E-Tangs

The prison's Tru-Links message was short and to the point: "Call me!"

I think it's the first time my wife, Mariko, has ever used an exclamation point . . .

I sign off the system and go straight to the phones. After three tries, the system finally acknowledges my voice and puts the call through.

She picks up.

This call is from a federal prison. You will not be charged for this call . . .

The prerecorded message drones on and on . . . interrupted by a loud touch tone, followed by Mariko's patented phone greeting:

"Hel-loooo" --

"Sorry to call you so early . . . " I begin, "but your message sounded urgent."

"Message?"

"Yeah. You know -- 'Call me!'"

"Oh. That," she says. "It can wait."

"Well . . . I could let you get back to sleep."

"We talk now," she says, still sounding groggy.

"So . . . What's up?" I try to sound cheery.

A long pause . . .

"Do you still love me?" she asks.

Where's that coming from, I wonder.

"Yes, of course I do! What brought that on?"

"I need see you."

"You just did -- three weeks ago, if I recall."

"I come this weekend," she says.

When she doesn't elaborate, I ask, "What's wrong? Is everything OK?" My mind races through the possibilities.

"Immu-mama," is all she can say.

Of all her friends I had met in Japan, Immu-mama was my favorite.

We met at their annual 12th-Dimension meeting, run by a Japanese chiropractor they referred to only as Sensei -- freely translated: Teacher.

The group had more than 100 members -- each paying $150 a year for the privilege -- this, on top of extras like $100 per person just to attend the annual meeting. Turns out Sensei was a bit of a con artist, but who knew?

At any rate, after the main awards and festivities held in the ballroom of a large hotel in Yokohama, the remnant -- about 20 of us -- for another $20 a head, rented a karaoke room. It included endless snacks and soft drinks.

We sat on a large horseshoe-shaped, white, heavily-padded leather couch with a good view of the screen and stage from any angle.

Immu-mama sat on my right. She didn't speak English. Mariko was on my left -- handy in case I needed a translator. This being Japan, everyone was shoeless.

Without saying a word, Immu-mama got up, turned to face me, got down on one knee, took my right foot in her hands, and gently started giving me an exquisite foot massage! She looked up at me with the most loving expression on her face -- then over at Mariko, who smiled knowingly at her -- then back at me.

Twelfth-Dimension insiders were taught by Sensei that a good way to make friends would be to give someone a massage -- just one of the ideas he had for snapping members out of their traditional constrictive Japanese norms. One of the biggest norms was that you only speak to people you've been properly introduced to.

This particular massage lasted a full fifteen minutes!

Gently returning my foot to the posh, carpeted floor, she stood up, then sat down beside me again.

That was my introduction to Immu-mama . . .

So when Mariko said, Immu-mama, my heart skipped a beat.

"Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"What? No. She give us gift," Mariko responds. "It is only good if you love me."

"Stop," I say. "You can tell me about it when you get here." I didn't want to have a conversation about possible contraband on a monitored phone line.

After a pause, Mariko says, "I understand. Friday night I see you."

"You still have Pete's e-mail address and phone number?" I ask.

Pete's my number-two son who lives nearby. He could coordinate picking her up and bringing her by.

"Yes." Long pause. "Thank you for calling me."

"No problem. I can't wait to see you!" I enthuse before hanging up.

What could possibly warrant a flight on the heels of her last visit -- something that requires us to still be in love? It's going to be a long three days before Friday . . .

* * *

"Attention on the camp: Inmate Ruskjer, 99125-022 -- Report to Visiting."

I'd racked my brain for three days and nights . . . The Japanese can come up with some pretty bizarre stuff sometimes. For example . . .

The next time I run into Immu-mama is when another 12th-Dimension member invited her, Mariko and me, to a big health spa that had just opened.

I'd never seen such a place! The sauna room alone was the size of Grand Central Station! Hot rocks were rolled in on three standard-sized coal cars on train tracks embedded in the floor!

After five hours of lounging around, hot baths, and falling asleep overlooking a plush landscape through Dulles-Airport-60-foot-high windows, our glowing group climbed back into a Mercedes van to make a quick stop at a hematite outlet. It turns out we each were expected to buy something --

Hematite is a shiny, dark silver stone with supposed magnetic properties. If your skin came into contact with the stone, the magnetic properties were supposed to cleanse your blood.

The smallest bracelet was $125. Pillowcases and sheets -- laced with hematite -- were on sale for $600 a set. The sticker shock was even greater when priced in yen. Six hundred dollars is more on the order of 60,000 yen!

Being an ugly American, I didn't realize the original invitation was predicated on the commission our host planned to make on the combined sale of these rocks.

Mariko dutifully bought the minimum bracelet for 12,500 yen. Immu-mama got the pillowcases and sheets.

Hey, the man said he got some free tickets to a spa!

