The Music Portal(Jay Dubya) "The Music Portal" is a Jay Dubya science fiction tale from his hardcover/paperback/e-book Snake Eyes and Boxcars, a collection of 14 science fiction/paranormal stories, 2 stories written in the first person and 12 in the third person.


“The Music Portal”

Up until four months ago I had regarded my very ordinary life as being a dismal failure. My mediocre occupation ever since I was fresh out of high school has been that of a dissatisfied shoe salesman at Brock Shoes Outlet in Berlin, New Jersey. For thirty-one miserable years I would loyally commute each working day from my French Street home in nearby Hammonton, a flourishing agricultural community located twelve miles east of Berlin and also conveniently situated midway between vacation destination Atlantic City and bustling Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the distances being thirty miles in either direction from my house to the East Coast gambling Mecca and to Benjamin Franklin’s City of Brotherly Love.

The principal factor that I do remember about my former employment was that I absolutely loathed being a common shoe salesman, feigning cheerfulness daily, having to look at some very ugly feet over the course of the last three-plus decades, and unfortunately having to smell some horrible stenches emanating from the toes of people who apparently neglected taking frequent baths and showers and who evidently had little regard for the psychological needs of a disgruntled oxfords, loafers and sandals’ salesman who never seemed to have the desired exact size and the precise color on the Brock Shoes Outlet’s stockroom shelves.

And my family life (or lack thereof) also immensely contributed to my chronic emotionally depressed condition. My materialistic wife Virginia had left me seven years ago for a more prosperous man, a prominent Hammonton blueberry farmer owning (through inheritance) a highly lucrative five hundred acre plantation on Middle Road. And to add to my quandary, my three children have disowned me, preferring to side with their now rich mother who continuously and generously dotes on them and helps the avaricious siblings with their high-cost college tuitions, with their monthly car payments and with their often-solicited recreation money.

Yes, all was utter despair in my’ lackluster existence, with my only real joy being the bad habit of blowing most of my spare money in various Atlantic City casinos. In time, that wretched addictive activity had become almost an uncontrollable obsession. Bally’s Casino, Harrah’s Hotel, the Showboat, Caesar’s World, the Trump Taj Mahal, the Trump Marina, the Trump Plaza, Resorts International, the Borgata, the Claridge and the Hilton all provided my need for greed with basic gambling venue/entertainment while simultaneously confirming to my fragile psyche that I was a born loser and was surely destined to die as one.

But then last July 16th, 2008 (on a Wednesday if my undependable memory serves me correctly), I had attended the annual carnival feast of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel at the fair grounds on Third Street across from St. Joseph Catholic Church. Although I’m not the most congenial or convivial person in the world, I’ve always been a religious person and somewhat superstitious too, if I may mention that ancillary fact.

After attending the morning Mass that commemorates the festival, I sanctimoniously lit a candle next to the Hammonton church’s altar and tabernacle. Then after stepping outside the church, I faithfully pinned a hundred dollar bill on the statue of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel in the traditional Italian noon street procession that immediately followed the sacred church observances.

Later that afternoon I indulged in swallowing-down two pepper and sausage sandwiches at the Assumption Concession Stand that had been erected in the St. Joseph Church asphalt parking lot to accommodate hungry feast-day patrons. Everything occurring on that particular July 16th day seemed normal, copacetic and consistent with my overall nondescript life.

Exactly one week later on Wednesday, July 23rd, the all-too-familiar brown UPS delivery truck pulled into my French Street driveway at 5:30 p.m. After exchanging a few casual pleasantries with the likable driver, I carried my compact package into the house, a small carton weighing about two-to-three pounds. My curious eyes keenly noticed that the shipping address had been mysteriously labeled “Freiburg, Germany.”

‘This must be some mistake or error, or perhaps it’s even a weird practical joke being played on me,’ I initially thought. ‘I don’t know anybody that lives in Germany, let alone residing in a remote place like Freiburg. The town sounds pretty rural. True, my cleaning lady is from Germany and the janitor over at the elementary school is too, but outside of those two nice people,’ I presumed and speculated, ‘I have no other connections or associations with that particular European country.’

