Blinking Eyes Last

2. An Idea For Which The Time

Morgan pulled her blond hair back and secured it with an elastic tie as she hurried down the hallway. Her visit to the security office had taken forever, time she didn’t have, but the price she had to pay for having her briefcase stolen on the subway the evening before.

It had been a two man job, the first one accosting her with incoherent requests for directions, while the second yanked the case from her hand while she was distracted.

Now she had to endure the silent looks of disapproval from the secret service agents at the security checkpoints, as they examined her old college backpack she had fished out of the bottom of her closet. A substitute for the politically correct case she had been provided.

Glassy eyed, she found herself staring at the TV monitor, where yet another breathless CNN commentator repeated the story that had been repeated ad nauseam. The same images repeating on the screen.

Romeo and Juliette. A girl and boy. A forbidden love. They run off together. Her brothers catch them. Kill the boy and burn her face with acid. Then things go sideways.

The girl kills her brothers and her father. The village leaders pass judgment. A public execution. Stoning. WATC militants intervene, killing the village leaders. The girl is spirited away. The authorities attempt to arrest the girl. Same result. Attempts at retaliation, escalation.

All leading to an oh dark hundred meeting.

“Ms. Deters.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

Her eyes left the screen. She picked up her backpack and rushed down the hall. Late.

As she arrived at the door to the conference room, Carol, one of the president’s staffers mouthed the words “you are late,” as she carefully opened the door, allowing Morgan to slip into the room, which was packed. Late was relative. It was one in the morning. Morgan moved silently along the side, hoping to draw as little attention as possible.

A familiar and distinctive woman’s voice dashed those hopes.

“Ms Deters, I’m glad you decided to join us.”

It was the voice of President Clinton.

Morgan stopped and turned to face the president. Hillary Clinton was seated at the head of a long rectangular table. Her hair was pulled back today, informal. The remaining seats were occupied by the now familiar cabinet members, NSA staff and military officers.

“Sorry Madam President. There was a security issue I had to deal with.”

“So I heard. Bob, now that Ms Deters has graced us with her presence, perhaps you could continue the briefing.”

Bob Cates was President Clinton’s chief of staff. He was a brutally blunt and demanding man who had spent four years with the President when she was Secretary of State. He radiated a rod straight military discipline, enhanced by his retro crew cut, blond hair going white, and nearly invisible eyebrows above his gray blue eyes. He treated staffers like Morgan as if they were jet fuel, to be rammed into the combustion chamber, burned and then ejected out the nozzle at velocity.

Morgan unflinchingly went toe to toe with the man. She never backed away, and offered no excuses. If she was proved wrong she owned it, when she was right she would press her case relentlessly. Their screaming confrontations and obvious mutual hatred was an endless subject of speculation because of what didn’t happen. She hadn’t been fired.

Cates glared at her, and she returned his glare, as she backed into an open spot against the wall. He lost interest in her and began the briefing.

“General?”

“As of now, our assets are telling us that the fighting has continued to escalate. Remote regions of Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Syria and Pakistan, mostly strongholds of the Taliban, ISIS and various fundamentalist Islam factions aligned against WATC.”

“Do you have any idea which way it is going?”

“Yes. So far, what we have looks heavily one sided. The Taliban and ISIS are getting exterminated. We have no idea how WATC is doing it. We have no intel, credible or otherwise, on WATC, their methods, or their political leanings, other than the initial defense of the girl.”

“On their politics? Anything.”

“So far, it’s a black hole. We only discovered WATC’s association with al-Haytham in the last few days. So he is our link.”

“This brings us Ibn al-Haytham, the initial focus of this briefing. Most of you know Peter Phillips. For those that don’t, Peter is a lead analyst for the CIA and he has some things for us. Peter?”

Phillips walked to the head of the table, opposite the President. He picked up a small handset and used it to put up a photo on the wall mounted flat screen behind him. An unimposing man with gray hair and a gray beard.

“Ibn al-Haytham. He’s been on our watch list for a long time. Twenty five years ago he was an Oxford graduate. All total he spent about ten years in the UK. After he graduated, he moved back to Iran, then to Afghanistan and at some point became radicalized. A dozen years ago he was a Taliban commander working the Kashmir region of Pakistan. Then suddenly he disappears. Three years he is off the grid. We write him off as dead. Then, somehow, he returns, magically resurrected, as the leader of what we believed to be was a small Islamic breakaway sect. For the last three months he’s been building a larger and larger following. He makes speeches. The last several speeches he’s made, they needed to use soccer stadiums to handle the crowds. The Ayatollahs in Iran, and the leadership of both the Taliban and ISIS have made no secret of their hatred of this guy and they have made a number of attempts to kill him, semi-covert to blatant, but he’s either incredibly lucky or someone is helping him. His followers believe he has some sort of ‘sight’. We have evidence of his heavy financial and organizational involvement in the upcoming presidential election in Iran.”

“A link to Shandar.”

“Yes.”

Secretary of state Kerry asked, “Is he a hard line response to their minor accommodations with the west?”

“I can’t answer that. We don’t know what he is. Not directly. To incur this kind of wrath, across the board, his politics and religious statements would have to be completely inconsistent with his previous role as a Taliban commander. It is hard to imagine someone uniting ISIS and Iran in this way, other than us. He has been called everything from a Murtad to a Munafiq. There is really no way to describe it.

President Clinton asked, “This has implications about Shandar and his politics.”

“Maybe, I’m sorry to be so vague. We still don’t know the first thing about Shandar. All we have is a name, so we don’t know what this relationship means for us. All I can say is that Shandar’s popularity is growing at an extraordinary rate and his popularity profile resembles that of a religious leader.”

“You’d think that would give us a way to gage his politics.”

“You would, but it just hasn’t translated that way.”

Morgan hesitated, unsure of what to do. She knew had heard parts of this briefing before. She decided and directed her comments to Phillips.

“One moment. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve heard parts of this. Have we looked at this al-Haytham before, or has he been on some other agency’s list?”

“No. I can’t imagine how.”

“He seems familiar… I’ve heard of this guy. Sorry…”

Phillips was no longer listening to her. A man at his side was quietly but emphatically passing him some information. Phillips nodded his head and addressed the group.

“This is timely. We’ve caught a break. One of our assets has made direct contact with WATC, we have him on a sat video link, I think we should do this live.”

Phillips looked to the president for approval. She nodded yes.

“I need everybody but senior staff to clear the room please.”

A number of people standing along the wall behind the regular members quickly filed out.

“Sorry for that. This agent’s relationship with us must remain covert for him to be effective. A number of you may be familiar with Dan Sutton.”

“The pain in the ass reporter from Al Jazeera? He is a source?”

“We call it a cover, but I have my doubts. He is, however, a key CIA information source.”

“You’re kidding. The stuff that prick writes… The security leaks. The damage…”

“His adversarial relationship with us provides him unique access that, in any other situation, would be impossible to get. He seems to be under the impression that the truth is important. No matter who he provides it to. Even us. A double edged sword, but today it’s our sword. I’m going to hold back on who’s at this end so he can just talk, okay? Be warned, he is, uuh, colorful.”

More was whispered to him.

He looked out at the room.

“We have the video feed. Put it up please.”

Al-Haytham’s picture came down. A very worse-for-the-ware image of a man in his mid thirties filled the screen. Narrow sharp features, brown disheveled hair, matching brown eyes. The background behind him, a bright glare, couldn’t be clearly seen.

“Dan, this is Peter Phillips, can you hear me?”

After a short delay, Dan Sutton looked into the camera.

“Yes. Hi Peter.”

“Hi. What can you tell us?”

“I’m at a WATC rally. Al-Haytham and Shandar are here. I am being allowed to transmit the speeches to you.”

“I’m sorry, both of them?”

“Yep, my favorite, a twofer.”

“Where are you?”

“Not anyplace I’d imagined. I’m in a stadium, in fucking Tehran. And. There’s no guard, no ministry of security in sight. The MIS, the guard, everybody is chasing their tails 600 clicks away in Marivan, and from what I observed, it is a major ass kicking. Yesterday I was following some guardian cocksuckers in Marivan, trying to get a lead on the rally. Everybody was there searching, and nobody knew shit. But fuck that. You have me on a speaker phone. Who else is in the room?”

“Just me and some NSA guys. You want intros?”

“No, I wanted to know if you thought I was a fucking idiot. The speed I got transfered, and at one am your time, I’m thinking your end is a crisis NSA and executive briefing. Hey Hillary, getting an early start today?”

There were whispers exchanged around the table. Phillips plunged ahead.

“There’s no need to show off Dan.”

He was interrupted.

“Dan, this is Bob Cates. As you are aware, I’m president Clinton’s chief of staff. I don’t know what you are trying to accomplish, but you’re not to address the president in that way.”

“Oh, hi Bob. Could you do me a favor? Go fuck yourself.”

Peter said, “Dan, really?”

“Yea, really. Allow me to provide some clarity. I’ve just done a fucking two hour drive in the trunk of a car in 120 degree fucking heat, right after I was seconds away from being fucking executed. I’m about to deliver Shandar and al-Haytham to you, and correct me if I’m wrong, but in six months time you have exactly DICK on them. Like, not even a fucking picture. So take your fucking protocols and titles and shove them up your asses.”

“Jesus Dan…”

“I’m just getting started. I’ve had a day of it and I’m not going listen to some dick head weenie who’s only marginally less pernicious than the cancer, from which I hope he dies screaming, lecture me about fucking protocol. Is that clear enough, or do you need me to spell the words for you.”

Before anyone could respond president Clinton held up her hand to halt the sideways direction of the dialog. On the table in front of her was an open file folder. She flipped through the pages.

“Dan, this is Hillary. I’m sorry you’ve had bad day. Mine hasn’t been much better. Even without the car ride and near execution.”

“Your day had to be worse. I didn’t wake up as a politician.”

“No argument there. Call us even. Based on what I’ve heard, you receive an extraordinary degree of latitude because you are as good as it gets. Is this true?”

“Of course. Your file’s accurate. Have you got to the bit where it says that apparently, I’m completely incorrigible, or something. It’s on page seventeen, unless its been updated while I’ve been on the road.”

Clinton looked down and flipped through the pages, then she looked directly at Phillips, who shrugged his shoulders and grimaced before mouthing NO WAY across the table.

Clinton continued, “Or something. We can select some appropriate adjectives later. So you’ve seen your file.”

“Well yes, I wouldn’t be worth shit if I couldn’t manage that.”

“Point taken. I’m glad we got this sorted out. Do you have something for me?”

“Oh yea. The supposed WATC rally in Marivan was a lure. I was there with everyone else when I got captured by some real shit heads, ISIS I’d wager, since they spoke some fucked up variation of Dardic. Things were about to get interesting when a random group of women walked right into it. Those cocksuckers started threatening the women. They thought they were the shit. Thirty seconds later they they were dead.”

“The women?”

“No, the fucks that had captured me. That random group of women wasn’t random, it was a fucking WATC rescue team and those ISIS fucks never saw it coming. WATC knew who I was. They knew where I was. As in, the right fucking alley in the middle of a fucking fire fight. They knew how long they had before they needed to move. It was fucking choreography. Smooth, disciplined, efficient, fast, smart, a god damn work of art, like hang it in a fucking museum art. They set those fucks up like they’ve been doing it for a while.”

“Women?”

“Yea. Women. Robes and everything. So there’s the answer to the big question. Nobody has seen the WATC fighters because they’re women. As in fucking property. What they wear makes hiding weapons easy. Every shitty thing about being a woman there has been used to create a tactical advantage. Other than the leader they were young. One of them said she was from the ISIS camp in Palmyra. Explains the fucking slave camps that got burned. When I said I liked what they did with the place they didn’t bat an eye. WATC was never interested in acquiring fucking slaves, they were recruiting. Nobody put it together because they fucking burn everything and kill everyone.”

The president said, “But not you.”

“No. I’d love say it was my charming personality…which would be shit. WATC wanted me specifically. I was selected. The rescue was planned. Bringing me here for this rally was planned. Having me transmit this rally to you was planned. I am the only outsider here.”

“Why? You’d tell everybody.”

“Really? Do you think they got this far by being stupid? They picked me because knew what I’d do.”

“You’d only tell us…”

“You get a gold star. Oh, by the way, they have American weapons, but not the garden variety, fucking high quality designer shit.”

Clinton responded, “They have access to quality US weapons, so someone here.”

“Bingo. And that’s another moving part in a great big monstrous fucking shit pile of moving parts. Think about it, why does everybody at that table hate me? Information leaks. Always. And I traffic in it. People talk. Always. They can’t fucking help themselves. And I share it. Yet somehow, with WATC, nobody knows shit. There are no leaks. No photos, no whispers, no hints, no digital trail. Not even the fucking name. God damn fucking zip.”

“How?”

“I chatted up the woman who lead the rescue team. I had the distinct impression that she was five moves in front of me and being polite about it. Do you know how often that happens? I’ll answer that myself. Fucking never.”

“Then smart.”

“Start there and keep going. Fucking scary. I loved it.”

Dan was interrupted by the sound of a crowd that had begun to roar.

“Okay, there are people walking onto the stage. I must admit, the suspense is killing me. I’m going to turn the camera. Do you need me to translate?”

Phillips said, “No, we’ve got someone at our end. Ted?”

“I’m ready.”

Dan said, “Okay, here we go…”

He moved the camera. The view shifted, inside of a stadium, he appeared to be positioned at the end of an exit tunnel. Everything had a orange tinge. The sand, heat and dryness spilled from the screen into the room.

A thunderous roar rose from the crowd as Dan panned the stadium, which was packed to over flowing. He returned to the stage and zoomed in. Ibn al-Haytham was standing on a small stage at the closed end of the stadium. As the crowd noise subsided al-Haytham began speaking.

Ted translated.

I bring you the words of the prophet Theallmarchattan.

The universe touches you and you change.

You are aware of this change

and in response you change yourself.

That is life.

You call changes in yourself experiences.

You categorize the ways you change with labels … like time and motion.

You call the changes you make in yourself choices.

And you believe that you see what is there.

You do not see anything.

All you truly know,

Is how you have changed.

All that you sense,

And all that you experience

Is an awareness of changes in you.

Your awareness of these changes is very specific,

And exists to serve a singular purpose.

THE PURPOSE!

Everything that you are … exists to serve that purpose.

THE PURPOSE!

Everything that you experience passes through the lens of that purpose.

To find the path to understanding.

You must account for the lens of your purpose.

To find the path to understanding,

You must know the purpose.

The crowd noise continued to build.

Do you know the purpose?

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

Around the table, a puzzled, “What?” was whispered in unison.

Dan Sullivan’s laughter interrupted.

“Fucking WATC. And I thought it was wankers, assfucks, twats and cocks. I was wrong, it is, We Are The Creators. WATC. Holly fuck.”

He continued to laugh.

Clinton looked around the table and said, “We are the creators. Women…”

al_Haytham resumed his speech.

The creation of the universe.

The ultimate act.

It is the province of a god,

And we know this god!

This act is the sum

of an infinite number

of the smallest acts of creation,

And we know who performs those acts!

Who performs those acts?

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

Yes, we are the creators!

We create art and share that art.

We create stories and share those stories.

We create music and share that music.

We create lives and share those lives.

To create is the path to understanding.

To create is the path to joy.

To create is why we are here.

This is our purpose.

We are the creators.

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

Al-Haytham paused, then raised his arms.

The crowd roared in anticipation.

“Shandar will now speak.”

The crown noise doubled.

Al-Haytham stepped back, and a woman, wearing black robes, head to toe, stepped forward. She removed the hood which concealed her face. Dark eyes. Long wavy black hair, streaked with gray.

The crowd noise grew exponentially louder, and shouted over the top of the din came Dan’s voice.

“Bloody fucking hell. It’s her. It’s fucking her. She led the fucking rescue team. Shandar lead the fucking rescue team. I don’t fucking believe it. ”

Around the table, faces, with open mouths, saying nothing, stared at the small woman on the screen.

Secretary Kerry was the first to speak.

“Shandar is a woman. A woman? How is this possible? How can we not know? Who the hell is she?”

Phillips said, “Mr. Secretary, nobody knew… Dan, you talked to her, can you tell us more?”

“I’d estimate she’s in her mid forties, 70 kg, 1.3 meters. Cool under pressure. Exceptional with a knife. Fucking hot. Scary intelligent. She said her name was Safina. She’s married. British accent. Learned English at Oxford, mid 1980's.”

“How do you know?”

From the speaker came a woman’s voice, speaking with a cultured British accent.

“Killing is a profoundly unhappy choice, but they were not ready. They aren’t ready until they are. And then that is the next time. Daniel, do you wish to know Shandar?”

“Is that a recording?”

“I don’t need a fucking recorder. I am a recorder. That was her voice. Oxford, mid 1980's.”

As they spoke Safina Shandar remained motionless, the crowd’s roar seemed to flow over her, her long black hair moved in the breeze which enhanced the illusion.

“Why the hell would she risk getting you herself?”

“Risk compared to what? Do you have shit in your fucking ears. We are in a stadium. In fucking Tehran.”

Dan panned the camera around the stadium.

“Are you fucking seeing this. Are you? Do you see any fucking security forces?”

Everybody stared at the screen.

There was no obvious military or police presence.

Clinton said, “There’s only one reason I can imagine that this would make sense. General, what are we hearing out of Tehran right now?”

“Just a moment Madam President.”

He leaned back and whispered to his aids.

Kerry stood up, stuck his head out the door and spoke to someone.

The General said, “Madam President.”

“Yes.”

“We aren’t hearing anything.”

“Nothing? Jesus, the government of Iran has fallen.”

Dan’s disembodied voice said, “Hang on to your asses. It looks like she’s about to start.”

The camera returned to the stage. Safina Sandar was holding up her arms. The crowd grew quiet. Dead quiet. Pin drop quiet. She began to speak. Her voice was piercing, powerful.

Three thousand years ago,

the Pharaohs declared themselves living gods.

They built their pyramids.

To do this they enslaved millions.

If you were enslaved,

you spent your life dragging a single rock across the desert.

That was the wish of your god.

You did what the agents of your god told you to do.

You fought others who were also enslaved.

for water and food.

And your god did nothing to prevent it.

He encouraged it.

So that you would not look.

So that you would not see.

What was it that you could not see?

What was the important thing you traded your life for?

A thing so important that this god demanded your life.

This thing was but a stone erection.

Built to prove that his phallus was larger than that of his father.

That was three thousand years ago,

and nothing has changed!

The new Pharaohs still demand

that we drag stones across the desert.

The new Pharaohs still demand

that we build symbols as tribute to their glory.

The new Pharaohs still wish for us to fight.

The new Pharaohs still award us as prizes for those who would fight.

Why? Why do they wish us to fight?”

So we will not look.

And we shall look.

She held a vest over her head.

If an agent of a Pharaoh hands you this,

and asks for your life,

Think of these questions,

why he is unwilling to spend his own life?

Why is his life more important than your life?

Is this the tool of a creator?

No!

If you take this up you deny what you are.

If you take this up you enslave yourself.

If you take this up,

you become the Pharaoh’s agent.

And what does he promise you

in exchange for your life?

WHAT DOES HE PROMISE?

An eternity with seventy two virgins?

If any man believes this promise to be a reward,

That man knows nothing of eternity, or of women.

The crowd went crazy.

What is this promise?

It is an eternity that you already have,

Which is then filled with a lie,

A lie to fulfill fantasies of boys.

A lie designed to entice.

A lie in exchange for devaluing life.

A lie in exchange for abandoning purpose.

It is the lie of a Pharaoh.

You know the truth.

Eternity cannot be given!

Eternity cannot be taken!

Eternity is already yours!

Eternity belongs to the creators!

The life you live is the life you always live.

The only way that life changes,

Is if the god who created it, decides to change it!

You are the gods who create life!

And you are the gods who can change life!

You are the creators!

So the Pharaoh has only the power you give him!

The next time he asks you to deny what you are, in exchange for a lie…

A wave of sound filled the stadium. Shandar’s voice increased in power to overcome the sound.

What will you give him?

What will you tell him?

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

WE WILL NOT DRAG STONES!

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

WE WILL NOT DRAG STONES!

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

WE WILL NOT DRAG STONES!

Shandar held her hand up, palm open to the crowd, the chant subsided.

We will not be stopped!

We know what is real!

We know what we are!

We are here to create.

We are here to create something new.

That is the purpose of a creator!

Do not deny your purpose!

Do not deny your glory!

Stand with me!

And I shall stand with you!

We will face the Pharaohs!

And give them nothing!

For they have nothing to give!

And nothing we need!

We are the wave!

Flowing through the water of life!

We will soon become the tsunami!

The tsunami that will wash the Pharaohs away!

Shandar held the black hood from her robe up and lit it on fire. She held the burning hood aloft and then then tossed it, still burning, into the air.

Say the words with me!

WE ARE THE CREATORS!

AND WE WILL NOT DRAG STONES!

The burning hood slowly floated to the ground. As it did, Al-Haytham and Shandar left the stage, followed by a group of followers. As they group departed the stadium pulsed and moved, thousands echoing her words. The roar became distorted as the volume began to over-drove the camera microphone.

The screen went dark. The room was silent. Then Phillips said, “Dan, Dan.” Then to no one in particular, “Shit. Get him back. Hurry.”

“There’s nobody here to do it. We sent them out.”

“Well, shit, someone get them back.”

People began scurrying.

Kerry said, “Let’s look at this differently. How could they have survived long enough to accomplish this?”

Phillips said, “Anticipation. they see it coming. What Dan described is factually consistent with what we know. They know where we or anybody else will look. We don’t have any explanation as to why. This is our first look at Shandar and she has been traveling and making speeches for months. If anyone has targeted them, they haven’t gotten close. Another thing, we had discounted it earlier, but now, it was clearly relevant. We had heard about women attending her speeches.”

“There has to be a logical explanation. We’re missing something.”

“Ted are you familiar with this profit Theallmarchattan, maybe there is something there?”

“I’ve never heard the name before.” replied the translator.

Morgan had remained silent, in shock, she decided that she needed to speak.

“I’ve heard these speeches, or I’ve read them somewhere.”

Cates replied, “You’ve heard them? Please Ms Deters, enlighten everyone.”

Morgan was growing more certain by the second, but where had she heard it? She struggled to find the memory.

The memory looked back at her, in the form of her backpack, which was sitting on the floor at her feet. It came to her in an explosion of recollection. The words were out before she realized she was saying anything.

“No, no, it can’t be. It isn’t possible. My briefcase, and I have my backpack. It’s impossible.”

President Clinton reacted, “Morgan, what’s going on.”

Cates worked his way around the table to Morgan, who appeared lost in thought, his words were a seething stage whisper.

“Morgan, we have a serious situation, we don’t have time for this, please remove yourself now.”

Her response was sharp.

“Shut up and let me think. I’m trying to remember. This must be important.”

Morgan’s stunning breech of protocol left the room momentarily silent.

Morgan acted during that moment. She picked up her backpack, squeezed between two cabinet secretaries, and without preamble, dumped the entire contents onto the table in front of them. The crash followed by the non-reaction of the people around the table had a train wreck quality. Morgan knew she was out of rope. Scanning the pile, Morgan didn’t see what she was looking for. Frustration. Then panic. In desperation she shook the pack and realized something was still inside. She reached in, found a compartment zipper, opened it, and retrieved the something. The empty bag dropped to the floor. In her hand was a book.

