I often dealt with self-important people devoid of press credentials. Influencers.
“You must understand, El Achenes is a force, he’s—”
“Jake, are you saying Bart, or El Achenes as he likes to be called, is still relevant? People died.” The interviewer grinned.
I looked the “influencer” from the 3Days Gone TikTok page dead in the eye.
“Untrue. Disinformation. El Achenes cannot be canceled. He just is.”
“Well, when you see someone on the 3Days Gone LIVESTREAM, they’re cooked. We’re proud to tell of the downfall in three minutes.”
“You’re wrong, El Achenes—”
“And that’s all the time we have. Remember, when celebrities fail, we’ll rejoice in their fall on 3Days Gone.”
I repeated the mantra, “tend a low fire and achieve on high.” That’s it, no more interviews.
I faced my camera. “This will be the heroic return of El Achenes to his hometown of King City, California. This homecoming will parallel Jesus’ return to Galilee. EA will reunite with his family and give back to the community he’d left behind. And I will film it all. I’m Jake, director of the El Achenes Foundation and producer of the documentary El Achenes -Future/Past Incarnate. The story begins with the gawky farm boy, Bart Polanski, going to Mexico to erase the slate and find his true self. After two years of introspection and study, he returned as the inspirational mystic and mentor, El Achenes.
Much like the mysterious monolith sightings during the pandemic, EA began appearing everywhere. Press releases went to all the critical media outlets. My well-placed YouTube and Google ads about the enigmatic El Achenes made him a sought-after interviewee. He’d become a popular podcaster/YouTuber with a bestselling book in less than a year.”
I turned the camera off and laughed—such a load of BS. I created El Achenes, well, everything but his name. He picked that out himself. But it turned out to be precisely what the masses wanted and the Western media needed.
With cameras rolling, the custom luxury Winnebago drove through the small farming town in the Salinas Valley, the destination of which was the city park. El Achenes sipped Liquid Death and fidgeted with his four-color woolen scarf. He is pale and thin as a prepubescent boy with the build of a college volleyball player. His trademark round, mustard-tinted sunglasses and hipster straw hat with a band of green jay feathers topped his head. EA massaged his hand—he’d signed 2k replicas that sold in the first week of release. I’m a genius at selling swag. The scarves and glasses sold even better. However, the skinny jeans found a limited market. Most Americans couldn’t afford Ozempic.
I’d contacted the mayor’s office a month prior. “It would be good publicity for the town. The notoriety will bring tourist dollars.”
The receptionist sounded confused, “Who’s coming?”
“El Achenes.”
“Is he a…wrestler?”
I frowned. “No, you would remember him as Bart Polanski.”
We arrived two hours before the festivities, and El Achenes took a twenty-minute non-sleep deep rest (NSDR) meditation while we set up the cameras and completed a sound check.
I specified to my operatives to decorate the old park pavilion with bunting and streamers featuring El Achenes’ official colors. These were mustard yellow, green jay green, fire brick red, and trimmed with charcoal grey from his Paul Smith merino wool custom scarf that donned his neck regardless of the temperature.
I called Bart’s parents to remind them that I still needed their signatures on the release forms. Bart’s parents answered the landline. They spoke simultaneously. And the worm began to turn. They refused.
I wasn’t deterred. “It’s no big deal, just something the lawyer—”
“We aren’t coming,” his mom said.
“What? No. It’s a reunion show! For your son! We have it all planned out.”
His father cleared his throat and spoke with the evenness of a hardened mortician. “Bart left us over four years ago. We don’t know any El Achenes, and we don’t want to be a party to this publicity stunt. Good day.” And they hung up.
I cursed and repeated the mantra, “Tend a low fire and achieve on high.” I said it six times before I snapped. What am I doing? I’m buying my own bullshit.
Then it came to me: drama. This could be good; EA could win them over. Maybe they’re just holding out for a new tractor. I smiled at the thought. Gift it to them with a big El Achenes color-themed bow, then watch our YouTube ratings go through the roof.
The Mariachi band I’d hired provided positive energy for the crowd and tied into Bart’s mysterious transformation in Mexico. I grinned when I thought about how we met. The dude didn’t realize his luck to have gotten on the wrong tour bus. Bart expected the bus to arrive at the Gato Salvaje tequila distillery.
* * *
Bart was excited to get “tanked.”
I chuckled. This guy’s getting more than tanked. “Yeah, they have a drink to take you out of this world.”
“Whew!” He yipped.
I gave him a hint that he might be on the wrong bus. “They call this drink Ayahuasca.”
Bart nodded. “Cool.”
“It’s served like tea,” I raised my eyebrows to show the significance.
“Right, like a Long Island Iced Tea.”
I laughed. “I’m Jake. I’ll be your party guide.”
“Fire! I’m Bart.” He looked around. “Bummer. There’s only one señorita on this bus.”
“Don’t worry, Bart, you’ll have your hands full, I promise.”
This would be my fifth psychedelic experience or ceremony. Ayahuasca originated as a ceremonial drink of the indigenous people of the Amazon for spiritual and healing purposes. It alleviated symptoms of depression, enhanced motivation, and gave one the ability to be in touch with one's higher consciousness. Right. It also got you super fucking high! However, my reason was that it brought me clarity. Ayahuasca allowed me to focus on what mattered: an innovative way to make a buck.