Before opening the unexpected brown-wrapped ordinary-looking package, I rechecked the mailing address to ascertain that the always- reliable UPS man had made an accurate drop-off. Feeling satisfied that my assiduous inspection of the item’s exterior had been complete, I ventured over to my den’s book shelf and pulled-out Encyclopedia G. After leafing through the thick book’s pages, my intensive research eventually located the “Population Distribution” map of Germany. After admiring impressive color photographs of the Rhine River Valley and of the architectural wonder known as Hohenzollen Castle, my cursory ‘information investigation’ discovered that Freiburg, Germany was located in the vicinity of the Bavarian Black Forest.

I next eagerly tore away the package’s outer brown paper covering and then meticulously opened the small carton, making certain not to damage the contents inside. Much to my surprise and wonder, a small computer-like instrument, comparable to a Blackberry handheld device, had been neatly tucked inside, enveloped in wrinkled-up German language newspaper pages. With my curiosity running wild, my eyes closely examined and then really scrutinized the very fascinating item’ of interest, its purpose at that specific moment representing an enigma to me.

‘Let’s see,’ I pensively analyzed, attempting to objectively keep my volatile emotions in harness. ‘I must not allow my heart to interfere with my mind’s goal here. Here’s a folded-up instructions’ leaflet,’ I astutely observed, ‘and wow, by coincidence it’s written in English too! I don’t even have to consult the German-to-English dictionary on the Internet for an interpretation. All there is on the facing of this peculiar device is one ‘On’ and one ‘Off’ switch along with a standard liquid display readout at the top!’

Then I carefully read the directions to the remarkable “Music Portal Product,” my mind completely captivated with its new-found intrigue, the extraordinary object instantly manifesting itself as a unique source of personal fascination.

“Use this very special mechanism only in a dire emergency where your life might be in danger or in jeopardy. There are twelve relevant songs programmed into this very sensitive device, the purpose of each tune you’ll be able to accurately hypothesize after your usage of the ‘Music Portal’.”

Then I read a more vivid description. “The first ten songs will pertain to your ability to deal with unsavory people that might be endangering your physical well-being while the final two songs will be pertinent to your much-needed growth as an individual, helping you achieve mortal self-actualization and therefore affecting you to ultimately finding a genuine reason for directly participating in the efficacious development of your psychological/spiritual self-fulfillment.”

I then finished comprehending the given instructions. “It is strongly advised that you implement and use this wonderful gift wisely. Simply plug the accompanying earphones into the device, and when threatened, use the first ten songs to eliminate your immediate problem. And then upon developing the necessary courage to overcome your ten adversities, responsibly activate the final two songs at your own volition and during the transition, courageously commence enjoying your purpose-driven life.”

Your sympathetic Freiburg friends

My re-energized thought processes contemplated the intricate invention’s possible significance in relation to my monotonous dejected life. I truly wanted to avoid any potential discrepancies concerning the successful operation of the Music Portal while my fertile imagination considered what would actually happen upon my intentional activation of the ‘very handsome-looking foreign made computer.’ My captivated mind still being somewhat befuddled, I very deliberately thrice re-read the very explicit directions on how to effectively optimize my ownership of the newly acquired electronic object. It didn’t take me too long to perceptively figure out the magical power associated with the exceptional miniature apparatus that I had by good fortune obtained via standard UPS delivery.

On Monday morning, July 21st I had to honor a 10:00 a.m. doctor’s appointment at Thomas Jefferson University Hospital, Philadelphia. I drove my blue Nissan Altima from Hammonton to the Lindenwold High Speed Line Terminal just west of Berlin, purchased my round trip ticket from the lady cashier and soon boarded the nine o’clock train into Philly’.

My scheduled appointment (and routine medical checkup) went smoothly and I was very happy with my heart doctor’s favorable report. I exited the brick-façade 1600 Walnut Street Building and very warily strolled the several blocks east and then south to the Port Authority Subway Station at 10th and Locust. Without any warning, four young city punks wielding switchblade knives accosted me at the base of the otherwise empty subterranean station’s steps.

