. Have Terry call my girl and we can get together next time you’re in New York.

Best,

Miles

PS: Plain print for me and blocked for the “devil” Ha!!

***

So let me start by saying thanks. I know you’re busy, and I also know how important you are to our mutual friends. This means a lot. To ALL of us.

Well no problem, Doc. Anything to help out the family, so to speak.

Well, I wish everybody was as cooperative as you. Well I know you’re a busy man so let’s be quick about it then, shall we? First off, why don’t you outline your relationship with Josh and G.

Ha! How long’ve ya got Doc? I mean, you’re talking about thousands of millions of years. There’s any number of places to begin. There’s Eden, there’s Egypt, I mean, it’s the entirety of time on this planet.

Yes, excuse me for being vague. I’d like to start, in specific, at the place where you feel you’re relationship with them uhhh…

When they fucking ditched me? That’s easy: Sodom and fucking Gomorrah

Ok yes. Start there.

***

I think the whole Moses thing took more out of G than he admits. That whole thing, one gigantic clusterfuck after another. It was the first time that we really felt we had to, I dunno, orchestrate.

I mean, we could have just erased everybody involved and started over ya know? But we didn’t, and deciding the ins and outs of that period really sort of strung us out. After it was over there was only one place the two of us would even think about going.

(There was a three or four minute pause here, and it happens a few more times during our talk, Mr. Lewis suddenly lapsing into pensive silence. Odd.)

S/G baby. The most riotous, debauched city that has ever existed on earth including New York in the 1970’s and Chicago from the 1980’s and even New York in that week before the end. There is simply no analog to it anywhere in the history of civilization, and if you never went, you couldn’t possibly understand.

For instance, did you know that liquor, actual, hi-proof ethyl alcohol, was developed in Sodom?

I didn’t know that, no.

It was. Developed and consumed heavily. It was fermented from corn grown in vast fields outside the city. By night, the farmers would wheel in gigantic cisterns full of the stuff, handing it out for free to passers by. It was practically pure. Gomorrah itself was built on top of huge underground springs. You took just a little of that fizzy spring water and mixed it with the corn wine…

I find it interesting that here you make such a fuss about the drugs and the drink. I mean, you’re supreme being. That’s not enough?

First of all, have you heard the Japanese proverb about the little girl and the sunny day? Never mind, you haven’t. I think you’d do well to check that out when you get a moment.

Cocaine, heroin, speed, and marijuana all came first in S/G. They were all just handed out on the streets and in the bars. I’m telling you: state of the art. Nothing will ever come close. It’s where I speed-balled for the first time. It’s where I orgied for the first time…

By midnight the streets would be teaming. Thousands of drunks, pirates, whores and thieves. It was a way-station for the rough trade of the ancient world. We got there three days after I made it rain frogs in Egypt. Hadn’t slept in days., hadn’t eaten a decent meal sitting down in weeks. G was stressed beyond stressed about the Pharaoh and the whole thing. Wanted to head straight for the sex but I said, “dude, we’re here, we can get laid any ‘ol place. Let’s see something singular. There were musicians traveling through S&G all the time, and on that particular night, it was Sammy

Sammy.

Yeah Sammy. Sammesh Kenton. A musician. Played lute. Known throughout civilization. Nobody came even close. Kenton changed everything. Pretty much invented the concept of ensemble improvising. He played in rock, jazz, blues, any music idiom that ever was and ever would be. He played it first and he killed. Anybody today that you can think of. Hendrix, Page, Keith Richards, Chuck Berry all of them owe a debt of gratitude to ‘ol Sam. The masters too! Without Sammesh Bach wouldn’t be Bach. Mozart learned how to swing from Kenton compositions.

(patient is silent for a long time here. Eyes closed. Leaning back into couch.)

Yeah. He was the greatest. You couldn’t find him usually. But if you could, you were psyched. Always had a sick band too. They were set up right on main street there, and there was amplification. You could hear them all through the city.

I’m sorry, did you say amplification? Electrical amplification?

Well not quite, but definitely a pre-courser to that. Another thing born in Sodom!

How?

It was specially prepared cherry-wood from East Asia. Light and pliable but almost indestructible. They would build these huge sails made of the stuff and wave the music through the air. The streets of the city filled with dancing girls in various states of undress and the band just milking it. Sammy had a way of building his solos. He’d wind the crowd up, had these little melodic twists. Then the heavy stuff. Big melodic washes, burrowing funk. Wet-pussy music. You’d be there, and keep in mind: Sodom: Sub-tropics. Within 50 air-miles of the Mediterranean. It’s balmy, breezy and sweltering on it‘s coldest day. You’re there with 100,000 people. 30,000 of whom are beautiful naked women who’ll give it up. You’ve got a quarter ounce of cocaine and a bindle of diesel heroin. You’re smoking a gigantic joint full of potent herb and black-strap Moroccan hash. A legendary talent is pumping profoundly psychedelic music into your atmosphere, and it’s loud. Loud enough for it to feel like you’re swimming in it, fully enveloped. Within 20 minutes of our arrival we’d consumed 20 caps and stems from cow shit mushrooms that grew fresh less then a mile away.

You make it sound like Las Vegas

(he seems disappointed at this, giving me a hard stare and delaying his reply)

That’s just insulting. Vegas is just business. It’s based on capitalism and free-markets and the massive movement of large sums of money. S&G was a place where money never changed hands unless it was won on a bet. This was a pleasure dome, nothing worthwhile came at a price and nobody there was working an angle. Good times was the sum total of the impetus. The cities, the real cities, prided themselves on the fact that they offered something no other place could get. It was a place with no roadblocks. All kicks, no come-down.

Again I find myself surprised. Isn’t this the Sodom that Gah…I mean “G.” Isn’t this the place he wiped of the map in a blaze of Old Testament sound and fury?

