plato

When I pick Plato up at the busted motel in West Springfield, I ask him if Plato is his real name.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Wow! That’s beautiful. I’ve never met a Plato before. Are you living up to the name?”

“Yes, sir, I am trying, sir.” That’s when he added that he works in aircraft engineering technology.

I assume he is a military engineer. He is clean-cut, with a short afro, and dressed crisply. 

“That sounds like interesting work. Tell me about it.”

“Yes, sir, it is. I work on ion engines, warp drives, stargates, anti-gravity technology.”

Somehow, I don’t even hitch or pause. On the contrary, I am now far more genuinely interested.

“Wow! You weren’t kidding! You are living up to your name! I don’t know much about that stuff, but it fascinates me.”

A tone is set. We are both speaking about matters of fact.

“Yes, sir. Not too many people know about it. But the knowledge is there. I have that knowledge. I hope to put some money together to develop the technology myself.”

“That sounds challenging, but it would be great. You know, I only know this stuff from science fiction. I’m a big fan. But I’d love to know more.”

“Yes, sir. I’m glad to hear that. Most people only know it as science fiction. But it is real. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about stargates. I used to love that show.”

“Okay. So a stargate is essentially a doorway.”

“Like to a wormhole, right?”

“Yes, a portal to a shortcut in space-time.”

He begins to explain, but the explanation is less clear to me than what I remember from the novel A Wrinkle in Time. 

“No, sir, I’m not familiar with that book.”

I think it’s less interesting than anything he might say, so I hastily explain how to wrinkle the fabric of space-time to move instantly from one place-time to another.

“Is it kind of like that, Plato?”

“Yes, sir! It’s exactly like that! And this technology exists already. Only most people don’t know about it because the military only shows us the garbage. Have you heard of Roswell, New Mexico, sir?”

“I have, yes, but I’m guessing you probably know the details better than I do.”

“Well, sir. They came. But our radar confused their ships, and they crashed. Then we reverse-engineered their technology.”

“Wait, hold up. A civilization advanced enough to make it here got confused by our mid-20^th-century radar. I don’t get it.”

“Because they weren’t expecting it, sir. They didn’t know we had it.”

“Ah, I see.” Sure, I’m still wondering how they didn’t know what we already had. But I’d much rather hear what Plato has to say next.

“Do you know why they came, sir?”

“No, definitely I do not.”

“Well, gold is very scarce in the universe. But it is plentiful on earth.”

“Wait, Plato, you’re telling me these aliens want money!? No way.”

“No way, sir. You’re right. Not money. Gold. Are you familiar with the healing properties of gold?”

“No, I’ve never heard of that.”

“Yes, sir. If you grind gold down to a fine powder, it has healing properties that can extend life if you ingest it.”

“That’s incredible. I had no idea.”

“Yes, sir. You should try it.”

I laugh. 

“I’m an Uber driver, Plato; I can’t afford any gold dust.”

Plato smiles.

“No sir, me neither. But that’s what they’re after. And we already have a space fleet to protect the planet Earth. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, sir, we do. You’ve heard of Space Force, probably.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of that.”

“Well, that’s just the part they tell us about. Because as I previously stated, the military only shows us the garbage because they are afraid we can’t handle the truth. But I know for a certain fact that we have an entire fleet of this technology out in space.”

“So, let me ask your opinion about something, Plato.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think it’s a good idea for us to be out exploring space? Like, do you think it’s the right thing to do?”

He nods. 

“Good question, sir. Here is my thinking on that. God told us that he made us in his image. That means having the ability to think and to create. So then I think it’s good for us to do this. But he also told us that he would come back for us, to save us. So that’s where I get stuck.”

“I see what you mean. That sounds tricky.”

“It is, sir. But there are words of God that are not in the bible. Books of the bible that are not in the bible. That they have hidden from us, but I’ve read those books.”

“Me too!”

“You have?! That’s great, sir! Good for you. The Book of Enoch, for example. I’ve read that.”

“Me too!”

Now, with eyes on the road, I can sense him inclining toward me as if in slow motion. We are at a stop light. Plato leans forward and pokes my shoulder, grinning. I feel the weight on my body. I did not invite this, did I? I feel the deep gathering of a flinch, watch it swell and crest within, and then smooth itself out. In the mirror, I see his eyes boring into the side of my face. Maybe he is from outer space. He swivels toward the window, gesturing. There, in front of the multiplex, amidst this strip of pavement and commerce, where we have planted our desires for more, stands a tree. It is spring. The sun is warming the earth and air. The buds have filled out into leaves, quivering, bright green and newborn, in the breeze.

“God has assigned an angel for every single leaf on that tree. This is in those books. The Grigories. For every single leaf on every tree in the world. Can you imagine that kind of love? Can you imagine that kind of power? Can you imagine the power of that kind of love? Can you imagine how much God must love us?”

The tree suddenly looks so uniquely precious, leaves fluttering playfully and innocently, like children, heedless of danger and of the evils amidst which we have condemned them to grow. 

Then, like a starling in the sun, the silhouette of a phrase flashes across my mind: Look at the birds of the air…Dimly, I fill it out, …and God takes care of them. How much more must God take care of you? Or something like that. As I said, I’ve never been good at memorizing passages.

But Plato threw me back into a memory of that terrible time just a few years ago when, sitting alone at a picnic table in the bright, bright spring sun, I sobbed at the ruin I’d made of my life, at my utter cluelessness and powerlessness, and looked up into the blue and saw a mother hawk drop food into the tiny gaping beaks of her young, poking up over the edge of a nest high on the gleaming white branch of a plane tree.

Now, to Plato, I can only say: “It is a lot of love.”

“It is a lot of love, sir. We can’t imagine it. And we don’t have to do anything to get it except to love. To be open to love. Then we feel the love. We give it, and we get it. Just like we give and get air by breathing. But people don’t want to do that. They are all caught up in getting their own. As if there isn’t air enough for everyone.”

“Amen,” I say.

Now, we are approaching his destination. The whole ride has taken ten minutes. I stop the car.

“Thank you so much, sir. This was great! I don’t get to talk to many people like this, people who truly understand. You are a blessing to me, sir!”

“Thank you, Plato. Truly. You are a blessing to me. You’ve made my day.”

“Yes, sir, and I am going to give you a tip.” He pauses. “There, I just did. You’ll see it when you end the ride.”

“You don’t have to do that, Plato. Please, you have given me enough.”

“No, sir, I only wish I could give you more. But I only have $17 to get back.”

I thank him for his generosity.

“Yes, sir. You are welcome.”

Plato gets out of the car and steps into the deserted parking lot of another crappy motel. It doesn’t even look open. Maybe it’s been abandoned entirely. 

I watch for a moment, wondering what he could be doing there. I wonder where “the back” is that he needs $17 to get to. Connecticut? His home planet? Heaven? I half expect him to shimmer and then vanish into pure light. 

I end the ride. I see the tip: $1. It feels like so much more: he’s filled the air with angels.  

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