* * *
The fog of Salinas Valley lifted, and the mayor said a few words—very few—namely because he couldn’t remember Bart and didn’t know anything about El Achenes. I went on stage to introduce EA. I skipped the usual ‘you know him from YouTube, you’ve read his books…spiel.’ “May I introduce to you your hometown boy, Bart, El Achenes Polanski.”
EA bounded onto the stage to a smattering of applause and some giggles. The crowd was there out of curiosity.
“My people,” moans were heard. “My friends, I am glad to be back here in King City. Many may not remember me.” Pointing to his heart. “This prodigal son realizes his challenges were many. I didn’t know myself. And because of that, I had nothing to give. I’m here to make amends—”
“Tell it to your daughter!” A dark-haired young woman with smoldering eyes yelled as she approached the stage, holding a toddler up like a protest sign.
Oh, fuck! I thought. Now what?
EA didn’t notice. “I’m happy to gift my hometown the funds to build the new wing of the future El Achenes library.”
Louder now. “Tell it to your daughter—the one you’ve never seen, asshole!” She climbed the stairs at the foot of the stage and came toward EA.
I jumped between them, but EA shoved me aside.
He leaned toward her and spoke without the mic. “Hi, Serena. That's the real reason I’m here. I’m ready to be a father.” He held his arms out to hold the child.
Serena pulled Reina away. “Yeah, well, she was fatherless her first three years.”
The crowd booed. Many took videos.
EA faltered, his shoulders dropped, and his voice went high. “Let’s discuss this afterward.”
“No! You don’t get to tell me what to do, Bart.” She ripped the microphone out of his hand. “This imposter left me pregnant with his child—never even contacting us for nearly three years. This is the first time he’s seen her.”
The crowd stiffened. A woman yelled, “Deadbeat!” Others mumbled worse.
I went onstage and tried to get the mic back, “El Achenes will speak to you in private.”
She kicked me between the legs. It hurt so bad that I couldn’t utter a sound—she was wearing cowboy boots.
EA was stricken paralytic. Powerless.
Serena continued. “Look around, your parents didn’t even come to your homecoming.”
EA scanned the audience; everyone looked at him like he was an impotent steer in a bullfight. “I’ve changed, Serena.” He pointed to his heart.
She scoffed. “Forget this jit. We’re just fodder for his media-machine, mind-control. El Achenes, what a joke!” She dropped the mic and quit the stage as her daughter burst into tears.
Back in the motorhome, I iced my huevos while EA meditated.
After several minutes, his eyes fluttered open. “She’s right, I am a fraud.”
“No! Don’t listen to her. Didn’t she cheat on you? The baby…”
“The baby is mine. We are a genetic match.”
“When did—”
“It doesn’t matter, I meant what I said. I’m ready to be a father.”
* * *
The bus shimmied over stutter bumps, and Bart giggled like a child waiting in line to see Santa. “I didn’t know they made te-kill-ya in a cave.”
“That’s why you drink it warm.”
Our bus stopped at what looked like the foot of an extinct volcano. The jungle environment almost looked CGI, and I wondered for a moment if we would be on a re-boot of Survivor. The cave smelled like sweat socks and black mold, it was real alright. Every twenty feet, a tiki torch lit the way.
Bart asked the guide, “Is this where they filmed Indiana Jones?” and received a stern look in reply.
“You might see him later.” I winked.
Then it hit me. Bart reminded me of a documentary I’d seen about an idiot savant who, rumor had, was raised by wolves. He’d had a killer instinct, and his “rescuer” used him to make millions on Wall Street. Bart, are you my wolf? Well, maybe not a wolf, but this guy’s got a certain quality.
The group of twelve followed a man in a yellow robe into a voluminous space inside the cave. Stalactites hung like abstract sculptures. A bonfire’s flames danced in the center of the expanse. Smoke swirled and escaped a small hole in the granite dome of the cavern. “Sit crossed-legged. Now, take deep, long breaths. Hold until a count of five. Then release. Continue until you are tapped on the right shoulder, stand, and follow your guide.”
The taps came quick. One at a time, we were ushered into a small limestone alcove cut off from the main room. I was told to go around the corner, remove my clothes, and put them in a numbered bag. A pile of gunny-sack robes thinner than the guide’s waited on a carved wooden bench. Once the robe cinched, the guide handed me a small clay vessel the size of an espresso cup filled with an earthy-sour-smelling liquid. I did something between a nod and a bow and returned to the circle.
Bart’s turn came next, and he returned with his nose in the cup. “Smells strong.”
A sharp “NO” came from the guide.
Once we were all robed-up, we sat with our “tea.” Our teacher appeared out of the shadows. She wore the deepest black hooded robe I’ve ever seen. I peeked at my gunny-sack robe and felt lower than a white belt at kindergarten karate.
“This is a sacred ritual,” she paused.
I recognized the voice as the woman on the bus.
I heard Bart giggle—he still thinks this is a pitch for some special tequila. Ay caramba.
