Mind Swap – by Dave Rigby

Although the band has finished playing, the thumping base and drums are still reverberating around my head.

Time for a wander through ‘Mindful Village’, stalls, tents, gazebos, marquees, young very attractive women, guys covered in tats and rings and an old feller wearing a pin-stripe suit and a trilby, all trying to outdo each other in purveying their various outlandish wares. World-love elixir, every type of massage you can imagine and some you can’t, yoga experienced in twenty different ways and what exactly is skull therapy?

A purple and green striped tent catches my eye. I’m sure it wasn’t there yesterday. The only person inside is a bleach-blond guy with a smile locked onto his face and a pair of purple and green headphones straddling his head. Nice colour co-ordination!

    “Hey man” he says without removing the phones. “What can I do you for?”

    “I’m looking for something a little different,” I say “you know, something that jumps out and says try me!”

He ponders a while, shaking his head to a beat I can’t hear, his sandaled feet dancing over the tatami matting.

    “Why not!” he says suddenly. “You look like the kind of man who’ll take a bit of a risk. God knows we’re few and far between. Come with me my friend.”

He pushes his way through what I’d assumed was the back wall of the tent, an opening that closes again, as soon as I’ve passed through.

This hidden space is dimly lit. An ambient, trippy sound hooks me in. A table is flanked by two large armchairs, each sending out a clear message – I’m unbelievably comfortable. A space-age update of a reel-to-reel tape recorder sits in the middle of the table. Cables snake out of the back of the contraption and connect two items of headgear resembling electronic bike helmets.

    “So, my friend, here we have the ultimate in mind-experience, designed and built by my good self, but, alas, owing to the lack of genuine risk-takers, still insufficiently tested in the field. The operational premise is simple. If we two were to seat ourselves in these cerebral transference recliners, don one of these fine inner-space helmets and Melissa, my lovely assistant, were to fire up the pre-programmed, two-way, mind-swap activator then……”

He pauses, theatrically.

    “……I would become you and even more astoundingly from your perspective…..you would become me!”

A woman considerably taller than me emerges from the darkness to my left, holds out her hand, which I take without hesitation and leads me to one of the chairs. 

    “Just to make things clear,” she says, “the machine will download and transfer a part of your consciousness into Stevie. You will inhabit his mind and body, but deep, deep down, you will know that you are still you.  In this way, we enhance the pleasure of your transference experience. Are you ready to join the party?”

 There’s no doubt about my decision. I’ve tried many extreme physical experiences, to which the law of diminishing returns sadly applies. It’s time for a step into another realm. I’m 99% certain this man is a charlatan, if an engaging one. But there’s that 1% chance he’s a genius …...

    “I’m ready for the ride!”

Melissa fits the helmet with care, telling me about the 157 nodal connectors that have been painstakingly built into the frame. The charlatan / genius receives the same treatment in the other chair. She returns to me and fixes a bracelet around my wrist.

    “This is you return activator. At any point you may press this button here and reverse transference will take place. Only one of you needs to activate for the process to become operational. Do you have any questions?”

I shake my head.

She steps in front of the table and activates the machine.

+ + +

A police officer is talking to Melissa. She points to me.

    “Are you Mr Steven Hampshire?” the officer asks. Things are still settling in my head and for a moment I have no way of answering even such a simple question. I find it hard to pull my face into a shape which will facilitate speech. Eventually something tells me I am indeed Mr Hampshire and I nod. 

    “I have reason to believe that you have carried out recent activity in breach of the Medical Interventions (Licensed Operatives) Act and as such I must ask you to accompany me to the station, so that I may carry out appropriate questioning.” Perhaps he’s also a ventriloquist – his lips barely move as he speaks. I realise I need to be careful. Friends have frequently warned me about the dangers of what I do. The copper is talking again. But I can also hear another voice – very quiet – inside my head.

This isn’t you, this isn’t you, the voice says. I have a half memory of another me. Press the button on the bracelet…activate your return… But I’m not wearing a bracelet.

The man talking to the copper is very familiar to me. He’s no longer the face in the mirror. He’s out there! I hear him saying he can provide evidence.

I’m led away, through the festival field, to a waiting car.