Startled as I was, luckily I was holding the Music Portal Device in my right hand while wearing the accompanying attached earphones. Instinctively I entered my survival/self-preservation behavioral mode. I forcefully pressed the “On” button and my auditory senses heard the 1974 ABBA hit “Waterloo” being played through my earphones. Instantly the four unsavory city thugs disappeared into oblivion, the fantastic event occurring as if they had never occupied that particular time and space. It was then and there that I superficially grasped the specific functionality of the most incredible Music Portal.

‘I wonder if those four villainous creeps are actually right now at the Battle of Waterloo with Wellington’s or with Napoleon’s troops, or perhaps instead they’ve been marvelously conveyed to a 1970s ABBA concert,’ I conjectured and assessed. ‘In my opinion those future criminals need all of the history lessons they can get. Could it be that the Music Portal is indeed some phenomenal kind of sophisticated geography and time travel piece of equipment? Whatever the circumstances,’ I thought with relief as my eastbound train approached the underground train platform, ‘I’m really glad to have the amazing thing in my possession!’ And after I boarded the train I reckoned, ‘And I was never really a big ABBA and disco fan, always preferring to listen to classic rock and roll back in the flashy bell-bottom jeans, Strobe lights and polyester clothes’ ‘70s era!’ I mused and then chuckled as tunnel lights flickered on and off and metallic wheels screeched around a bend outside the train car.

After finally getting off the partially filled High Speed Line train at Lindenwold, I slowly trekked a good distance to my trusty car, which was parked around a quarter of a mile away in the far corner of the massive lot. As I grabbed for the front door handle of my Altima, an armed robber (that was hiding behind an adjacent vehicle) suddenly appeared and demanded that I hand over my wallet. Being inspired after my former musical success in the Locust Street Subway Station, my right thumb adroitly hit the contraption’s contact button and instantaneously, the shocked and petrified lowlife vanished into thin air. Simultaneously my ears discerned the familiar rhythm and beat of Jan and Dean’s catchy 1964 car song, “The Little Old Lady from Pasadena.”

‘Could it be that the wicked nasty-tempered robber has been transported to Pasadena, California?’ I asked myself. ‘If so, I hope he stays there and gets to see the next Rose Bowl Game! And if he’s meandering around Pasadena right this second, is he in the year 1964 or is he still in 2008? Oh well,’ I concluded and shrugged my shoulders, ‘that scar-faced fellow would be better off taking up committing home burglaries instead of attempting bold-faced armed parking lot robbery as a chosen profession. In retrospect,’ my mind reviewed, ‘it’s pretty hard for him to get teleported to a remote Golden State destination when nobody’s there inside the place to operate a facsimile Music Portal mechanism to send him back here to Lindenwold! Maybe the relocated idiot will get to visit and tour ‘Surf City’ too while he’s fully enjoying his unanticipated surprise West Coast jaunt!’

On Saturday morning I did my usual grocery shopping at the nearby Wal-Mart and ShopRite stores and then after unpacking and putting away my new food products in the refrigerator, inside the freezer and into various respective cupboards, I changed out of my blue denim jeans, donned my jogging outfit and drove my Nissan down the White Horse Pike to somnolent Oak Grove Cemetery. I had once checked the mileage on my car’s odometer, and if I traverse the entire graveyard’s asphalt surface twice, my diligent labor would result in a very beneficial cardio-vascular-friendly three-mile hike. Of course, my Altima was parked in its regular shaded location beneath a canopy of three tall oak trees, and I felt especially secure walking around inside the old cemetery carrying my Music Portal while performing my habitual weekend exercise routine.

As I was circling the caretaker’s maintenance building in the center of the cemetery, six motorcycle gang villains drove their gleaming machines inside the graveyard to pay their respects to a recently deceased member. Seeing me innocently pacing in their direction, the tough-looking bikers all perceived me as being an easy target for first blatant intimidation and then for larceny. The Harleys speedily rumbled up to me, thinking that I was unprepared to defend myself against their aggressive demands and their spontaneously planned molestation. But I was fully ready to deal with any of their antagonism and havoc.

