I first discovered the power of an electric shock when I installed a heat lamp above an old metal shower stall in my basement. I turned off the power that led to the new junction box, except for one live line I didn’t know about. To be safe, I used a small wooden ladder. I made sure not to touch both wires and complete a circuit through my body. But as I held the live wire, my elbow accidentally touched the metal side. I was thrown backwards from the wooden ladder through the shower opening, landing on my back on the concrete floor. Every muscle in my body tingled and I had to run back and forth to dissipate the tingling and tremors. I saw everything magnified as if I were looking with clear eyes for the first time.
Strangely, I loved the feeling. My body had pulsed with energy and excitement. It was an experience I wanted to repeat. When I told my girlfriend, Carol, about it, she wanted to try it. In another part of the basement, I disconnected a light and hung live wires from the ceiling. Under the wires I placed a wooden pallet and mattresses around it to mitigate any injuries from falling. She pinched one wire in her left hand and then lightly touched the other with a finger of her right. She was thrown to the floor and her whole body shook and trembled for several minutes. When she got up, she laughed and said it was wonderful, and felt her world had opened to a new dimension. Our fingers produced a spark when we touched each other. We looked at each other and nodded, took off our clothes, and our lovemaking was intensified. We didn’t wake until noon the next day, still tingling from the experience.
We realized how ecstatic we were. So, two or three times a week we went into the basement, stood on the wooden pallet, pinched one wire and lightly touched the other wire. We were always careful to touch the live wire with the back of our hand (that caused the hair on our arms to stand up and our hand to close involuntarily into a tight fist) knowing a live wire in a closed fist would be deadly.
Sometimes a small burn spot would appear on our skin and the hair on our heads to stand straight out from our heads, like Doctor Emmet Brown’s in Back to the Future. But we understood the sparks in each other’s eyes. We never told our friends. I suppose we could have charged money for the experience, but we were concerned about liability. Besides, we wanted this to be our secret.
After several months, our friends began asking us if we had become sick. We each had lost weight. I dropped from 180 pounds to 150 and Carol had gone down to 100 from 125. They were worried that we seemed to have aged. We were in our early 50s, but they said we looked like we were 70 because our hair had become white. Yet we had more energy than people half our age, due to electricity’s effects. No one would have understood. The shocks gave us peace and stability and apparently energized our cells.
But of course, it couldn’t last. The electric company sent representatives, concerned about the periodic spikes in our consumption. I suppose they thought we were running a meth house or growing marijuana or something else illegal. They said we had to cap the exposed wires, or they would turn off our electricity. But we couldn’t, and so tonight, we plan to hold hands while I grasp the live wire in my palm.
After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
- Poetry Niche – April 2025 - March 30, 2025
- Poetry Niche – March 2025 - February 28, 2025
- Poetry Niche – February 2025 - January 30, 2025