“Morgan!” said Cates, barely able to contain his anger.

“Wait!”

Morgan opened the book and turned to the last chapter. She read. Then she said, “Fuck!”

“Morgan!”

Like she just woke up. Her eyes left the book and Morgan looked around. Remembering where she was. Exactly. Cates had shouted her name, twice, he was standing behind her. The entire room was staring at her. She wasn’t crazy, or she was doomed. And this would prove it. Morgan turned to Cates, standing, maybe three feet away. She grabbed the sleeve of his Jacket, pulled him next to her and shoved the book into his hands.

“Here you go Bob, read this.”

“No. You’re out of control. You need to leave now.”

“Maybe. Listen to this, then decide. Shandar is al-Haytham’s wife.”

“His wife?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

She lifted the book.

Cates looked at the faces around the table, “Do we have anything on al-Haytham’s wife?”

People scrambled, then a voice, “Yes, he was married when he was at Oxford.”

Another voice, “Do we have a picture?”

“Yes, hold on. Got it.”

Everyone looked at the blank screen. It stayed blank. Nothing happened.

“Well? Today, sometime.”

“Sorry, sorry, all right, try that.”

A young woman, thin, long black hair appeared on the main screen.

“It’s an Oxford photo. The name is Safina Sandar.”

“That’s the name Sutton provided.”

Someone else chimed in, “Okay, we are confirmed here. Safina Sandar and Ibn al-Haytham were married in 1982.”

“Sutton was right.”

“I guess that means we can’t have him killed.”

Gallows laughter.

Cates looked at Morgan, “Where did you find this.”

Morgan offered him the book and pointed.

“Start here.”

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Bob, I don’t like you and you don’t like me, but I think we are way past that, modulate your reaction, this is really fucked up.”

Cates looked at Morgan and then down at the book, open in his hands. He started reading. Ten seconds came, and went. As he read the color slowly drained from his face, pale patches of skin appeared, contrasting in the most unflattering way, with his bottle tan. He looked up at Morgan, a question in his eyes.

She nodded yes. He looked down and continued reading. His air of supreme confidence draining away.

Uncomfortable moments passed until he finally looked up from the book again and said, “This has to be some sort of sick joke. What are you doing?”

“Bob, a joke? Okay. How?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at her, like he was seeing her for the first time. He shook his head, his mind racing, “Who is this guy?”

“The author?”

“Yes.”

“He’s nobody. I met him once. He’s some guy my mother knew. A friend of a friend. He was writing a book and he asked her if I would be interested in being ‘cast’ in it. He said he wanted to put real people in his book. It was interesting so I said yes. He sent me this copy after he published it.”

Firm ground, he blindly groped for it, “You agreed to discuss your job at the White House without approval?”

Morgan replied, “I would have, if I had a time machine. He asked four years ago. I was still in Portland.”

His firm ground vaporized. “He wrote this four year ago?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.”

“For once, we agree. It is impossible. The date’s right there.”

Cates looked at the book, then directed his attention to a young man standing in the corner.

“Adam, I need you to find this nobody as quickly as possible. His name is Mark Elliot. Spelled with two l’s and one t. The name of the book is ‘One Faceplant Short of Wisdom’. Find him. Find him now.”

Adam Singleton responded, “yes sir.”

Kerry interrupted them.

“I’m sorry to interrupt this drama, but we have a crisis to deal with, what the hell is going on?”

Cates looked at the Secretary of State, “Mr. Secretary, the speech we just watched is in this book, pretty much word for word…”

“So they got it out of a book. What kind of book is it?” said Kerry.

Megan responded, “It’s a science fiction book.”

Phillip’s reaction was reflexive and instantaneous.

“What? A science fiction book? A speech from a science fiction book? Al-Haytham and Safina Shandar are fucking Scientologists?”

The comment drew more gallows laughter.

Cates, very uncharacteristically, remained silent. When the laughs died he said, “No. They are not. It’s much worse than that. We have a book that appears to have been written four years ago. The speech we just heard is in this book. Given by Ibn Al-Haytham and his wife Safina Shandar.”

“They are named in the book?”

“Yes.”

The table erupted in universal expressions of disbelief.

Cates took a deep breath. Resignation flowed across his features. Something firmer. He looked at Morgan and handed the book to her.

“Okay. What comes next is on both of us. Do it. Let’s see how this plays out.”

Cates rapped his hand on the table his eyes scanning the people sitting around the table.

“Wait and listen please. We’ll soon have some idea about the validity of the age. But for now… Ms Deters is going to read the part directly after the speech.”

He looked back at Megan. She met his gaze. Their previous animosity evaporated, a mist, then gone, now something shared.

Megan took the book out of his hands. She knew exactly where to start. She began to read.

“The sensation was completely surreal for Morgan, the words she was reading exactly mirroring the unfolding moments.”

It was surreal.

Immediately she was interrupted with more commentary, but above it all came one voice. Very loud.

“What the hell is this?”

The room quieted. Megan looked up from the book at the secretary of state.

“I’m reading the book Mr. Secretary.”

“I’m sorry. That… This meeting is in that book?”

“This meeting. Yes sir. Should I continue?”

He raised his hands in exasperation.

“This is preposterous. By all means, continue.”

Morgan started reading again.

There is an explanation for the situation you find yourselves in. More like a metaphor really. Imagine that you are standing between two mirrors, and you are looking at a reflection of yourself, looking at a reflection of yourself, looking at a reflection of yourself.

Morgan walked around the table, placed the book in front of the president and pointed to the last paragraph on the page. She knew what came next, so she just said it, “There was a question about the prophet’s name. The name Bedwa Theallmarchattan, is an idiomized version of the Farsi statement Bedwadan Theallmarc Chatteran, the translation of which is…”

Morgan motioned to Ted, the translator, “Ted?”

He said, “The Prophet Theallmarc with vacant eyes.”

Morgan clarified, “I think it’s actually, the prophet ‘Theallmarc’, with no eyes. Or, the blind prophet if you like.”

Everyone turned their attention from Megan to the president, the book resting in front of her. She looked down at the book, looked up, nodded her head ‘yes’. She covered her face and eyes with her hands. After a few moments of thought President Clinton looked back down at the book, she shifted back a handful of pages and read for several minutes, the turning pages the only sound in the room. Abruptly she finished and began to speak.

“This is one hell of a trick, if it is a trick… The speech, as we saw it, given by al-Haytham and Shandar, is in here, okay, but then, this meeting is in here, including Dan in all his glory. This book is in here. Ms. Deters briefcase and backpack are in here.”

She directed her next words to Cates.

“I really need something tangible right now. What about the author? Have we had any luck finding this nobody?”

Kerry interrupted, “there must be a logical explanation.”

Clinton responded with agitation, she stood up, picked up the book and shook it, pages flapping.

“What logical explanation? Explanation? How? This is paper. God damn paper.”

She slammed the book down on the table.

“It describes this meeting. This fucking meeting. In detail. This meeting. In fucking detail.”

Morgan had never heard the president swear.

“And then there is the question of Safina Shandar being a woman, which is also in here, and, unless I’m mistaken, we had no idea she was a woman until five minutes ago. Mr. Cates, the author, please?”

Clinton sat down.

With a glance, Cates reflected the question to the young analyst, who had discretely slipped into a seat at the far end of the table, a laptop was open in front of him. He pointed at himself.

“You want me to?”

Cates was brusque.

“Yes, please. Everybody, this is Adam Singleton. Adam, have you got something for us?”

“Well, uhh, he’s wasn’t hard to find. The book was self published two years ago in 2015, and then it was picked up in 2016 by Dumkoff where it was released in a hardbound edition and then paperback. It got mixed reviews, made the New York times top 100 and got a couple of Science Fiction awards. In 2016 the theatrical rights were purchased by Plan B, it went into production in 2017, and it’s going into wide release… Tonight.”

“Wide release?”

“Yes, as a movie. A big budget movie.”

Singleton looked up at the room full of people staring at him. A deer in the headlights.

“I’ve seen the trailers. They’ve been playing for weeks. They changed the name. The movie’s called ‘Blinking Eyes Last.’”

Clinton shot back, “Is the speech we just saw in the movie?”

“I… just saw the trailers. There’s a speech by a woman in front of a huge crowd.”

Clinton spoke sharply, “General Shepard, has the situation in Pakistan and Iran changed?”

A man standing behind Shepard whispered in his ear, Shepard said something in return, the man spoke.

“The situation is still evolving, we believe it is escalating, we are getting an increasing number of reports of fire fights from Iran, Iraq and Pakistan.”

“Do the combatants include women?”

“No change from before. No descriptions of the WATC combatants are available.”

“Jesus. This woman could be critical. We need to contact her now. If she is featured in an American movie… That could be a problem for her. Do we have any way to contact her?”

Phillips answered quickly, “Yes. Dan is at the stadium, or was… Do we have him yet?”

He listened intently and then said, “Really?”

He stood in silence.

Someone in the room said, “Peter?”

He held his hand up, trying to hear something, clearly frustrated.

“Yes. Okay. Do it.”

Phillips looked directly at the president.

“Dan says al-Haytham is with him…”

He looked down at the table, listening intently.

“What, yes, yes, of course. Hold on.”

Phillips looked back up at the president.

“Al-Haytham has asked to speak to you Madam President.”

“That’s what we wanted. Put it on the speaker.”

“Yes mam. Mr. Al-Haytham is on the line. Go ahead.”

He leaned into the center of the table, set the handset down and pressed a button on the com.

“Mr. al-Haytham, this is President Clinton, I’m with…”

She hesitated, distracted by Singleton, who was trying to signal her from across the table. With great irritation she waved him off.

Before she could continue al-Haytham had begun speaking.

“Madam President, it is a pleasure. Yes, the members of your cabinet. It is quite all right to share this moment with them. Did you enjoy the speech?”

“It was surprising in many ways.”

“As to be expected. And now you are calling about the prophecy of the book.”

“The prophecy.” Clinton hesitated, momentarily caught off guard, “So you are familiar with Mr. Elliot’s book?”

“How could we not be?”

“Have you met him?”

“Yes and no, in a manner of speaking. You were wishing to warn us about the movie, is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“Please, you need not be concerned for us.”

“Why?”

“Do you know what the most powerful force in the world is Madam President? It is not wealth, a country, its army or its weapons. It is an idea. An idea for which the time has come. A movie that spreads this idea is not a problem for us, but I suspect it may become one for you. I have experienced what you are about to experience. A remarkable time awaits you.”

“Mr. al-Haytham, was Mr. Elliot’s book the source of your… inspiration? Who wrote the speech you and your wife gave today?”

“My experience is my inspiration. The truth is my inspiration. As for the speech, it is a good speech no? I’m sorry, but I cannot answer your question, not because I wish not to, but because it has been so long, I no longer remember who wrote the speech.”

“Mr. al-Haytham, you used the word prophecy, are you saying Mr. Elliot is a prophet who can see the future?”

Al-Haytham laughed.

“Of course not Madam President. He is, as we are. As for the future, it cannot be seen. One cannot see what hasn’t happened. Which makes for the most interesting question. What has happened? The book does not describe the future. It describes an accidental, but fortuitous set of circumstances, which reveals to us the true nature of things.”

“What accident?”

“I will complete the prophecy and guide you to that answer. You will need to get the published version of the book.”

He laughed again.

“It is not usual, but you should start with the last pages. Then speak with your advisers and your scientists. We will contact you in two weeks.”

“Mr. al-Haytham?”

“Yes Madam President.”

“May I speak to your wife?”

“Yes, In two weeks time. Goodbye Madam President. Peace be with you.”

“Mr. Al-Haytham?”

Dan’s voice answered, “Elvis has left the building.”

Clinton stared at the conference phone sitting in the middle of the table for a moment, then she looked at Singleton.

“What were you trying to tell me?”

Dan’s voice responded, “I’m speechless.”

“Dan, there are twenty people in here, I’ll use your name if I need anything from you.”

“Yes mam.”

She ignored Dan’s sarcastic tone and pointed directly at Singleton.

“What were you trying to tell me?”

“Um, the published version.”

“You found it?”

“Yes madam President.”

He seemed to be struggling with the moment. She gently guided him, “And?”

“The end is different.

“So what else does Nostradamus have to say?”

“Your conversation with Ibn al-Haytham was there. I read it as you spoke. It was … almost word for word.”

Clinton replied, “What a surprise.”

She sensed a hesitation in the young man, so she prodded him, “And? Are there any other predictions?”

“No, no predictions, except for … Uhhh, there was a message for you.”

“A message for me? Really? Well, I can hardly wait. Let’s hear it.”

Singleton took another breath, exhaled slowly and then began to read,

Madam President,

No, I am not Nostradamus. I wish. Memory is memory, and like anybody else, it is only possible for me to remember what I have experienced. I can imagine no situation where I would be at your meeting, and I am not psychic, which means that the explanation for what just happened, is, I’m sorry to say, quite mundane, and obvious when you think about it. I was fooled by it at first myself, since my memory of the events seemed oddly distorted. When I figured it out, I felt kind of silly. The camera mounted on the wall behind you. The one that provides a view of the room from over your left shoulder. Well, it has a wide angle lens. I know what happened in your meeting because, at some point, you showed me the recording from that camera.

I guess I look forward to meeting you.

Sincerely,

Mark Elliot

Reaching the end, Singleton looked up from his monitor. He was seated at the very end of the long table where all the cabinet members and their advisers were sitting. There were a number of people standing against the walls. Morgan and Cates were in that group, about halfway down on his right. He had never been in this room. The president was seated directly across from him, at the distant opposite end. Adam looked past her, above and to her left, and found what he was searching for. It was unobtrusively placed within the cabinetry on the wall behind the president. He pointed. All the heads in the room turned in unison.

Hillary Rodham Clinton, the forty fifth president of the United States of America, turned her chair to the left and glared into the lens. The moment drifted to a stop, and remained. Time frozen. A distorted fun house snapshot. Taken too soon. It is a moment that calls for a profound title. Maybe I’ll think of one later. A room full of people, all looking at the camera. Nobody smiling. Invisible little cracks beginning to form, in some closely held beliefs. Like a dam, right before it fails. Then, the unchanging snapshot changed. A set of numbers appeared, glowing, down and to the right. A time code. It read 2017:09:21:02:04.247. Slowly the screen faded to black.

I don’t remember anything after that.

…

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

I looked around. I had no idea where I was, no memory of this place. Which wasn’t possible. I had been talking a blue streak. So I had been here. I had no memory of how I got here, or where I had been before. After consideration I realized that it wasn’t situational. I couldn’t remember anything.

What do I know?

I’m sitting at some sort of conference table.

Wood, high quality,

My seat is very comfortable.

The room was maybe ten by twelve and devoid of visual queues except for a single door, a plastic plant in the corner, an a couple of generic abstract paintings on the walls.

Hung in the correct spots,

So professionally done.

The average person doesn’t have a clue when it comes to hanging a picture.

Think of a window.

I know that, but not who I am.

The man across from me had blond crew cut, which was going gray. He oozed military history. I shook my head. My vision swam within a mild haze of vertigo. I tried to clear my head and failed. The effects I was experiencing were pharmacological. Whatever they had given me, I couldn’t shake it free, so it wasn’t opiate based.

“Narcosynthesis?”

Was my guess. He didn’t say anything, so I answered my own question.

“That would be yes.”

“You suggested it.”

“Easy for you to say, I can’t remember anything.”

He slid a sheet of paper across to me. I tried and failed in my attempt to read it, but … the signature was familiar. Mine. That I knew. Mark Elliot was the name. That I didn’t know. Fuck. But wait. I know this guy. He was in the meeting, or my delusion.

“This stuff you gave me is really something, I don’t recognize my own name. But I know you. Bob is it? So, how does this make me useful?”

“I make a suggestion. When something comes to mind you start talking. Do you remember how all this started?”

I laughed. The drug was working. He was right. I started talking.

“There is no start, or end.” I tried to come up with something, “The drug you gave me mucks with my memory. But having my memory screwed up is … familiar. From here to there. A day in the life. Woke up. Got out of bed…”

I laughed again and continued.

“Once upon a time there was a guy, and every day of his life started like this.”

I waved my arms around.

Bob asked, “In this room?”

“Yes and no. Think about it, if you wake up with no memory, all rooms are the same room.”

There was no response, so I continued.

“I’m fine right now. You want to know why? Because this is normal. Every day, I wake up and I have no idea who or where I am. For fifty years I have never questioned that. Why would I accept that as normal?”

“Because you’re insane.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Somebody told me once that understanding is inconsistent with our purpose.”

“I’m not a big fan of philosophy. I don’t care where you start, just start.”

3. A Day In The Life

I’m in water.

No where.

No why.

Still, cold, for a moment, then moving, carrying me along. Leisurely at first, a pause, then in a rush.

The ocean?

Another pause, then another rush, like a pulse. A large swell in the distance. Getting to shore seemed like a good idea. I slowly did a turn, my view consisted of nothing but water, with fog on the horizon obscured all other features. The swell seemed to be coming from all around me. I could feel it, the water lifting.

A wave. A big one. But from all directions.

The surface tilted, and the water started to flow forward, carrying me with it.

Okay, not a wave, not exactly, more like an upside-down wave, the surrounding water was dropping rapidly, creating kind of a cliff that was closing in.

Then a distraction, in the form of a girl.

She crossed into view, light refracting off the water drops on her skin, each throwing light like a diamond, which I could see because she was standing on the surface, facing backwards, looking at me, rooster tails of spray extending from her feet.

Her eyes got me.

Large, an amazing depth to them, filled with tiny refracted images spinning around like twin whirlpools.

The girl with kaleidoscope eyes?

Picture yourself in a boat on a river?

She was completely at ease.

A bare foot water skier.

With no boat.

She shouted something to me, which I couldn’t make out, before executing a stunningly graceful turn. Dropping into a downhill racer’s tuck, she flew down the building wall of water that was forming around us. A cloud of spray and foam followed her, as the light from her diamond skin changed colors, becoming red before finally winking out. She was gone. I was alone.

What the hell?

My distraction had lasted, but only for a moment, then it was back to reality, the wall was rushing toward me and I was falling with the water, faster, then faster, then over the edge.

This is a dream, a messed up Carlos Castaneda dream.

What do I feel?

That’s acceleration.

That is speed.

That is FEAR.

I tumbled, was tossed up, then hit, hard.

That is Pain. Lots of pain.

Not waking up.

I guess I actually need to DO something.

I tumbled down the wave, experiencing a wide variety and variation of pain. I tried to gain control, as in not tumbling, and I managed it, so that I was on my stomach, face first, sort of body surfing, where each wave I dropped off, the landings felt like I was doing a belly flop off of a ten meter platform. It would have been tolerable, but things changed, like bad to really bad, the surface of the water got brutally rough. Cross chop with waves coming from either side.

The pain was motivating as far as getting around my fear. I tried to stand, like the girl had, by spinning around, so I was falling feet first, and then by using my hands to push myself up.

Got to my feet.

Way scary, but better, except… well, with some practice maybe, but without… I spun out, tumbling end over end, until I was back to where I had started, face first, only much faster. Something … a very large something, was coming from my right, looking like a wall.

Fuck.

Call it a wall.

Crap.

By trying to avoid it, I made things worse, was tossed up, airborne again, spinning, I somehow managed a perfect pancake into it, maximizing the pain, what were the odds? Like wham, knocking me fucking cockeyed.

Dream my ass.

…

My head…hurts. My eyes are open. Not stars, broken glass. I’m covered with glass. Glass on the seat, the dashboard. I remember. Must have really hit my head hard. This. Where? A rental truck. No confusion about where. How about why?

I had to pack up my shipping container and move everything to a storage unit, no confusion about why. How fucked am I? Did I decline the insurance?

The passenger side roof and door were completely crushed, beyond, through what had been a window, a totaled car was visible.

Okay, I signed the papers. Then what?

The truck jolted, lurched forward, and tilted down.

The view through the front window changed. Quite a breathtaking view. A very long drop then a canyon below. The truck had been pushed through the guard rail of the bridge. I lost interest in my insurance situation. I had a more pressing problem.

Gravity.

I need to get out of here. Now. Slow. Think. Unbuckle the seatbelt. Okay. Now, open the door. Can’t. Shit. Shit, shit shit.

I slammed my shoulder against it. The door sprung, giving a little, but it didn’t open. On the other hand the truck moved, lurching forward again, metal scraping concrete. I hit the door again, which didn’t open, another groan, as some glass broke.

No, no, no… Okay, time to panic.

The back of the truck lifted slowly up and shifted left.

Shit, shit, shit. Out, out, got to get out. The window. Break the window dumb shit.

I twisted sideways in the seat, trying to get my feet up so I could use them to break the glass. There was another metallic groan, I held my breath for a moment, exhaled, saying, “Stay, stay.”

I see Bill Murray in Groundhog day saying, “I can’t even get a collie to stay.”

I smiled at the thought. The truck steadied. Relief… Then the bottom dropped out. The truck scraped forward and pitched off the bridge.

I got my ticket at Front Row Center.

A perfect seat for the end of the world.

The ground rushed toward me.

I forced my eyes to stay open, to watch…

Live it to the end.

But the truck failed to cooperate and continued it’s tumble, I lost my great view, was upside down, could see open air, sky, then the bridge above, then the sky.

Impact

Stunned. But, not dead. How? Maybe the back of the truck cushioned the impact.

Pitch black. I tried to move.

I am paralyzed.

I fought it.

Come on, move, move.

Nothing. But something. Maybe something else.

Like a realization.

A dream. This is a dream.

I started shouting, or trying to shout, “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!” A muffled whisper was all that came out.

This is dream shit.

Was relieved but I still couldn’t open my eyes.

A female talking, muted at first but growing clearer. “Mark.” Now louder, this time a choir, the same voice, asking a question. Questions actually. Simultaneous. Somehow I could pull them apart. It was easy.

“Mark! Are you planning to sleep all day?” 
 “Mark do you need to sleep more?”
 “Mark, why are you unhappy?”

This time my eyes opened.

White, smooth, shadows, that is the ceiling. I’m on my back. Three questions. No surprise, I expected that. And I don’t know where I am. Also expected. Why expected?

Fuck it. I’m alive.

I struggled to sit up, and my effort was rewarded, the source of the voices, okay voice, was revealed.

A woman, as in one. Legs. Long, long legs, did I say long? Long.

Her face symmetry, super model like.

Don’t be a dream, please.

I don’t know her. Yet.

That’s also expected.

Tall, maybe six feet, blond, an athlete.

Of course she is. I know that and not her name, because …

You never remember.

What do I remember?

My memory was pixelated, like looking at a photo, over the Internet, but back in the day, using a dial up modem, an image pathetically trying to resolve, pieces shifting in and out of focus, but no whole, the forms stubbornly indistinct.

Nothing. Crap.

Just wait. See what you can figure out.

Okay. Who are you?

You.

Cool.

So figure it out.

My left hand,

Two rings, marriage rings. Her left hand, two rings. We are married. Explains her tone. Or not.

