Raymond F. Nelson - Then Beggar's Could Ride.pdf - Raymond F. Nelson - allforjesus2001

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Then Beggars Could Ride by

Raymond F. Nelson

INTRODUCTION

Can we have Heaven on Earth without fossil fuels? And without nuclear

energy? I think so, and this book is intended to show how, in a low-energy

technology, we can fashion a world that is not only as good as our present

world, but much better. It is in this sense I call it a Utopia; it is not for

mere mortals to fashion a world that is completely perfect. We are

imperfect, therefore our imperfection will inevitably flaw anything we

create.

Nevertheless, as I look around me at the society of the Sinister

Seventies, I cannot help but feel restless and dissatisfied. Have we nothing

to look forward to but more of the same, or something worse than this?

Have we, indeed, passed the point of no return in some sort of plunge into

universal oblivion? So we have been told, on appallingly good authority.

But I refuse to believe it!

I rebel against the doomsayers!

I seek to answer them, to show another way, and I draw my answer

from a memory of my own life experience. There was a time when I,

personally, had no car, no heaters, no electricity even; when I was so poor I

found food by lurking in cafeterias—when patrons left their tables, I

finished their leftovers. My clothing was hand-me-downs from friends, my

shelter a condemned building where I lived rent-free, pending the coming

of the wrecking crew. Was I unhappy?

No! I was perhaps happier than I have ever been, before or since. I had

one natural resource that few people ever tap more than superficially; a

resource that, unlike our supply of oil, coal and various metals, seems

inexhaustible; a resource that grows greater rather than less as I use it.

I had my imagination.

My imagination made up for all I lacked.

As I sallied forth from my doomed dwelling place to perform my

morning ablutions in the men's room of the corner gas station, as I

wandered down to Telegraph Avenue to select a sumptuous repast from

the groaning smorgasbord of leftovers habitually discarded by the

American restaurant goer, as I sunned myself on the campus of the

University of California and discussed philosophy with students and an

occasional professor, was I a beggar? No. I never asked for money. Indeed,

that summer (for this life lasted only a few months) I neither accepted nor

spent one single penny. Was I a bum? Was I a hobo, a beatnik, a hippie?

(This was before Herb Caen coined the word "beatnik," back when a

"hippie" was a sharp-dressing Black.)

I was none of these things.

Thanks to my omnipotent imagination, I was on Monday a monk, on

Tuesday a troubadour, on Wednesday (having found the stump of a pencil

and some discarded leaflets) a great artist, on Thursday a secret agent, on

Friday a Zen Master, on Saturday a peripatetic philosopher, and on

Sunday the Emperor of the World traveling incognito. Or I could be an

explorer… I did indeed explore the East Bay on foot, from East Oakland to

the wilds of darkest Richmond. A composer, a dancer, a poet, a

psychoanalyst, a naturalist, a swimmer, a runner, a clown; all these things

I could be. I had but to imagine it, and it was so. And, as the occasion

demanded, I was also a free babysitter, a free furniture mover, interior

decorator, dishwasher, house-husband (briefly), cook.

I knew a girl at that time, a student at Cal. She was

(A) in love with me,

(B) trying to reform me,

(D) or none of the above.

One day she asked me, "What if everyone acted like you?"

That is the seed of this book!

What if we lived in a world of make-believe, designed to the

specifications of our fantasy, planned in our daydreams, molded to our

heart's desire? What if we designed this world so you could live in any

historical era, in any known place, or in times and places that never were,

but only were imagined?

Could such a world be made possible? Could it be practical, stable,

functional? Of course… in the imagination.

But let's make the question harder.

Could it be possible on a budget? In reality' ?

Could it be possible with no technological breakthroughs, with no

scientific knowledge beyond what we possess today? Could it be possible

with no fossil fuels? (The day when we will be without fossil fuels

approaches swiftly and relentlessly.) Could it be possible with no nuclear

energy? (The problem of radioactive wastes has yet to be solved, and

perhaps may be incapable of solution.) Could it be possible, not with

impossibly good people, but with ordinary, flawed people like you and me?

I say yes!

Uptime from here, on one of the branches of possible futures, there is a

world of make-believe made real. It's not far away. Come, let us join my

protagonist as he seeks a home there. Perhaps we'll find your true homes

there too.

I know mine is.

R. F. Nelson

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

"Suicide, eh?"

"That's right."

The doctor, a short, thin, balding man in light blue business coveralls,

stood with his back to me as he spoke, leafing through my dossier with an

air of mild boredom. He raised his eyes to gaze out the circular window,

his unimpressive body silhouetted against a bright cloudless afternoon

sky, then turned to look at me for the first time.

"Light bothering you?" he asked.

"A little," I answered.

He grasped a handle at the window's rim and moved it, rotating the

inner of the two panes of polaroid glass. The window went opaque and the

illumination from the sun was replaced by a dim green shadowless glow

from phosphorescent walls and ceiling.

"Better?" he asked.

"I guess so." I didn't really care, and my voice showed it.

"Won't you have a chair?" He gestured toward a simple but elegant

piece of lightly stained flexible-wood furniture.

I sat down, remarking listlessly, "I was expecting you to ask me to lie

down on a couch."

"No, no, that won't be necessary. I see that, like so many people who

come to a therapist for the first time, you have a lot of false notions about

us. This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth. I don't believe

there's a single couch in this whole building."

"If you haven't got a couch, where am I going to lie down while you ask

me about my childhood?"

"I'm not going to ask you about your childhood."

"What about my dreams?"

"I'm not going to ask you about your dreams, either."

A faint smile played about his lips as he seated himself behind his light

elegant flexible-wood desk. "All those things have to do with your past. It's

all here." He tapped my dossier with his finger. "But since your past has

led you to attempt to kill yourself, you couldn't say it's been exactly good

for you. No, we won't talk much about your past. It's your future that

interests me, Jack."

"My name isn't Jack," I objected.

"I call all my male clients Jack, and all my female clients Jill. Later on

you'll—"

"Just a minute there! I'm an individual! I demand—"

His sparse eyebrows shot up. "You demand your identity? It seems to

me your identity was the very thing you wanted to be rid of when you took

the pills."

"Touché," I said morosely. I didn't care all that much. "So my name is

Jack. What's yours?"

"You can call me Doc." He stood up, leaned over the desk, and shook

hands with me. As he sat down again, he went on, "As I was about to say,

you won't be Jack forever. Someday, when you're ready, I'll hand you a list

of names and say 'Pick one.'"

"What if I don't like any of them?"

"Then you can make up one. You can have any name you like with one

exception."

"The name I was born with?"

"Exactly."

"Show me the list, Doc."

He shook his head, smiling wistfully. "Not yet."

"When?"

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