The Boodastic Dimension

Ajax went to parties on the weekends, and he went to Cornell University. Ajax studied Applied Economics and Management, and he did real well. Ajax was ambitious.
Fuck Ajax, I say. Fuck Ajax. My name is Raboodie. I went to Cornell too. I wasn’t ambitious, but I did scream real loud. I screamed real loud and I danced in the streets. I caused a ruckus. This is the last you’ll hear from me– get out of my brain. Get into Ajax’s.
…
Whether it was the second or third week in January, I am unsure. It was, however, the second semester of my sophomore year at Cornell University. Cornell University, believe it or not, is in the Ivy League. I’ll tell it to you like it happened, I’ll tell it to you straight. So, as it were, I was a studious and loquacious young upstart at a prestigious school. I got straight A’s the majority of my time on “The Hill”, and I didn’t complain much.

Everyone likes to talk about how terrible the weather is in Ithaca, but to hell with it, my senses didn’t mind. I would even sport shorts and T-shirts in snowstorms just to collect surprised looks in my vault. Did I tell you I possess an eidetic memory? Well, I do. I like to call it the wall of “Sir-Prize”. It’s pretty interesting, and I’m quite certain I couldn’t explain it to you, because you’ve never seen anything like it. Just like a lot of the things that happen in my brain. I’ll spare you the details, and allow your feeble imagination to try its darndest.

If you hadn’t guessed by now, I’m quite smart. Real fuckin’ smart. I don’t try to hide it– it’s just a possession. Like your hammer toe. Like I was saying, it was the second or third week in the second semester of my sophomore year. This was around the time that my Sympsarian Awakening happened. You don’t know enough about me yet to understand what that means, but be patient.

I joined a fraternity my sophomore year. People usually do it their freshman year, but I decided to do it my sophomore year. It was called Delta Upsilon, the same fraternity that Kurt Vonnegut belonged to when he went to Cornell University. It was everything I expected it to be, that’s why I searched for other modes of entertainment. Most of the girls I met at “mixers” were so orthodox– they laughed and smiled. The guys told safe jokes, and the girls laughed and smiled. It was so easy.

The first time I did it I walked up to a girl and said, “How come you’re ignoring me?” To which she replied with a laugh and a look of utmost intrigue saying “What do you mean?” I laughed internally, but maintained my deadpan exterior. “I mean, you’ve been walking around the house and you never even looked at me once.” She laughed,  tilted her head and asked, “What’s your name?” What a delightful game! I told her my name was Ajax, and I told the truth, mainly. I slept with her that night. Believe it or not, this did get tiring. You get sick of a lack of creativity. That’s why I was so susceptible to Sympsiarianism. I was a born Sympsarian, but I never even realized it because no one had ever put a name to it.

I’ll stop fucking with you. Sympsarianism is a religious sect that believes in disorder and the abandonment of the ordained, normative social order. In place of cordiality, we inserted randomosity and chaos, because it meant just as much to us. From the moon, or the crab nebula, it makes no difference whether a person is engaging in meaningful conversation, or screaming “Rock 75! Cobbler On top! Whooper? Whooper?” I just couldn’t understand why we were all on this big rock whizzing around the sun at some ridiculous velocity in an infinite expanse of blackness, and all we did was look at each other, smile and talk about ourselves. I had always thought everything was absurd, but it wasn’t until I met the screaming prophet that I outwardly expressed my internal struggle.

So, like I said, now this is the third time I’ve said it, and I’m pointing it out because it needs to be mentioned: It was around the second or third week of January. I was coming back from a “mixer” at my fraternity with a girl named Diane. She was taking me back to her apartment because I said everything right that night. We were about to get on a bus when I heard something incredible. I heard the distinct sound of insanity. Insanity! Right in my backyard! Never had I experienced it first hand, except maybe in New York City to see a Broadway show with my parents when I was younger. This wasn’t a dirty man hugging himself, rocking back and forth saying “dirt clods” over and over. This was a teenage male, in the middle of the hub of social activity at Cornell University (known as college town) on the weekends, running down the street by himself yelling “SPOONS! It all makes sense!” and stopping passersby in a very brusque manner, only to look deep into their eyes and furiously inquire, “Tomato? There must be a tomato in there! PLEASE TELL ME THERE IS A TOMATO!”

