Johnny Wave was born 1,500 miles west of the California coast, during a tropical storm that was trying to die out. Johnny Wave (or JW, as the other waves called him) grew quickly and found himself heading due east at about 23 m.p.h. For the first few hours of his existence, JW learned a lot--he made the acquaintance of other waves around him, and they all became friends. As they matured, the waves began asking questions of a philosophical nature: Who am I? What am I doing here? Why am I ??? And so on.

Bill Wave (a friend of JW's) said, "I know…we are all part of the ocean. That is all that there is to it. Period. Everything is ocean water. I am the ocean!!!"

"I don't think that is so, Bill" said JW. "You are what the ocean is doing, not what the ocean is. Have you noticed that, as we move along, the ocean does not travel with us?"

"Well, it looks like it is traveling along," said Bill. "But I guess you have a point. The ocean just swells up and down, and it is us that travel from west to east."

"OK", said JW. "Now, what is this ‘you’ that is traveling? What are you?"

Bill thought for a minute and said, "Hmm. Just energy I guess. I can not find anything else here but energy. That makes me feel creepy. There must be more to me than just energy."

"It is only your ego talking, Bill, the system that aids your survival by fulfilling desires, that produces this illusion that there is really more to you," answered JW. "We are wavings--an event of the ocean. That is all we are, no matter how relentless our senses try to convince us otherwise. You and I are just one location out of billions, where the ocean plays and examines itself by waving and looking around."

Bill looked up, far ahead, and saw a surf line coming. "Oh, my Ocean! What is that?"

JW said, "Bill, that is what some call death. It is where we end our waving. When we meet the shoreline--Poof! A big noise, lots of spray, and we are no more."

"Oh dear", said Bill. "What happens to us then? Where do we go??"

"We do not go anywhere," JW mused, "we just cease to wave. Now they see us; now they don't. Some say that the energy that we are is transferred to other places. I do not know."

"I am afraid," said Bill.

"Of what are you afraid?" asked JW.

"I am afraid of not being anymore…ever again…how horrible to ‘not be!’" cried Bill.

As she approached the revolving door of the Truvalue Mall, her heart leapt. She pushed her way into the cavernous halls, clutching her question in search of the answer.

The first store she came to looked inviting, so she went inside. The glitter of the merchandise was nearly too bright for her sensitive eyes.

"May I help you?" came a shrill voice from behind a gold-plated armoire filled with sparkling garments.

"I'm looking for truth," she said confidently.

"Truth?" cried the voice. "Well, you've come to the right place. I must say you don't look like you afford such a luxury. What are your credentials?"

"Credentials?"

"You know, line of credit, banking history, family tree...." Then, without waiting for a response, "It's a matter of policy. Truth doesn't come cheap."

She wondered why the voice didn't come out from behind the armoire. "What do you mean by 'cheap'?"

With an annoyed sigh, the voice answered, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." The voice trailed away until, by the end of the sentence, she could barely make out the words.

Feeling as though she had been dismissed, she left. At first she felt like she was reaching beyond her grasp, but after only a moment her passion rekindled and she moved to door number two.

As she stepped over the threshold, she was overcome by row upon row of boxes of every shape and size, some covered with calico or chintz or silk, others painted in dark and light, dull and bright. Still others were wrapped in butcher paper.

As she stared at the stacks of boxes, a man in a severe black suit stepped out from behind one of the rows.

"Which box do you want?" The question sounded like a command.

"I'm not sure I want a box."

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"The truth," she said, hope bolstering her courage, "but I see you just have boxes, so I'll get out of your way." She turned to leave, but the salesman grabbed her roughly by the arm.

"Don't go. What do you think is in these boxes?" When she didn't answer, he said, "Why, truth, of course," in a self-satisfied tone.

She wondered if he might be right. "Hmm, would you mind if I looked inside one?"

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible. You see, if you don't trust me, then I can't trust you with the truth."

She thought about this. "Is the whole truth in every box?"

"Certainly. Now," he said, eyeing her critically, "are you the Pollyanna type or would you prefer our Truth In A Plain Brown Wrapper model?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "What is your policy on returns? I mean, what if I get a version that just doesn't quite fit?"

"In that case," he sniffed, "something's obviously wrong with you. We send our referrals to the Minister of Truth who, coincidentally, has an office in the back. I'm sure he'll be happy to sand you and buff you and beat you into a shape that would fit nicely into one of our lovely boxes."

"I don't think so," she said, backing toward the door, "but thanks for your time."

She sat down on a bench in the hall and caught her breath. This was not as simple as she had anticipated. Maybe she wasn't being clear enough. Or maybe she was being too picky.

Her eyes fell on a patchwork of colorful images, all moving in sync and she was drawn toward the glassed-in storefront filled with hundreds of television screens filled with images of a well-coifed man. His make-up was meticulous and no hair was out of place. He exuded confidence and she soon realized that he was speaking of truth.

"...And the truth shall set you free. We receive thousands of calls a day from poor, lost souls, longing to be free. Today, we have a special treat. We have invited one of those searchers to be with us on the program. He's a professional builder and comes to us from the Truvalue Mall in..."

The Truvalue Mall! So this was it. She hurried through the glass door, and what she saw inside took her breath away. There were twenty rows of make-up tables, each with its own bank of lights. At every table, one person sat stock still while being fussed over by two other people. One was applying either hairspray or eyeliner or lipstick or rouge. The other was draping colorful swatches across the first person's chest, then standing back to examine the results.