That experience left a bad taste in my mouth. It seemed a little shoddy -- not only the tit-for-tat set up, but the hugely overpriced, gimmicky rock swindle. But, getting to luxuriate for hours -- wedged between Mariko and Immu-mama -- outshined the shod.

* * *

After the obligatory frisk, I enter the visiting room, locate Mariko and Pete, do the huggy-kissy thing and sit down at the far end -- as far from the guard desk as I can get.

Pete offers to get snacks. That leaves Mariko and me alone for the moment.

"Tell me, tell me!" I beg -- like a little kid wanting to know what's in that big box under the tree with his name on it. "What did she get us?"

"I bring tomorrow," Mariko says.

"No! You can't bring anything in! They'll terminate your visiting privileges!" I warn.

"It is small. I bring something the same today. They no check."

"But I can't take it back with me," I say, exasperated. "They check me almost every time!"

"It is not problem," she says resolutely.

"OK," I say, skeptically. "Can you at least give me a hint?"

About this time, Pete returns with sodas, some Bugles, a pack of Reese's Pieces and a blueberry muffin he's heated up in the microwave.

I slowly move my head back and forth, trying to silently convey to Mariko that we can talk about this later.

"What?" Pete's the only one who picks up on it.

Mariko says, "It is OK -- he knows."

Pete says, "Oh, that. Sounds pretty cool to me."

"I guess I'm the only one in the dark here," I say, directing my comments to Pete. "Maybe you can explain it to me."

"I think you should let Mariko tell you. I'll chip in, if needed."

Pete -- ever the chatty one.

"I don't care who tells me -- just TELL ME!" I say, a little louder than necessary. People are beginning to stare.

"Does it have a name?" I figure we can play 20 Questions. "And why do we have to be in love?"

Mariko looks at Pete, then at me. "In Japan is called: E-Tang."

"What is that! -- some kind of powdered orange drink for Japanese astronauts using the Internet?" I quip.

"No drink. Put on tongue. No swallow," she continues.

Now I'm really intrigued. "What about the love part?"

"Cannot undo," Mariko says.

"Can't undo what? Is this some kind of drug? They do UAs [urine analysis] in here, you know. I don't wanna get busted."

"No drug." She pauses. "How you say -- per . . . pern . . . permanent!" She struggles with that one.

"What's permanent?" I encourage.

Pete tries to help out. "The effects?"

"Which are?" I prod.

Mariko looks to Pete.

He looks from her to me. "What I got was it's kind like what Babelfish did in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe -- it's like a universal translator."

"Hold it. You mean you put this thing on your tongue, then say something, and someone like Mariko puts the same thing on her tongue and somehow hears what I say in Japanese?"

Pete just shrugs -- then looks at Mariko.

"Not like." She seems puzzled as how best to explain it. Then the light dawns. She holds up her index finger.

"First put on tongue."

"OK," I say.

“Now,” holding up two fingers, she says simply, "Wait."

"For what? For how long?"

“Like sugar — in water,’ she says, looking at my can of soda.

"You mean it dissolves?" Pete says, "First time I've heard about that part," he says.

"Is that what we're waiting for?" I ask.

She nods.

"Then what?" I prod again.

"Think," she says -- as if that explains anything.

"Must be a telepathy thing," Pete offers.

"That's kinda what I got," I say.

"So what's not reversible?" I ask Pete.

"Don't look at me," he says.

Turning to Mariko, he asks, "What cannot be undone?"

She looks at both of us like she's already explained this. "You think -- I know. I think -- you know," she tries.

Hmmm. "Did Immu-mama say where she got this?" I ask, hoping it's not who I think it is.

"Sensei," is all she says.

Here we go . . . "I thought that group broke up and everybody knew he was a shyster?" I say.

"What 'shyster'?"

"Someone who takes advantage of others," I explain.

"It is true. But Immu-mama learn massage from Sensei -- is now therapist. She still see him."

"Dare I ask how much she paid?"

Mariko makes some calculations in the air with her index finger.

"275,000 yen. I not supposed to tell."

"She paid $2,750! -- for two little disks that melt in your mouth so two people can think to each other?!"

"She get two for herself," she volunteers.

"Well, did she try them? Do they actually work?" This was getting better by the minute.

"She give one to her dog," she says.

"What? No!" I'm dumbfounded.

Pete bursts out laughing.

"And how did that go?" I ask, suppressing a smirk.

"She says works!" Mariko beams.

"You mean the dog speaks Japanese now?" I can almost picture it.

"She say she thinks: Ashteru -- [I love you] -- to dog. Say the thought come to her, "Me too!"

"That must have been worth $2,750!" I muse.

"She say perfect gift for someone in prison."

"Wait. You're saying she thinks this thing works from here to Hawaii? What does it use for power?" I ask -- my scientific curiosity now fully engaged.

