Marshall and Dave Have the Talk
Brant
Back at the Mission, Marshall invites Dave inside his place for a drink. He tells Dave to help himself to the bar, and goes to change into one of his less outlandish outfits. Upon returning he takes a seat in the conversation pit and gestures for Dave to join him.
“So we should probably talk about what just happened. And about some of the other … things you may or may not have noticed the past few months.”
Michael
Dave goes to the sidebar and pours himself what looks to Marshall's eye like a triple rye whiskey, neat. "I'm not supposed to do this anymore, you know," he says, raising the glass and addressing the boss in a very uncharacteristic show of candor and familiarity as he maneuvers himself into a conversation pit seat across from Marshall, "but I figure if you're pointing me to the bar, you have some shit to tell me that I might need a drink or two to hear."
Brant
Marshall waves off Dave's comment. "Addiction is a matter of perspective. I wouldn't worry about it. But, yes, a drink might help." A pause. "So you must have some suspicions about me — all this. The people I associate with. Or maybe you don't. But I bet you do."
Michael
Dave nods, purses his lips, takes a polite sip of his drink. "I think I first suspected it the first time I heard you on the radio. The, uh, 'vibes' were weird that night. I never listen to fucking Pacifica, but that night I was driving around, wrecked on my last pain pills from the VA with an open quart of Jim Beam in the passenger seat, and for some reason I turned the dial and tuned straight into that call-in show. And there was this dude sounding like he was cracking up on the air. And you... you talked that maniac down. I'd seen and heard guys like him at Fort Miley, ranting about Uncle Sam having fucked them in the ass, aliens controlling their thoughts, the TV's talking to them, whatever. In thirty seconds you had him eating out of your hand." Another token sip, but Marshall can tell Dave's trying very hard not to hit the whiskey right now.
"I figured, any guy who could do that, and over the phone no less, could maybe help me chase my ghosts off." The haunted look in Dave's eyes tell Marshall he's not being entirely metaphorical about the "ghosts." Dave of course never talks this much on the job, so it's putting Marshall into his clinical role with Dave, having helped him with his addictions back in March when he came to the Mission. Dave definitely has some kind of atavistic belief in the Weird, Marshall can tell. Dave sees finding Marshall on the radio—finding him under extreme circumstances while simultaneously at his addictive "bottom"—as some kind of... divine providence? Serendipity? Blessing of the Virgin Mary? In therapy, Dave talked frequently about a Church-haunted childhood, visions of the crucifixion, adolescent dream-visions of the Virgin Mary, a mother who sort of hoped her second son would become a priest. These Catholics can be so primitive sometimes, Marshall thinks to himself.
Brant
Marshall smiles. "Yes," he says, in a vague way. Yes to what? Anyway. He starts channeling his NLP — I'm thinking Enthrallment (Persuade) — to make what he's about to say sound as plausible as possible.
"The first thing I should say is that I am a licensed psychiatrist. Everything we've worked on together with you, all of that is real. I don't want you leaving here thinking otherwise." Marshall fishes inside his robe and pulls out a joint. He lights it and inhales. Exhaling: "So the thing, David, is that I've sort of roped you into a strange front in the Cold War. You see, since the early '60s, the Soviets have been investigating — well, researching — something we'll call psychic phenomena. Particles. The energy between people. Nina Kulagina, have you heard of her? She was a housewife. Could stop a frog's heart with her mind. Perhaps it sounds ridiculous to you. It did to me when I had this conversation with my mentor. But it's true. The psychic stuff, that is. They found people who could do things — really incredible things — with just their minds. Heal people. See across vast distances. Kill with a thought."
"They hid it from us for a long time. Distracted us with the space program and whatnot. But over the past five or so years, we've figured out their game and now we're playing catch up. I'm part of that effort. So are the people you've seen me with. It's why you drive me to Livermore so often. A few of the people you saw today — the floppy haired burnout, Mitch, and the young woman who fell asleep in the chair, and the little girl — they have these powers, too. Real powers. Things that would blow your mind. They blew my mind. My job is to corral them. Monitor them. And our job — my team's job — is to keep an eye out for others like them."
Michael
Dave's eyes sort of go involuntarily wide for a split-second; he tries to hide it, but his Italian expressiveness shines through his military demeanor and streetwise cool. A slightly larger sip this time. "Do you know how many burnouts and hippies and space cases on the streets and in the loony bins think this exact thing?" Dave smiles, thinking about those dopers he met on the streets with their crazy theories. "Trust me, it's a pretty frequent rumor out there among the druggier paranoid types." Dave shrugs, puts down his drink. "I mean, I find it easy to believe just because I know there's more to the world than what I can see. Put aside the Church stuff, I'm just talking what goes on out there, beyond the normal human operating parameters. In other words... it's crazy but not crazier than anything I saw or did in 'Nam." Dave looks Marshall right in the eyes; they've talked about Vietnam in therapy—Marshall's used censored, bowdlerized versions of his own experiences in session to draw Dave out. "You know what it's like when you feel like your life is in imminent danger out there in the Shit. Everything gets... brighter. More spiritual. You're closer to death. The entire jungle is like a whole being, a tiger, ready to eat you." He shudders a little bit, knowing he's let his "ghosts" out a little too much. "But yeah, all that shit the hippies talk about. Shamanic states. Meditation that opens your mind to ESP. Biofeedback. It all seems perfectly within what's humanly possible. Triggered by extreme states." Dave seems to be stuck on that aspect of paranormal powers, the ordeal, like he's trying to derive meaning from his own combat-related gross stress reaction.
Brant
"Yes, I know about the Jungle. So does Roger — he is the Black man who hugged me at Shasta. He was with me there, in the Jungle. Saved my life. Catholic, like you. High church. He, too, can do ... things that are hard to describe."
"I'm telling you all this, David, not because I have to. Not telling you was always an option. But I am telling you because things in this area are, well, I guess I'd say they're heating up. We seem to be approaching a flashpoint. Things will get more weird before they get less weird, if you get my meaning. And I've had my eye on you for a long time. A long time. I know you can handle what is to come. But to handle it, you needed to be brought on board, you see."
Michael
Dave deliberates seriously, nodding his head absently for ten seconds maybe, breathing through his nose, watching Marshall the whole time. As he finds the rhythm Dave is breathing at, Marshall begins sending Dave subtle neurolinguistic signals in order to bring Dave back down to baseline. But Marshall doesn't really have to do much at all. The Persuasion is a fait accompli; Dave and Marshall are on the same wavelength now. Any of Dave's doubt, any of his fear, any of his uncertainty, is being dealt with internally right now. He's putting it away, for good. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, I'm in. I was in before I even walked in here, boss."
Brant
Marshall smiles and stands up. "Great. That's great to hear, David." He looks at his Rolex. "I should make the rounds. Take the day, if you'd like. I'll need a ride to Livermore tomorrow morning at 8." He extends a hand for a handshake, something he never does.
Michael
Dave leaves most of his drink behind on the conversation pit table, and stands up, puts his hand out. "All right. I'm..." He lets go of Marshall's hand. "I'm really happy to be here, boss."
Brant
"I'm not your boss, David. I'm just a friend." He winks and heads out.