“Okay, let’s make this little encounter short and sweet!” the very arrogant head honcho belligerently declared in a gruff tone of voice. “Now Pal, just hand over your wallet and I’ll gladly confiscate all your cash. Don’t worry though!” the disgusting black-hearted maniac clarified. “We ain’t all that bad! You’ll get to keep your credit cards, your driver’s license and all of your’ other personal ID! It’s a lot better to be a live victim than a dead hero, that’s what the hell I always say! Ha, ha, ha!”

The five other formidable-looking bikers all indulgently laughed at their leader’s threatening comments and then mockingly applauded my apparent situational futility. Before any additional harassment could ensue from any of their lips, I nonchalantly touched the “On” button, and without any sign of hesitation or delay, the Music Portal played the melody and lyrics to the 1959 hit tune “Kansas City” by Wilbert Harrison. And before I could even begin to say ‘Dick Clark’s American Bandstand,’ the six nefarious derelicts that had been ridiculing me were miraculously erased from my presence, either swiftly being sent on their way to Kansas City, Missouri or to Kansas City, Kansas.

‘I hope those desperate degenerates have enough dough to buy themselves some delicious Black Angus steaks,’ I amused myself with a reflexive smile. ‘Maybe they’ll somehow be converted into bunkhouse cowboys working for a living on a sprawling dude ranch. I think that the flat-lands of the American Midwest would be a welcome change in scenery for those societal parasites when compared to the all-too-predictable South Jersey pine barren forest landscape that they no doubt constantly abused in the past! Oh well, what could possibly happen next?’

The first Sunday in August, I was driving to Vineland to have a delicious lunch at Esposito’s Maplewood III Restaurant because I really think that establishment has the best tomato sauce and Italian pasta anywhere in South Jersey. After paying my moderate bill and leaving a generous tip, I sauntered out of the popular eatery and then hopped into my car, which much to my annoyance, failed to start. Upon opening the hood to diagnose the cause of the electrical problem, I recognized (much to my frustration) that the automobile’s battery had been stolen. I angrily got out my cell phone and anxiously began dialing “Local Information” to obtain the name of the nearest road service that would dispatch a mechanic out to Delsea Drive to replace the vital missing part.

Suddenly three mean-looking Mexicans emerged out of nowhere, violently opened my car door and then signaled for me to exit my vehicle. I ceased my cell phone dialing and gestured to the triumvirate of wise guys that I was going to obediently follow their command.

I gingerly lifted up my Music Portal from the passenger-side front bucket seat and slowly inserted the corresponding earphones into their appropriate auditory positions. My index finger methodically made contact with the “On” button, and before I could blink an eyelid or even fabricate a wink, the three dumbfounded desperados vaporized into the separate spaces that they had been occupying, their astonishing disappearances all occurring in unison with the very identifiable sound of Marty Robbins’ 1960 number “El Paso” being wonderfully discernible to my ears.

‘Oh well,’ I reflected and weighed with a huge sigh of relief, ‘the song selection could’ve been ‘Tijuana Taxi’ by Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass or maybe even Ritchie Valens’ terrific version of ‘La Bamba’ or perhaps even the good old-fashioned favorite ‘The Mexican Hat Dance!’ Those three missing-in-action Hispanic jerks were probably the same dastardly rogues that had stolen my car battery! Now they’re probably already trying to get to the Rio Grande to come back to New Jersey and get even with little old me, their chief antagonist!’

I finally got my blue Altima operational again late that Sunday afternoon. On Tuesday after work I checked my refrigerator and noticed that I was completely out of beer. The Phillies were playing an important baseball game on television that evening so I decided to drive over to Canal’s Discount Liquor Store on Broadway and Route 30 and conveniently purchase a cold six-pack of Coor’s Light.

A desperate-looking fellow quickly entered the crowded store while I was checking out my beverage acquisition at the main cash register. The on-a-mission psycho’ immediately pulled out a handgun and boldly announced that a holdup was in progress. Naturally I inserted the designated earphones and matter-of-factly hit the Music Portal’s “On” button.