"No power," Mariko says. "E-Tang."

"I understand the telepathy part," I say. Before I can get on a roll, she interrupts.

"No telepathy. Pete's word."

"I believe he said like telepathy," I qualify.

"Like, yes. Same, no!" she says emphatically.

"Then what's the mechanism?" I ponder this out loud.

She looks at me quizzically.

"How does it work?" Pete rephrases.

Mariko looks at Pete. He looks at me and shrugs.

She gives it a try: "En-- Entan-- Entangle-- something . . . "

Pete interjects, "Entanglement?"

A big smile erupts over her face! "Yes! Entanglement!"

I'd read about entanglement. Presumably the same guys and gals who'd discovered the boson particle also discovered that when certain sub-particles are divided, they act like identical twins in that if something happens to one, the same thing happens to the other -- at any distance!

While you could say the action travels faster than the speed of light, it would be more accurate to say the two particles change in tandem or simultaneously. Nobody seems to know why or how this happens. The stuff I'd read suggested this capability might be useful in communicating over vast distances. My thoughts were interrupted.

"With nano-technology," she adds.

OK! Now we're talkin', I think to myself. Nanobots are little machines, for lack of a better term, that can be programmed to do just about anything! Kurzwell, in his latest book, says they could be programmed to seek out, identify, and then destroy cancer cells, among other things. I suppose it would be possible for them to drag one half of these particle twins to the communication centers of the brain . . .

"Has anybody you know tried these with anything other than a dog?" I ask, hoping for a more credible anecdotal recitation.

"Sensei say they work," Mariko offers.

"Did Immu-mama have any weird side effects?" I ask.

"She no say," was all I got from that query.

I look at Pete, then Mariko. "I'm game, if you are. How long does it take to kick in?"

"Immu-mama get dog answer in less than five minutes."

"Speedy little buggers, aren't they. I suggest we spend tomorrow up until an hour before they close in regular conversation, then take them, and see what happens. What do you think?"

Pete raises his eyebrows as if to OK the plan. What does he care, he won't even be here.

Mariko looks at him, then me, then says, "OK," followed by the desk guard's loud proclamation: "Visiting hours are over."

* * *

The next day, I'm waiting for Visiting to open before they even page. Mariko's one of the first ones there. After my frisk, we immediately go to the far wall.

There really isn't much to talk about. We'd spent two and a half days together just three weeks ago. Even then, I had had to resort to telling jokes to pass the time. Telling jokes to a Japanese person can be time consuming. The joke may only take a minute or two. The explanation -- describing what makes it funny -- can flesh out the better part of a half hour.

I had told her the one about the young couple who went to a sex therapist who explained to them that it would cost $35 for a 55-minute session. (This was obviously a very old joke!) She would watch them through a one-way mirror, taking notes. Then, in the last part of the session, she would offer her comments and observations. They both agreed to these terms.

At the end of the first session the therapist said, "You know, I don't really see that you all have any problems. You were both enthusiastic, loving, attentive to each other's needs -- I'm not sure there's anything I can really help you with. You understand that I'll still have to charge you though."

They paid her and asked if they could come back again. She said she didn't know why they would, but if that's what they wanted. They ended up coming back twelve more times before she finally said, "I really don't know why you keep coming back. As I told you before, after your first session, there's nothing you need my help with. I'm afraid I won't be able to approve any more sessions."

They thanked her. As they were leaving, she said, "Tell me though -- why did you feel the need to see me?" I

They turned. He answered: "The motel down the street charges $60 for a whole day. We only need an hour -- and you only charge $35!"

When I tried to tell jokes in Japan, invariably the very serious response when I deliver the punch line would be: "Is this the place to laugh?"

Today I'm not quite sure how we'll fill the next six hours.

I say, "I know we decided yesterday to wait until the end of the day, but why don't we try them now?"

"I am hoping you say that," she says, as she slips two dime-sized clear discs out of her change pouch.

I look around to make sure no one's watching. "Pick up a Reese's so it looks like there's something normal we're putting in our mouths," I suggest.

She does.

I do.

We place the clear wafers on top of our tongues, settle back and close our eyes like we're meditating. Instinctively we hold each other's hands on top of the table.

Nothing.

No unsolicited thoughts -- Just background noises of kids running around, families quietly talking to each other at tables nearby. I cheat and open one eye. Mariko sits serenely across from me. I close my eye again, thinking, Sensei! … I can't believe you'd do this to poor Immu-mama -- your last faithful follower!

Wait … Something's beginning to happen! The darkness behind closed eyelids is turning to a sepia brown. A form starts to take shape -- shape being the salient word. It's the shape of Mariko sitting across from me.