It does.

“Mark!”

A memory crystallized. Nice and clear. Labeled, ‘my first memory’. THE first one. I am three? A conversation. A voice. Everything was there in flawless detail.

All very interesting.

But very useless.

Not, where I am now.

Not, who this woman is.

I studied her super model face, clock running. I opened my mouth, and what came out was, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, what was the question?”

There will be more questions, but only one will match the previous group. You answer that one.

Great. Assuming I know enough to answer.

I didn’t say it would be easy.

“You heard what I said.”

Crap. Not even a question I can’t answer.

I said, “No, I didn’t. Remember, I’m deaf.”

“You heard me.”

Tacking on a header, which is exactly you do when the wind shifts and you are no longer on the best course to the mark.

“You know my head doesn’t work in the morning. Please.”

He says, lying his ass off. My head is working great, other than I don’t know who you are. What is your name you beautiful tall blond…

She responded, again three questions, always three,

“Why do you have to be so difficult?”
 “Should I just go by myself?
 “Were you planning to sleep all day?”

‘Sleep all day,’ that’s it,

“No, I’m getting up. I’ll go with you. Where are we going?”

“You know where.”

Aaaagggg! No I don’t. Come on, give me a beak…

She continued, “Hurry up and get ready.”

Try the same thing, hope for a different response.

Me, being insane, standard operating procedure.

“Get ready to go where?”

“I already told you.”

Okay, gamble, hit a corner.

“I have amnesia.”

Hope I haven’t used the truth before.

I added, “Please, where are we going?”

“To workout with Bill and Cathy.”

Whatever that means darling. But, I could look at you all day.

“You’re really beautiful.” I stood up and sang, “Hello, I love you, can you tell me your name?”

“Mark. Get ready.”

But, the beginning of a smile. Still, nothing to go on, my memory still fucking pixelated.

I walked toward her and sang, “Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name?”

“Mark!”

Was sure it was going to work.

I held my hands up, like she had a gun on me.

“Okay, okay.”

She had turned to walk away, I followed and touched her shoulder. She turned back in response and I said, “How could I be unhappy? I’m married to you. It’s morning. I’m just brain dead, that’s all.”

Answering the question not asked.

She said,
 “Do you love me?”
 “Do you still love me?”
 “Why am I with you?”

Three questions. One obvious response. Easy.

“Darling, I’ll love you forever and ever and ever.”

But easy was boring so I punctuated it with with a chaste and brotherly kiss on the cheek.

To irritate her.

Which worked.

I know what I’m doing.

Storm clouds came flooding in, dark, light, dark, “Stop screwing around and get ready.”

At volume.

I grinned.

“Okay. Getting ready.”

Toward the bathroom, a hallway. Two closets, either side the hall. I drifted in that direction. Seemed wrong somehow.

Which side?

Three questions arrived, in aggregate they amounted to, “What the hell are you doing?”

Meaning neither side, but now I was rolling.

“Nothing. Just being stupid… It should have been obvious, you being a woman, need both closets. So where, exactly, are my clothes?”

“Mark, we’re late.”

I pointed at the closets, “There?”

“Mark!”

“So no. Over there?”

I pointed across the room at the door.

“What are you trying to do?”

“That’s a yes. And, I’m trying to get you to laugh.”

“You want to make me happy, act like and adult and get yourself up on time so we don’t have this problem.”

“I really wish you got me up earlier, I could have done without the weird ass dreams I was having.”

“I don’t want have to be your mother.”

“That’s reasonable, but I am confused about something. If you wanted to be married to an adult, why in the world did you marry me?”

“Believe me, I wonder about that every day.”

“Wow, you are totally method. You should be laughing, this is great shit.”

“Then put it in your stupid book. Mark, you know I hate being late when I tell people I’m going to be somewhere. I don’t like doing that to people.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t try to be charming.”

I walked across the bedroom, out the door.

My book? A fucking book? Really? That’ll be the day.

A hall. Then across into a second bedroom…

This must be my office.

Call me Sherlock. Kind of a mess. Not like the bedroom. Not hers. Mine. As in man cave. On my left against the wall, a computer desk, a computer. I could see outside. This was the second floor of a house which was on the side of a hill. The corner of the room had two sets of windows providing views in two directions. Directly in front of me was a view of a mountain, to the right, across a street, was a high school. The baseball field and football stadium was a dead giveaway. Movement. Also directly across the room was a bed. The lump under the covers moved again. Brown hair. An arm brushed the covers down.

Pop. My pixelating memory resolved, clear. My daughter, Blair, visiting from college, actually finishing her visit.

“Blair. Rise and shine. You know what we get to do today?”

Still asleep, “What?”

“We get to lift heavy things and then put them down for no reason.”

“Sounds meaningful. When are we leaving?”

“Five minutes ago I think.”

“Only five minutes ago?”

I sat down on the bed, “I had a really weird dream. Dreams. I couldn’t remember anything.”

She opened her eyes and looked at me, waking up.

“You couldn’t remember anything? Are you sure you were dreaming?”

“Good question. But you should be more respectful of your father.”

“No I don’t. Not since I turned eleven and became older than you.”

“Armageddon. I love that line.”

We laughed.

“I’ve always wanted to use it. Thanks for the lead in.”

“You’re welcome. I’m definitely in some sort of zone today.”

“Great, just try not to piss Rhonda off. Its my last day.”

“Okay. Good point.”

I stood up and opened the closet. A narrow chest of drawers, all my workout and hiking stuff arranged in order, briefs, shorts, shirts, socks.

Dress by numbers. You could do it if you were brain dead… or had amnesia.

I grabbed my stuff, got dressed in the bathroom and then headed down the stairs. A series of my grandmother’s paintings were hung on the wall to my right. The stairs stopped at a platform and did a one hundred and eighty degree turn and continued to where they ended in the living room. A sculpture was on the platform. I ran my hands over it as I walked by.

I could smell the coffee in the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a long bar. I walked around the far end of the bar and into the kitchen where I grabbed a travel cup off the shelf above the coffee machine and poured.

I started singing.

“Woke up. Got out of bed. Dragged a comb across my head. Found my way downstairs and had a cup. Somebody spoke and I went into a dream. La, la la la, la la la…”

Blair came down the stairs and into the living room.

“Hey Dad, got one of those for me?”

“Of course.”

I pulled down another cup and poured.

“I figured out my dream.”

I used a deep serious voice.

“It was a sign.”

“Really? What?”

I handed her the cup.

“Apparently some higher power has told that I must drop acid and listen to the Beatles Lonely Hearts Club Album.”

Her face had started to laugh which was suddenly truncated, a reflection of something in her eyes.

“She’s standing right behind me, isn’t she?”

She made a faint nod.

“Mark!”

I spun around to face Rhonda,

“Yes sweetheart.”

“Please don’t call me that.” Then, dripping with acid, “I’ve been waiting in the car.”

I tried to avoid touching it with my fingers.

“Oh, sorry, I was waiting for you. I thought you were still upstairs.”

“Why would you do that? I told you I would wait in the car.”

“No you didn’t.”

She wasn’t having any of it.

“No, you didn’t listen, as usual. Hurry up, we are going to be late … Have you two packed yet?”

I answered, “No, we have plenty of time.”

“Your flight is this afternoon. You have no sense of time.”

She turned and walked through the kitchen, down the hall which lead to the garage and out to the car.

Cat, are you here?

I am here Mark.

Good. Did she say she would wait in the car?

Yes and no.

And you are going to explain that?

The wave does what the wave does. You are the rider. This is a case of wavefront proximity. When she chooses, if the effects of various outcomes are still localized, she can collapse and conform the alternate wavefronts together, leaving only one outcome, the one where she said she would be in the car. A video of the event would confirm her version.

And me?

You have a fifty fifty chance of retaining a memory consistent with the selected outcome.

You are saying I’m screwed.

Yes Mark. You are screwed.

Why don’t I get to pick the outcome?

That is not your role. You are the rider. She is the wave. You may choose to ride or not to ride. If you fail to ride the wave as it is, you are screwed.

I could divorce her. Find a new wave.

A choice you never make. And if you did, do you believe you could find another wave that is bigger, or steeper, than this wave?

Or as perfectly formed.

That was too obvious to state.

“Dad!”

“Sorry, I was asking Cat if Rhonda told me she would be in the car.”

“What did he say?”

“Yes and no.”

“Sounds like Cat. Can I have multiple personality disorder too?”

“It’s only a disorder if we,” pointing at my head, “don’t get along.”

She grinned at me.

“I know, multiple personalities. I just wanted to make you explain it again.”

She pointed in the direction Rhonda had taken.

“Go. Just try and remember to tell me what he said when we have a chance.”

I headed down the hall, Blair following.

“If I remember.”

Her voice, trailing behind me.

“Or if I remember. What are the odds?”

“Between zero and one hundred percent.”

“Dad, you are a genius.”

Dripping with sarcasm.

I grinned at the setup.

“You should be more respectful of your elders.”

“No I don’t. Not since I turned eleven and became older than you.”

I turned around and high five’d her.

“Dad, you’re right, we ARE IN THE ZONE. Do you think we can make it to the end of the day?”

“We do and we don’t.”

She shoved me.

4. How Much Luck?

AUGUST 22, 2011

“Mr. President.” Doctor Bailey Johnson, the head of the FAA investigative team extended his hand.

President Obama shook his hand. Johnson was struck by the callused firmness, an athlete’s grip.

“I wish this could have been under better circumstances.”

“Thank you Doctor Johnson, I’m sorry to have pull you away from the investigation, but with the firestorm of publicity about this…”

As the two men spoke the entourage that had accompanied Johnson discretely departed, leaving them alone.

“Sir, I understand completely. The circumstances are extraordinary.”

The president motioned to a chair, “Please sit.”

“Thanks.” Johnson sat down.

“Can I have someone bring something for you?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

The President did not sit in his expected spot across the desk, instead he pulled up a chair next to Johnson and seated himself. He leaned forward, speaking softly and said, “I know how early it is, but is there anything, anything at all you can tell me.”

“Yes, but sir, I must caution you, this is all very preliminary. Normally our investigations take months, but we’ve had some … help, and quite a bit of luck, so we have established a working time line.”

“Anything you’ve got would help me navigate this.”

“Sir, what do you know?”

“Assume I know nothing, just start from the beginning.”

“Okay. We became aware of the situation shortly after the pilot made the prescribed radio call confirming that the plane had reached its assigned cruising altitude. That was about fifteen minutes after it left Denver. At the end of the call, as the pilot was signing off, he reported that a vibration warning light had come on, indicating a potential problem with the right engine. The pilot did the normal sensor reset, followed by a hard reset, and confirmed the warning. The warning was also confirmed on the ground. The vibration warning light is triggered by a sensor mounted on the aft bearing support for the turbine shaft. We are speculating that the reported vibration was due to a turbine shaft bearing failure.”

He paused and then continued.

“Once the warning light had been confirmed the pilots were instructed to return to Denver and they began to execute their turn. About three minutes later, we received another communication in which we were told that there had been a second vibration warning light, but this one was for the forward bearing support. This was also confirmed. They were instructed to initiate a shutdown of the right engine. As they began the shutdown procedure, they reported hearing an explosion. And they indicated that the fire warning light had come on. The fire suppression system was activated and they were cleared for an immediate emergency approach. At that point they reported a failure light for the fire suppression system. That was the last communication we had with the flight. As for the cause, based on evidence we’ve collected so far, the explosion was almost certainly caused by a failure of the HTP compressor stage 1 disk.”

“HPT?”

“I’m sorry, high pressure turbine.”

“I see.”

“The consensus now, is that the vibration from the bearing failure caused the compressor disk to rupture, resulting in an uncontained turbine failure. The recovered engine was split in half. The high pressure turbine and compressor were attached to the front engine mount. The low pressure turbine and exhaust were still attached to the rear mount. The evidence from the recovered engine indicates that the disk separated from the conical section of the turbine shaft. We recovered pieces of the disk. Three, almost equal sized pieces, a forth triangular shaped piece and several smaller fragments. The triangular piece was found embedded in the engine pylon. The left side of the nacelle was peppered with holes and impact marks made by the debris.

“Nacelle?”

“Sorry, a nacelle is the external housing.”

“Okay.”

“When the disk ruptured, the controls to the right wing were severed and the right wing fuel tank was breeched. This would be consistent with the failure of the fire suppression system. The pieces of the right wing tank that we recovered were peppered with holes and covered with scorch marks. The fire burned through the tank and eventually the heat resulted in a catastrophic failure of the wing. That’s our preliminary primary cause.”

“I see.”

“There’s more. When the wing failed, it folded just to the right of the engine. The sudden loss of lift caused the plane to cartwheel, end over end. This is confirmed by the flight data recorders. The wing and the engine separated from the plane and hit the fuselage. This ripped the fuselage open just aft of the wing and the portion of the cabin that was still intact was filled with burning jet fuel. The interior cabin pieces recovered from the tail section were scorched and coated with jet fuel burn oxidants. After that the plane broke up, the fuselage snapping just forward of the aft lavatories. Stress from the tumble, the engine impact or the fire…pick any one. The front portion of the plane was completely destroyed when the center and left fuel tanks exploded prior to impact. The explosion was most likely due to the fire in the cabin. Most of the debris pieces are less than one square inch in size and are scattered over a wide area, indicating an explosion around 1000 feet above the ground. Identification of bodies, what’s left of them, will be very difficult. With the mountainous terrain involved, it is very likely that we won’t find everyone. We’ll need to use DNA for those that we do. The tail section either disintegrated in the air or upon impact. In terms of recovery, we are obviously doing better with that part of the plane. The best news I can give you is that we recovered both flight data recorders. We were also able to recover large portions of the right wing, wing tank and the two portions of the engine. All in decent shape. That’s why I can give you so much so soon. But, as I said, this is all very preliminary. Our findings could change.”

“I understand. This is remarkably detailed and fast work Doctor, thank you. From what you have described, nobody could survive this type of event, and yet…”

“Exactly. That’s where things get really… troubling.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It isn’t. We have a possible explanation, but… It’s … It’s improbable. It’s beyond improbable, but…”

He shook his head, clearly at a loss.

“It’s the only thing we have that is even remotely consistent with the physical evidence we’ve gathered.”

“What evidence in particular?”

“Well, an evacuation slide for one.”

“But I thought an evacuation slide is used as an emergency exit on the ground. Unless I missed something, the plane was destroyed in the air.”

“You’re correct. Slides are used during an emergency evacuation once a plane is down, yet the fully inflated slide was recovered about a mile from the primary crash site. It belonged to the tail section.”

“This is the reason for your media black out right?”

“To start, yes.”

“The two survivors. How are they?”

“Awake. Some injuries, but very helpful, more than we could have imagined possible.”

“This is really something. Their survival is the issue.”

“Oh yes. The media…”

“Of course, Fox is screaming for blood. Asking the obvious question, could they have caused the crash?”

“That was our initial hypothesis, but there’s zero evidence to support it. Everything points to a mechanical failure. Has the NSA looked at them yet.”

“Yes. There is nothing beyond some back taxes. He actually held a top secret clearance twenty years ago.”

Obama picked up on Johnson’s intense discomfort.

“Dr. Johnson, what haven’t you said?”

“The engine pylon. He told us where to find that piece of the compressor disk.”

“So evidence that they were involved?”

“No. Mr. President. Beyond the normal issues, like them not having access to a plane that was in flight prior to their boarding, technically this was clearly an uncontained turbine failure. There is no possible way to predict or control where anything ends up.”

“Then a lucky guess?”

“Luck? Considering that they are alive… in terms of an explanation, how much luck is possible or credible.”

“So he knew where the disk was, was there anything else?”

“Yes. There is everything else. Their whole story. It was, well … we polygraphed them.”

“Under duress?”

“No. They offered. Practically insisted.”

“Extraordinary. What about their story?”

“I don’t have a scientific way to characterize it.”

“And you don’t have anything else? No other possible explanations?”

“Nothing. Not a god damn thing.”

“Have they talked to anyone yet?”

“Not since the single incident that everybody has seen. They volunteered to let us decide when, and if, they would talk to the media. They’ve offered to let us adjust their story. We haven’t released their names, we’ve asked the media to hold off, the usual, let us notify the families, stuff, but its just a matter of time.”

“All right, there is no evidence of an act of terrorism. All the evidence points to a mechanical failure. So we can release their story, as strange as it may be, and calm things down. Do you agree?”

“Mr. President, I’m glad I don’t have to make that decision. Personally, I don’t see how we can release it.”

“Because it’s probably not true and might compromise the credibility of the investigation?”

“Yes and no. Start with the obvious. If we absolve them it requires evidence. Evidence that, by any reasonable estimate of the time required, should have taken at least a month to acquire.”

“Making it look like a setup.”

“Yes. But to be honest, Mr. President, I wish that’s what I was worried about. It would be somewhat familiar. I deal with ambiguities all the time. In this case, well, the opposite scares me more.”

Obama studied the man, observing his growing agitation. “You’re worried that their story is true.”

“Yes sir. Consider the speed with which we acquired the evidence… to counter questions about a setup, there is the truth, that we were directed to it… Look, I’m not the right person to evaluate the potential implications, Mr President, I’m an aviation crash investigator with thirty years of experience, but I am out of my depth with something like this. All the evidence we’ve gathered points to the validity of a story that, pardon my use of technical terminology, is fucking science fiction, and if, somehow, it is true. I don’t know… there are implications.”

Dr Bailey Johnson had been staring at the floor, he lifted his head and looked President Obama directly in the eyes.

“What I do know sir is this. I’m looking at the only person who should make this decision.”

“You’re scared.”

“Yes sir.”

“I guess I’d better hear the story.”

“I’m not the right person for that either.”

“You want me to fly to Denver.”

“Afraid so.”

“While we are on the subject, is there anything else you want?”

“Yes, we’ll need a physicist with serious expertise in quantum theory.”

“Quantum theory…” The President shook his head and reached for the phone on his desk, “I must be out of my mind… Betty, can you get Denis for me… Thanks… I should get started on my resignation speech … Hi Denis, sorry, you’ll need to drop everything, the Denver crash is going sideways on us, I need to be on the ground there as soon as possible. John Holdren should be with us. Have him call me immediately, he is going to need to identify some additional people we need to bring…I really doubt it. Start with a physicist with expertise in quantum theory… I know, just believe me, this is a ticking bomb and we need to be out in front of it, just make it happen. please …thanks…bye.”

The President hung up the phone.

“Okay. You wanted it, you’ve got it. Denver it is… and Dr Bailey…”

Obama displayed a broad smile and leaned forward.

“You have me flying to Denver to listen to a story you described as science fiction and my staff is trying to locate a physicist with expertise in quantum theory to bring with us. If you have been fucking with me, I’ll have you killed.”

Bailey had heard stories about Obama’s propensity for trash talk in certain circumstances, and despite his intense level of discomfort he found himself relieved.

Then he began grinning.

“Thank you Mr President.”

5. 999,999 in a Million

AUGUST 22, 2011

I didn’t hear it.

I felt it.

Immense.

A concussion.

Then a shock wave.

A blast of enormous heat and pressure.

I was hurtling toward a wall.

A moment to consider the limit of my form.

Before impact.

An explosion of stars.

Air.

Another impact.

As I ricocheted off the galley wall, crashed into the emergency exit, and landed on the floor of the tail section, right between Blair and the door.

Like I’d planned it.

Not.

So … The limit of my form.

The soon-to-be reality associated with our current situation.

If I can’t be here, I will be where I can be.

Some random moment back somewhere.

Continuity lost.

Memories lost.

Unless I find something.

Something within the limit of my form.

Which I can’t do.

Because it’s impossible.

Probably.

What is possible?

Uncertainty.

One in a million.

All we need.

So a plan

Based on a theory.

And, still alive.

Something to our left, beyond Blair.

Terrifying.

Beautiful.

Liquid fire.

Zero gee fire.

The fire flowed around the corner and began expanding, absorbing the available space, until, inches away, it stopped, froze, and became glass.

My mouth open

Awe.

The glass exploded.

A blizzard of white swirled in our closed space, and roared out.

Leaving a dead calm.

Cold, dark, empty.

Then, we began to spin. The spin accelerated along with my vertigo. I managed to look at my altimeter and press the light. 28,005.

We will be unconscious in a minute, if we are alive in a minute.

I forced my head to turn left, at Blair. Waves of nausea. I screamed, “Pressure Breath!”

Pressure breathing: A high altitude climbing technique. Take a deep breath, form an oh with your lips and exhale hard. This creates back pressure in your lungs, forcing them to expand and absorb more oxygen.

The spin rate increased, faster and faster.

The g-force was crushing.

Life got simple.

Breathe in.

Exhale hard.

Try not to throw up.

Inhale.

Exhale hard.

Don’t throw up.

The vibration and noise kept escalating, becoming raw visceral terror.

The spin accelerated, faster and still faster.

All out of focus.

Spots.

Purple blotches.

Our space reverberated as the spinning stopped with a violent jolt.

Zero-g, hate zero-g,

but…

Now is our chance…

Remember the plan.

Move.

I struggled to lean forward. I reached for the door. We were yanked back and the spin resumed, but in the opposite direction. The g-forces pressed down, crushing life away. My mind started to shut down. I abstractly watched the designs the lack of blood in my brain elicited, the designs flowing back and forth, then pulsing, spots appearing, disappearing. The vibration and spinning intensified, becoming violent, and more violent. The tail section’s structural integrity was failing. The seams stretched, and light began to shine through, our small space filled with swirling powder-like debris.

If we are going to have any chance.

We have to get out now.

Fighting vertigo I forced my eyes open. I reached for the door. Got my arm extended, but that was it. I was cemented to the wall. The concrete was setting up. I put everything I had into it, trying to crack the concrete slab encasing my body.

We must be pulling almost 20 g’s.

I hit zero and sagged back, out of gas. There would be no getting up.

No miracle.

No one in a million.

Death is coming…

Only one thing left to do.

I turned to Blair and grabbed her hand, screaming to be heard above the escalating violence of the spin.

“Sorry Blair. Crap plan. We’re not going to make it. I love you.”

Blair looked back at me and through a sand blasting of debris I saw her say, “I love you dad.”

We hit something, hard, but silent, intense deceleration, face first, vision swimming, a muffled impact, a jolt, then pressure. Things were still, dreamlike, debris hanging in air, the flow of time appeared to bog down, compress, and become a slow trickle forward.

Hypoxic delusions.

The pressure to move forward increased with everything bending, distorting, filling the available space. Then something gave way, and time began to move, as if time was water trapped behind some obstacle, a crack forming, with water trickling through the gap, the gap widening, the flow increasing.

My near death experience.

Without the ‘telling everybody about it’ afterwords part.

Shit.

I could move my head

So I looked at Blair.

More hallucinations.

Years fell away from her face.

Years.

She said the strangest thing.

“Aziz, light!”

A ray of sunlight, very bright, splashed on her face.

“Thank you Aziz.”

A hint of a smile, then,

“We begin again…”

I’ve seen this movie.

Why?

What?..

My mouth opened.

Trying to form a question.

Blair smiled.

A beaming smile.

She answered.

“North South.”

What was my question?

I can almost see it.

