The Experience
Marshall Renny's parents learned their son was a prodigy while he was still attending preschool. When most of his peers were memorizing the alphabet and learning to count to ten, Marshall was reading chapter books and mastering addition and subtraction. Since the local school district offered only limited programs for gifted students, his parents decided to enroll him in a private school. Fortunately, the Rennys were a well-to-do family, so the expensive tuition did not present a problem.
While the youngster excelled in all fields of academics, he soon developed a love for science. His father, who had always hoped his only son would follow in his footsteps and study law, was somewhat disappointed. His mother, on the other hand, was ecstatic, having always longed for a doctor in the family. However, Marshall was not interested in either law or medicine. At the age of thirteen, he earned a bachelor's degree in chemistry in hopes of becoming a research chemist.
"Let's look at the bright side," Winnie Renny said with a heavy sigh, resigned to Marshall's future plans. "Maybe our boy will find a cure for cancer or Alzheimer's."
"That's true," her husband concurred. "There are plenty of discoveries waiting to be made. No one has yet to come up with a cure for blindness, hair loss or even the common cold. Who knows? Someday he may win the Nobel Prize."
By the time Marshall turned twenty-one—the age of majority—he had already received his doctorate and was employed by Pfenning-Darvill, one of the world's largest pharmaceutical companies. When he accepted the job, the idealistic youth envisioned himself fulfilling his parents' hopes and making medical breakthroughs that would benefit mankind. Before his thirtieth birthday, though, he no longer viewed the world through rose-tinted glasses.
"Big Pharma doesn't want to cure people of anything," he told his parents in a rare moment of bitterness and self-pity. "All they want to do is sell as many pills to as many people as they can and make as much money as possible."
"Why not quit and get a job at a university then?" his mother suggested.
"Because they rely on funding from the government, and Uncle Sam doesn't want to put their money into anything unless it can be used by the military."
Winnie winced. She had never known her son to be so cynical.
"You're still a young man. You can always go back to school and become a doctor," she suggested.
"Why would I want to be a doctor? They work hand-in-hand with the pharmaceutical companies. One makes the pills; the other prescribes them to patients who may or may not even need them. Surely you've heard about the opioid epidemic that's gripped our country. Don't you realize doctors are a big part of that problem?"
"Is that what your research involves?" Curtis Renny asked. "Another opioid?"
"No. Pfenning-Darvill has chosen to put my vast knowledge of chemistry to good use: I've been tasked with coming up with an alternative treatment to Botox. Just what the world truly needs! Faces without wrinkles."
"Cheer up, dear," his mother joked. "Maybe when you're my age, you'll be thankful such a product is on the market."
* * *
As was sometimes the case with people of exceptionally high intelligence, they often fall behind their peers in the area of social development. Growing up, Marshall made few friends, and not one of his casual relationships lasted beyond college graduation. At Pfenning-Darvill, things were no different. Often feeling awkward when around other people, he never socialized with his colleagues who, in turn, found him distant and made no attempt to befriend him. His work was his life.
In those rare hours when his mind was not on chemistry, he turned to books for entertainment. He preferred biographies to fictional novels, usually those of famous scientists and inventors. One day, looking for something to take his mind off his growing disillusionment with his job, he walked into Barnes & Noble with the gift card his mother had given him for his thirtieth birthday.
"Same old, same old," he grumbled as he read the spines of the books in the biography section. "Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, Michael Faraday, Thomas Edison, George Washington Carver, Marie Curie, Francis Crick ...."
Something caught his attention, and he reached out his hand to select a book.
"What's this? Timothy Leary."
The name rang a bell. It had something to do with the Sixties and LSD, both subjects he knew comparatively little about.
"Hmm. It might be interesting," he decided and made his way to the checkout counter at the front of the store.
Marshall stayed up most of the night reading about the Harvard psychology lecturer who in 1960 ingested hallucinogenic mushrooms while on a trip to Mexico. Believing Psilocybe mexicana could revolutionize psychotherapy, Dr. Leary conducted controlled experiments using a synthesized version of the drug first on inmates at Concord State Prison in New Hampshire and then on a group of Harvard divinity students. The results were astounding, with the majority of his subjects reporting life-changing religious experiences. At the conclusion of his experiments, Leary was reported as claiming that spiritual ecstasy, religious revelation and union with God were now directly accessible.
Using a drug to gain access to God! Marshall thought when he finally closed the book and placed it on the night table beside the bed, sometime after four in the morning. It's hard to believe an intelligent, educated man actually believed such a thing was possible.
In the more than half a century since Timothy Leary advised a generation to "turn on, tune in and drop out," many psychotropic drugs were developed that led to advancements in anesthesia, pain management and the treatment of mental disorders such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and clinical depression. Marshall had never heard of anyone on Zoloft, Xanax, Valium or Prozac claiming to have spoken to or seen God. Furthermore, having grown up in a family with no strong religious convictions, he was not even sure God existed.