For a moment I figure I must have let a small amount of light sneak in between my eyelids. But no -- this sepia shape is naked! I'm seeing how Mariko would look right now, this moment, if she were sitting there in her all-together! -- absent the table, or any other surroundings for that matter. She's like a free-floating, three-dimensional rendering. I blink my eyes open just for an instant. Now she's in living color, fully clothed.

Back to sepia.

"Do you see anything?" I murmur, trying not to sound excited.

"You've put on weight around the middle," she says, smiling, even in sepia.

"You've lost weight around the middle," I say. "Is that Kleenex stuffed in your bra? Your breasts look like they're sitting on top of tennis balls."

To this she laughs out loud.

"Did Immu-mama tell you about this?" I ask.

"Dog look naked all the time," Mariko says in response. I can hear the smile in her voice as I verify it in sepia.

Then, without my ears, I hear her say, Isn't this wonderful!? I didn't think it'd really work, did you? in an excited, exuberant, animated thought voice!

My eyes shoot open. "Did you say something?"

She opens her eyes, but her lips remain closed. Of course, silly. Why are you still using your lips? -- Just think to me.

"OK," I say. Thinking only, I say to myself, I'm thinking of the square root of two -- what is it?

Her smile widens into a grin that stays locked on her sepia face as her thought voice responds: 1.4142136. You can do better than that!

One of our couple's stories from the past involves the square root of two. The Japanese love puzzles. I had thought I would stump her with one of my favorites. She got it right away. To shut her down, I said "OK, if you're so smart, what's the square root of two?"

She rattled it off to eight significant digits. I could only mentally verify the first four. Not to be outdone, I said, "That's an easy one. What about the square root of three?"

To this, she spit out eight significant digits. I had to get a calculator to verify that one.

"OK, I'll take the next one," I said. "How do you know these things?"

She said, "Everyone in Japan knows this before they leave elementary school. They have to memorize them."

This is why I thought to think, What's the square root of two?

I don't believe it! I think to myself.

Me, too, she jokes liplessly, parroting Immu-mama's dog's thought response.

The people around us must figure we'd gone mute.

You can actually hear my thoughts? I think towards her.

Loud and clear. How about me?

Not only can I hear you, you sound like you've spoken English your whole life!

Your Japanese has improved immeasurably! she says.

'Immeasurably' -- that's a five-syllable word! Since when has your vocabulary included those? I think to her.

Immu-mama says Sensei told her only thought kernels are conveyed. Each person's brain turns them into the way he would have spoken those thoughts in his native tongue.

That's incredible! And you think this will work this way when you go back to Kauai and I have to stay here?

Well, we'll know in a couple of days, won't we. If what you say about entanglement is true, I don't see why it wouldn't.

It was like dealing with a whole different person! I'd always known Mariko was smart as a whip, but the way Japanese shy away from plurals, pronouns and articles like a and the and only have present and future tense, they often end up sounding like first graders. These E-Tang wafers could be a major game-changer for cross-cultural communication!

OK, I think with purpose, explain the joke I told you last time about the couple and the sex therapist.

Mariko's thought voice says, You'd have to tell me again. I could hardly understand you when you told me before.

If there's such a thing as speed thinking, I quickly covered the main points -- all without moving my lips. When I came to the punch line, she bursts out laughing. I don't think I've ever seen her so expressive!

That's hilarious! her thought voice says through her thought laughter. You want me to explain it to you? I'm sure you already know!

Humor me, I think.

Under normal circumstances something like Humor me would need a ten-minute explanation.

They just want a cheap bed, she says. They turn the therapist's office into a love hotel. It might even be more exciting for them because they have an audience!

I'm blown away.

There's more to it, she says.

More to the joke?

No. More to E-Tangs.

Tell me, each of us just staring into each other's eyes.

They're sensitive to emotion.

How so?

If you're upset, or very, very happy, I'll get an alert. I might not be thinking about you at the time, but if you're in any heightened emotional state -- good or bad -- an alarm will go off that immediately plugs me into your channel. I'll be able to feel what you're feeling.

That could be awkward, I think to myself.

It certainly could, she muses. She has a twinkle in her eye that I've never seen before.

I'll know when you take a shower, she smiles at her own thought.

And I'll know when you get friendly with what's-his-face, I think conspiratorially.

Come on. You know his name. Don't be disrespectful, she says, lowering her entanglement voice.

No more secrets, eh? I think, remembering the theme from the movie, Sneakers, starring Robert Redford.

We'd better say something out loud from time to time, I think to her, or people might start to wonder about us. Better yet, why don't you get me a bag of chips?

You just wanna see how I look in sepia, walking up to the machine and bending over to check out the merchandise, she says with a sly sepia smile.

"I could get used to this!" I say out loud to no one in particular.

I'm thinking $2,750 for a pair of these wafers is a bargain. Sensei, I take back all those things I thought about you.

Mariko's and mine both register extreme shock when Sensei’s thought voice interjects: I heard that. Apology accepted!