"Do you have an appointment?" The question came from a hip-looking dude with a large black book.

"Um, no, I, uh..."

"We have an opening for a week from today at 4:30 a.m. Shall I pencil you in?"

"I'm not sure." She ignored the look on his face. "You see, I'm looking for the truth, and I had seen the ads about this mall, but so far I'm no closer to the truth than I was when I started."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, honey. You've come to the right place. We specialize in truth and have the Neilsen ratings to prove it. Just last week we were first in syndicated religious programming."

"What is your show about?" she asked, desperately wondering what in the world a TV show had to do with her quest.

"Mr. Mike is a visionary."

"Mr. Mike?"

"Our host. He started this program five years ago, right in this very location, taking people like you and answering their questions on national TV. The seeker finds answers, the viewer loves the makeovers, and the sponsors are happy."

"Makeovers?"

"Oh, we always take 'before' and 'after' shots. Then we give 'em the works. Hair, make-up, and an outfit, all for the measly sum of $4,000 which goes directly back into Mr. Mike Ministries to support the spreading of the gospel."

"Isn't that a little high?"

"You can't put a price tag on truth. So, a week from today?"

"Wait a minute. Why can't I go on like I am? I like my hair and I've never worn make-up."

"Pity," he mumbled. "You look fine for a trip to the lake, but this is TV, babe. Gotta go with the image. Ya know, the average viewer loses interest in 3.7 seconds if the image factor isn't high enough."

"Image factor?"

"It's all in the packaging. Do you want the appointment or not?" A line was forming behind her.

"I don't think so."

She heard him say, "Next," as she exited, stage left.

This was harder than she had expected and she was concerned. There were only two stores left. One had a camouflaged facade. It did not appeal to her. The other looked like an aviary. Her spirits lifted and she entered.

Nothing could have prepared her for the cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells. Luxuriant leafy foliage created a lush backdrop for brightly colored birds, each chirping and cawing in its own language. A domed grow-light flooded the room with pseudo-sunshine. Cages lined the walls.

A tinkling sound foretold the approach of an elfin figure dressed in a white flowing robe. A crystal pendant hung from his neck. Bells on an ankle bracelet above sandaled feet explained the gentle tinkling.

"Bless you, my child."

"Thank you," she replied, risking to hope she was home at last. "I need help..."

"We all do."

This was more like it. "I'm looking for truth, and having a time finding it. Could you at least point me in the right direction?"

"Ah," he exhaled knowingly. "Follow me."

They walked toward several shelves at the back of the store. As they reached the first shelf, he picked up a large wicker basket by two sturdy handles.

"You'll need the Guide To Enlightenment by Guru Rashashini, a crystal for energy focus, a star chart, and some incense," he said, placing each one into the basket. "That should get you started, anyway."

"Oh, I feel better. I'm so glad I came in. I tried those other stores and..."

"Ha!" he blurted. "They wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit them in the derriere. When I first moved in, I tried to give them the truth, you know, celestial duty and all, but apparently they're not evolved enough yet to see the light. Maybe next time around."

"Maybe what they have works for them..."

"There is one truth, and the truth shall set you free. Rashashini 7:1. Good thing you came in, or you'd have roamed the universe for a few thousand more lifetimes."

The way he rolled his eyes made her feel uncomfortable, but she pushed the feeling aside. As they passed the cages, she asked, "What are the cages for?"

"The birds."

Caged animals had always disturbed her, but she was open to reasoning. "Why do you cage them?"

"You're obviously a novice," he laughed. "Birds are on the seventh realm of the development level, according to Rashashini. Although they enjoy the freedom of flight, periodic caging allows them to develop confinement skills they'll need to progress to the critical eighth level which is, of course, pre-humanity." Sensing her skepticism he added, "You'll understand it when you've read the four volumes of Rashashini," lifting four heavy tomes into the basket.

She was beginning to feel uneasy. "All of this seems so complicated. I thought it would be simpler somehow." She didn't understand the bird theory, but for some reason it made her feel queasy.

"Maybe you're not ready for truth." He lifted his nose slightly as he spoke.

"Maybe not," she said sadly, once again making her way back to the hall.

"You can always come back," he added, "when you're a little farther along."

By the time she found herself in the hallway again, a sadness had settled into her chest. She wasn't measuring up somehow and she ached at the thought.

Breathing deeply, she headed toward the last store. She had barely made her way through the green and brown door when a man in combat fatigues leapt out from behind a false stand of bushes and pointed what she hoped was a toy machine gun at her.

"Our spies tell us you're looking for truth," he screamed. "We've got it. Now take it and get the hell out of here."

Instinct told her to flee, but she was terrified of what he might do, so she asked in a quivering voice, "Where is it?"

"Shut up and listen," he yelled.

No one had ever spoken to her like that. The language itself seemed almost foreign, and her impulse was to defend herself. "Don't hurt me," she begged.

"Do what I tell you to and no one will get hurt," he growled, poking her in the side with his gun. "I am the way, the truth, and the life." His voice has risen to a howl.

At that moment, someone came through the door. When he turned toward the sound, she ran from the store as though her life depended on it. She did not slow down until she had made it through the revolving doors, and she collapsed on a bench just outside the building.

She put her head in her hands and heaved deep racking sobs until she could cry no more. At last, she lifted her head and was startled to see someone standing right in front of her.

"What do you want?" she asked wearily.