Out of focus

But close.

I strained to see.

Too late.

The tail section exploded.

6. Ghost Writer

What do you mean?

Me, groggy, Cat was saying something

What?

You said, ‘we are not going to make it.’ What did you mean?

I opened my eyes. Seat back. Folding tray up and locked. I looked over at Blair. She was dozing.

I must have been dreaming.

I tried to remember. So vivid, so important, yet somehow, my memory of it retreated from me. I pursued. It retreated, and then, was nothing.

Oh well. Dreams don’t mean shit.

I opened up my laptop.

Okay Cat, you’ve got the first chapter for me.

Certainly, Mark.

Hit me.

Cat paused dramatically before beginning. I followed.

Once upon a time there was a completely unremarkable and generic spiral galaxy, but even a boring spiral galaxy has something of interest, which in this case was a core, where billions of stars packed closely together, raced around a super-massive black hole.

In a low density region between two spiral arms of the galaxy, about 28,000 light years from the core and a mere 14 light years above the equatorial symmetry plane, was an equally unremarkable and generic G2 (yellow) star. As a result of that star’s location, almost smack on the galaxy’s equator, the intervening dust screened the star from all but one trillionth of the energy that the core radiated, which is a lot.

This G2 star was nice and stable as most yellows are. It was of average temperature and would last about ten billion years.

Most stars are binaries, meaning that when stars are born, the most common result is a set of fraternal twins. In this case, the twin was too small and therefore still-born, resulting in a type of planet called a gas giant.

The yellow and its still-born sibling were close enough to the core to have reasonably high levels of heavier elements in their composition. The reason for this is that heavy elements are the tail end fusion product of massive stars just before they go nova, and the core has lots of those in high concentration.

Inside the orbit of the still born twin was a small rocky planet located a tad less than one hundred million miles from the yellow. This placed the planet in the narrow zone in which liquid water is possible.

At the center of the planet was a spinning liquid metal core. This is was a dynamo, the result of which was a strong magnetic field which blanketed the planet.

Not long after the planet formed, there was a major collision, which resulted in the creation of a large moon, large in relation to the size of the planet it was orbiting. The orbit of the moon around the planet resulted in periodic variation of conditions on the planet’s surface.

The small rocky planet was small enough to lose most of its original hydrogen atmosphere, but large enough to retain the heavier gasses. As the planet cooled, the remaining available hydrogen combined with the heavier oxygen to create liquid water, water which covered about two thirds of the surface, while being continually shifted across the surface by the large moon.

The planet rotated once every twenty hours or so, and was tilted on its axis, which resulted in periodic temperature variations on the planet’s surface, since as it circled the yellow, changing latitudes on the planet were subject to direct exposure of the energy from the yellow.

This resulted in the creation of a DNA incubator. DNA incubation requires an incredibly long period of time and demands an incredibly narrow set of specific conditions.

The distance from the galactic core, combined with the obstructing dust, shielded the incubator from the frequently misbehaving galactic core.

The location of the yellow, in a low density region of the galaxy, reduced the probability of encounters with large objects. This probability was further reduced by the still-born sibling, which vacuumed up most of the remaining threatening objects that remained after the small rocky planet stabilized.

This yellow, although very stable, can still misbehave as any yellow can; however the planet’s liquid core dynamo, and its resulting magnetic field, screened the surface of the rocky planet from the most energetic outbursts. The liquid core had an additional benefit. Tectonic activity would regularly contribute additional gasses and heavy elements from the planet’s interior. After a seasoning of exotic materials from the occasional asteroid impact was added to the liquid water and variety of heavy elements already available, the incubator was complete, and it was perfect.

For a billion years this concoction was stirred continually by the large moon, while alternately warmed and chilled by the yellow due to the tilt in the planet’s axis, as the surface was continually reshaped by tectonic, glacial, water and weather processes.

The initial DNA incubation process was complete after a billion years, and it took an additional two billion years of DNA culling, a process that required two major extinction events, to get a carbon life form with a decision tree of sufficient size to result in self awareness. They called themselves people and the herding and flocking survival solutions of their DNA predecessors manifest as tribal behavior.

In twenty thousand years they covered the planet and remade its surface. Their large decision trees lead to differences in the way they interpreted the nature and purpose of their awareness. The most influential aspect of this was the concept of ownership. Their differences of opinion became tribal disputes over ownership of land, animals, people or ideas, and they killed each other in larger and larger numbers in an attempt to resolve those differences. Once they had covered the surface of the planet, the disputes became more and more organized; eventually resulting in a global killing event they called a world war. In a world war event, two alliances of large tribes each killed and destroyed as much of the other as possible, in order to prove that their interpretation of awareness was correct. Eventually it would be agreed that one side had killed enough of the other side to declare a winner.

A short time after the world war, a single and insignificant person, was born at a location called New York. He was named Allan.

When Allan had lived fifteen years (orbits of the rocky planet around the yellow star) another world war started. In the tribe that Allan was born to, it was believed that you should be eighteen years old before you could kill members of another tribe. Alan was too young, but he wanted to kill the other tribe, so he lied about his age and joined a warrior caste of his tribe called the Air Force, which specialized in killing people using flying machines. The previous world war, and the smaller wars that had preceded it, had resulted in rapid technical advances in the efficiency of killing, including the use of such machines. Alan was trained as a fighter pilot. Fighter pilots were considered the elite warriors of that caste, since their job was to kill other flying warriors.

Before being allowed to kill from the air, the Air Force caste required a warrior to train. Part of that training involved flying a plane in a formation. During a formation take off, Allan’s landing gear clipped a truck which had been left on the runway, tearing one of the wheels off. Over the radio he was instructed to jump out of the plane and use his parachute to float to the ground. He refused. Just a month prior, a good friend of his had jumped out of a plane. The parachute release was located on the left strap of the harness. Allan’s friend had been left handed. This variation in side dominance, although natural, was interpreted as a weakness and therefore not considered. In reaching for the release Allan’s friend used his dominant left hand, was unable to find the parachute release since it was on the other side, and as a result he died when he hit the ground. This bothered Allan, and although his side dominance was normal, he refused to jump out of the airplane.

Instead he landed with a missing wheel. After the landing a disintegrating cloud of debris slid to a stop in about three hundred yards. All that remained of the plane was the cockpit, from which Allan climbed out, without a scratch.

Fighter pilots trained in a plane named the Vultee BT-13 Valiant, which was a tribute name to the owner of the caste who built the machine and the emotional state required by anybody who attempted to fly the plane. The pilots had their own name for the plane, they called it the Vultee Vibrator, which it got as a result of its cost effective two position pitch propeller, which under less than ideal conditions, would result in the plane vibrating violently. The pilots discovered an additional use for the two pitch propeller. By changing the pitch at high speed they could generate a very high amplitude and high pitched scream. Eventually Allan and a few of his fellow pilots tried this while flying at low altitude down the main street in the town near their training base. This resulted in broken windows, and much hilarity among his fellow warriors.

The local leader of the warrior cast, called a commander, did not share their amusement. Allan was demoted, which meant he was no longer an elite warrior. He was reassigned as a bomber pilot, which meant his new role was to kill large numbers of people on the ground from a flying machine. Shortly after the incident, the newly minted elite warriors that had trained with Allan were shipped off to the war. They died to the last man.

Allan soon rose to be captain of a bomber crew. Bombers were large planes and it took a team of people to fly the plane and kill people on the ground at the same time. He was eventually involved in an incident in which he bombed the capitol building in the local city with the chalk markers used to practice bombing runs on targets. He kept his captains seat since the air force was losing pilots at a furious rate. Just before his bomber squadron was sent to the war, Allan became very ill. He was diagnosed with gonorrhea, which was a sexually transmitted disease. After six months in the hospital, a period during which he was ignored because of the stigma associated with his diagnosis, they discovered that the original diagnosis was incorrect. Allan had malaria, which is not associated with sex and therefore does not have the same stigma associated with it. By this time Allan’s bomber squadron had been sent to the war, where they died to the last man.

Allan was still hospitalized when a huge advance was achieved in the efficiency of killing. People made use of the huge and very rapid displacements that will occur in objects when matter is unfolded. This advance resulted in a winner being declared before Allan became well enough to resume flying and die to the last man.

Five years later Allan was living in a city named Memphis with his wife Elsie. After the war, the only job he could find with his mechanical engineering degree was a maintenance position with the railroad in Memphis. Money (which was the way people could store the energy of their labor) was in short supply, and a number of his friends recommended that he join the Reserve. People in the reserve get paid to be warriors for two weekends per month, the rest of the time they are just people. It seemed like a good deal to Allan and he considered joining the reserve in a city named New York, where his paperwork was, and where his old warrior friends were, but in the end he requested to have his papers sent to Memphis so he could join the reserve there. To join the reserve, Allan needed to prove he was a warrior, and this was done with paperwork.

Allan eventually got a good job with a large engineering firm. He was asked by his boss to acquire an airplane and fly him to a business meeting in New York. After the Second World War, using airplanes to move people over long distances had become popular, since killing from the air was not in great demand. Shortly before the scheduled flight, Allan went to the airport to be checked out on the plane he would be flying to New York. The man performing the checkout had never been an elite warrior, was intimidated by Allan’s warrior status and provided a cursory orientation, since he felt questioning such a warrior’s credentials would have been insulting.

The following day Allan and his boss climbed into the plane and roared down the runway to take off on their flight to New York. The plane got closer and closer to the end of the runway but was not leaving the ground. At the last instant Allan realized that he had not adjusted the trim tabs for takeoff. Trim tabs change the shape of the wing to provide more lift at low speeds. He knew it was too late for the plane to get off the ground, and with the end of the runway rapidly approaching; he hit the brakes, which was his second mistake.

The fighters and bombers Allan had flown had a tricycle wheel configuration, one wheel in front and two in the back. This particular type plane was called a tail dragger. A tail dragger has two wheels, one under each wing, and another wheel under the tail. When Allan hit both brakes the plane did a somersault off the end of the runway, and landed in a cactus patch. Allan landed in the cactus patch, with his boss hanging upside down inside the plane. Allan was fine, except for a long cut and the cactus needles in his head.

Allan’s papers never showed up. Despite his numerous requests for help or clarification, the papers needed to prove he was a warrior could not be found, so he couldn’t join the reserve. In the meantime another war started in a place called Korea. It was not a world war but it involved his tribe, so the entire group of reserves in both New York and Memphis were sent to Korea. They did not die to the last man. Elsie got pregnant with their first child, he would be named Mark.

I looked at the laptop and saved what I had just typed.

That’s your opening?

Yes, Mark. You requested a cinematic approach.

Cat, you’re as bad a writer as I am.

Perhaps I require a better subject.

Cat, this book was your idea. You know I’ve never written a book, that I have a real job and that I don’t have time for this.

Those are excellent points. Which you have made, many times. After careful consideration I have decided to take care of it.

You will take care of it? What does that mean?

What?

What does, ‘I will take care it, mean?’

Nothing important. Never mind.

Great.

A book.

The guy who can’t finish anything is committed to finish the hardest thing in the world that there is to finish.

Worst of all, I know exactly how I got here.

I made a choice.

I traded for it.

One problem for a different problem.

My back hurt. I squeezed past Blair and wandered down the isle, considering how I had put myself in this situation.

One year ago…but five minutes ago.

7. The Problem I Wanted To Have

JULY 17, 2010

I had just hung up the phone.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap…

Sitting there at my desk, I was supposed to be working, but now, I was no longer seeing the monitors. All I could feel was the pressure, the anxiety.

How the hell can I fix this?

What is the problem Mark?

That would be Cat, the voice in my head, or one of. I answered Cat, I always answer. I have always answered. I have never questioned it. This is called dissassociative identity disorder, although, aesthetically I prefer the lay version, multiple personality disorder. Either way, I find inclusion of the word disorder to be both amusing and misleading.

My voices. As in not ‘one’. Cat is just the most prominent. There are two other voices, Allan and Asrael, although I would be hard pressed to describe Asrael as having a voice.

More like an opinion.

Cat and Allan are always here, making them more like delusions. Asrael, however, resembles the conventional definition of a dissociated personality, because when he is here, I am not. According to Cat, Asrael was augmented. He was provided with a set of combat and tactical skills and given a purpose. He was to protect me. Since when am I important? As a child I was terrorized by a succession of bullies. One type of mental adaptation to trauma is the creation of a disassociated personality, a violent protector, who we named Asrael, after an angel who could separate the soul from the body at death. Or not. In my case.

My brother suggested that I write that story. The idea made me curious. My bullies. Where were they now? Had their lives amounted to anything? I looked. They hadn’t. Because they were dead. All of them. And my curiosity about them died with them.

Allan is the voice of my father. He has not been augmented. He is all mine, and he is entirely himself. Whatever. Allan provides a unique perspective, mostly about people and the things that they do. Strange things, funny things. His pathological inability to take behavior seriously provided him a certain gift. He could, can, get next to anybody, anybody. He should have been a politician or a diplomat. Instead he sold air conditioning systems. The world is a strange place.

Then there is Cat. Cat, Cat, Cat. An alien intelligence stuffed into my head. Designed from the ground up. Designed to take advantage of my capacity to disassociate. So he says.

What do I say? I would say that Cat is not a delusion. I would say that Cat is real. Ninety five percent of the people on this planet describe conversations that they have with god. Is this different? It’s hard to decide who is more screwed up. They believe that the god they talk to can actually do stuff. Well I don’t claim that Cat is god. I don’t claim that Cat can do anything, other than talk.

I would claim that Cat is always right. Even knowing that he is always right, I still manage not to listen to him. Cat says this is normal. I have heard him say, Understanding is inconsistent with your purpose more times than I can count. Calling him god might make my life easier. Conversations with god are considered legit. Conversations with god are socially acceptable. Conversations with god are believable. Conversations with Cat are delusions. I need to be fixed. I have a disorder.

Whatever I have, it has not made me stupid. I don’t tell anybody about my ‘conversations’, unless I can get away with it.

As for the god thing, when I hear people talking about how they pray to God, or talk to God, I see an imperfect and subjective understanding of what we are.

A voice in your head is you.

But what are you?

Mark!

Yes, Cat?

That is a great speech and I do appreciate your desire to validate me. I was wondering, how many times you were going to make the speech to me?

At least one more time.

You really should consider writing the speech down. Your attempt at validation would be more effective if somebody other than me heard it. If you do not mind, perhaps we can get back to the mundane and boring issues of the real world for a minute? There was a problem. What is it?

Sorry, I got distracted. By the way, you are funny when you are sarcastic. Blair’s worried about getting into the college she applied for, my job is shit and I have no idea how to solve this or help her. Any way I look at it, it appears that I am completely screwed.

Can you show me the website for the college?

Sure.

I clicked the cross tab button to display the site.

Mark, I want to see the tuition required. No, it is over there. No, not there, over there. Would you like me to…

Cat, keep your hands off. I can manage.

That is just an expression. Cat never actually grabs anything. He is just a voice, a persistent damn voice.

Okay, Mark. No. Go down two. Down TWO.

Okay, okay, I got it. That’s worse than I thought. Damn, that’s a ton of money.

It is perfect. (He says things like that.)

Why? (I say things like that.)

You can’t possibly afford the tuition. This trade is structured perfectly. Call Blair and tell her that she will get in.

What are you talking about? (Now he will spin straw into gold, or manure.)

A metaphor is appropriate for this. Life in the universe works a lot like the collective bargaining agreement for the NBA. You need a clear understanding of the rules in order to build a good team. Most of the rules in the NBA dictate the way you can acquire and trade players. The rules exist to enforce balance. Life is exactly the same. It is a series of trades and you must structure the trades properly if you want them to work for you.

Trades, for what?

Cat is never at a loss for words, and the words were…

To answer that you need to understand the rules. The first rule of life is this, when you get life it comes with a problem, the problem of staying alive. As life goes on, the problem of staying alive gradually increases. You are permitted by the rules to chop up the big problem of staying alive into a collection of smaller problems through trades. No trade will be accepted if the sum of your problems goes down or stays the same, they must always increase. This means that the greater the imbalance in the trade and the bigger the problem you acquire, the better the odds are for your trade to be accepted. Isolated solutions are an illusion. Solutions are always packaged with a problem. Trades are made and balanced by the problems exchanged.

Give me an example.

Your daughter’s college application is a good example.

But wouldn’t college be her problem?

No, she is on your team so it is your problem. This trade is structured perfectly. The problem of her wanting to get into a specific college gets traded for the problem of not being able to pay for it. That is a much larger problem so your trade will certainly be accepted. The solution, her choice of a college, is simply a byproduct of the new problem acquired.

So what do I do?

I would suggest you do what any owner in the NBA does. Hire a general manager who knows the rules to help you build your team.

So I have somebody else run my life?

Certainly not. It is your team. Any trade your general manager puts together must be approved by you. I would like to apply for this position.

(Just where is he going with this?) And how do I pay you exactly?

We can work that out later. I am sure I can think of something.

(That’s where.) Okay, I hire you to be my general manager, meaning I am trading the problem of how to fix my life right now, for something else, something actually worse. Am I right?

Mark, your analysis is flawless.

He never lies, and he is never wrong. That doesn’t mean I do what he says, even when I can understand what he says.

Understanding is inconsistent with your purpose.

How many times are you planning to tell me that?

At least one more time.

You stole my line.

Did I not use it correctly?

You used it perfectly. As for your offer, I suspect I will rue the day but I accept. You get one year in exchange for something to be decided on later that I will regret. Now what?

What is your current financial situation?

Which he could get just by touching my memory, but Cat is very respectful. And, he never misses the opportunity for a long conversation.

Well, I still have my contract, I have been working but they haven’t paid me in about three months now and I am out of money. Even if I get paid I don’t think I will ever get what I am owed. I need to find a new job in two weeks. Of course it is worse that just that. I am fifty seven; in today’s market nobody is going to hire somebody my age in two weeks, not for what I need.

I assume you have been looking for a new job?

Yes.

May I see?

Sure.

I switched over to my excel sheet with a list of the jobs I had sent cover letters and resumes to.

You are looking for local jobs that pay what you need. This trade will never be accepted, it is not structured properly. It is a good thing you hired me. This is what we will do; you will look for local jobs that do not pay enough or for which you are not qualified. And then you will look for jobs in locations that you can’t get to, but which pay enough and for which you are qualified.

You’re kidding.

Not at all, I am a very good GM. You will have a job in two weeks. It will be local and will not pay enough or it will be too far away and you will have a great deal of trouble showing up. Let me see your resume.

I opened the word document. I had probably ten versions for the different types of jobs, just grabbed the one on top.

Okay, here it is.

Mark, this is terrible. It is a laundry list.

It is a resume.

Would you read a laundry list? (Hmm, hadn’t considered that…) If I had to…

Would you read a thousand laundry lists?

(Hell no.) Maybe, for a lot of money.

This is also a trade. Make this laundry list the appendix no person will read. Fill it with keywords that a computer will enjoy. Take these three jobs, the last three, and write a short story about each one. They should be real stories. Don’t be technical, make them about the money and add some of your very dry humor. The trade works like this, the person required to read the resume will trade being entertained for finding a person who may not be as qualified. Do you understand?

Yes. Well, no. The resume will be too long.

In what person’s opinion? Mark, I am your GM. My opinion is the only one that matters. It will not be too long. Now, what is this? You have included your mountain climbing and the Olympic gold metal as activities or achievements. These are important, you need to feature them.

But they don’t have anything to do with the job.

Of course they do. A person who must read thousands of resumes will accept any rationalization you provide if you entertain them. Team building and your ability to function in crisis situations are rationalizations that will do nicely.

I didn’t win the gold; I just put the team together and managed it.

Better still, Mark, that is business, this is entertainment, feature it. We can review your options after you have started your new job.

…

I got two job offers, one remote, one local, in two weeks. I accepted the local job. The job was close but didn’t pay nearly enough, just as Cat had predicted. As soon as I had been there for a couple of weeks I got another job offer for one that was too far away but paid more. Also as Cat had predicted.

But right now I needed REM sleep. It was three am and I was at my desk, working, but not for my current employer. My old job, the one with the company that won’t pay me, originally hired me to help them with a problem client.

I may not be getting paid, but I like the client (Don’t say one thing.)

Hi Mark, how are we doing?

Hey Cat, not bad, other than I want to sleep. I’m sick of this, let’s talk about what happened today.

At work?

Yes. I can’t believe it. As soon as I told them I was leaving, they couldn’t throw enough money at me. And that problem I found with their marketing… that could result in a ton of money for me. So now what? Do I take the job that’s all the way up in the valley, or do I stay?

No. You should not stay. You should take the job that is too far away. The other trade is not structured properly. The additional money from your current job will only appear if Blair drops out of school or after she graduates, in other words, you will not get the money until you do not need the money, do you understand?

Totally. Damn. It was so easy. But, now, how can I avoid spending four hours a day in a car?

We must make another trade. That is going to be interesting. You need to relocate, but everybody on your team, your mother, your wife and your daughter, have no-trade clauses in their contracts, by no-trade I am using a metaphor meaning they can not be moved without their permission.

I got that.

The only player that does not have a no-trade clause is your cat.

I assume you are referring to Inca, not yourself.

You are very funny Mark. What is your cap space? By that I am using a metaphor to request your income and expenses situation.

I got that too. Cat, I get the whole NBA CBA metaphor; you don’t need to keep explaining it to me. Just stay in character.

I understand Mark. What is our cap space?

About a thousand dollars per month.

That includes what you are contributing for your mother’s current residence?

Yes.

I think we can work a trade here but we will need to clear some cap space. The basic framework of the trade would be this; you get your mother and your wife to wave their no-trade clauses and you relocate closer to work. You balance the trade and stay under the cap through consolidation, this means placing your mother and your wife in a common residence. The new problem, your wife and mother living together, more than compensates for the improvement in location.

This sounded just like ESPN, conversing in the metaphor actually made it fun, something I hadn’t imagined possible.

That isn’t the only problem. Even if they agree to wave the no-trade and live under the same roof…

They will.

Okay, assuming that, it will be virtually impossible to find a place that they can agree on.

If the trade is structured properly they will agree. We can exchange the problem of finding a new residence for simple cash considerations. A more expensive location candidate will work.

But then I’m back to not having enough money.

As I said, we will need to clear some cap space. Start by getting rid of your storage unit and your boat parking places. Those activities will be labor intensive and painful, so the trade will balance.

You got that right. But, there is one more problem. I am not the only person supporting my mom. My brothers and sisters also contribute so they will want a say in what happens.

We can deal with issue by providing cash incentives and some assurances. When do your car loans come off the books?

Car loans, uuh, I think the Escape is paid off in January, the Matrix is done in April but the Prius has at least four more years left.

That is perfect. When you relocate, you will be in the penalty, which is to say, over the cap, so the trade will be accepted. Then you can get back under the cap, after you move, by trading the problem of the storage units for labor and pain, and when the problem of the two car payments go away, you can replace that with the problem of your siblings agreement to the trade. It all works perfectly, except that you will still be slightly over the cap, which I can resolve with your car exception.

My car exception?

It is very complicated, but in summary, I use the residual trade value from your previous car transactions. I can explain it in detail later.