I was in awe…

Diane tugged at my arm while I was frozen on a frozen street in the dead of winter. “Ajax? Hurry up, that freak is coming our way…” I don’t know what I said, but I do know that it did not make sense. I needed to meet him. He was a black male, about 5’8. He was sort of jacked, and he looked insane. I knew that he wasn’t really insane though—the kind that needed to be locked up—for numerous reasons:

1.) I had seen his face before on campus(remember my eidetic memory?)
2.) They don’t let crazy people go to school at Cornell University
3.) It was just my intuition

He ran up to me with the same desperate question, “There must be a tomato in there. Is there?” I said “Yes, you have found a tomato indeed, sir”, but not in the manner that a sarcastic individual would. He looked positively ecstatic. He was elated. He began shouting “I FOUND MY TOMATO! I FOUND MY TOMATO!” I was ear-to-ear at this point, but that bitch Diana was tugging at my coat. At this point, all I wanted to do was search for imaginary tomatoes and possums and riddles in college town, but instead went to Diana’s apartment to fuck. As she dragged me away, the screaming prophet laughed hysterically to Zeus, or Aphrodite, or whomever and just pointed at me. He continued laughing until he blended in with college town and I was two blocks away. As I was half-heartedly inserting my penis into Diana’s vagina I wondered about that prophet.

After a steady five minute crescendo and subsequent climactic squeak of Diana’s voice, I decided it was time to remove my penis. I had not enjoyed a second of it, but she had no clue. I put on my clothes and began walking out, and just said “Bye.” She continued to pant, and emitted a breathy “see you soon, Ajax.” I ran from the apartment to the place where I had last seen him. I didn’t see him, but I did hear the faint echo of a tomato, and at least four quizzical expressions. I was hot on his trail, but tired. I decided to go back to my apartment and just keep on the lookout for him in the meantime.

After another full week of problem sets and strangeness, I went to another “mixer.” I picked up another girl, said few words, but still left her truly amazed. I don’t mean to give girls a bad rap, but these ones deserve it. I saw the prophet again, but this time he was right near my apartment. I was bringing Suzie there and he was running around in a Viking hat screaming “WHERE AM I?” and “TAKE ME HOME!” I dropped Suzie immediately. I ran up to him and he stopped stumbling. He looked at me and said “Go for it.” I grinned and ripped off my shirt and tie. I rubbed all the gel out of my hair and got down on my knees. I wrenched my head toward the sky, screeched an almighty screech, and the prophet laughed, and I was officially baptized.

I got off of my knees and began zig-zagging in the street. I was yelling something close to, but not exactly, “LEAVE THE PAPER-CLIP IN THE TUB! SCARECROWS MAKE DELIGHTFUL PLAY-THINGS!” It was nirvana.
I don’t know if it was the presence of an accomplice that finally did it, but the Cornell University campus police pulled up next to us as we ran wildly. We did not stop. We danced insanely like members of an African tribe praising the gods for our very souls, and the presence of two more figures—on top of the twenty or so watching—did little to disrupt the ritual. We were both tackled to the ground in fewer than ten seconds. Cuffs were slapped on our wrists, and we were thrown in the back of the car. We were definitely being mistaken for a case of drunken disorderliness. Much to the stupefaction of the cops, the prophet and I responded to their questions with utmost clarity and eloquence.

“Have you boys been drinking tonight?” One stern cop asked
“Not a drop, sir.” I responded
“What exactly were you two doing out there?” He asked
“Well, I suppose we were just moving around.” Replied the prophet
“You were causing quite the scene I bet you realize. Are you sure you had nothing to drink this evening?” He asked
“As positive as I am alive, sir.” I responded immediately
“Well, uh… I guess, just stop being weird please.” The stern one said
“Wag-bert.” Said the prophet unflinchingly
“Come again?” The cop asked, with his finger to his ear
“I said… WAG-BERT.” Said the prophet, as seriously as possible.
“Uh…Right. Well, get goin’ I guess. Don’t cause any more trouble, alright?” He asked
“Woobies.” Retorted the prophet

As we got out of the cop car, I turned to smile at the prophet, but he began running–no, sprinting. “Wait!” I yelled, then chased, but to no avail. That mother fucker dipped.

