A sample of “Triple Spaced:”
Coming Back from Outer Space
originally published in the
Taos News,
November 25, 1976
When my old friend Ravi Baba Morning Feather announced that she wished henceforth to be called by her real name (which happens to be Myra), that was a glorious moment.
When she started calling her mother long distance just to say hello -- and not reversing the charges -- that was a beautiful gesture.
But when she decided to buy an electric hair setter, that was going too far.
The name change part was my idea. I knew she was ready for it when I caught her glancing admiringly at a man in a necktie.
He had a real barbershop haircut.
His fingernails looked as if he hadn't changed his own oil in ten years.
Once you start thinking they look nice, it’s only a matter of time before you’re going out to lunch with them.
What started Ravi Bab’s transformation was my pointing out to her that wearing three earrings is just as much an act of bourgeois ostentation as a fake zebra skin on the dashboard -- even if they DO represent her Sun, Moon and Rising.
She didn’t stop wearing the earrings, but she got a fake zebra skin.
A few days later, idling in front of a magazine rack, she found herself staring with some interest at the cover of Time.
She wouldn’t have thought to actually buy the magazine. So I bought it for her.
If you are a person who would never have regarded the purchase of Time magazine as a spiritually questionable act, then you might think of this process as “Coming Back from Outer Space.”
If you are a person who would be reluctant to admit anyone wearing a necktie into your home, then you might describe it as “Copping Out to the System.”
Be that as it may, it’s an observable social phenomenon with a fairly clear pattern.
Much of the pattern has to do with Hair.
Raising certain questions about Hair is common in the early stages. Acting on the answers usually happens later. (In all fairness, it’s not surprising that my poor friend blew her cork on a matter involving Hair.)
Other clear signs of progressing change are a growing suspicion of Bean Sprouts. And a lessening suspicion of Money.
Certain longings arise: nostalgia for a visit to the dentist. For a professional oil change. A library card.
A thermostat.
In bad cases, a polyester pants suit.
The stage reaches its peak when the subject looks at the shirt she has with the collar that never lies down right and starts wishing for an iron.
From there it’s just a tiny step to wishing for a credit rating.
And getting one.
Which is perfectly all right. But an electric hair setter is really ridiculous.
Getting Ravi Bab (excuse me, Myra) on to the luncheon circuit was my idea, too. It was a raving success. She practically became the groupie of the Rotary Club.
She found herself afflicted with a burning need to have her new-found social companions take her seriously. This led to forays into long-forgotten corners of the drug store (such as the one where razor blades are sold) and the discovery of Pearlized Lip Gleamer.
With a little coaching, she was soon making modest but intelligent conversation about Mutual Funds.
It worked. People started taking her seriously. They believed that she was really back from outer space.
That, of course, was the point of the whole exercise. People have been believing that about me for some time now.
Now, until recently, I would have said that nobody who’s been to outer space ever fully comes back. You can join the PTA and speculate in Commodity Futures, and in your heart you’ll forever be a dancer in the shining void.
But not when you’re willing to spend twenty bucks for a gadget that fries your hair.
That’s copping out.