The following day, Saturday, Marshall slept until nine—an unheard-of event. He had his book in hand as he walked out to the kitchen and prepared himself a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal. During breakfast he read about Leary's life after being fired from Harvard. To Marshall, the counterculture hero's later life was not nearly as interesting as his research into mind-altering substances. Since the book did not go into specific details of these experiments, he decided to delve deeper into other sources.
His first avenue of exploration was the Internet. After an exhaustive online search, he then travelled to Harvard University where, thanks to his credentials as a research chemist with Pfenning-Darvill, he had access to their extensive records on the subject. What amounted to months spent pouring over Leary's studies and results led Marshall to conclude that it just might be possible to create a drug with properties similar to those found in the Mexican mushrooms, one that might create a mental state in which a person would arrive at complete self-awareness.
* * *
After being fired from his job as a senior sales representative for Pfenning-Darvill, Roy Groden found work as a car salesman at a Honda dealership. Of course, this change of employment meant a drastic reduction in salary, which led directly to a change in his standard of living, but—what the hell?—he was lucky he was not prosecuted and sent to jail for dealing drugs. Forced to give up his upscale condominium, he was living in a one-room studio apartment in one of the poorest sections of the city, in a complex populated with welfare recipients and senior citizens living solely on social security benefits.
When Groden heard a knock on the front door, he assumed it was the landlord come to collect the rent. He was therefore stunned to find Marshall Renny on his doorstep.
"Hello, Roy. Do you remember me?"
"Yeah. You're that genius chemist down at Pfenning."
"May I come in?"
Roy stood aside and allowed his visitor to enter.
"What do you want?" he asked, coming right to the point.
Marshall sat down on one of the two plastic lawn chairs that, along with a beat-up folding card table, constituted his host's kitchen furniture.
"For more than a year, I've been working on a new drug."
"So? What's that got to do with me? I sell cars now, not pharmaceuticals."
"Did you ever hear of Dr. Timothy Leary?"
"The hippie guy?"
"That's the one," Marshall affirmed. "I've been continuing his research—on my own time. I've reached the point where I'm ready to test my product out on human subjects."
"And ...?"
"I know why you were fired. You were selling pain killers to opioid addicts and pocketing the money."
"I had to do something to pay off my student loans," Roy laughed. "We don't all have rich parents to pay our way through college."
"I'm not here to judge you," Marshall said. "I don't give a damn what you did or why you did it. In all honesty, I might have done the same thing in your situation."
"Then why are you here?"
"I need test subjects, and I can't very well go through the usual channels."
"And you think I can contact some of the addicts I used to sell to?"
"That's what I'm hoping."
"I doubt any of my former 'clients' would be interested in dropping acid. They were people who had either chronic medical conditions or serious injuries and then became addicted to the painkillers our drug-happy society pushed on them. Most of my customers were respectable people. They had wives, husbands, children, jobs."
Marshall had heard enough of Roy's pathetic attempts to justify his actions.
"I'm not looking for volunteers. I'm willing to pay handsomely for their services—and yours."
Strapped though he was for cash, it took several minutes for the car salesman to consider his guest's offer.
"I suppose I could find a few interested people. There might even be some here in this apartment complex."
Roy's words were unnecessary. The flicker of greed in his eyes was all the answer the genius chemist needed.
* * *
Over the course of the next two years, Marshall, with the assistance of Roy Groden, conducted more than a thousand experiments under controlled conditions. In most cases, the subjects were told that they were testing a new medication intended to calm nervous conditions and fight anxiety. Others, however, were unaware that they were given any drugs. These human guinea pigs were told the pills were harmless vitamin supplements. No one was warned of the hallucinogenic properties of the test drug, and Marshall saw no reason for any group to receive a placebo.
The results astounded both Renny and Groden. Ninety-eight percent of the people tested claimed to have experienced an epiphany or profound religious experience. In some cases, lifelong atheists became born-again Christians. Several others, who had previously attended religious services only on Christmas Eve and Easter. became regular churchgoers. There were even four women who became nuns and a man who entered the priesthood. As for the other two percent of the test subjects, they could not remember what happened while under the influence of the drug.
By the time the third anniversary of his association with the chemist arrived, Roy had grown bored with the experiments. Once again living in a respectable suburban neighborhood, he was anxious to get on with his life. Not only was there a woman he was serious about, but there were also several good job prospects on the horizon.
"How long is your research going to continue?" he inquired when Marshall asked him to find an additional twenty-five test subjects.
"I'm not sure."
"What exactly are you going to do with all the data you've collected?"
"Eventually, I'd like to publish a paper."
"And what if any of the people who participated in the study learn about it?"
"Nothing will happen. They were all told we were conducting a blind study."
Roy was not sure if the American Medical Association would accept that reasoning.
"Look, I don't want to get into any trouble," he said. "I'm just getting my life back on track."
"You're not dealing drugs this time. You're assisting in a scientific study."
"Just the same, after I find these twenty-five people for you, I'm done."
