Lo, the Naked Indian

You remember Ruth Simmons. She was the painfully shy Colorado housewife who, under hypnosis, broke into a wild Irish jig and announced in a rich brogue that she was Bridey Murphy of 19th-Century Belfast.

You remember Al Martinez. He is the former Oakland person who, under hypnosis, announced in his usual mumble that he was Yazoo, a naked Indian.

Actually, it isn’t clear what I said, due to a hereditary inability to articulate. Even when I am not under hypnosis, I seem to be saying my name is Elmer Teenez or, in some cases, Omar Teemus.

At any rate, Bridey made quite a splash in 1952. It was the beginning of a reincarnation fad. There was a Bridey Murphy book, a Bridey Murphy cocktail and God knows how many come-as-you-were parties.

Except for scattered periods of interest thereafter, the fad went the way of hot pants and the Nehru jacket. Until now.

The movie “Flatliners” has created new interest in the near-death experience and, hence, in the afterlife generally, including reincarnation.

After mentioning it recently, I received telephone calls from those who had either experienced near-death or had been regressed to a past life.

One person offered to send me tumbling back through time to my own earlier existence. I couldn’t resist the temptation. Float along as best you can.

Her name is Grace Coveney and she’s an exorcist. Well, actually, while she did rid a house of ghosts once, she’s more of a general psychic than an exorcist, with a specialty in past-life regression.

We met at her home in the Valley, where a lot of psychics seem to live, and she hypnotized and led me back in time to my prior life.

This was accomplished by putting me through a psychic tunnel. A similar technique was used in “Flatliners,” at the end of which a kind of demonic conscience symbol named Billy Mahoney (Joshua Rudoy) was waiting to beat hell out of the character played by Kiefer Sutherland.

I met Joshua in person later. He’s a decent young man of 14 who seems disinclined to fly into anyone’s face like a psychopathic cat, kicking and yowling. But I still don’t want him waiting at the end of my tunnel.

As it turned out, there was only Yazoo at the end, and . . . well, listen to a snippet of tape made during my regression. Coveney is asking the questions:

Q. Who are you?

A. (Unintelligible.)

Q. What?

A. (Mumbled) Yazoo.

Q. Yalu?

A. (Louder) Yazoo!

Q. Where do you live, Yazoo?

A. Forest. Naked.

Q. You’re naked in a forest? What are you doing?

A. Woman bathing. Naked.

Q. You’re watching a naked woman bathe?

A. In river. (I make a yummy sound here.)

Q. What do you look like?

A. Brown. Muscles. Black hair. Naked.

Q. Yes, well, is there anyone else in the forest?

A. Animals.

Q. I see. How did you die?

A. Old. Naked.

Other than an apparent preoccupation with nudity, I seemed relatively normal. Even my voice, though characteristically garbled, remained much as it is in my . . . well . . . present life. I never fell into the me-Yazoo stage.

I realize my description as brown, muscled and black-haired could have made me, say, a naked Puerto Rican, but subsequent questions established me firmly in the Indian camp.

Later, I asked a psychologist with an expertise in hypnotherapy what he thought of all this. His name is Michael Aharoni and he gave me a well-maybe answer.

He pointed out that people like Shirley MacLaine are firm believers in reincarnation, while others are equally skeptical.

“I suppose it’s possible we’ve had past lives,” Aharoni says. “There’s really no proof either way, but you’ve got to wonder where something like Yazoo, the naked Indian, comes from.”

In the long run, he says, it doesn’t really matter where it originates, from memory or imagination, because it’s all useful in making our lives somehow better.

Mine is better already. When asked in my Yazoo state about the “other side,” I found it serene with perfect weather and a little dull. Kind of like San Diego.

The one disadvantage to the hereafter, according to Yazoo, is you have to live off the land. I’m thinking of taking a rifle, a portable barbecue and some A-1 Sauce when I go. Indian or not, I don’t eat raw meat.