II

I couldn’t really think about anything else the whole next week. I did, however, spend large amounts of time contemplating the implications of what the prophet and I had done. It was phenomenal. What happened was phenomenal, and what to come, I was sure, was to be phenomenal. All I could entertain myself with was where and when he would strike next, and I would strike with him. I even passed up a weekend of debauchery, and inserted a search for the prophet. The weird thing is that he wasn’t out that weekend.

The next weekend, however, I did find him. I was with a gaggle of my fraternity brothers. We were going to College Town Bagels for a late night snack. The screaming prophet was across the street on a ledge shouting dulcet lines of sagacity. He was dressed like a professor. He had a thick pair of spectacles on, a blue sweater and dress pants. By his neck, a collar and tie protruded and revealed his legitimacy. He carefully and delicately maneuvered his hands as if he was conducting a symphony. He would gently allow his hands to flutter as he teased a semi-comical point, then drive them down and stab through the air as he emphatically presented an opposing viewpoint. If memory serves correctly, the snippet of speech I caught went something like this:

“Swoo-wompit caler. Too Varny pookswater. Swabbi riler pock niffits bon-javitt. Sweek wollie, pook ramble rock spark. Noof, Libby panchy bock. Rikky swan. RICKY SWAN. POM BEEVIT BO LANGER-POSH. Noof, weezie wamble paggy barns-boosh. Sweet lee pore radden. Swatch! Swatch!”

“I heard about this guy. He’s fuckin’ crazy!” said Dan, a member of my group.
“Why is he doing that?” asked another with me
I thought about these comments for a second, then turned and said “Why not?”
“What do you mean, Ajax?” Asked Alex
“Well, Barn-pop. Wiggy loober. SHEVITZ!” I smiled insanely
The group I was with backed up, raised both hands in unison as if to protect themselves and one of them said “Woah, dude calm down.”
I couldn’t control myself. I laughed. I cackled. “SHOUTS! SHOUTS! RAGGIT? RAGGIT?”

Their eyes widened and I saw real terror for the first time in my life. I laughed infinitely harder.
“You can’t see how this makes sense?” I demanded of them. “You can’t see how I am acting rationally? How he is acting rationally?”

Their eyes darted in every direction, I saw their teeth more and more as uneasy smiles became bountiful. I laughed harder than ever. It was at this moment that I shed my skin. I jumped up on the ledge with the prophet, who had momentarily paused and witnessed the exchange. We glanced at each other, and I began to lecture where he left off:

“Woozits. Pack de parch mook shinny pooz. Wabber parf fen der bak en daal. Rally. RALLY! Wig, gerf lik pam pam riz poor nagget.”

I wagged my pointer finger at all of them and spoke truth. I shed light. They were more confused than ever. I saw that, so I retorted with a soft and calming,

“Wibby. Wibby lik vooshin bar-tsoonits.”

They still did not react, and just shook their heads. I almost cried I was so frustrated. Upon seeing that I could not break through to the nervous and drunk passersby, the prophet tried a different angle:

“Wagner pies. They envelop our being. We circle and circle and find nothing! If you take a ratchet off a hook, what do you find? You find nothing. Use eyes! You will feel so good when you use eyes for first time!”

Nothing worked– these people weren’t hearing it. I ran this time. The prophet did not.

The next day, my mother called. She asked me how school was, and I hung up on her. Not only did I hang up on her, I threw my phone into the gorge, then ran back to my room to write this. I don’t know where to turn now. The prophet has done all that he can for me. I only hope that in some distant century, in some distant land someone will read this and understand what life was like on Earth. And that I was unbiased. And they will begin practicing a religion called Sympsarianism, because that name came to my head first. You can call it what you like, it does not matter. Weebits.