My ears instantly heard Elton John singing his 1975 smash “Philadelphia Freedom” and I assumed that the Quaker City was the audacious petty thief’s appointed destination. ‘The Philadelphia Freedoms were once a pro’ tennis squad back in the long-gone 1970s and Elton John had written and dedicated the upbeat song to one of his closest friends, team captain Billie Jean King!’ my non-photographic memory recollected. Then my very active mind conjured-up some additional spontaneous reactions.

‘I hope that the criminal nutcase winds-up inside the 10th and Locust Street subway station and gets mugged by equally diabolical street hoods from the ‘hood!’ I creatively conceived and joked. ‘One thing’s for darned sure. Metropolitan crime is gradually trickling out of the urban areas and insidiously infecting the suburbs! If it weren’t for this tremendous Music Portal Device,’ I realized, ‘I’d already be dead at least five times over!’

When I finally returned to my modest French Street residence, my rowdy immature neighbors were haughtily entertaining some of their very boisterous piney hunter friends at a “disturbing the peace” backyard picnic. The raucous intoxicated rednecks apparently were quite disenchanted with my audacity because I had called the police to break-up several other clamorous next-door warm weather parties, one on Memorial Day and the other on the 4th of July. I was busy putting my lawnmower inside my outdoor utility building when all twenty-four inebriated revelers that had been attending the loud backyard barbecue trespassed onto my property and then insolently began badgering me with a barrage of disparaging insults.

“Look!” I diplomatically answered. “My ears are very sensitive! I don’t like excessive noise and I don’t relish the shooting-off of loud fireworks. Let’s have some moderate behavior here! Why don’t you kind folks just learn to be a little more civil and respect other peoples’ rights! Then we could get along like good neighbors and not have this type of unnecessary conflict all the time!”

“You’re goin’ to get the beatin’ of your life!” my bellicose under-the-influence twenty-two year old neighbor/nemesis predicted. “Now I’m challengin’ you in front of all of these witnesses here to act like a man and let’s see how tough ya’ really are when your very survival is at stake!” the incensed psychopath yelled as he angrily clenched his fists. The other defiant barbarians assembled on my back lawn shouted a bevy of brazen cheers and jeers in response to the offensive knucklehead’s sarcastic comments.

Without wasting a second of precious time, I suavely activated the invaluable Music Portal and my ears eagerly listened to Glen Campbell singing his 1969 hit “The Wichita Lineman.” The twenty-four baneful delinquents magically dissolved into thin air with not a trace or a vestige of anyone or anything (in their possession) remaining behind.

‘Those drunken Jersey hillbillies frequently terrorize the Wharton Tract woods up on Route 206 and the ruffians hang-out at the infamous Pic-A-Lilli Inn,’ I remember thinking. ‘They all belong to a deer club that just uses hunting season as an excuse to get drunk, to cause a ruckus and to commit perpetual gluttony. Maybe while they’re trekking around out in Wichita, Kansas,’ I mentally humored myself, ‘perhaps those two dozen un-illustrious scoundrels will introduce themselves to the six obnoxious cemetery bikers that I had very conveniently teleported out to Kansas City while the talented Wilbert Harrison was singing his mantra-like verses!’

At that psychologically rewarding moment of proud triumph, I must confess that I was feeling rather superhuman and omnipotent. It did dawn on my awareness that the wonderful Music Portal Device must contain some revolutionary proprietary technology that if “the science” ever became available to the general public and then be universally used, the plethora of “magical music devices” would have everyone sending everyone else into different times and/or into different places, thus contributing to mass societal chaos and ultimately, possibly causing the end of civilization itself. ‘Not everyone can be trusted possessing such a powerful device!’ I academically surmised. ‘Evil people cannot have access to such a marvelous tool! I mustn’t share the secret of this wondrous thing with anyone!’

Two more notable incidents occurred later in August. Being totally bored with my less-than-mediocre shoe salesman job, I had driven forty miles from Hammonton up to Six Flags Great Adventure amusement park in Jackson the fourth Saturday in August for some leisurely diversion and to pursue a much needed attitude adjustment. ‘In terms of its structure, this Music Portal appears to be just another typical Ipod,’ I remember thinking as I paid my park admission fee. ‘Whoever owns the patent to this electronic gizmo will certainly make an unbelievable fortune!’