(I felt very threatened at this point. Mr. Lewis glared at me. A dead eyed stare. I can see you smirking Kris but…It was unnerving.))

Listen, I know you don’t buy any of this, just like I know when I’m being patronized. You’re here in this room, in this building, in this life at my discretion. If you force me too prove that...

Are you threatening me Mr. Lewis?

No doctor, I’m just making conversation. Do you need a minute?

Do you?

OK. Where was I. Oh yeah, so we were tripping. Going hard. By the time the sets were over I’d been spun so many times I was having trouble speaking. I remember the crowd sort of moving off, but then people were like hooking up almost while they were moving. I saw like 30-40 different little sex-groups and before anybody knew it, the street became like one huge interconnected body joined at the fun parts. Asses in mouths, fingers and cocks lodged in vulva. Unbelievable. It went on and on. I caught a glimpse of G every so often but it was every man and woman for themselves down there. People kept on volunteering for water duty. They’d bring ten buckets of water and ten more of the moonshine and little cubes of hash to eat. The next morning Sammy came out with the sun and played an orgy-soundtrack for the entire day, pausing only to dive in and rip off piece after piece. I began to get emotional. Everything I’d ever wanted for humans was playing out right there on those streets. It was like a message from God.

(Here again he broke rhythm and gazed into space. A common trait in schizophrenics, but not one that manifests in psychotic paranoiacs. Thoughts?)

But, like everything else on earth, an ending was inevitable. After a few days, enthusiasm waned and the numbers fell. I guess people had to eat, right? I spent a good part of the 4^th day there just trying to make sense of the first 3, trying to make some memories. I was sleeping when G found me. He’s all wake-up, wake-up, wake-up!! It’s the option!” And yeah. I was in. It was just the thing I needed to shot-put me back into reality. You know the Option yes?

I have to admit, I don’t.

Ha. Well I can’t say I’m surprised. The option is a very ugly entity and probably best omitted from the record. You seem trustworthy so I’ll outline the concept. The concept of crime was not foreign to these people. I won’t get into it but at the end of every week in S/G there were always 20 or 30 drunks who’d gotten a little too gassed and either killed somebody, or stolen something from some rich dude, or whatever. Since there were no jails, there was always a problem deciding what to do with them. Option was a protocol designed to address that problem, they got the week’s criminals, all lined up on a high stage, shoulder to shoulder, ten across and three or four rows deep. A crowd assembles, they drink, get fucked up. They spend the day looking up at the guys up there, sizing ‘em up. Then they start making odds. They take into account things like country of birth, body-type, gender. They factor in the weather: Is it too hot? Cold? Is there sand flying? Is there Rain? Snow? All this gets plugged in and the books are opened. From mid-day to complete full-dark they circulate, giving and taking money and bets. By the time the Option begins, the bloodlust is exceeded only by the desire for something, anything to happen already. That’s when they march the first guy up to the front of the stage. They say his name a few times to the crowd and give the bookies a few moments to settle up.

(He stopped here, taking a drink of water, and fell right back into it)

Then they…Oh wait, I left out something important: There’s a low table in front of the guy as well. It’s about 10 feet long and covered with weapons of every description. At least three or four different swords, a collection of daggers. Straight blades of every description. There is a cross-bow and a quiver of arrows. A slingshot with lead pellets, a fucking mace. A lot of fucking weapons. What happens is, the crowd is filed up the stairs by a team of guards. One by one they climb to the stage and they roll one six-sided die on the table top. You roll the dice, get your number, and go to town.

I’m sorry, “go to town”?

Yeah. You take one of the weapons and you take a shot. Only rule is no decapitation or testicular emasculation. Death is too predictable there. Most people start by hacking off a few fingers. The bets are all against how long the guy is expected to last, so there’s suspense with every roll of the dice. There’s this anticipation.

It sounds like a thrill. Why is it called that?

What, you mean the Option?

Yes. The Option.

See, that’s the best part. All the prisoners are allowed, if they so choose, to take the Option. If they want to take a chance, they are unshackled and thrown into the crowd. If they can make it through, they get to go home.

Unbelievable. And how many people have done that successfully?

Exactly zero. It’s fucking Sodom. Usually body parts start being thrown around after two or three minutes of the Option. They throw them back on the stage chanting OPTION, OPTION, OPTION…Until the next guy.

(There is a five minute silence here. As weird as it sounds - and keep in mind I‘ve worked with professional liars my entire career - he had me here. As much as I’m aware I’m fleeced here, being sold of construct of this guys mind, for this section of the interview I was there, in the crowd, watching that awful thing play out. Amazing.)

That’s the most abominable thing I’ve ever heard. I feel like I need to un-hear it somehow.

Doc. Come on. It’s earth. That’s how we role. If it’s any consolation, the Option is the first thing that G had a problem with. It was there that he first expressed what I would call regret, real, tangible regret. He didn’t stay. And you remember, it was his hard-on for the thing that got us over there to begin with. After the fifth guy he said he was tired and needed rest. What the fuck, right? He went to visit Evelyn like always. Since then we hang, and god damn we party. But He’s never really gotten over this fundamental, primal dislike for humans ever since. Your people signed your death warrant in the dust of Sodom.

Evelyn. He’s not mentioned her.

Yeah well, he will. You mark my words. Get him talking about her and you’ll get the important parts of the story. I’m just here to provide some atmosphere. Some things you have to get from the source, or just not get.

What so you’re just leaving? That’s it?

Listen doc I gotta go. I hope I helped in some way. I mean, the guys my buddy, he’s my boy. His hurting doesn’t sit well with me, even if it is for stupid, pussy-ass reasons. I hope you can help.

　

Transcription ends.