Cat, this is byzantine.

Mark, it will work perfectly. The trades are structured properly. You are exchanging the problems of your long drive, your daughter’s college and supporting yourself and your team for the problem of paying an absurd amount of money so that your wife and mother can live under the same roof. I see no flaw, it is perfect.

…

It was perfect. But it took absolutely forever to put the deal together. I swear it would have been easier to climb Mount Everest than to find a place that my mother and wife would accept. But … it was worth it. Hell anything was worth not being stuck in a box for four hours a day. Well almost anything…

I am driving home in a damn rental car.

Phil and I had met for lunch, to talk about yet another job. After lunch I walked out of the restaurant and my car was gone. When I called the police, they told me that my car had been towed because it was parked illegally. Except that I clearly remember parking my car in a perfectly good spot across the street from the restaurant. Which I explained. He cleared up my confusion. It is illegal to leave your car in the middle of the street, lying on its side. The good news was that I hadn’t done anything stupid. The bad news was that somebody else had, hitting my car and totaling it. Thus, the rental car.

Crap. Cat!

Yes.

We never discussed the details of the car exception. Remember that?

Of course.

Is this the car exception?

Yes.

One word, yes, that’s it? How about some more words?

Mark, I think you understand. You were over the cap because of the payments for that car. You had four years left on the loan. The car was totaled, the insurance company will pay the car off and you can just drive your Matrix.

Which is why you never mentioned anything about me selling that piece of junk. Right?

Yes. You were going to need something to drive.

Did you miss the piece of junk part? That car runs like crap, just how am I going to get it fixed so I can get to work?

Try to be patient. The car exception includes this. Just wait.

Let me get this straight, somebody is going to hit that car too, and the result will be a reliable way to get to work?

Yes.

Oh my god. That’s beautiful. For sure?

There is nothing to worry about. That is the car exception. You have stockpiled quite a few of them. Do you enjoy living in the Marina?

It’s beautiful, the drive is great and my mother and my wife are managing. But you know that already. What are you really saying?

I am a good GM, and you are pleased with my performance, which makes this the perfect time to discuss payment.

The payment for which I am going to rue the day. I remember. What is it?

You must tell them.

Tell who what?

You must write a book.

A book? About what? Why?

Write it because that is what I need. Write a book about your strange life.

My life isn’t interesting enough.

Mark, you are wrong about that. Do you realize that you have spent your entire life talking to an imaginary cat?

You are not imaginary.

True, but nobody is going to believe that.

You are not a cat.

My name is Cat.

I can’t write.

We both know that you can.

It won’t get published and nobody will read it.

It will get published. You will win the Hugo and Nebula awards. The book will be made into a movie and it will win the academy award for best screen play.

Are you describing a past future?

No, there is currently no past future where what I just described has occurred.

Zero, none, then how can you predict I will win something if there is no past future where it has happened?

It is not a prediction. Once the book is complete, within the constraints of its form, there will be an outcome where it will be published.

And eventually an outcome where it will win awards. That isn’t good enough for me.

I do not understand. You got appropriate value.

What aren’t you telling me. This has to be part of a larger plan.

Yes it is. You are right, a book was a critical objective, but one of many.

Cat, how important is your objective? If I do what you ask it is going to mess up my life. I will become obsessed about it. I will screw up my job and my relationships.

Mark, it is very important.

Very important? Good. I will give you your book, but I’m changing the deal. I will do it as long as nobody I care about gets injured, including me, and I end up with wheelbarrows of money. And I don’t care how you have to structure the trades to accomplish it.

I accept your terms.

There’s more. This can’t be a quantum solution. Not a one in a million.

Very well. No relationship will get injured, you will acquire wheelbarrows of money and I will not use any quantum solutions. Is my recap of your terms correct?

Yes. But, that’s it? My terms are accepted? No argument? (This is wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong…)

Mark your terms are acceptable.

(Money and nobody gets hurt, am I being an idiot?) Now what?

Start writing the book.

(Yes. This is me. Being an idiot.) But I don’t know how.

Assemble a team to help you. I would advise your wife, your daughter, your mother, your brother and your friends Ole and Bill to start. Start writing and provide them what you have written for feedback. You will discover what you need to do.

My wife, Rhonda? Cat she will eviscerate me, it will be humiliating.

Mark, considering your body of work I fail to see a problem. Specifically, as it relates to Rhonda, her involvement increases the potential for success by a factor of five. You want wheelbarrows of money right? I placed her first on the list for that reason.

Cat, why is a book your objective?

Theallmarc was very specific about not answering that question. It is too disruptive. I am sorry.

Okay, but I am going to have something to say to that arrogant prick if I meet him.

That is the idea.

What?

Nothing, never mind.

I heard you.

Heard what?

I hate it when you do that.

Then why are you laughing?

Fuck you…

It would appear that you have done that to yourself.

What?

“Aaaw, son of a bitch.”

Missed it. Five miles past my exit, I will be trapped in a traffic jam. Piece of shit autopilot… Cat, can you throw in an upgrade?

Mark, your autopilot is too tightly integrated with everything that you are.

So I get an alien AI loaded into my head, by the same manufacturer, but I can’t get an autopilot upgrade that has the sense to drive home?

Mark, do you fail to see the perfection in that?

You’re right of course. Always. Asshole.

I love you too Mark.

A woman’s voice interrupted.

“Nice guns.”

9. Blinking Eyes Last

August 22, 2011

What?

God damn autopilot.

I looked down. My blue tank top. Torn in a number of places. Black roofing tar on the side. A series of grease spots down the front, the largest of which, was positioned at the top of my gut.

Not the thing to be wearing on an airplane. Not the thing to be wearing in public. She obviously wasn’t talking about this. Duh, my arms. She is talking about my arms. I am an idiot asshole.

Okay, be funny.

Lifting my arm I said, “It’s a good thing these are still allowed onboard.”

“I assume you have an open carry permit for those.”

“Of course.” I held up my left hand, the one with two wedding bands. I glanced back at Blair who was sitting on the aisle. She looked up, evaluated my situation at a glance and shot me a what-the-fuck expression, before looking back down.

The flight attendant laughed at my comment. She noticed my glance back, “She’s hot. You’re one lucky guy.”

I grinned and looked back at Blair, she was glowingly beautiful, gold, green eyes, short red hair, perfect nose, flawlessly straight, radiating health in the way only an elite athlete does.

Returning my attention to the attendant I said, “You have no idea. That’s not my wife, that’s my daughter.”

She shrank visibly, cringing, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’m not.”

This tank top, ugh.

“My…”

What?

“Shirt… we were so late, I can’t believe we made the plane, I was supposed to change, there’s no excuse for this…”

She smiled, back at full size, changing, becoming slightly, something, “Don’t be, I’m not. Where are you two headed?”

“We’re on our way to Jackson Hole to climb The Grand Teton and then my daughter will fly to Philadelphia for school and I will head back to LA.”

“You’re going climbing? Together? So insanity runs in the family?”

“Yes. Yes it does.”

“What school does your daughter go to?”

“University of the Arts in Philadelphia, she’s a dancer.”

“I am based in Philly, it’s a beautiful city. She is a dancer and a climber, that’s fantastic.”

“Thanks.” I glanced back at Blair again. She ignored me. I looked back at the attendant, “What’s your name?”

“Dana.” She smiled.

“Why’s the flight so empty?”

“No idea, I guess you just got lucky.”

An awkward pause ensued so I channeled my father.

“Well Dana, it was lovely to meet you, my name is Mark.”

We exchanged smiles and I offered my hand, which she took. I walked back to our row, squeezed past Blair and sat down.

“What was that?”

“She told me I had nice guns.”

…

Blair rolled her eyes, and then looked at my tank top.

“I can’t believe that shirt…”

She grabbed it and in her best over the top Shakespeare said, “Allas poor blue tanktop. I knew ye well.”

Then she looked at me, eye lashes fluttering, eyes misting over.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Blair, you’re killing me.”

“Look, I know he meant a lot to you, it’s weird but I can go with the open casket.”

She leaned in, whispering in my ear.

“It’s been three years. People are starting to talk.”

Then back to normal.

“Maybe we can close the box now, each take a hand full of dirt, throw it on top. And then you can say some words.”

…

Blair looked up from the computer.

“This doesn’t sound like me at all. This sounds like you.”

“But it’s funny, right?”

“Yes, but it still doesn’t sound like me. Am I in the story or not?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Of course you are. So what would you have said?”

“I would have said, why didn’t you change your shirt?”

“And I would have said, we would have missed the plane.”

“And I would have said, So?”

“That’s not bad. Go ahead and change it, but I lose my lead in to the next part.”

“What part?”

“Well, you are embarrassed by my shirt and I say, This reminds me of a story.”

“Tell me the story. We can figure out the transition later.”

She fiddled with laptop,

“Ready.”

I shifted around in my seat and started.

“I climbed Mount Gould with Cal Moeller and his sons Kurt and Greg when I was twelve, that was the first mountain I ever climbed.”

“Did you like it?”

“I wish I could say yes. The truth was I hated it more than anything. I had never experienced anything so painful. And it was made worse by seeing Kurt, who was like eight years old, run up to the top, and then run down, and then run back up again, and then run down again. It was humiliating. Anyway Cal told me a story about a bike ride he did with Kurt. Cal is in front and he stops at a red light. He’s wearing shoes that clip to the pedals. There is this balance thing you can do so you can leave your feet in the clips when you stop. Before Kurt gets to the light Cal suddenly loses it and just falls over, with both feet still clipped to the pedals. Kurt just rides by, right through the red light. So Cal gets up, catches up to Kurt and asks him why he rode through the red light and Kurt says I didn’t want anybody to think I was with you.”

Blair laughed and looked at the shirt again.

“Good story. Very topical.”

I changed the subject.

“So, what part were you looking at?”

“Of your shirt?”

I pointed at the laptop.

“No, on the computer.”

Blair glanced back at the laptop screen.

“I really liked the rules. I was wondering how you were going to work them into the story.”

“Not sure, probably by taking a course on how to write a story. Hey Cat got the first chapter finished finally.”

She read for a moment, then smiled.

“I guess he takes starting at the beginning seriously.”

CRACK!

The plane jumped. The sound had been sharp, and close, like a rock hitting the windshield. We just sat there looking at each other.

“Dad, what was that?”

“Nothing I hope.”

I slid the window shade up.

Not nothing.

There was a single pit, a crater, with a series of cracks radiating outward, the longest of which extended toward the back of the plane.

“I think we hit something.”

Duh.

CRACK!

“WHOW!”

There was now a second crater in the window. I leaned closer to the window to look. Our seats were near the back of the plane. Looking forward I could see the engine and the wing.

“Blair, tell me if you see what I am seeing. Look at that.”

She leaned across me. A white vapor trail was extending from the rear of the engine. Blair leaned across me to look.

“Do you see that?”

“Yes. It’s getting darker.”

“I thought so…”

The intercom came to life.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, there is nothing to be alarmed about.”

I whispered, “Lie to us.”

“The plane seems to be experiencing some mechanical difficulties and we will be returning to Denver. We have been cleared to land and our descent will start immediately. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. We should be on the ground soon.”

The plane banked and started to turn.

At the back of the engine, some flashes, like sparks drew my attention.

“Shit! On the ground soon, now that’s a fact.”

Through the seat, some sort of periodic vibration.

“Do you feel that?”

“Oh, this can’t be good.”

Cat, what do we do?

Mark, you an do nothing, this is a Cul-de-sac.

So, what does that mean?

Option one, you missed the flight. Option two, the problem was repaired before takeoff and there is no problem.

But we die first.

Yes, but you only remain aware of the outcome in which you live. It will be over soon.

Cat, I don’t want to die first. Give me something for where we are right now.

Uncharacteristically, he repeated himself.

Mark, where you are now is a Cul-de-sac.

Meaning?

The limit of your form will be exceeded. Only Quantum strategies remain.

What’s a quantum strategy?

Those strategies involve increasing the possible range of outcomes, which may or may not result in an outcome where the limit of your form will not be exceeded. In the current situation there is only one possible way to do that. You must exit the plane.

What? Cat, we’re god damn six miles up in the air going three hundred miles an hour.

I am sorry Mark, you are in a cul-de-sac and only quantum strategies remain.

Blair interrupted.

“Dad, I’ve got an idea, your rules, remember the third person rule?”

“Sure, death is a third person experience. The only outcome you are aware of is the one in which you live… Why am I doing expository dialogue?”

“Because it’s my idea.”

She stood up, opened the overhead, pulled our packs out and dropped them down to me. I shifted over into the window seat, as she put the packs side by side in the gap between us.

She said, “Put on everything. Boots, jackets, gloves, helmets, harnesses, goggles, everything.”

I said, “What’s your plan?”

But I already knew.

Why do I know?

She answered, “Two plans actually. Plan A, we create a situation so embarrassing for us, that the plane has to arrive safely.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Manage? You are too modest. It is your speciality…”

“True, what is Plan B?”

I started to pull on my climbing pants.

She said, “Jack Sparrow meets Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.”

“Exit the plane?”

She shrugged.

“You know that’s what Cat said. He called it a quantum strategy.”

“Really? I feel much better now.”

“Now if I was Jack Sparrow I would say something like, unless you have a raft hidden in that bodice … unlikely … “

Blair laughed, “I was thinking the evacuation slide.”

“Perfect. This is way better than my plan.”

“What was your plan?”

“Accompany ten thousand gallons of jet fuel to the ground at five hundred miles an hour.”

My boots were on.

“Dad, that’s a terrible plan.”

“It has the single virtue of being realistic.”

She got into her jacket, the plane was listing to the side.

“There is that. What do you think, a million to one?”

“Probably, but a million to one should be all we need.”

I struggled into my climbing harness.

Crap, I should have waited to put on my boots.

Blair said, “You brought the rope right?”

“Oh yes. So, we’re improvising a parachute.”

“Yes.”

I pulled the two rope bags out of my back pack. I had cut my seventy five meter climbing rope in two, since most of our climbing only required protection for short pitches, and I didn’t see the point in lugging the extra weight around. I handed one rope bag to Blair. The two ends of the rope were tied to carabineers which I always attached to the carry strap.

I said, “Do you want to untangle them in the air? That has the advantage of being much harder.”

“I think we have hard covered.”

“Okay, so we need to take care of it now. Hmmm. Got it, leave the ends clipped on to the bag, trace the rope back, find the middle, do an overhand knot and then clip it to your harness with this.”

I un-clipped a carabineer from my pack and handed it to her, then starting from point where the two ends of the rope were clipped to my bag, I rapidly pulled both sections of the rope through my hand until I reached the middle. I threw in an overhand knot and then used another binner from my backpack to clip the resulting loop to my harness.

She said, “Done. Now what?”

“Daisy chain the line so it doesn’t tangle when it comes out of the bag.”

The plane rumbled and dropped suddenly, I had a sickening moment of weightlessness.

“God, plan B is starting to get attractive. Anything else?”

“Nope. Bag the rope. Wait, yes… one more thing, we need a safety line.”

I rummaged through the pack.

Stuff sack, stuff sack, here it is.

Got my hand on it and dumped it out. The bag contained additional carabiners and runners, which were loops of flat line. The loops made them easy to chain together and to clip on to things. There was also a piece of static line, Kevlar, normally used in sailing, not for climbing. We’d lose style points. I checked the length, against my wingspan, three and change, so about twenty feet. I put a loop in each end using an eight and handed Blair one end with a carabiner.

“Clip it on.”

“Is this so we can belay each other?”

“No, it’s so if I die, you die too.”

She stared at me blankly for two beats, making me wonder if I had to explain, then she smiled. The joke was on me. I clipped the other end to my harness and then clipped the chain of runners to my harness and to the rope bag. Just in case.

In case of what? Fuuuccck. Right. To attach us to the slide.

Pointing at the goggles, helmets and gloves, I said, “Put them on. Then we’ll move to the back.”

She looked at me, “Plan A is ready, we look ridiculous. But we have a new problem with plan B, if there’s an air marshal on board he’ll shoot us.”

We laughed.

“So let’s work on plan A.”

The plane rumbled.

“Oh my god.”

“How are you?”

“Scared shitless.”

“I concur. Get up. It’s your birthday.”

“My birthday isn’t until next week.”

“I wouldn’t count on next anything. Just get up.”

She stood up and I followed, so we were both in the isle.

“Ready?”

“What are we doing?”

“Doubling down on Plan A.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you really want to jump? What do we have to lose?”

The plane shuddered, there were some screams.

“Fuck. Dad, maybe your plan is better.”

“But we’re all dressed up, come on.”

Very loudly I said,

“Everybody, it is my daughter’s birthday.”

I looked at her and said, “Blair there is something wrong with your birthday cake.”

I bent over and pretended to be inspecting her cake.

She bent over as well, “What’s wrong with my birthday cake?”

“Look. There’s not enough candles. Oh my, Oh my.”

“Whatever shall we do?”

The plane rumbled, tilted sideways and then leveled out. The other passengers were now staring. I winked at Blair. Plan A.

“Well, if life was a musical, we would do this.”

I am fucking insane.

I started to sing.

“Put another candle on your birthday cake.”

She joined in, “My birthday cake.”

We alternated singing the verses.

“Your birthday cake.”

“Put another candle on my birthday cake.”

“You’re another year old today.”

“We’ll have some pie…”

“And sandwiches…”

“And chocolate ice cream too…”

“We’ll sing and play.”

“The day away.”

“And one more thing you’re going to do…”

“I’ll blow out the candles on my birthday cake…”

“And when you do…”

“A wish I’ll make…”

“Put another candle on your birthday cake.”

“I’m another year old today.”

“Everybody… this is your part, sing happy birthday to you.”

To blank wide eyes. And no response.

I carried on, “Happy birthday to you.”

“I’m another year old.”

“You’re another year old.”

“I’m another year old.”

Together we sang, “Todaaaaaaaaaaaaaay.”

We ended kneeling, arms outstretched. Like Broadway.

A blinding flash.

Then an explosion.

Ears ringing.

We stood, frozen, watching through the window. The wing delaminated, rivets exploding in sequence along the trailing edge, a red hot stream of shrapnel, like tracer fire, strafed the side of the plane with an ear shattering metallic hammering. The plane banked radically to the right.

So much for standing and watching. I was thrown across the seats and slammed into the window. I could see flames pouring from the opening in the wing which was bending upward at an impossible angle.

It’s the end of the world as we know it…

I screamed, “FUCK IT, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!”

I scrambled toward the aisle and landed face first in a heap on the floor. The aisle was twisting and whipping wildly, canted weirdly to the side. I clawed my way upright just as the safety line between us snapped tight, jerking me forward, I landed on my butt, and skidded to a stop. I grabbed the seats on either side and hauled myself up again, and was down again, face first, as the safety line dragged me forward.

The lights went out.

Columns of brilliant orange light poured from the windows accompanied by a screeching metallic tear. The plane rolled. In the process of scrambling upright I was tossed sideways, lost my grip on the seats, was thrown up, where I bounced off the luggage racks, the ceiling and then continued toward the back of the plane, completely airborne.

I landed on my head, maybe on the ceiling, but not for long, because I was falling backwards. The plane was screaming like a dying animal.

“Falling!”

The safety line snapped tight, snapping me sideways where I careened into a seat, bounced off and then smashed into the floor.

I think it was the floor.

Was dangling at the end of the safety.

INCOMING — Multiple targets.

I balled up, covered my face with my arms as debris rained down on me.

JUMP

Jump?

I looked down the aisle at the safety line, saw Blair, braced in the back row of seats.

That way!

I tried to run.

Oh, not an aisle, an elevator shaft…

I was falling again.

And time stopped.

No, I stopped time.

The moment moved away from me, and the next moment, like a building, landed on my back, a building that was rapidly getting heavier. Resisting, I folded backwards, the aisle stretched, as my visual field became a black and white afterimage.

Why am I not surprised?

You know where you are.

Have I ever been surprised?

No. This is something you can do. The only time you remember, is while you are doing it, and when it’s over, you don’t remember.

The fact that I can do this makes sense, in a ‘I know that I can’ kind of way. A rationalization. Consider that I’ve totaled twenty cars. Twenty. I’m unlucky? But without a scratch? If I am unlucky why am I still alive? This is the why.

So what is here?

Time. When you are here, anything you eventually do must be within the constraints of your form. Those anythings consist of outcomes which radiate from this point, like bubbles, then become nothing, until you pick one. That one becomes something.

So I wait for one that works and I go with it. Assuming this building I am holding up doesn’t get too much heavier.

Yes. Easy.

Light fell like rain on the image, adding color and detail, revealing two rows of red lights, like runway lights, extending down the aisle. As the rain fell I registered other objects that were ballistic, noting their trajectories. There were no intersections; my path toward the back was clean. Most of the debris had fallen past me, meaning it was now above me.

I should try to remember.

But without remembering, specific memories never make it, but, feelings, sometimes those do.

I’ve got a feeling, a feeling about you… What is wrong with me? This thing is getting really heavy.

Its all bad, just pick something.

The rain of light fell in sheets, color splashed on Blair. She was braced in the back row of seats. The weight increased exponentially.

That one.

I let go, the moment surged forward, and I was carried with it toward the back of the plane, leaving all recollection of the moment behind.

The weight landed and again I folded back, the moment moving away. I had stopped time again.

The weird thing is, I don’t remember doing it. This is new. A surprise.

There shouldn’t be any surprises.

The moment out in front dragged me past Blair. She was in the back row, I looked at her carefully.

She looked back, our gazes met, her eyes sparkled and she smiled. In real time.

What was that?

A surprise where one should not be. You didn’t stop time. She did.

Trading one question for a bunch of questions…

June 17, 2005

“Dad, do you want to race?”

“Huh?”

“Dad, do you want to race?”

I had been distracted, deep in thought. The thought now forgotten.

“Sure.”

I had bought a cabin to live in, a brilliant idea. Not really, but we can talk about that later. Blair had come to visit me at the cabin, she was twelve at the time, and it was her first year away from me. We did my normal training climb together, and the climb ended on a gravel road about a half mile from the cabin.

So a race it would be, another game of “client golf,” my friend Bennie had introduced me to the expression. You make the game look really close and then you lose. It is an art. I had played a lot of client golf with Blair.

The race started and I moved into the lead and then drifted back, making it look real. The turn into the final straight-away was coming up so I decided to move back into the lead, that way she would grind me down coming into the finish. I liked the script but there was a tiny problem, I hit my mark, but I couldn’t pass her.

Realization lagged and then arrived.

I am already at top speed…

The corner was rapidly approaching. I looked over at Blair, and she had been watching me, waiting. She smiled.

That smile. In two places. The race and the plane. A moment of duality, then gone.

She allowed the full realization to dawn on me.

She set me up.

I have been had.

God, it was perfect.

She saw the realization in my face, then lit me up like a pin ball machine, becoming a blur vanishing around the turn with an explosive burst of acceleration.

Beyond the turn would be the final straightaway, a fifty yard gravel stretch to my cabin. I lumbered onward and rounded the corner, expecting to see her.

I was wrong.

She was gone.

There was nothing but a dust cloud to mark her passage. Slowing down, I coasted to a walk. The moment she had exceeded me. Not by an inch. But here one second and then gone. I had never felt anything like it. The purest joy. I wanted to hold on to it. I stopped and looked around for a moment.