Three drunken New Yorkers with heavy Brooklyn accents attempted to instigate a fight with me inside a crowded park men’s room. Without uttering any derogatory expletives or counter accusations, I confidently hit the readily available ‘transportation switch’ and upon me hearing the introduction to Freddy “Boom-Boom” Cannon’s 1962 top seller “Palisades Park,” the trio of punks promptly vanished from my midst.

‘Palisades Park was torn down years ago,’ I later recalled as I chewed on a hot dog near the Batman Roller Coaster Thrill Ride. ‘So if the three alcoholics were not time-travel-teleported back to 1962, then they’re probably walking around Palisades Park, New Jersey right now in 2008 wondering what the heck had happened to them. The three tipsy bully maniacs more-than-likely now think that they’ve somehow been the victims of a mass hallucination!’

On Sunday morning I needed some relaxing diversion in my life so I attached my twenty-four foot long boat trailer to my 1997 red Ford 150 truck and towed the “Sea Daze” to a launching slip at a Sweetwater marina. A forklift operator soon lowered and then deposited my boat into the Mullica River. An hour later my small Sea Daze was anchored in shallow water and I was quietly fishing in the vicinity of Crowley’s Landing’ when three destructive wise-guy teenagers appeared on the riverbank and started cursing and throwing large stones at me. I activated my Music Portal and my ears heard the refrains of the “Bristol Stomp,” a lively 1961 classic tune sung by the Dovells. ‘Well,’ I philosophically mused, ‘those three despicable adolescents are probably now wandering on the banks of the Delaware in Bristol, Pennsylvania instead of bothering the daylights out of me here on the Mullica!’ I logically concluded. ‘Serves the roguish hooligans right! Maybe their little excursion into Bucks County, Pennsylvania will teach the instigators some much-needed manners!’

The second Saturday in September I felt an urge to drive thirty miles east to Atlantic City, stroll the world-famous boardwalk, buy some tasty salt water taffy, smell the fresh ocean air and blow five hundred hard-earned dollars at Caesar’s World Casino. I parked my blue Altima on Pacific Avenue and while peacefully walking towards the A.C. Boardwalk I was accosted by a mugger who stopped me on Missouri Avenue to falsely ask directions to the Steel Pier.

Without thinking twice, Pattie Page’s 1957 calming rendition of “Old Cape Cod” sent the annoying thug off to either Hyannisport or Provincetown on the famous peninsula. ‘Maybe that vile fellow will be exposed to some New England culture, or more-than-likely he’ll be manhandled by police and arrested for trespassing onto the Kennedy Compound,’ I thought and laughed. Then my devil-may-care disposition changed to a more solid serious mode. ‘The Music Portal’s instructions indicated that I would have ten danger uses and then two additional personal growth uses,’ I mulled over in my mind. ‘That gives me just one more opportunity to dispose of harmful evil-minded individuals!’

Later that Saturday afternoon my gambling habit was rewarded when I hit a three thousand dollar jackpot on a Caesar’s World nickel slot machine. While mentally reveling in a jovial mood, I drove from Atlantic City and stopped in at Tony’s Bar on Route 322, the Black Horse Pike, to down some hard liquor shots and watch the featured go-go doll dance around a brass pole situated near the bar. The girl’s boyfriend (who was also her pimp) tried soliciting me for a three hundred dollar hit, and feeling threatened by his obvious gruff demeanor, I sent the saucy fellow down to Southern hillbilly country when my ears heard the unique guitar riff to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s 1974 smash hit “Sweet Home Alabama.”

‘Well,’ I steadfastly thought, ‘this last tenth episode has exhausted all of my Music Portal opportunities. October 6th is my birthday. I think I’ll begin exploring my personal growth segment then. If my brain remembers the exact instructions,’ I paused before I gulped down a second shot of 100 Proof Southern Comfort, ‘I only have two future chances to reach self-actualization. I wonder what side of Nirvana that’s on? Oh well, instant karma or no instant karma, I think I’ll order another jigger of whiskey and then hit the road before the bartender and the go-go dancer finally notice that the pushy pimp is missing-in-action.’

