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As Rip was talking about neologisms, schizophrenics and the rest of us, I thought briefly about the world of academia and its penchant for neologisms. Perhaps, our inclination to introduce new words, or to give old words new meanings, was symptomatic of an underlying pathology rather than an expression of a creative component of communication.

On the one hand, I felt the idea might form the seed for a journal article. On the other hand, wanting to write a paper about the academic pathology in which I was immersed made me feel like a man who is in the process of being hanged and decides to busy himself in his last minutes of life with helping the hangman- in this case, Rip- to tighten and adjust the rope.

"Finally, David, we come to the category of symptoms dealing with impairments in the life- functioning of an individual. Just as schizophrenics are said to have few social skills, friends or intimates, so too, from the perspective of the spiritually intoxicated, many of the rest of us have few, if any, real spiritual skills, friends or intimates.

"Like schizophrenics, but in accordance with our own manner of psychosis, we tend to lead spiritually isolated and secluded lives. Many of us actively avoid the company of spiritual people due to a variety of irrational fears.

"Like schizophrenics, we tend to give only cursory attention to personal hygiene and grooming. The only real difference is that in the case of schizophrenics, this problem concerns their inattentiveness to their physical appearance, whereas for many of the rest of us, the issue is a matter of our lack of attentiveness to our spiritual appearance and the underlying need for a concern about processes of internal cleansing and spiritual orderliness and presentability.

"Moreover, like schizophrenics, many of us encounter spiritual counterparts to impairments in life- functioning abilities such as keeping a job or concentrating in school. In the realm of spirituality, the form that this impairment might assume could involve difficulty in committing ourselves to the work that is entailed by observing a regular, day-by-day set of spiritual practices. In addition, many of us may experience trouble concentrating on, and learning about, a given spiritual curriculum.

"Last, but not least, is the time factor which you mentioned in passing, David, at the beginning of your outline on some of the factors involved in diagnosing schizophrenia. You indicated, I believe, that symptoms had to persist for at least six months before one could begin to consider schizophrenia as a possible diagnosis in any given case."

"That is correct," I confirmed. I wasn't sure if, from the perspective of the spiritually intoxicated, my voice sounded flat, toneless and mechanical.

"For most of us," Rip pointed out, "the symptoms of our spiritual schizophrenia have persisted throughout our entire lives. And, in view of what you said, David, about the poor prognosis for those who experience an early onset of the symptoms of schizophrenia, if the same holds true for the spiritual counterpart I have been discussing, then a lot of us have a tough row to hoe."

"We could," I observed, "always hope for spontaneous remission of our condition."

Rip's face brightened with a smile. "Yes," he said, "Divine intervention is like that."

Apparently, Rip had come to the end of his reflections. He had become silent and, seemingly, introspective.

I filled up the silence with the noise of my own thoughts. I started to speculate about how one might work various sociogenic theories as well as the social-drift hypothesis into the context of a discussion about spiritual schizophrenia.

Just as I was beginning to get settled again, amidst the comforts of my intellectualizing, and to relax from the tensions of the emotional and conceptual roller coaster ride on which Rip had sent me, something was said that plunged me careening down another incline. The ride wasn't finished.

Rip inquired: "Have you heard any news of Brian?"

My mind, heart and stomach all went numb. "Brian who?" I asked in desperation.

Rip smiled and replied: "How many Brians do you know?"

The fact of the matter was that I knew only one Brian. I knew Brian Idaho.

My mind was spinning. I tried to recall if I had mentioned Brian's name at any time during our conversation, and I found no solace in what I remembered of my interaction with Rip.

A possibility flashed through my mind. Maybe Brian's name was written down in my wallet, and Rip or someone had found the name while going through my wallet when I was still recovering from the attack on the street.

This line of thinking was disavowed with Rip's next question. "Didn't Brian tell you about us?" Rip asked in what seemed to be a rather teasingly mischievous manner.

Something within me knew what Rip was alluding to. My rational mind was resisting the intuition, however, because what seemed to be going on was at odds with the way I believed the real world worked ... a delusional symptom, no doubt.

"Wh - what do you mean?" I stammered.

Gently, Rip painted me further into my rapidly disappearing corner of reality. "Haven't you been asking people about us?" he challenged mildly.

'How did he know these things?' kept reverberating in my mind. Every hypothesis I came up with in an attempt to account for such knowledge seemed more and more implausible.

Eventually, I decided that I wasn't going to be able to figure it out ... at least, not right now. For the time being, I would enter into a state of suspended disbelief and go with the flow of the moment.

"You're the Botclofots?!" I said, half-asking and half-stating my conclusion.

"I'm one of them," Rip corrected.

"Where does the word come from?" I asked.

"English," Rip answered. "The word is really sort of an acronym."

My thoughts journeyed back to a portion of the conversation in the room upstairs. I began to work out some of the words which might correspond to the letters.