I walked down a gravel road, lined with Oak trees, on a beautiful summer day. A bright blue sky was overhead, accompanied by the smell of pollen, and the sounds of water running in the creek next to the road. As I walked I watched the dust settle and soaked in the feeling.

August 22, 2011

Then a blur, acceleration, snapping back into the moment. I dropped and then hit the end of the safety line with a painful jolt. I was hanging, disoriented. Something hit me, the debris from above, a straight right cutting through my defenses. I tried to cover up but a crushing left hook to the side wrenched me around, painful, ugly. The tension on the line released and I slammed onto my back, not a wall, cabinetry, the galley, the back of the plane.

The good news.

Blair landed on me, knocking the wind out of me, using my body as a crash pad. In a continuous and fluid motion, she launched herself toward the exit, which was in the little hallway between the galley and the bathroom wall. Her hand touched down on the floor, a cartwheel, rotating her feet into position to land.

Aaaaggghhh, watching instead of moving. Go, go, go!

I tried to sit up, too late, was ballistic, tumbling, hit my head, so hard, it knocked me completely senseless, even with the helmet. The safety line caught, swinging me sideways. I hit the bathroom door with my left shoulder and the side of my helmet, there a stunning blast of pain.

Doubling over, I drove my right elbow to my left knee, arched my back, and threw my feet at the opposite door. My feet landed solidly. Reaching up, I got my palm flat on the bathroom door, using the good arm, I pushed myself into a deep squat, then jumped for the hallway with everything that was left.

Didn’t hear, but felt the concussion just before a shock wave enveloped me. A blast of enormous pressure and heat flared inches from my skin without touching me. Now I was a water balloon hurtling toward a wall. I hit, an explosion of stars, air, then another impact as I ricocheted off the galley wall, crashed into the emergency exit, and landed on the floor between Blair and the door.

Liquid fire followed me around the corner. Zero gee fire.

Beautiful… Death…

The fire expanded, absorbing the available space. Inches away it stopped, froze, turning into glass.

Magnificent…

The glass exploded. A blizzard of white swirled in our closed space, and then roared out, leaving cold, dark emptiness. Vertigo hit, we were tumbling. I managed to look at my altimeter watch and press the light. 28,005; we would be unconscious in a minute, if we were still alive in a minute.

Turning to Blair, I screamed, “Pressure Breath!”

Spinning faster and faster. Crushing g-force. Life was simple. Breathe in. Exhale hard. Try not to throw up. Breathe in. Exhale hard. Don’t throw up. The vibration and noise kept escalating, becoming raw, visceral terror, faster and faster, I lost focus, purple spots.

Our space reverberated as the spinning stopped with a violent jolt.

Zero-g, hate zero-g.

My stomach convulsed and I projectile vomited. It hung in the air looking like a big top beer can. We were yanked back as the spin resumed, but in the opposite direction. The beer can turned inside out.

“OH HELL NO!”

Hit me in square in the goggles, showering me with barf. The g-forces pressed down, crushing. My mind started to shut down, I abstractly watched the designs the liquid made on my goggles, moving back and forth, like waves, when I wasn’t seeing purple spots.

A deafening explosion accompanied a sudden and staggeringly violent impact. The opening across the aisle from us folded, crushed and distorted.

The spin slammed brutally to a stop, punctuated with another awful moment of nothing, then our little space was rocking back and forth, the wind was blasting, a wind tunnel, there was a loud banging sound, a cold burning smell, my focus returned. The galley wall was the new down. We collapsed onto it.

“What happened?”

“We were falling tail first. The rudder. I think the rudder snapped off.”

“What went wrong with plan A?”

“I can’t imagine, I was sure the singing put us over the top.”

I started to crawl over Blair so I could take a look up the aisle. Blair pressed back against the wall, and shouted to be heard over the howling wind, “Just don’t touch me.”

“What?”

“You’re covered in vomit.”

We laughed hysterically for a lunatic moment.

“I think that went pretty well.”

Blair yelled, “Oh my god, you looked like a pinball.”

“Did not. I was a feather on the wind.”

“Ha ha ha ha. You know, that was way better than X2.”

“Yea, and I’m not doing that again either.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I looked directly at her, “No. Shut up.”

I took a look up the aisle. Beyond the bathrooms was twisted metal and nothing. I could see the sky through the wreckage.

“Plane’s gone. Time to go.”

I sat back down on the galley wall next to her, shouting to be heard above the noise.

“When I open the door the slide will start to inflate.”

I tried to sound confident. With my shaking hands I was barely able to unclip the carabineer from my bag, the one with the webbing attached.

“This is attached to my harness, when I open the door, we will need to get into the doorway and you will climb up the slide and attach it to the rope that runs around the outside of the slide.”

“How do you know that there’s a rope around the slide?”

“Because if there isn’t we don’t make it.”

I handed her the carabineer. She looked at me, eyes behind the goggles questioning.

“You have to attach it so we don’t lose the slide when we jump.”

“No. This was my plan,” She tried to hand it back to me, “I had you doing this.”

“Blair, I would love to but have you seen me do anything in the last five minutes that makes you think I can?”

A moment, looking straight ahead, in thought.

“You’re right. Shit. Open the door.”

I moved to the door.

Blair said, “One sec. When they turn this into a shitty action movie…”

“Not doing it.”

“Dad, it’s in every shitty movie. You have to do it.”

“No.”

“Together then.”

“Deal. On three. Ready, one… two… three…”

We shouted in unison.

“LET’S DO THIS !”

“Hurry before I have time to think about this.”

“Yell made when you have it attached. And I will pull the slide release.”

Bracing my feet between the walls I slid the door release lever to open and then pushed the door up and out of the way, my shoulder hurt so much I almost fell over. With the door open the wind howled around us.

Blair shouted, “Shit this is fucking freezing.”

We sat down on the side of the door frame, kicked our legs out and bent over to squeeze our heads out. The ice cold frame burned on contact. The arctic gale froze my legs as the evacuation slide started to inflate. Reality. Eyes like saucers, my stomach did flip flops, it was overwhelming. It was nothing like the view out the window. It was nothing like anything. Looking up, above the ripped and torn edge of our tail section, different parts of the sky came into view. There were streaks of heavy black smoke, with falling pieces of debris.

Blair wavered. She started to back inside.

“Dad, this was a terrible idea. I don’t think I can’t do it.”

“If we don’t jump, we explode or burn to death and then end up back home with Rhonda after missing our flight and YOU are telling her why.”

I waited, time ticking by, “We’ve got to go … Blair?”

I was starting to panic.

“I’m thinking.”

“Blair? Please.”

“I’m not telling her anything.”

Humor. She was in character. That was good.

“Look, when I want to stay in the plane, then I get to tell her.”

“You’re right. Hold my legs.”

We looked at each other for a moment, then Blair squeezed past me and turned around to stand on the door frame. The evacuation slide continued to inflate, shaking, jumping and twisting in the wind.

She was standing.

“Dad, this is fucking impossible!”

“You can do it.”

I held Blair’s legs in place as she stood on the door frame and struggled to get into position to attach the safety line. I clung to her for all I was worth, the slide trying to tear her from my grasp.

Screaming, “Blair, is there a rope around the slide?”

“What?”

“Is there a rope?”

“MADE!”

Yes.

I used one arm and pried up the panel at the base of the door, tossing it aside before grabbing the release line.

The slide was almost full, going crazy.

Blair was screaming, “Made! Made! Made! Get us the fuck out of here!”

I must be completely insane.

THE epic moment,

And all I see is Wiley Coyote

Climbing into the muzzle of a cannon.

The road runner flashes by.

Wiley pulls the string.

KABOOM.

A flash of smoke.

The cannon rolls backwards.

The smoke clears.

Wiley is hanging in the air.

Crispy black.

Eyes blinking.

Little pieces of him falling.

His blinking eyes fall last.

“This is so stupid.”

I laughed.

I pulled the release.

10. Outside

I see a bright light.

Like what you see just before you die.

Near death.

Life is around you and in you.

Answer for Timothy Leary.

Let the sun shine.

Let the sun shine in.

The sun.

Head back, I had been looking at the sun. So I looked somewhere else. I was just beyond the break on a surf board, with a moderate swell passing under me.

I can’t seem to remember being a surfer.

You never remember. Give it a minute.

Oh, okay.

There were a lot of people on boards around me. In the distance, a short rocky breakwater extended about 50 yards out into the ocean. On shore was a familiar white sandy beach, the beach of my early childhood, a patch work of colorful beach towels, people sunbathing. The beach stretched back to an ice plant covered rise, with steps leading up to the parking lot and a small hot dog and hamburger stand. On the highway, cars passed in both directions, with a steep cliff rising up from the highway. Houses on stilts were scattered along the hill top overlooking the ocean.

I wonder what it’s like to live in one of those…

I tried to picture it, which was interrupted by a familiar shout.

“Outside.”

This was a warning to everybody that a larger set of waves was on the way so I started paddling further out. I looked up, only one swell was visible.

That is a big one.

I immediately increased my pace. There were shouts of concern behind me. The good news was that I was in the group furthest out. I glanced back at the crowd of paddlers trailing me.

Someone is going to get hurt.

I cleared the top of the wave and found safety and a cold breeze. I turned to look. The wave completely inundated the beach. Spray blowing up and around the restaurant.

“OUTSIDE!”

My attention returned to the horizon. An even larger swell was approaching so I started paddling again. As I paddled the breeze grew colder. My group of companions was considerably smaller this time. My twenty years as a swimmer took over. I worked my way to the front of the group. It was supposed to be a quick look back. I couldn’t look away.

Wrong. This is wrong.

The beach was scraped clean. The water was receding abnormally, leaving a growing expanse of bare sand. The entire length of the breakwater was exposed.

I tore my eyes away. Looking forward was not an improvement. The wave towered above me.

Hell, hell, hell, hell!

I shifted into an out sprint. The pitch of the incline increased.

Am I trying to paddle up a wall?

My arms turned to lead. Panic crept in around the edges. With a final, desperate, all-out burst, I pushed through the top of the wave just as it was starting to break.

Crap. That was close.

I sucked air while taking a quick looked around. Just two other paddlers remained, far off to my right.

The monster wave hit the beach.

Mind blowing

Water slammed into the restaurant, which survived a moment and then disintegrated. After taking out the restaurant it blasted across the highway and slammed into the cliff, carrying cars and debris with it.

The parking lot. My car. Aaaaaaaggggg! No!

The water began another rapid retreat.

As hard as I had been paddling, I was somehow chilled. The sun was gone, obscured by a building overcast which was accompanied by an increasingly cold wind. The water was moving, carrying me further out. A shout from the other paddlers prompted me to look outward.

The reason the water was moving out.

Another wave. Crap, I am a total idiot. Note to me: next time, don’t stop.

I willed my dead arms into action. I left my exhaustion and entered a tunnel narrow tunnel filled with pain. The exit a small bright spot in the distance.

I had no choices.

There were no options.

So I raced forward toward a mountain of water.

Am I going to die?

Would it change anything?

Is this it?

Would that change anything?

No.

Reaching the mountain, I began to climb. The top of the wave was unbelievably steep. I started to fade.

Do something.

Like what?

Smash a brick with you head.

Try screaming.

I cleared the top of the wave.

I made it?

Did you?

The board slammed down, hard, and I was rewarded for my efforts with a blinding nose full of salt water, just as my chin hit the board.

Dumb rookie mistake.

Blood in my mouth. My lip was split. Still choking, I looked back. I watched.

The nightmare wave hit the shore and destroyed everything.

Everything.

Large pieces of the cliff broke up.

Houses were undermined, tilted and then dropped into the churning cauldron below.

Not stupid.

Not this time.

I kept paddling, moving with a building surge as the water flowed out again.

The light had changed. It had become completely overcast. An icy cold wind howled over the water. Shivering and exhausted, I was alone. There was no one to shout a warning about the next wave.

And there would be one.

The surge out had told me.

I felt it first.

And then I saw the swell approaching.

Huge. Final.

It was death.

God damn it.

I am dead. I am dead.

Not a great mantra.

I love pain?

Better.

I willed my arms into action and increased my pace.

That hurts. I’ve got nothing.

Mark!

I love pain.

How can I possibly make it?

You do and you don’t.

Brilliant.

I was blinded as the cold wind and spray increased.

I love pain.

Me, lying to me.

The spray was coming from my left so I turned my head to the right making it possible to breath.

Perfect.

Because it wasn’t hard enough already.

I was about three quarters of the way up a mountain of water at the base of which was nothing but bare sea bottom.

How about a nice mind fuck?

Thank you, I’ll have two.

I put my head down and continued paddling, moving up the face of the wave, which had become impossibly steep.

This better be the last one.

There/s no, you do, and you don’t next.

Just I give up.

I risked a glance forward.

A reason for hope.

I could see the top.

Fading fast, I doubled down, shifting into a dead sprint.

Ten seconds to engine shutdown.

Close enough to touch.

A mental scream.

Ten feet to go.

I’m going to fucking make it.

Five feet.

The tip of the board cleared the wave top.

Yes!!!!

One last stroke.

I was there.

But I couldn’t.

Was stuck.

Somehow I was paralyzed.

NO. NO, NO, NO…

The board, with me on it, dropped sickeningly, pitched over backwards as the wave top collapsed forward. Abandoning the board, I attempted to dive into the wave face. But there was nothing to dive into. It had changed, coming apart, becoming air and foam, which fell with me.

A long fall.

Time enough to get really depressed.

Rail against my untimely death.

Do a little crying.

Then closer.

Getting real.

Ground rush.

Impact.

Hard.

I felt that?

11. Out Of The Cannon

I rocketed out of the cannon.

Straight into a brick wall.

Where I was doused with liquid nitrogen.

“DAD!”

Lethargy overwhelmed me.

I don’t want to do anything.

Need to go back to sleep and wake up.

Somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

“DAD!”

Something in my head, on my left…

Cat?

No.

Asrael?

Asrael, what the hell are you doing over there?

Asrael pushed me.

That was rude.

He pushed again, harder.

Asrael, leave me alone.

Then he kicked me.

That hurt!

I landed in the passenger seat.

I’ve never been in the passenger seat of my car.

Except I’m not in my car.

This is me.

My head cleared.

You have a Concussion.

Oh.

A Concussion.

What the hell?

Delusions.

My eyes are open.

What am I seeing?

Sky, ground, sky…

“Holy motherfucking shit, I’m falling!”

I screamed. A surge of adrenaline energized me. I screamed again and felt and additional surge of Adrenalin. I hauled myself hand over hand along the safety toward the evacuation slide. The wind was blasting.

Unbelievable.

The sky, then the ground, then the sky…Blair slammed into my back. She shouted in my ear.

“Dad, I assume you’ll explain what just happened later.”

I nodded vigorously. My right arm, no, my left arm was useless.

Shit, I’m on the wrong side, every thing’s backwards.

Used my legs to lock myself to the slide and managed to get the first rope unclipped from my bag. Hard to do anything, was frozen solid. I had to stare at my hand to make sure it was the correct hand and did what it was supposed to. I got the carabineer clipped to the slide, and actually remembered to unclip the safety line. I grabbed Blair’s arm and threw her at the other side of the slide. She sailed across, through the air, grabbed on and then hauled me across.

Fog creeping, across my vision from the left.

Shit, I have a concussion.

I shouted, “Hold me steady.”

I unclipped the second carabineer from the rope bag and struggled to make my frozen hand attach it to the slide. I twisted around and pointed at the other end shouting, “Go, go, go!”

Blair headed for the other end of the slide, hand over hand along the rope encircled the outside of the slide. I struggled to follow, forcing my left arm to work. When I extended my arm, somebody stabbed me in the shoulder with a knife. Gritting my teeth, I moved hand over hand toward the other end of the slide.

Wonder if the guy who designed the slide had this in mind?

Felt something.

Something’s wrong.

You better look.

“Oh shit, no, no, no…”

The rope blew completely out of my bag, whipping around in the wind. I tried to coral it with my left arm, a total failure, and then couldn’t reach back up to grab on again. I was stuck.

Blair shouted, “Dad, slack!”

I looked up. Sky, ground, sky…

Blair managed to get the first carabineer attached to the slide, then she tried to cross to the other side.

She was screaming, “Slack! Slack!” Then she looked back at me.

No help from me, I was dangling by one arm and imagining some sort of epic, cinematic struggle, her hand extending out with the carabineer, music building to a climax, Blair trying to get it attached.

Blair pivoted, so that her legs extended forward, wrapped them around the end of the slide, grabbed the safety line between us and did a sit up, hauling my ass forward.

Not cinematic at all.

She reached out and clipped the line on.

“MADE!”

I let go. I dropped.

“Ahhh shit!”

Now I was hanging upside down, my foot on fire, rope burned, caught in a line twist. I kicked at my tangled foot with the free one.

“YOU,” kick, “PIECE,” kick, “OF,” Kick, “SHIT!”

My foot popped free, I dropped, then bottomed out. Brains rolled out. Confusion rolled in.

Where am I? What the hell is wrong with my head?

You have a Concussion.

My head cleared. Blair used the safety line to move next to me. She wrapped the excess around us and managed some sort of knot to hold it in place. I looked up at the slide. It looked, well, it actually looked pretty reasonable, wing-like, a few rope twists aside.

“LOOK DOWN!”

Blair was shouting. I did. An orange fireball blossomed. It boiled toward us, getting larger and larger. Blair was shouting again.

“No, no! Not fair, not fair, not fair…”

The fireball turned ink black and then searing white. A shower of hot sparks hit us accompanied by a huge boom. I had counted seven seconds and looked at my altimeter, we were at fourteen thousand feet, and the ground was seven thousand feet below. Then I looked again.

Shit, the ground is white. White!

“Blair, do you want the good news or the great news?”

“Good.”

“The white down there. That’s snow.”

“And?”

“There are no weather refunds for the climb, which means it will be snowing in Jackson tomorrow, therefore it snowed here yesterday, making that,” I pointed toward the ground, ”still soft.”

“Using bad karma to our advantage. Soft snow. Now what?”

“Hold on.”

I quickly timed how long it took to fall six hundred feet, which was one tenth of a mile.

Seven seconds.

Crap.

“Blair, we’re going too fast, we’re going to get squished, we need to slow down.”

“How? With what?”

“Uh, like in vertical limit, I cut the rope and save you.”

“Dad, you don’t have a knife, pick an idea that doesn’t come from the stupidest climbing movie ever made.”

“Okay.”

Shit, think, think, think…

Not a movie.

Sailing then.

“Got it. We cheat. We pump the chute.”

“You think that’ll work?”

“It is called cheating.”

Imagine a big balloon attached to the top of the mast on a boat. Sailors call it a spinnaker or a kite. You use the kite when the wind is behind you. You cheat by pulling and then releasing, or pumping, the twin lines attached to the left and right sides of the kite.

We started pumping. As the kite was above us, it was like doing pull ups. We did three pumps, rested three counts then did three pumps again. Over and over. It didn’t take long before I started to get really tired. Pull ups suck.

Then I became distracted as things started to look like real things.

‘We’re getting low.”

“Dad, trees!”

Below was a tree covered plateau.

Lots of choices.

All bad.

They fell into two general classifications, dense trees or cliffs.

“Blair, pick, blunt force trauma or impalement?”

She looked down.

“I don’t want to be impaled. Blunt force trauma.”

I reached across her and hung from the line that should take us toward what looked the least cliff like. It appeared to be a steep snow chute. I had skied worse. Maybe.

Pulling on the line worked. We began to move laterally, the trees crossed below us, but as we got closer the snow chute looked less and less appealing.

“Dad, no…”

“You want to be impaled?”

“No.”

“Then there.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Dad that’s a cliff.”

“It’s a snow chute.”

“It’s a cliff!”

“Shit! You’re right, it’s a cliff.”

We dropped below the level of the plateau, the cliff was on our right, but it was holding snow.

“No, no, no. Too fast, too fast.”

We swung laterally in, the landscape racing by.

“Brace yourself. This is really going to hurt.”

Impact.

There was an explosion of white. A big surprise, I didn’t feel anything, it was like landing on a feather bed, a cold bed. Snow shot up my pant legs, filled my jacket, as I went head over, somersaulted and began tumbling. I got brief glimpses of the slide bouncing along behind us. We got launched off of some sort of kicker and were airborne for a second, then another explosion of white, as we touched down at tremendous speed, back down in the snow, followed by endless tumbling and spinning. A long way. We slowed down, the slope pitch began to flatten out, got flatter still, and we slid to a stop. The slide hit me as it bounced past, felt a yank on the ropes as it stopped. We were, somehow, still alive.

“Blair!”

I couldn’t see anything. The gap between my goggles and my eyes was packed with snow. I swam up to the surface, tore my goggles off and brushed the snow away. Blair was head down, her feet in comically in the air. She twisted around and her head popped up out of the snow. She was blind, her goggles also packed with snow.

“Dad!”

“I’m here, I’m okay.”

She yanked her goggles off, looked around.

“We’re alive. Why are we alive?”

I looked upwards at our slide path down the cliff. It was at least a quarter of a mile long. I was in bad shape, but, I was frozen solid, which was the good news. No pain yet.

“I don’t know. There’s no way that should have worked. What do you think Blair?”

“You did say it would work.”

“I was lying. It was a stupid theory. I was just being crazy.”

I pointed to the slide.

“Lets talk about this over there. I’m freezing my ass off.”

I reached down and unclipped the safety line connecting us.

We waded through the deep snow over to the slide, flipped it right side up and climbed on. Freezing cold, we pulled off our jackets and started shaking the snow out of our clothes. I looked around, trying to spot the smoke from the crash.

“We are going have to walk to the crash site if we want a ride out.”

Blair responded, “We probably should get there and see if we can help anyone.”

“A noble idea, but with that fireball I doubt there is anybody to help. Anyway, I’m so messed up that I’d make things worse.”

I was starting to feel pretty wobbly.

“I wish I’d brought my phone.”

Blair reached inside her jacket, fished out her IPhone and held it up for me to see.

“Are we impressed yet?”

“Impressed and more impressed. Wow. That’s great. I so wasn’t looking forward to walking through the snow. See if you can get a signal. I’m ready to be rescued now.”

I tried to move, was wrong, stumbled and fell down on the slide.

You have a concussion.

“Blair!”

She looked away from the snow in the distance and back at me.

“Hurry.”

I waved her over.

“Listen, shit, my head, no time. Got a concussion.”

Words were slurring, the fog was coming in.

“The med bottle is my inside jacket pocket. Stuff four of the small green dexameth.. pills, green, into me and a orange dexe…drine.”

Had to force the words out…

“Keep me talkin and awake if ya can. Tell the medics whatha gave me. I’ll be delusional. Try not ta …”

The dark closed in.

12. This is where dreams don’t mean shit, until they do.

…beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

The alarm.

Time to get up.

I don’t want to get up.

I reached out and fumbled for my phone, it took three tries, before I got it turned off. A warm bed was calling to me. It was dark, pitch black. I looked at my phone. The time was 5:30 am.

Already the second alarm…

You slept through the first…

Blair stirred.

