John K: I am on a road trip to Mars

by Stephanie Vlahos

An astronaut sits in the perverse solitude of a spaceship hurtling to Mars or... somewhere. But we’re all on a journey with uncertain ends, what matters is the journey, right?For as much as there might be glory in heroic outcomes, John K Mercury isn’t focused on endgames. He’s focused on the moment. His journey is riddled with sad reflections and hopeful epiphanies, an existential joyride in search of meaning. Who is John K – a loveless misanthrope or a bot reaching for what it is to be human? Does it matter?JOHN K – I am on a road trip to Mars is a black comedy asking big questions. It's a bedtime story, a meditation that doesn’t presume to know, but presumes to ask – an encouragement for all of us who find ourselves exhausted by the constant unraveling of things we can’t control.“The notion of other worlds, of other populations is thought-provoking given my antipathy for the word ‘population.’ Am I escaping anything? Do I only shun the company of humans or would I find other species equally reprehensible? Why have I always felt like an alien among strangers?” John K. Mercury

45 pages, Kindle Edition

Published November 6, 2022

About the author

I grew up in a town called Westport in Connecticut, where artists, writers, and actors congregated. As a child, I woke up every morning to the sound of inspiration in the incessant tapping on the Underwood typewriter. My parents were writers and teachers. My mother, Olivia, wrote extensively on anthropology, was a protégé of anthropologist Joseph Campbell. and a fabulous storyteller in the guise of professor, drawing from her early years as an actor. My father, John, wrote for the silver screen in Hollywood, then radio and early television in New York City, what some people refer to as the "Golden Age of Television." He never liked living in Los Angeles, and when he discovered the lush greenery of Connecticut, he soon moved the family to a house on a tall hill. The house was a converted artist's loft. I often recreate some of its details in my writing, for example, a short story entitled, "The Sad Story of Imani Cosmos."
I grew up playing in the woods, envisioning large, stacked stones as bunkbeds. I'd play explorer, wielding a large stick to beat the grass, and followed by my best friend, a golden mutt named Snoopers, which I soon changed to Zazo. She was too beautiful, too exotic to own a generic dog name. And yes, I had a dreamy childhood. I was fortunate to have a dad who encouraged the instinct of make-believe as a conduit to creative cognition. I was quite free – a childhood filled with the freedom to imagine is nothing short of magnificent wealth. And because of my childhood, I spend a good portion of my writing and directing life invested in telling stories that might remind people that childhood should be honored.
My father worked in a detached office on the very top of our hill. It was loft-like and filled with thousands of books and piles of newspaper clippings. My father received the first Emmy Award, but he also wrote special (very special) services for our church, in which the family performed. Despite those accomplishments, my father thought of himself as a poet. He wrote sonnets. He also went through a deep depression when I was quite young. I sensed what it might have been about, but never said anything. I have never sought to tell people how they feel. My father was such a kind, mild-mannered human that he wouldn't dare show his feelings. His feelings manifested discreetly. He would have a few glasses of wine after making a wonderful dinner. The dinner ritual complete, he'd retreat to the couch in the living room for a snooze. Still, he'd always wake up in time to put us to bed. Family members tucked in their beds, he'd retreat to his office and write till the wee hours. But his late-night stints never kept him from waking up before all of us, ensuring we'd be met with the sound of classical music, a warming house, the smell of breakfast replete with hand-brewed coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice, and melon. Such stuff was magic, and I am aware that I was once rich.
I walked a different creative path from my parents. You see, from a tiny age, I loved to sing. In my early teens, I was asked to sing in two madrigal ensembles, one professional, the other semi-professional. I loved to harmonize and blend. But when I first set foot onstage in a school play, there was no stopping me. I discovered I loved theatre and I loved singing. Where might I have gone? Opera, of course. I became a professional opera singer when a tiny voice in my chest said "yes," after a friend mentioned a new international opera company starting up in Los Angeles. I threw my bull terrier into my car and moved West. Amazingly, I nailed the gig, and within no time, I was standing on a massive stage in a 2500-seat house, singing lead roles opposite some of the opera greats like Maria Ewing, Thomas Allen, Leonie Rysanek (oddly, with Dudley Moore thrown in). I worked with directors such as Peter Hall, Jonathan Miller, and Gordon Davidson. I appeared in films directed by Walter Hill and Nicholas Triandafyllidis, working with actors like Jeff