After the last of the tests was concluded, Marshall checked up on as many of the previous subjects as possible. In nearly all cases, the people's lives had been profoundly changed by their experience with his drug.
Mine is the only life that hasn't been affected, he thought. Now that my experiments are over, what have I got? Nothing but a tedious, unrewarding job.
It was at that moment he came to a decision, the seeds of which had been sowed in his subconscious mind when he first opened the biography of Timothy Leary.
"I want to see what the drug does for myself. I want to see God."
* * *
When Roy saw the name on his phone's caller ID, his first inclination was not to answer.
"Yeah," he said, changing his mind after the fifth ring.
"I want to ask you a favor," Marshall said.
"I already told you. I'm done being your assistant."
"That's not why I called. I've concluded the experiments ... well, almost."
"Almost? I'm not bringing you any more subjects."
"You don't have to. I've already got a one." There was a long pause before he added, "Me."
"What do you need me for then?"
"Someone has to run the audio-visual equipment and take notes."
There was no response at the other end of the line. Marshall feared his former associate had hung up on him. Then he heard the faint sound of breathing.
"I'll make it worth your while," he said, knowing exactly what bait to dangle before the salesman.
"Just you and me, right?" Roy asked.
"Yes."
"And all I have to do is film your reaction and take notes?"
"Correct."
"Where and when?"
"At my home tonight. Say ... seven o'clock?"
"I'll be there. But this is the last time. I mean it. If you ever call me again, I won't answer."
"This is the last time you'll ever hear from me. You have my word."
Roy arrived at Marshall's house five minutes before seven.
"Come in," the chemist said, and led him directly to the office at the rear of the house. "I've got everything set up, so we can begin right away."
"What's the hurry?"
"Since making the decision to take the drug myself, I've been able to think of little else."
"You want to see God, do you?" Roy laughed.
"Don't you?"
"I'm not sure there is one."
"How can you say that after witnessing almost two thousand people go through the experience?"
"I saw those people ingest a hallucinogenic drug and take a psychedelic trip. That's all."
"That doesn't explain why nearly everyone tested, even the atheists, came out with a firm belief in God."
"Coincidence."
"Ninety-eight percent is far more than coincidence."
"Well, I suppose you'll have to see for yourself."
Marshall opened the plastic pill bottle on his desk and took out the three-quarter-inch-long white tablet that looked like a Tylenol on steroids. After putting the pill on his tongue, he uncapped his bottle of Dasani and took a drink, feeling the pill slide down his throat when he swallowed.
"I'm ready," he announced, lying down on the chaise lounge in front of the video camera.
"Have a nice trip," the salesman joked as he adjusted the lens. "Say hello to J.C. for me."
Marshall folded his hands over his chest and closed his eyes. Meanwhile, Roy played a videogame on his phone as he waited. When the subject's even breathing became labored, he put down his phone and picked up the notepad and pen. He knew from experience the accelerated rate of respiration was the first sign that the inner journey had begun. Soon a look of ecstasy would appear on the subject's face.
"No, no," Marshall mumbled and then whimpered incoherently.
"Something's not right!" Roy exclaimed when he saw the perspiration bead up on the chemist's face as he broke out sobbing. "None of the others reacted this way."
With no medical training, he could do nothing but watch helplessly as Marshall endured what was referred to as a "bad trip." Not knowing how to bring the subject out from under the influence of the drug, he could only stand by and make sure the chemist did not do anything to injure himself.
For ten minutes the drugged man thrashed from side to side as Roy did his best to keep him from falling off the chaise lounge. Suddenly, Marshall shrieked like a banshee. Then his body stiffened and he slipped into a catatonic state from which he could not recover.
* * *
When he realized Marshall would never return from the journey the drug had sent him on, Roy feared the worst. Given his past offence, he would no doubt face criminal charges and a prison sentence this time around. Self-preservation kicked in. He destroyed all Marshall's research. Written reports were shredded and the computer hard drives were wiped clean. When all evidence of the God Drug's existence was eradicated, he phoned 911 and reported that his friend had suffered an overdose.
Police naturally wanted to take a closer look into the matter, but when Pfenning-Darvill learned one of its most gifted researchers was involved in a personal project with hallucinogenic drugs, they sent in their team of high-priced lawyers to derail the investigation.
Having escaped legal consequences a second time, Roy Groden married, took a job in a different state and vowed to stay out of trouble in the future.
As for Marshall Renny, he existed in a state that could best be described as living death. His fate, although tragic, was not without its rewards. The former child prodigy had knowingly taken the drug to achieve the ultimate religious experience and had succeeded in accomplishing this end. However, rather than seeing the Christian god of peace and love, his drug-induced journey led him to the gates of hell where he became a prisoner of the Prince of Darkness. Sadly, the genius chemist never realized what horrors lurked in the darkest corners of the human mind.
This story was inspired by an article I read about Dr. Timothy Leary in a history magazine.
I can sympathize with Marshall Renny's tragic experience. I once had a nightmare that I went through the gates of hell. And guess who I saw there!