“Dad. Where are we? I’m so confused. I had the weirdest dreams. We were on the plane…”

I reacted instinctively.

“You dreamed that the plane was in trouble?”

“Yes.”

“So did I.”

“It was so real, we…”

“Blair, stop.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know. Something maybe. Grab your phone.”

“Okay.”

I heard her trying to find it, “Got it. Now what?”

“Umm, look, text me one thing about your dream. And I will text you one thing. We’ll do it at the same time. Tell me when you’re ready…”

“Okay.”

Thought for a second, hands were shaking.

Shit. Shit. Shit. No way, it couldn’t be.

I typed.

One in a million.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Okay, on three. One, two, three, go…”

I hit send.

In blue, on my phone, my words.

“One in a million”

Below that, in white, from Blair.

“The third person rule.”

Fuck me.

“Holy shit! Dad! That, the plane, that was real?”

“Looks like…”

“I’m so confused, I have two yesterdays. How can I have two yesterdays? Are we in Denver or Jackson?”

“I have no idea…”

I looked around the room, the backpacks were sitting together on the floor next to the door.

“We’re in Jackson. The backpacks are here.”

Duh, I’m holding my phone. I left it on the plane…the other plane.

“It’s a continuity error. Two outcomes, two yesterdays. You’re not supposed to remember. It happens to me all the time. I guess it’s genetic.”

“How?”

“Some sort of screwed up leakage between outcomes that our fragile minds become aware of.”

“Okay. What are we supposed to do now?”

“Well, we’re in Jackson. So we go climbing.”

“That’s it?”

“Yea. Its not like we can file a complaint right? Like, hey, I’m remembering shit I’m not supposed to remember. I’ve done it and the answer is always the same, deal with it, and don’t tell anybody because you’ll look like an idiot.”

“We go on like nothing happened?”

“Not exactly. At least we have someone to share it with. Going it alone is pretty depressing. So Blair, on behalf of this slightly less than perfect universe, welcome to my life.”

“Thanks.”

I swung my legs around off the bed, sat up and rubbed my eyes. My head felt like it was full of sand.

“Blair, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Which yesterday?”

“Complicated isn’t it?”

“No shit.”

“The action adventure yesterday.”

“Uhh, the night in the hospital.”

“Hospital? I only remember passing out on the slide. What happened, after? We went to the hospital?”

“Oh my god, then you missed it. We did. You were really fucked up. Also, I think I met Asrael. That was STRANGE.”

“You met him? He didn’t kill anybody did he? What happened?”

“No. No killing.”

“Good.”

“First, they got you up into the helicopter on a stretcher hanging from a cable…”

“Shit, too bad I missed that.”

“Yea, well it wasn’t much fun for me. I thought you were going to die.”

“Sorry.”

“I forgive you. So, when we landed, we got out of the helicopter and were surrounded. Swarms of reporters, cameras, lights, all shouting questions. It was unreal, like a scene from a movie. They couldn’t get you through the crowd. Then you changed. All of a sudden. One second you were on the stretcher, unconscious, the next, you were up and standing. You looked different, your eyes were weird and you looked like you were seriously considering killing everybody. I’m thinking, shit, Asrael.”

“So you are buying Asrael now?”

“Look, we jump out of a burning plane without a parachute and wake up here, so my dad being Bruce Banner isn’t a stretch.”

“Point taken. What did he do?”

“He started talking.”

“He talked? Normally he just hurts people. What did he say?”

“Let me try and remember, first he screamed, Everybody shut your mouths. Now! Like that. Scary. It got quiet, you could hear a pin drop. Then he said, A lot of people just died. Their families are going to want to know why. There are two eye witnesses. Us. We are not going to say anything now. We are not going to answer any questions. We are going to talk to the FAA. After that we are going to the hospital. Tomorrow, if I am alive, and if the FAA is done with us, we will have a press conference and answer all your stupid questions.”

“He said stupid?”

“Yea.”

“Doesn’t sound like Asrael at all, but what do I know? What else?”

“Let’s see. He said, Back off and let them take me to the hospital. The press conference will be tomorrow. Then he sat down on the stretcher and passed out.”

“Shit.”

“Yes. Damn. I was really looking forward to that press conference.”

I looked at the time.

“Oh crap, Blair, that was my second alarm. We’ve got to get out of here. We’re supposed to meet the guide at the trail-head in forty five minutes, and we need to stop and get something to eat. Shit, shit shit.”

I got up and stumbled toward the bathroom to put on my contact lenses. The warm bed called to me again. The floor was like ice.

I could hear Blair looking around.

“Dad, where are my boots?”

Found my contact lens case and opened the first lens holder.

“Uuuh, probably the worst place they could be.”

“At the bottom of a smoking crater in Denver?”

“No, you were wearing them when we jumped.”

Thought for a second.

“Frozen in the car would be my guess.”

“Great. Keys?”

“On top of the TV.”

I put in my first lens. Opened the holder and struggled with the second, dropping it in the sink.

Fuck.

Tried again. Felt a cold draft as the cabin door opened. Got the second one in. Searing pain.

Fuck fuck fuck.

A red hot poker right in the eye. Blinked it clear. The burning stopped. A door closed.

“Dad. I hate you.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just come over here.”

I came back into the room, Blair was standing at the front door. I walked over to her. She opened the door. Giant snowflakes blew into the room in a flurry, accompanied by an arctic breeze. We stood in the open door way. It was freezing, and there was a foot of fresh snow on the ground.

A minute of standing and staring passed, before Blair broke the silence.

“It’s snowing.”

“In August.”

“No weather refunds.”

“Yep.”

“Just like you said… You know, under any other circumstances, I would be pretty upset right now…”

I opened my mouth to talk, and couldn’t. Vision swimming. I grasped at her, got my hand on her shoulder and went down, half falling.

I was on the floor.

Cold.

“Dad!”

…

The room was spinning, my vision was double, the spinning began to slow, the images gradually merged together. I was sitting on the side of a bed. I tried to collect my wits.

I don’t remember anything.

You never do.

What do I do?

Figure it out.

A hotel room, but where? Blair was kneeling in front of me. I recognized her. That was different. She waved her hand in front of my eyes.

“Anybody home.”

“Yes, more or less.”

“Which is it?”

“More.”

“Good.”

I stared at her. My mind blank, “Where are we?”

“Jackson Hole.”

“What happened?”

She said, “Conundrum.”

The time travel key word.

“Shit.”

“What does that mean?”

“A TV show. Seven Days. They had a time machine and could this guy back in time seven days. He would signal people that he was from the future by saying the word conundrum.”

She smiled an on-the-inside-of-the-joke smile.

“Who told you to say conundrum?”

A bigger smile, “You did.”

“I did? Of course I did. How long has it been?”

“For me, maybe ten minutes. For you, two years.”

“Two years. What happened? Did I tell you?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t tell me.”

“Exactly.”

“Do I get a clue?”

“Yes.”

“Great. What is it?”

She shrugged.

“So I’m fucked.”

She nodded her head, “Not totally. There is a clue.”

I looked around the room.

Its not in here knucklehead.

In my head.

Duh.

“Blair, I’m going to close my eyes and look around.”

“Should I wait here.”

“That’s probably a good plan. Safer.”

I closed my eyes.

Nothing.

Great.

Then.

I was laying in bed, on my side, large eyes looked back at me, belonging to a beautiful woman, radiantly beautiful, right next to me, her face inches away, she was familiar. She was…

I was looking at Blair again.

“Well?”

“There was a woman.”

“There’s always a woman.”

“She was really beautiful.”

“She always it.”

“I think I knew her. I should know her name but I can’t …”

Blair was grinning now.

“You know who she is.”

She laughed.

“But you can’t tell me.”

“She was the first thing you mentioned when you woke up.”

“Being me is really complicated. I assume there’s more but …”

“Hang on.”

She stood up and retrieved a cup from the microwave. She stirred the cup, steam coming off the top.

“Drink.”

“Am I going to burn my mouth off?”

“Its been sitting a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

It was coffee, with cream and unbelievably sweet.

“Try again.”

Something happened. This time with my eyes open.

I was just beyond the break on a surf board, with a moderate swell passing under me. I can’t seem to remember being a surfer.

“That was weird. I started dreaming while I was awake, The big wave dream…”

“Anything else?”

“Zip.”

“That’s okay. We need to get you some help. Lets go.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me up.

“Take my phone. The recorder is on. If you think of anything just start talking. I’ll drive.”

We walked through the snow to the car.

Not to the crash site.

There was no sun, but it was bright filtering indirectly through the overcast. The air was thick with the smell of wood burning fireplaces. The street had already been plowed.

We got into the car. A rental. I fiddled with the heater as Blair started the engine. I pushed the lever to direct the warming air at the window.

“What kind of help do I need?”

“The kind that allows you to unlock the cosmic mysteries of time travel.”

“So, a nuclear reactor?”

“Right ballpark. The scale is off.”

“What then?”

“Pancakes.”

13. To Have And Have Not

The big wave dream.

I fell.

Anticipated my death.

Felt despair.

Then…

Splat.

Then…

Awake.

God I hate that dream.

The world was spinning, a massive vertigo attack. The sheet was over my head, I was covered with sweat, my head was pounding, I was violently sick to my stomach and the side of my face was laying in something damp and unspeakably awful smelling. I struggled to sit up and open my eyes.

Wow.

Bad idea.

My raging headache blossomed into a mushroom cloud of pain. I clutched my head and slumped sideways onto the bed, landing on something hard and sharp, which cracked as it stabbed me in the side. I screamed and rolled over onto my back.

Man that hurt.

That really hurt.

I groped around blindly with my hand, retrieved the offending object. I risked opening my eyes to look at what had wounded me. It was an empty plastic prescription bottle. I squinted at it, attempting to read the label. No good, my eyes were dried and my vision was cloudy.

If I can’t read it, I should throw it.

I threw the bottle and watched it hit a glass sliding door.

Glass door?

I struggled to a sitting position, almost threw up, but lost interest in my raging headache. The door was in a wall of glass, which opened onto a balcony overlooking the ocean. It was stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful.

Alarms wailed accompanied by bank of red blinking warning lights, all in my head.

Danger Will Robinson. Danger. Danger.

I remember everything. How?

Beats me, I don’t recognize this place.

Wrong, wrong wrong. What the fuck? I don’t live here.

You have never been here.

Where in the hell am I?

Don’t ask me.

If I remember everything, why don’t I remember this?

Something new, maybe something like … the drug addled celebrity wanders into somebody else’s house, thinking it is his house.

Is that me?

Minus the celebrity part.

Bad, bad, bad, bad… I’ve got to get my ass out of here, out, out, out…

Out is good. But how and to where?

The bed was at the end of a loft which extended along the side of the house. My foot came off the gas.

Wow.

Yes, this is amazing. Why rush?

There was a high open beam ceiling; the floor was some sort of quality wood.

Bamboo maybe?

That’d be my guess.

A Plexiglas and stainless barrier ran the length of the loft, apparently to prevent drug addled celebrities from stumbling and falling to the house below. A catwalk with twin handrails extended from an opening in the center of the barrier and crossed above the room below. At the opposite end of the loft was a vanity, with shower and bathroom enclosures on opposite sides. In the center of the loft was some sort of very high end computer setup on a glass and stainless desk. Huge studio monitors were flush mounted into a wall that ran the length of the loft. That wall was made of wood planking. There were a series of high windows just below the ceiling and a collection of artwork, oils and sixties era black and white optical paintings, very similar to my grandmother’s. Her very distinctive opticals were large geometric shapes that had been divided into much smaller shapes and were alternately painted black and white.

My head was pounding, sharp painful, and the persistent foul bile taste in my mouth wasn’t going away any time soon.

Water. I need some water

First you’ve got to stand up.

I crawled to the edge of the bed, and carefully tested my ability to stand.

I think I can stand.

Can you make it to the sink?

Struggled to my feet and tried to take a step. My foot didn’t budge, lost my balance, my other foot sort of moved but the sheet was tangled around my ankles, so I staggered, half hopping and smashed my toe into small table next to the bed.

Now I was on the floor, clutching my foot cursing a blue streak. Laying there on my back I was looking up at one of the paintings.

What the hell? I recognize it.

How could you?

I used the table and the wall to get upright and take a closer look.

Maybe I’m just being stupid.

I pulled the painting away from the wall and checked the back for her signature.

There it was.

HAYMS ’66. It can’t be. This is impossible.

Think on that one.

My grandmother, Sadie, was a prolific painter but had only done these black and white optical paintings for about six months in the 1960’s. She was a junk artist. She would collect all sorts of unlikely crap, glue or wire it to a canvas and then cover it with a mixture of pigment, glue and dirt. She was probably lying about the dirt part. The result was an illusion of people or faces staring back at you. Anyway, back in the sixty’s she had a heart attack and was told she needed to stay in bed for about six months. She wasn’t going to stop painting, but since her normal process was fairly energetic, she took the opportunity to mess around with a popular sixties painting style and used the time to paint a collection of black and white opticals of geometric shapes that ranged from small to large in size. There were no faces in those.

That was more than forty years ago. Over the years the frames had suffered damage, the pigment had cracked and the whites had yellowed. My first wife and I had spent some time retouching the worst of the damage with white and black felt markers. I allowed the picture to swing back against the wall but something else caught my eye. The painting was perfect. I mean perfect. There was no cracking or yellowing and no evidence of the amateur restoration work that my wife and I had done. It had been beautifully and meticulously restored, and who ever had done this had spared no expense. Leaning against the wall for support I checked all the paintings I could reach. They were all hers, even the ones I didn’t recognize, and every one of them had been flawlessly restored. A number of these had been hanging in my house, it made no sense.

I gave up trying to walk and crawled over to the computer, pulled myself into the chair and tapped the space bar a few times. The monitors lit up and there was a Windows XP sign in. Leaning over the keyboard I tried my usual password, which didn’t work. Tried every password I could think of and none of them worked. Not really a surprise. The awful taste in my mouth wasn’t going to go away, so I slid down off the chair, crawled over to the vanity and pulled myself upright, my arms resting on the counter.

The counter was natural stone with two metal bowls mounted on top and two stainless steel works of art which doubled as faucets. I leaned over, turned on the water, rinsed my mouth out and then drank some water and as I did, reached over and flipped on the light. I looked up at my reflection and it happened again, the Peter Parker moment.

I spent my childhood being the cry baby ninety eight pound weakling, a skinny, nerdy guy with no muscles, whose fate was to cry crocodile tears while having sand kicked in his face by an endless succession of bullies, a process that began in kindergarten and ended around tenth grade. I can still see the faces and remember the names of each and every one of them. I did not acquire a gun and kill them; possibly I would have if it had been as easy as it is today. I fantasized endlessly about beating them into submission or wanting to pound them, but having to reluctantly save them instead. When I saved them, everybody loved me.

I wanted muscles in the worst way, but I had no idea how they happened, so I took to wearing ten long sleeve shirts. If I pushed the sleeves up on the shirts underneath, I could imagine I had muscles. Being a cry baby wasn’t my only problem. I couldn’t catch a ball and I threw like a girl. On the other hand, I could swim so I ended up on a swim team. I wasn’t universally awful, which meant I was put on the intermediate “C” team. I swam in a ninety minute workout three times a week with a combination of much younger kids or fellow weaklings.

The best part of being on the intermediate “C” team was our coach Walt. It may have been the “C” team but Walt was not a class “C” coach. Walt was an ex-marine, and a brute of a man devoid of subtlety. What he wasn’t, was a bully. He gleefully inflicted pain on all, everybody was equal, no exceptions. After six months of swimming with him, even a paltry three days a week, I improved. After about six months the unbelievable happened, I won a race. I had never won anything.

A “C” swimmer I would have remained, but Walt got fired, and that changed everything. He formed his own team and recruited me. He recruited me. Me. I had to pinch myself. He wanted me to swim on his team, his senior team. Swimming for Walt’s senior team was an out of body experience. It was really, really, hard, six days a week, two workouts and four hours and twelve thousand yards of agony every day. I swam before school, I swam after school and when I was not swimming I was stumbling through life in a chlorine cloud exhaustion induced daze. In my car at four thirty in the morning, to the pool, then to school, then back to the pool then home by nine at night. The walking dead.

One night my parents laughingly told me about a neighborhood meeting where the parents tried to decide what to do about Mark Elliot the drug addict. My blood red eyes and the odd hours of my comings and goings had given me away.

My spot in the senior team hierarchy was last. Last to finish, last, last, last, every swim of every set. I hated it. I hated myself. I hated my weakness. I hated the pain. One day, I have no idea why, I just said the hell with it, how much more could it hurt, so I did one swim hard and finished first. Then I did another swim hard and came in first again. For three quarters of the workout I kept swimming hard and I kept coming in first. Finally I couldn’t keep going, but even then, I didn’t come in last. I was done with last, which meant that the pain was no longer emotional. I didn’t need to hate myself anymore. An improvement.

It happened on a bright sunny Sunday, the day of my date with Robin. She was blond, an actress, unnaturally beautiful, with pale blue eyes. True love. I was getting ready. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I looked at the reflected image, filling with shocked disbelief. It had been a fantasy. A ridiculous fantasy. Not something that happens to me. I’m never that guy. But. Now. I was that guy, the guy with muscles, lots of muscles.

No way.

Way.

I was seventeen and fifty seven, gazing in the mirror at an impossible sight.

Who gets this moment twice?

Who gets it once?

The reflection was me, but lean, maybe thirty pounds lighter, six pack abs. My gray hair was now a golden brown to sandy blond. There were no gray roots. My chin line was subtly different. I could see but I wasn’t wearing contacts.

Lasik surgery?

My weight and shape had to be the result of massive training.

But at my age?

How?

When I was done admiring myself in the mirror, I tested my ability to walk. Unstable but functional, so I walked into the closet and changed into a fresh pair of shorts and t-shirt.

My size.

And Sadie’s pictures.

It was time to go downstairs, but that was easier said than done. I couldn’t find a fucking stairway. Or a fucking elevator. I walked the length of the loft and found nothing. Walked outside onto the balcony. The sliding glass door was epic, weighted a ton, but moved with no effort at all. There was nothing, no stairway.

Am I losing my god damn mind?

Absolutely.

Dumb question.

I walked the length of the catwalk to the end. It just stopped at the living room wall. I looked down at the living room below, it was gorgeous, tile, glass display cases, artwork and a full wall of glass facing out at the beach. Walked back to the loft and checked again, looked in the closets.

What the hell?

Went back out on the catwalk and saw it, finally, a metal pressure pad on the railing. I pushed it and a piece of the walkway that had been connected to the living room wall folded up, enclosing the area I was standing, then barely audible hydraulics lowered me to the floor. I was standing on a square section which went straight down, the railing and walkway shifted becoming a banister and a stairway.

You’ve got to be kidding.

The touch down was silent, smooth and I stepped off. The stairway retracted with the same barely perceptible hydraulic hiss, and became a cat walk again. I shook my head in stupefied amazement and then wandered the living room. The floor was a ceramic tile, gray, smooth and cool to the touch. The walls that weren’t glass were wood, the same as the loft, rough sawn planking, lightly stained. The artwork in the cases was all aboriginal, a lot of it seemed African but I could only guess at the rest. There were more pictures, some of which I recognized as my grandmother’s, some clearly by other artists. I dawdled, the beauty held me.

Although I had washed the worst of the taste from my mouth I needed something to eat and drink so I tore myself away from the artwork and walked into the kitchen. There was a long bar with bar stool seating along the living room side. The kitchen side of the bar was lower and had a sink with cabinets underneath. There was a center island with a butcher block top. Pots and pans were hanging over it from a stainless steel rack. Mounted in the wall was the most high tech espresso machine I have ever seen with a yellow post-it taped to a button. The post-it said “PUSH HERE.”

Have I had some sort of brain injury?

So this is all yours, but you don’t remember?

If so I suppose there are better things to do than read the instructions to my complicated espresso machine every day.

I pushed the button and watched in fascination. The machine ground and pressed the beans, steam escaped as it made the espresso. When the espresso was done it added the steamed milk.

Tasted it. Wonderful but not sweet, I guess all the money in the world can’t buy you everything. I needed to add sweetener, which, based on what I saw in the mirror, was not going to be sugar. There was a glass container on the counter, which I opened. There was a wooden spoon inside and fine white powder. Licked my finger, touched it to the powder and then tasted, it was Equal. Not Splenda. I put one spoon full in my cup, dropped the spoon into the container and closed it. There was a saucer and small silver spoon on the counter across from the machine, so I set the cup on the saucer, stirred my espresso and tasted it. It was perfect.

My eyes took in the view, waves breaking on the beach, as I sipped my espresso, and then I registered movement. There was someone sitting on one of the lounge chairs.A woman. She reached out picked up a cup, took a sip and returned it to the table next to her. All I could see was long brown hair moving in the breeze, cascading over the back of the chair.

Blair!

She must be home from college in Philadelphia.

Or not, I have no idea how long my memory has been gone.

She could be out of school already.

She might actually be here taking care of her poor brain damaged father.

Correction, her very rich brain damaged father.

Just how does one become rich after they get brain damaged?

Perhaps brain damage is a requirement for becoming rich.

How many times has she been asked what is going on?

Maybe you’ll look at her and my memory will pop back.

Maybe it will rain cats and dogs. There are too many changes. Don’t count on anything being as it was.

I crossed the kitchen to the sliding glass door and opened it. Same as upstairs, stainless and glass, very heavy, but it moved effortlessly, silently, a zillion dollar door, a zillion dollar stairway, a zillion dollar house.

The morning overcast was just starting to burn off. I walked toward Blair feeling quite cheerful despite my mental state and said, “Good Morning.”

She turned.

The whole fucking world went to hell.

I don’t give a shit about celebrities. To me they are just people with weird jobs. My interest is the performance, not the performer. And, the weirdness of the job has a cost. Their freedom. Their lives become a real world version of the walking dead, with a zombie public in continual pursuit. They are targets who can only travel and move around in disguise or with armed escorts. They live in elaborately defended compounds with high walls, armed guards and security systems.

The fucked world became skewed, distorted, drifting sideways.

Sanity slipped away.

She is not Blair.

No.

She is Angelina Fucking Jolie.

She may as well be the president of the Fucking United States.

What are you doing here?

Oh my god. I am inside.

What are you doing inside?

You are inside her fucking compound.

You are inside her goddamn defensive perimeter.

The cup, forgotten, slipped from my hand. I stopped the cup.

I need to think.

No problem, you can stop time.

I can stop time?

Yes.

How?

Just do it.

Do what?

It.

The weight of the next moment, folded me back, light like rain fell. The cup paused in flight. It was spinning, the black drink ejected outward was slowly forming an expanding helix shape. My mind raced forward.

Probably jail not death

Hair splitting.

There would be a scream, and then two massively large men, imagining Israeli military types, Hans and Franz. They would materialize as out of nowhere. Their hands would close on my arms like slowly tightening vices. They would levitate me and walk me on air, an escort, my feet never coming within six inches of the ground, to some safe and secure location.

Quiet, isolated, a utility room off the garage, a good place for a private conversation. Very private.