She cleared her throat. “I am here to guide you, to draw you closer to your essence, and reveal the potential you hold inside. My name is of no consequence. I am just a vessel of transmission for the self.”
By his leering grin, I could surmise that Bart thought more about the girl than the experience he was about to take.
She continued. “You will take six small sips taken with reverence and foremost intentions. To transcend, you must have faith in the process. As we practiced, count your breath in, fill your lungs, up, up, now hold. Keep it in. Hold…now, without haste, let it all out. Collapse your lungs in seeds of sacrifice.” La Sensei took her hood off. “Hold your cup up to your lips and take one sip.”
We did. A couple of guys groaned, and Bart made a gagging sound.
“Now, take a second sip. The flavors are earthy and bitter; you are tasting your consciousness. Take sip three. You are acquiring the taste; the third sip is key. Again sip. You will crave this flavor after you leave here.” She stepped closer to the fire. “Sip number five, go. You may feel discomfort in your viscera. You will sweat. This means it’s alive within you. Please tip your cup until the bottom sees the roof of the cave. That’s it.
I snuck a glance at Bart. He’d lost his mirth.
“Now, you must learn to keep the medicine down. It’s okay if it comes out with the wrath of Montezuma on the other end. But to be purified, it must flow through you. To do this, continue to breathe mindfully. After seven minutes, we will repeat with your second cup and then your third and last cup. It is then that you will begin to learn your true essence.”
Right away, someone started to vomit. The guide took him away, and he did not return. After the second cup, another person had a panic attack and was “disappeared.” I started to feel it mid-way through the last cup. We were all sweating in a cold, damp cave. Someone lost their bowels, and I realized why we were wearing the gunny-sack robes—they were disposable.
Bart raised his hand like a schoolboy. “Do you have more? It ain’t doing nothing for me.”
La Sensei shushed him and stared at each of us. Her face reflected that of a hardened Sunday school teacher or a Juniorate nun. “In a few minutes, you will be transported to your place, which needs tending. Now is the time to prepare for the journey. Close your eyes and sit as still as you can. Focus on your breath and keep your back straight.”
I snuck a peek at Bart, he was antsy as a baby panda. La Sensei walked over and placed her hands on his head; he went still. She held her hands on him until her assistant struck a small gong about five minutes later.
She spoke. “If anyone has had anesthesia before, you will find this familiar. Together, we will count backward from 100. As you countdown, concentrate on your breath; take the air deep into your belly. We start together now: 100, 99, 98…”
I remember getting to 69 and thought it wasn’t working. Then I couldn’t go any further. My mind wouldn’t let me—this was the good stuff—I began to laugh like a pimpled adolescent at the fact I was stuck at such a loaded number. Others joined in the laughter. Then, pronto, we shifted to monosyllabic moans and breathless sobs. My eyes were flung wide, but my entirety became blurry. “Hey Bart, how do you like the te-kill-ya?”
“It’s not what I expected,” he replied, deadpan.
I narrated my trip. “I feel the pulse of God swim past the delusion of Chronos. I’m turning transparent. Is there nothing at my core? Dude, nah, all is goooood. I feel alive, like—(I make a droning sound until I’m out of breath)—ah, yeeees. Golden waves of silken gravy, I can taste you with my eyes. Jesus, this is the stuff!”
Bart cleared his throat. “I can feel it all come together now. It’s like my brain has been wrung out. Clear. No more bullshit.”
I snapped out of my hallucinogenic stupor. “What?”
Bart went quiet, and I thought he passed out.
“We’re all connected, Jake. I can…I see how it all works. The stars are our birth mothers. The planets are white blood cells. Jake…Jake?”
“Uh huh, planets, stars…something.” I was spun out but fighting it.
“It’s ALL there in grains of atomic sand. We are all pieces of animated carbon…”
“Yeah, Bart, I see it too.” I played along. “What can we do about it?”
“Jake, we gotta help people, man. We need to enlighten humanity one person at a time.”
I was ecstatic that Bart felt this way—and it wasn’t just the Ayahuasca. I’d searched a long time for my $avior. “You got it, buddy. We’ll be partners in world mindfulness.”
Bart gave me an odd, toothy smile and puked into the fire.
Our work began the next day, and El Achenes was born. We stayed in Mexico, where EA trained for two years in philosophy, theology, and public elocution. I spent all my previous grifting dinero on his education. I read self-help books to glean insights to exploit and worked on our marketing plan. We wrote the book Future/Past Incarnate together at the end of our second year. I hired a Peruvian influencer to give him his “look.” Then we began posting YouTube and TikTok videos as the life coach and guru, El Achenes.
* * *
The man formerly known as El Achenes has released a press release:
To my brothers and sisters of the El Achenes community, it is time to move forward without me. There are no gurus; wisdom is a singularity to be uncovered, improved upon, and shared. You have all grown beyond me, and my focus is needed elsewhere. I wish you all full bellies, warm beds, and quietude.
Stay curious.
With compassion,
Bart Polanski,
AKA El Achenes.
P.S. My former assistant, Jake Goodwin, no longer speaks for me or the El Achenes Foundation.