Trip to the Head

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“Is this Earth?” he cried, for things had changed abruptly.

“Yes, this is Earth,” said the one beside him, “nor are you out of it. In Zambia men are rolling down hills inside barrels as training for space flight. Israel and Egypt have defoliated each other’s deserts. The Reader’s Digest has bought a controlling interest in the United States of America/General Mills combine. The population of the Earth is increasing by thirty billion every Thursday, Mrs Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis will marry Mao Tse-Tung on Saturday, in search of security; and Russia has contaminated Mars with bread mold.”

“Why then,” said he, “nothing has changed.”

“Nothing much,” said the one beside him. “As Jean-Paul Sartre has said in his lovable way, ‘Hell is other people.’”

“To Hell with Jean-Paul Sartre. I want to know where I am.”

“Well then,” said the other, “tell me who you are.”

“I’m.”

“Well?”

“My name is.”

“What?”

He stood, his eyes filling with tears and his knees with palsy, and knew he did not know his name. He was a blank, a cipher, an x. He had a body and all that, but be had no who.

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