The attractive go-go-dancer with Rockette-type legs approached me and asked if I had seen a “Tall, handsome muscular brown-eyed young man with a dimple in the center of his chin!”

“I think he’s away applying to the University of Alabama!” I cleverly answered the voluptuous well-built scantily clad blonde. “Yes, I think he had mentioned something about being a freshman and drowning in the Crimson Tide!” I jested.

The knockout well-endowed girl just stared at me with her mouth agape as if I was an unstable mental patient that had just escaped from the nearby Ancora State Hospital high-security psycho’ ward.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I had reserved a non-smoking room for October 6th at Caesar’s World Casino/Hotel so that I could quietly and privately celebrate my birthday. Since I had earned a Harrah’s Diamond Card, I often enjoyed the benefits of food and room comp’ privileges at the corporation’s four Atlantic City properties: Harrah’s, the Showboat, Bally’s Casino and Caesar’s World.

Inside the confines of my seventh floor suite, I felt motivated to take the time to again closely examine the amazing Music Portal Device. And then feeling a sudden compulsion to further explore the dimensions of my own “Self-actualization,” I gathered my wits and courage and gently pressed the “On” button. Immediately I heard the harmonious Olivia-Newton-John song “Xanadu” and my suddenly disheveled mind found myself in a dazzling nightclub with several-hundred roller blade showoffs (along with equally skilled roller skaters) effortlessly whizzing by and all around me.

‘Xanadu was definitely a weird movie about a romantic person’s fondest dream of a romantic Utopia!’ I thought as adroit roller skaters rushed by my stationary presence in all different directions. Then my overwhelmed brain found the wherewithal to recall a theory that I had once studied in a college psychology course. ‘Maybe to reach my own special Utopia I have to explore my twelfth and final song and see how I can ascend to the very top of Maslow’s Law of Human Hierarchal Development! Yes,’ I decided with conviction, ‘now I’m finally beginning to understand this puzzling phenomenon! Self-actualization should exist on a higher plateau than biological needs and it should also transcend emotional gratification too! Its awesome fruition should be the perfect culmination of all mortal enterprise, its manifestation represented in the full maturity of the human spirit, and in my case, my full emotional and mental maturity!’

After pressing the mechanism’s “On” button for the twelfth time, my ears heard a familiar instrumental song which at first, my memory couldn’t recall the melody’s title. But in the meantime my fantastic Music Portal Device had magically transported me to a beautiful mountainous pine forest environment. Then my dizzy mind finally recognized the title of the rhythmic song, “A Walk in the Black Forest” by Horst Jankowski. ‘Of course!’ I jubilantly thought as I intensely gazed upon my stunning newfound surroundings. ‘The houses on that hill over there and the architecture of those buildings in the town down in the valley are German in nature! I’ll bet I’ve arrived near Freiburg!’

I hastened along a narrow dirt path until all out of breath I reached a remote monastery retreat. I stubbornly rapped upon the large wooden door and was reluctantly greeted by a monk who spoke English with a thick accent. Father Sebastian escorted me inside the stone edifice and after sitting in two hard wooden chairs that occupied a corner of his crudely furnished office, we discussed how I had been successfully “recruited” into the select ranks of “Music Portal assemblers.”

“How will I be able to achieve self-actualization?” I inquisitively asked my pious sponsor. “I understand that that’s the principal reason why I’ve been guided and conducted here.”

“You’ll have plenty of time for introspection while doing your required daily Bible reading,” Father Sebastian aptly and curtly replied. “You’ll become most inspired reading essential assigned passages, especially those moral lessons organized throughout the New Testament. That daily regimen will indeed accelerate your moral growth!”

My cynical side soon surfaced and its ego-based ugliness momentarily dominated my cerebral activity. My skeptical “outside world thinking” was not synchronized to my new self-examination reality. ‘Father Sebastian and his fellow priests are isolated up here on this remote mountain and their narrow minds are trapped inside religious cartons!’ I conjectured. ‘These holier-than-thou morons, or should I say these religious zealots, are quite ostensibly incapable of thinking outside the box!’ I negatively and critically thought.