"Bearers ... of ... the ... cloth ...," I said, starting off with relative ease. I drew a blank on the rest of it and looked to him for assistance.

"For ... tattered ... souls," Rip added.

He glanced at some of the people in the room and, then, returned to me. "Are you still interested in helping Brian?" Rip wanted to know.

"Yes," I affirmed, "but I really don't see how I could be of much help to him. I don't even know where he is or what he is planning on doing."

"He's getting ready for something," Rip intimated. "That's about as much as I can say on the matter.

"At the present time, you'll be safer and Brian will be safer, if you don't know anything else," he asserted. "In any event," Rip added, "if you are open to something that I am going to propose, then, in the not-too-distant future, everything that can be revealed will be disclosed to you if that should be your wish."

Rip's comments about my being safer if I didn't know certain things seemed to echo the words of Brian just before our conversation at the prison had ended. "What is the nature of the proposal?" I inquired.

"I ... that is, we ... the Botclofots, would like you to attend a symposium in Chicago."

"What's the symposium about?" I asked.

"It's entitled: 'Spiritual Communities in a Secular World - Challenges and Prospects'," he replied. "People from a large number of different faith groups and spiritual perspectives are convening at the Balmer House from Wednesday through Sunday of this week. In a way, the symposium is part of a follow-up project to the Parliament of World Religions assembly which took place in Chicago a few years ago."

"What am I supposed to do there?" I queried.

"Just attend," Rip informed me. "Participate in any way you like; go to whatever sessions may be of interest to you.

"As far as the main reasons for your being at the symposium are concerned, let's just say that events will overtake you at the appropriate time. I can tell you, however, you will develop a liaison with someone there who not only will be of considerable help to you at the symposium, but who also will be able to help you to be of assistance to Brian a little further down the road.

"I'm sorry," Rip apologized, "for being so cloak and dagger about this. Unfortunately, the situation is a sensitive one and requires both a certain amount of secrecy and discretion at this particular juncture."

Evidently, a mixture of wariness, indecision and uncertainty were fairly palpable on my face. In an apparent attempt to reassure me, Rip said: "There is nothing illegal or immoral in any of what I am asking you to do, David ... at least not as far as your part, or our involvement, in this matter is concerned."

My feeling about Rip was similar to my feeling about Brian. For whatever reason, I trusted each of them even though I really didn't know either one of them.

They both seemed to radiate, each in his own way, a basic sense of sincerity, integrity and decency. The vibrations, for want of a better word, that I felt from them seemed to induce me to be willing to step a little further into the unknown on the basis of only a minimum of supporting evidence.

Intuitively, I sensed I was about to swim into uncharted waters that could be filled with all manner of denizens of the deep. Nonetheless, the same source of intuition seemed to promise that whatever lay in wait for me had, in some way, a central role to play in my becoming whatever I had the potential to become.

"Alright," I responded, finally, "I'll go."

"You understand," Rip cautioned me, "that you'll have to pay for the trip yourself. I'm afraid we are not in a position, like some organizations you may have dealt with, to reimburse any of your expenses."

Given everything else which Rip seemed to know about my activities, the possibility that his words might be alluding to the recent overtures of the Bettinger Foundation fluttered about in my awareness like a butterfly seeking something of substance on which to perch. As this thought flitted from consciousness, I nodded my head in acknowledgment and acceptance of the conditions.

"Should I get in contact with you after the symposium?" I asked.

"No, there is no need for that," he informed me, "but don't worry, we'll be getting together again quite soon. You'll be hearing from me."

"What about the contact I'm to make in Chicago?" I inquired. "How will I recognize the person? What should I say or do?"

"The individual in question will make contact with you. I'm fairly certain you will have no problem in recognizing the person.

"As far as your other questions are concerned, play it by ear," Rip advised me. "Often times, these sort of things have their own rhythms and personalities without the need for a great deal of input on our part.

"Mostly, it's just a matter of showing up and figuring out whether to exit stage right or stage left. You'll do fine, I'm sure."

Rip rose from the table. I sensed our time together had come to an end.

As I got up, I suddenly felt very tired. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see 7:13 a.m. registered on my watch.

Rip accompanied me to the front door of the center. As I turned around to shake Rip's hand and thank him for his rescue and his hospitality, I noted the street number on the building.

Rip took my hand and placed his free hand on my right shoulder. "Good luck, David. I'll see you soon."

I began to descend the stairs. I was on the next to last step, about to reach the sidewalk, when Rip called to me.

"David," he said, "I'm genuinely sorry about your friends."

Before I could ask him what he meant or to whom he was referring, Rip had disappeared behind the closed door of the center. I could have knocked on the door in an attempt to raise the issue with him, but I strongly suspected that if he had wanted to tell me, he would have done so already.

Why he had bothered to say anything at all was something I could puzzle over on the way home. I began to orient myself in terms of my location via the street signs on the corner and headed off in search of my car.

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