The Catharsis

Today’s the 8th anniversary of my release from the power of The Incubus.

Not familiar with an incubus? Really? You probably have one, or maybe a host of incubi. I once had a Stage 4 incubus. ‘Had’, past tense. I’m now incubus-free, thanks to Ann and Doris.

I first encountered the term, incubus, while reading a book on the South. Some obscure Baptist preacher tongue-lashed the “incubus of Northern Aggression.” The reference was to a sociopath named Sherman, a much-maligned misfit who loved to play with matches. He was a mommy’s boy and often mistaken for Little Lord Fauntleroy. Poor man, he ended his fiery career in the pest control business.

Now you have a clue…an incubus is, in short, a demon. Or, figuratively speaking, a cause of distress, a nightmare. I’m loath to print the primary meaning of incubus for fear of offending the heinous fiend. The metaphor has greater meaning…consult Webster.

An Incubus is a stealthy beast. It’s everywhere. It creeps into homes, especially those with teenagers. It inhabits rap music and iPhone apps. Teens are prime incubators for the incubi. Even my dogs find scents of incubi on sidewalk shrubs, the Facebook social network for dogs.

They’re sneaky bastards. Their petri dish consists of ecclesiastic institutions, liberal college campuses and especially Congress. They hide inside black robes, cling to slick smiles of lobbyists and bed down beneath the collars of clerics. They preach the gospel of greed and debt, pimp politicians and pander to unstable sociopaths.

So much for incubi. Let’s bring Ann and Doris back.

Ann calls, all excited. Says she and Doris have just completed the 30-day course in Demon Exorcism 101, a Baptist on-line course for bored widows. Says I popped into her mind. Says she and Doris will feed me lunch if I’ll consent to their laying hands on me and extracting the incubus inside. I tell her I’m fond of my demons. We share a cozy relationship in this lump of dust. But being a fool for food, and for the hands of women, I agree.

I ask if she’s relegating these poor cast-off incubi to the herd of swine in her backyard. Baptists can’t appreciate such humor. It only supports the fact that, like Sherman, I’m a living witness to the despicable consequences of incubi. Pork loin is on the lunch menu, she adds.

Driving over I think, why not get rid of a few demons? Makes room for others. With my collection of friends, surely I have been seriously infected. After all, I’ve consorted with lawyers, bankers, politicians and not a few preachers. Which is better, the devils I know or the ones I don’t?

They sit me in a straight-back chair. The room is dark. I remember the experience with a Gypsy soothsayer, where I levitated wildly from the chair and voices emanated from the walls. My nerves are on edge. They begin the exorcism.

Hands move slowly on my shoulders, my back. A pair grips my head like a vice. My eyes bulge out. Tongues resonate from the ladies (nothing new there), wild, exotic glossolalia of indecipherable context. Hands explore my face, pinch my nose, and grab my hair. Fingers probe my ears. They search diligently for the exit for my incubus.

The exorcism is interminable. My incubus is intractable. They plead intensely with some unknown power to release my alien villain. They shout, sweat, shake me violently. I think of lady wrestlers who hate men. Is this a Baptist hoax? I decide to join the drama. YouTube may be interested.

My legs twitch, my arms flail. I recite poetry from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and a few lines from the Koran. The ladies dance wildly, become feral, savage beasts. Maybe worse than my incubus.

In a dramatic swoon I leap to my feet, shout, “Free at last, Free at last.” I collapse onto the floor in epileptic contortions. I peek out with one eye. Ann and Doris are giddy in the ecstasy of achievement, their first success.

They search the house for my incubus. My stomach growls. Somewhere a door opens. A cool breeze blows in. Can it be? Either I’m starving or the incubus has departed.

I stumble to the table, devour the pork and apple pie. Then leave. I hear them working the phones, spreading the news. Wow! What a scam…a cottage industry, better than Mary Kay.

On Tuesday we’ll get a chance to lay our hands on a computer screen. Hopefully we’ll purge the body politic of its insidious incubus. Even Mormons will certify this exorcism!

Bud Hearn
November 2, 2012