“You’ll gradually learn self-discipline and after mastering that,” Father Sebastian un-eloquently elaborated in an emotionless tone of voice, “you’ll eventually rise above your propensity to vaguely communicate pessimistic ideas and also at that juncture in time, you’ll then finally conquer your affinity for being too liberally disingenuous!”

“Well then Father, what will be my assigned responsibilities here at this remote monastery?”

“First of all, you’ll only be allowed to speak in sentences of ten words or less when sitting with others on our staff during our three regular daily meals, which are generally the only times that trivial conversation is tolerated,” the no-nonsense priest informed me. “And starting first thing tomorrow morning, you’ll be learning how to make Swiss cuckoo clocks and then also you’ll be acquiring the art and science of beer brewing along with some preliminary exposure to botanical gardening, and after excelling in those mundane trades,” the abbot continued his sermonizing, “we’ll assign you at our discretion to help build sophisticated Music Portals that will be sent to psychologically depressed people all over this imperfect planet. But you’ll be an expert at only one phase of the manufacturing process and will never know how to fully assemble a functioning Music Portal entirely on your own skill, and if I may add, no schematic of the entire design will ever be shown to you. Now then,” Sebastian sternly said, “I’m a very busy man. Do you have any more curious questions?”

“Yes Father, will I ever be permitted to leave this cold all-stone monastery?” I inquired.

“After seven years of indentured labor, you’ll be allowed to travel within a hundred fifty mile radius of this rather insular retreat,” Sebastian objectively related to his new subordinate. “Once you prove your worth through self-discipline and once you demonstrate an enviable work ethic, you’ll be able to travel all around what is known as Baden-Wurttemberg and if your enlightened spirit moves you, you’ll even be able to visit the Rhine River Valley and tour Hohenzollen Castle, which as you know Cinderella’s Disneyland and Disney World castles were modeled after. You could even visit Munich and engage in an inspirational Octoberfest or two!”

Right after that initial mind-opening interview with Father Sebastian, my cerebrum realized one very salient concept. My mind and body had been transported in geographic space to Freiburg, Germany but according to the hanging calendar in the abbot’s office, the date was still October 6th, 2008. Based on my utterly illuminating experience here in this solitary-confinement-like monastery, that sage date observation simply means that all of the people that I had teleported (when I had felt threatened during the ten confrontations involving the Music Portal Device) probably also had been transported in space to new locations mentioned in the various song titles but probably not dispatched into other times or into other historical eras.

I’m finally becoming acclimated to (and actually now enjoying) the stringent agenda associated with my daily secluded monastic way of life’, the discipline of which I strongly believe has been helping me elevate my former inferior self-esteem and deficient confidence levels. I’m happy to report in this strange-but-factual humble autobiography that I’m learning some rudimentary German words and phrases and now can almost fully interpret what the sagacious priests and my fellow resident craftsmen are saying in abbreviated sentences at meals and during morning Vespers. Most importantly, I’ve now become accustomed to abhorring and rejecting the traditional lavish lifestyles that are greedily pursued in the baneful outside world by mostly self-centered humans.

I’ve been diligently making Swiss cuckoo clocks and conscientiously practicing basic beer brewing and botanical gardening for two glorious months now, and my ever-growing spirit is enthusiastically awaiting my eventual assignment and transfer to the highly prestigious Music Portal Assembly Workshop Wing. I truly wish to help other moral and good-hearted depressed people all over the world and give them hope for self-actualization by rescuing them through “music geographic transfers” when they happen to discover themselves being in harm’s way. That genesis phase of “enemy re-location displacement,” as I fathom it, is the primary stage of “Spiritual Self-actualization.”

In retrospect, as I author these final very realistic words the package that I had anonymously received from Freiburg via UPS is now fully comprehensible and its ultimate implementation makes perfect sense. I can’t wait to make my significant contribution to the moral stability of civilization by helping to manufacture new innovative and sensational “next generation Music Portals” at my designated workstation and then attain rapturous satisfaction by having the finished products of my extensive labor sent to deserving-but-despondent human beings all over this dangerous-but-wonderful world.

Google: Jay Dubya Books or
Google: Snake Eyes and Boxcars, Jay Dubya

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