There they would forcefully, and politely, ask me all sorts of questions, in accented but flawless English, questions that I would have no way to answer. I would play stupid, confused, not a stretch at all. Eventually the police would arrive. They would not be polite. There would be an exaggerated show of bravado as they jockeyed for position to posture for, and view, the celebrity. I would be cuffed and placed in the back of the police car, then forgotten, while the officers did their interviews, endless interviews, as they would try to linger.

Eventually an officer would open the door to the back of the car, assure me that I had the right not to say anything, but then ask if there was anything I wanted to say about stalking Ms. Jolie or breaking into her house. I would use a line from Memento.

I’m sorry, but I have this condition.

Following that would be a long drive to some jail facility, probably including a stop where they would animatedly tell their heroic story to a couple of other officers.

Who the hell was I going to call?

What could you possibly say? Hi Mat, I need you to post a twenty five thousand dollar bond for felony stalking.

Maybe it would be better if they shot me.

Perhaps, but it is time to choose.

But there are no good choices.

There is always luck. Pick a card, any card.

The cup hit the deck and the black espresso splattered the wood and my feet. I looked up, trying to look harmless and confused, confused was pretty easy. I braced myself for annihilation. There was no scream. There was nothing.

Sometimes you are so stupid. I said that there were too many changes. Did you really think that you knew enough about what was going on to predict anything accurately?

I did. So I am stupid.

There was silence.

She stared daggers at me.

Just like the movies.

The look of emasculation.

A woman’s neutron bomb.

Locked and loaded.

Point blank.

Flawless delivery.

The look of emasculation says, “you are a pathetic, inconsequential, dickless, enrich and you mean nothing.”

Dickless and enrich are redundant, but that is really the point.

She looked back down and continued reading.

I ceased to exist.

The non existent man picked up a cup. The dark espresso had beaded up on the surface of the wood and would not leave a stain. He brushed it away. The dark liquid slid between the cracks in the deck and was gone, just like the man. Beautiful wood, just beautiful, no expense had been spared. He picked up the cup and carried it back inside, back through the magnificent sliding door which made no sound and attracted no attention, just like him.

Maybe I had a stroke, one that keeps me from recognizing people.

Maybe it makes everybody look like Angelina Jolie.

The Jolie Syndrome.

You are very funny.

That was the look of emasculation.

But the look of emasculation is a relationship weapon.

A relationship. Impossible.

The word impossible must not mean what you think it means.

This isn’t princess bride.

No, that was much more realistic.

I set the cup down on the center island, walked back over to the window and flat out gawked at her. It was her.

How?

Suffered a total failure of imagination.

Total.

There is no reasonable explanation.

There is no unreasonable explanation.

There isn’t even a ridiculous explanation.

Back to impossible.

Yet, there she sits.

Shit. Okay, a dream then.

I looked around the room.

Color, texture, surfaces.

My dreams are all situational, stress, feelings.

There is no texture, no color to my dreams.

This room is all texture, all color and all surfaces.

My eyes closed, I could hear the waves breaking, a wind chime, the sound of seagulls flying by. Ran my open hand along the top of the butcher block, felt the uneven texture of the wood. Felt my feet on the floor, the cool ceramic tile.

I am thirsty. Only got one sip before I dropped my drink.

I walked over to the espresso machine and looked at the post-it that said, PUSH HERE.

Why a note?

Oooo, a detective story.

Found the coffee right next to the machine, in a cooler with a glass door that was also built into the wall. I retrieved a bag and sniffed. A wonderful aroma.

A smell that can’t be imagined.

Get a grip. This isn’t a dream.

The machine was stupidly easy to work. It only took a minute to figure out where to put the beans and the milk. I found its operation far less enthralling this time. As it made the espresso I gazed at the PUSH HERE on the yellow post-it. The machine was so simple, why the note? Another thought.

Cat, status.

Nothing.

Cat isn’t available in this lifetime. Would you like to leave a message?

No. Wait a second…

Is this Allan?

Yes. Pretty interesting morning. She is beautiful isn’t she?

Allan, you’re here.

Always. Who do you think you talk to when Cat isn’t around?

Why haven’t you told me?

It’s your life son. I had mine.

But you answer.

Of course I do, you would do the same thing.

True. So, what do you think I should do?

I could feel his smile, the laughter in his eyes.

Do you have to ask? Go talk to her. If she hates you, she must love you.

But I don’t know what’s going on.

Do you ever know what’s going on? I’ve got to hand it to you son, you sure know how to pick ‘em.

But…

But what? Mark, you’ve elevated upsetting your women to an art form. It’s not what you want, and you never know why, that’s why you’re so good at it.

I’ll be completely clueless…

And that means…

Shit, you’re right, it will be totally normal.

Trust your old man, she’s lovely, go talk to her. It’ll be fun.

You’re right, thanks.

I headed for the door. And he stopped me.

Son.

What?

Never go empty handed.

I looked down, I had one espresso. Mine.

Duh.

I reversed direction and walked back into the kitchen to make her an espresso.

How?

She is slim. Intense.

So … Very strong. No milk. No sugar.

The artwork.

Africa. Maybe?

You’re rolling now.

I searched through the cooler. There was a white hand lettered bag of beans in a double bagged Zip-lock. Opened the bag and sniffed.

Incredible.

Definitely.

I loaded the beans then fiddled with the machine, found the max strength setting, lifted up the yellow post it and pushed.

As I waited I walked over to the bar. The LA Times. What a relief, something familiar. Taking a sip of my espresso, a sip of heaven, I slid the paper over and scanned the headlines.

The Nation: Democrats Fire Away on War, Mideast during debate. Those who opposed Iraq action escalate criticism of Bush and debate rivals who backed him.

No.

I looked at the date at the top of the paper and blinked, uncomprehending. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The date was September 10, 2003.

Eight years ago.

That isn’t a disaster.

I am so fucked.

Maybe, but don’t jump to conclusions.

I dropped my head to the bar. Bang, bang, bang.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

We already know what this isn’t.

I looked at the headlines and the date.

September 10, 2003.

Screw it, this is my weird ass dream, why not go talk to Angelina Fucking Jolie?

I retrieved her espresso from the machine and with both cups in hand I headed for the door. Leaning against the door with my shoulder I slid it open, stepped outside and then repeated the same to close the door behind me.

I walked over and set her new espresso down on the small table, shifting her empty cup to a different table. Put my cup on the opposite side and remained standing. While I waited I looked at her and took in the details. She wasn’t wearing any makeup but it didn’t matter. At her most natural she was possibly even more beautiful than expected. Her hair was windblown and wavy from the moisture. The robe she was wearing was thick, white and very high quality. Exquisite.

Do we have a plan?

Who needs a plan when you have a way.

A way?

The way you are.

Cause I did it, my way.

Meanwhile, our story continues.

She looked at the cup wordlessly.

Well?

She continued to stare at the cup, and without looking up she said, “You went into the kitchen and made an espresso.”

Shit.

What the hell does that mean?

Reading my mind she said it again, more slowly, “you went into the kitchen and made an espresso.”

No help. Except. The yellow post-it PUSH HERE.

Am I that clueless? I am a good cook, a really good cook.

Shit, say something.

“Well, it had to happen eventually.”

She looked up at me. She seemed warm, open, in better humor.

“So it’s poison then?”

“Yes it is. Please.”

I opened my hand, offering the cup.

She played along, hesitating.

This is hysterical.

She is really funny.

I hammed it up,

“Come on, the suspense is killing me. Take a sip.”

I faked a shiver.

“Oooo, this is so exciting.”

She shook her head, looked up at me, eyes radiant.

Spinning …

IQ in full free fall.

Danger Will Robinson.

Then she picked up the cup, slowly, for effect.

Fucking performance art…

She held her look, straight into my eyes, paused, and sipped.

“Ummm.” Her eyes closed. “Perfect. Unbelievable. You used the Koratie.”

YES…

“The white bag with the hand lettering?”

“That would be…”

I slid a chair over and sat down.

“It was obvious. You are surprised?”

“Mark, you never go into the kitchen.”

What the fuck? Who am I?

A long long way from who you were.

“Aah, the academy award winning actress hard at work. I know you are busy but I have something I really need to ask.”

Oops.

Like getting hit by grease splatter from a red hot frying pan, downright scary, her good humor evaporated, shoulders tightening, eyes flashing rage.

“Mark did you hear one word I said last night? I thought I made it absolutely and positively clear to you that we were done with that subject.”

What are you talking about?

I went for goofy, going fully clueless.

“And we are. Your wish is my command. I have completely forgotten what the subject was that we were never going to talk about again. So, what I want to ask you about, couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that, since I have conveniently forgotten it. This must be different. As a matter of fact, there is no must be. I can absolutely guarantee that we have never talked about this subject. Not ever.”

“Well?” she asked.

Now she seems relieved?

Resigned?

A bit of impatience?

God I suck at this.

Whatever.

“Take a sip of your espresso first, the amazing espresso that I made with my own hands.”

She didn’t.

Crap, crap, crap.

What do I do, what do I do?

Instead, “Mark, out with it.”

Procrastinate.

Deflection.

“I need to ask you a couple of questions first.”

“Then ask.”

“Have I had some kind of seizure, a stroke, a head injury perhaps?”

As I spoke her expression darkened, an approaching storm.

Make it funny.

“You didn’t, by chance, hit me over the head with a frying pan?”

“Is this some sort of insanity plea?”

Wiggle room.

“Maybe, mostly, it really depends on your answer.”

“This is silly.”

“Yes it is. Please, just answer.”

“No, as far as I know, you haven’t had a stroke and I didn’t hit you with a frying pan. Satisfied?”

Not really. What the fuck am I doing here?

“Yes. Thank you. Okay, next question.”

Deep breath.

Here goes.

“Can I act?”

A setup.

Asking a question you know the answer to.

Or should know, fuck. I know I can’t act.

That expression was, what?

Exasperation?

She looked down, and rolled her eyes.

That can’t be good.

She answered, “I think that’s been established.”

What the hell does that mean?

This whole no context thing just blows.

Guessing no.

“I think you mean I can’t, but I want you to say it. I can see that you are pretty upset with me, and I know I deserve it, so, be brutal. Can I act?”

A hesitation, a moment of thought, then her expression softened, she reached out, touched my hand.

“Mark, you are a story teller, not an actor.”

What?

She fucking candy coated it!

A compliment for a compliment.

“That was a very nice thing to say. Thank you.”

That was easy.

“So it’s established, I can’t act, as a matter of fact I am the world’s worst actor, and this is one of those opposites attract things, where, you are, like, one of the best actors in the world, and I am, like, the worst, right? Meaning I can’t possibly lie to you. In fact, I am a total open book, completely and utterly transparent, right? I couldn’t lie to you if my life depended on it.”

“Mark, you don’t need to beat it into the ground. What ridiculous thing is it that is so important you need to interrupt me.”

Now I’m hesitating. Fuck. Losing my nerve.

Why?

Duh, cause I’m from the future. How the fuck do I say that?

One word at a time.

“Mark, I have a meeting today at one, I need to at least read this, what the hell is going on, please.”

Run. Run away. Give up…

Then you start over.

Hell, then what?

Fuck it. Ask.

Okay…

“When I walked out here and dropped my coffee, the reason I dropped it was surprise. I was surprised because, because, I don’t know you.

That expression doesn’t look good.

“Not like a relationship, I don’t know you, but a real life don’t know you. I mean, I know who you are because I have seen your movies, but I have no memory of you, or a memory of any relationship with you.”

She leaned forward and started to say something.

Countermeasures. Countermeasures. Fast.

I held up my hands, the water polo, I’m not committing a foul signal to the referee.

“Stop. Stop right there. You get to destroy me after I finish. After. But I get to finish first. Hear me. I don’t fucking know you, I have never met you, I don’t know this place. I don’t know why I am here. The last thing I remember was living in townhouse in Aliso Viejo with my wife Rhonda, and it was November 2011. Yes, eight years from now.”

I dropped my hands.

“Now you can kill me.”

She went off.

I didn’t even hear the words, the visual was astounding.

Holly shit!

Epic.

Is this real?

My entire experience with her was, well, Angelina Jolie is an image on a screen, flickering lights, not a person. I watched, transfixed as a range of emotions played across her magically expressive face.

Helpless.

You’re grinning.

Shit.

Her entire performance stopped, frozen.

I counter attacked.

“No. Please. Don’t stop. That was amazing. But … can you tell me where can I get a bag of popcorn.”

She executed an emotional u-turn, so fast, blindingly fast. She was saying something.

Wow, shit, I needed to be listening to this. Cat, playback.

I’m sorry but Cat is not available in this frame of reference.

Would you like to leave a message.

No. Fuck. Okay, listen. What am I seeing?

Relief? Happiness?

She reached out, placing one hand on my hand and the other on my forearm, the intimate nature of the contact was shocking.

Off balance.

Find your center.

Get your feet under you.

“Mark, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, this is wonderful, I didn’t realize, you’re working on a story aren’t you?”

Right in my face, a wedding ring on her finger, and on mine.

No way. Can’t be.

Really?

My head is going to explode.

Focus.

What had she said?

A story.

“Yes, yes I am working on a story. A hell of a story.”

“This is wonderful news Mark. I’d love to work on it with you, but I need to finish this…”

Footing.

“Because of your meeting.”

Like cracking the alarm code

The moment before the sirens started.

“Yes, Mark, when I get back, okay?”

Steadier still, I considered the time frame.

It’s near the end of 2003.

How lucky can I get?

You have something?

Oh yes.

Time to jack up a heat check.

“What script is it?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

I stomped down my emotional response and asked blandly, “Have I read it?”

“Mark, you’ve never read one of my scripts. You said it disrupts your creative vision.”

“So I am a total asshole?”

“Yes.”

“Could I have read this one?”

That is curiosity.

Hooked her.

“No. Hardly. It was delivered by courier this morning.”

“So no way then, right?”

“I think I said that.”

“Tell you what, I will help you finish working on this script and then you can help me.”

“That’s an attractive offer,”

Sarcasm.

“But since you haven’t read the script…”

And a hanging curve…

“True, I haven’t, but remember, I’m from the future. I’ve seen the movie at least ten times. I have the DVD’s of the theatrical release and the director’s cut. I’ve listened to the director’s commentary track. He described all the changes you made, so I can just tell you what they are.”

As I spoke her eyes opened wide, then wider, in mock surprise,

“Really?”

Better and better.

I deliberately misread her expression.

“Come on, don’t look at me that way. I’m not some sort of obsessed fan. I just liked the movie.”

The line played. She laughed.

“Do you want me to tell you about it or not?”

“God damn it Mark, you’ve trapped me. Now I’ve got to hear this.”

She closed the script and then looked up at me, folding her arms across her chest.

“Okay, tell me about the movie.”

“The movie I have not read the script for.”

“Yes.”

“For sure.”

“Mark!”

“Okay, okay. Just kidding. Well, it looks like an action movie but it’s actually about a marriage. John and Joan Smith’s marriage. All the violence is just a metaphor for the conflict in their relationship. John and Joan meet and get married, but unknown to each other, they are both super assassins. This means they both live a lie which totally screws up the relationship and they become alienated from each other. Eventually the people they work for figure out they are married. Since they are competing firms, arch rivals, they conspire to have the Smiths kill each other. That doesn’t work, and the Smiths discover the truth. Then they try to kill each other, but in the end they can’t, and decide to work together, saving themselves and their marriage, and they live happily ever after, after they kill all the bad guys.”

Incredulous.

Suspicion.

“Did you get this from Doug?”

“Doug who? Do I know Doug?”

“Doug Limon. No…”

“Anyway I haven’t even told you the best part. What I really enjoyed the most about the movie was that it has this whole To Have and Have Not thing going on.”

“To have and have not?”

“You know, To Have and Have Not. Come on, we had to have seen this together; Bogart and Bacall fall in love as they make the movie, the same as their characters.”

“Of course but who are you talking about?”

She isn’t asking about Bogart and Bacall.

“You and Brad Pitt. He plays John Smith. The two of you fall in love while you’re making the movie, which matches the emotional arc of the characters, who start out alienated from each other and end up in love. The director, Doug right? He took advantage of that by filming the first marriage counselor scene at the beginning and the last marriage counselor scene at the end. After the movie was finished the two of you divorce or leave whoever you are with, for you, that would be me I guess. Then the two of you go off to Africa, adopt some children, have some of your own children, and basically have the fifty year marriage, since years for Hollywood marriages are like dog years, and you were still together when I left.”

She laughed.

“Hollywood marriages are like dog years. That’s really funny. But Brad? No way. He dropped out of the project months ago.”

Something is going on behind those eyes.

Wheels turning.

“I don’t normally read this kind of movie rumor crap, but I do seem to remember reading that he got back in as soon as he heard that you were in.”

She paused for a moment, a genuine look of surprise.

“Oh, this is good. Mark, this is good. This is really good. You have outdone yourself. I can’t imagine how… You can’t know any of this. Who did you talk to?”

Try the familiar form of her name.

“Angie, I haven’t talked to anybody. Believe me, I want to tell you all about it, but you have your meeting, so, let me help you get the script revisions done first. All your changes are described on the commentary track, I can just tell you what they are.”

She was looking down at the script.

“You can tell me the changes I am going to make. Trapped again. I have to hear this. Dazzle me.”

She looked back up at me, studied my face, she was scary sensitive, her expression shifted slightly.

“And you are going to dazzle me, aren’t you?”

Said with certainty.

Hmmmm.

What does this mean?

Maybe she remembers?

“Yes I am. Find the part where you have captured the kid, thinking you can exchange him for your safety, the part where you are in the hotel room and are supposed to seduce information out of him.”

She knows the part. Eyes wider. Surprise? Or great acting?

You are clearly the expert.

She opened the script about three quarters of the way in, and flipped through pages, looking, it seemed to take her a minute to gather her focus.

“Here it is.”

“Okay, you hated that part.”

“Yes I did. Do.”

She looked up at me.

“Shit, just stop it. Now you have me doing it.”

“Wait till I get rolling. You won’t know what day it is. Anyway, you changed this part. In the movie John is questioning the kid, and you get impatient, jump off the bed, grab the phone off the table, and smack him across the face with it. They added this great clank as the phone hits him. Then John says something like, hey I was handling this but that was a nice shot.”

She smiled, and looked back down at the script.

“That is perfect.”

She blocked out a section of the script, drew an x through it and then began making notations along the border.

“I knew there was a reason I married you.”

That.

Was sipping my espresso.

Shit.

Choked on it.

She looked up.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Fuck.

“Nothing sweetheart.”

Barely got it out.

Sweetheart, what fucking planet is this?

“Look, I’d like to take the credit but to be honest, it was your idea. Are you ready for the next one?”

We worked through all the revisions I could remember, even the ones that weren’t specifically hers. I gave her everything. By the time we were done I was out of my chair and sitting next to her on the lounge. I stretched, closed my eyes and folded my arms, hands behind my neck.

She started talking.

“Mark, I can’t imagine how you pulled this off. I’m in disbelief. How?”

“Angie, you said it yourself. I can’t act. I can’t lie to you. Look at me.”

I shifted around so that I was looking into her eyes.

“I have seen this movie. Am I lying?”

She didn’t look away.

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay then.”

“And you read that Brad is going to op back in?”

“Read schmeed. I saw the movie. He’s in the movie.”

She shook her head.

“I can’t imagine how you’re doing this. Look, you are smarter than hell. But time travel? Really? I hate to say this, it’s like pouring gas on a fire, but it’s easier for me to admit that you are even smarter than I thought you were.”

“So I can suddenly act and make coffee?”

She shook her finger at me.

“No. No. No. Very funny. Truthfully, that’s not the hardest thing to believe. There is something else. You are the most jealous guy I have ever been involved with.”

This means something.

“Okay so what … drum roll.”

“When you started talking about me and Brad…”

She radiated some concern, looking down, thinking, then looking back up.

“You showed no reaction.”

“Why? I don’t know you. Look, you’re very, very attractive.”

I looked down at an imaginary badge on my shirt.

“My safety badge is only yellow, so I figure another hour before its red and I’ve reached a lethal exposure level. That’s when I get jealous.”

“You’re making jokes. Impossible. This is impossible. Who are you?”

“Angie I am just some guy. Normal guy Mark from 2011. I mean, give me a break. I really think I’d remember something as ridiculous as being married to you. I can’t imagine how I would even tell anybody a story like this. It would make me sound like some sort of pathetic Walter Mitty wantabe.”

“Pointing that out helps.”

“Look, seriously, are you certain you didn’t hit me with a frying pan? Could I have had a stroke?

“What? A stroke. The kind of stroke that gives you the ability to read my mind? It would be one thing if you just knew the script, but you knew what I would think. You’re not that good. Nobody is that good. You’re a sometimes charming combination of care and clueless. Not a mind reader.”

“Sometime charming. I think I like that. Sounds like me, or what I’d like to believe about me. Okay, which is it, time travel or just impossible.”

“Impossible.”

“Impossible it is. By the way, this is not the first time something like this has happened to me.”

She narrowed her eyes, suspicion, and disbelief.

“You’ve done this before?”

“This? No, no, no, shit no. Stop. Let me walk that back. I didn’t mean that. I said like this. But it’s just, for like, a minute, or a couple of minutes. Look, ignoring this right now weirdness, a moment of time travel isn’t unusual for the average person, they just don’t know, it happens to everybody, déjà vu. For me I have déjà vu on steroids, longer and stronger.”

She smiled in a way I don’t have a ready adjective for.

“How long and strong.”

“You are scaring me.”

“How scared are you?”

“Jesus, look, just, just don’t. See. Look at what you did. You made me lose my place.”

“Déjà vu on steroids, longer and stronger.”

“I said that? I’m not having a good day. But, to the point… not time travel, I remember, memories leak through, between me and another me in some parallel or alternate outcome. Shit, saying that sounds really stupid. You’re a professional, tell me, how in the world do you do dialogue like this?”

“I don’t. I fire the writer.”

“That doesn’t do me much good.”

“Have you considered a simpler plot device, like amnesia?”

“Yes, but another amnesia story is totally unoriginal, and anyway, it doesn’t explain why I know about your next movie.”

“How do you know?”

“Are we in a loop? Do I have to explain that again?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“So parallel universes it is, we can figure out a better way to say it later.”

“Thanks. Where was I? I think the point I was trying to make, quite badly, is that I don’t go anywhere, I don’t do this. I just remember. I remember everything. My life, his life. But its almost the same, and it’s for just a minute or so. I don’t fucking walk around, make coffee and have fucking conversations. I remember. I don’t go there. I don’t go anywhere.”

“What do you mean by almost the same?”

“Where I go, or remember, there are little differences. Like I stubbed my toe or I didn’t. Not this. Not like I live in a mansion and I’m married to some fucking movie star different. That is ridiculous.”

Eyebrows raised.

“Some fucking movie star?”

“Sorry, how about, married to some awesome, famous, fabulous really smart movie star. How is that?”

“Better.”

“Why are you going along with this? I should be surrounded by guys in white coats telling me that everything will be okay.”

“I don’t know.”

“Have we been here before?”

“You mean am I having déjà vu? No. I don’t think so. Let’s look at things from another perspective. Is anything the same?”

14. The Eve Of Destruction

“Good idea. Lets find out. How’s Elsie?”

She smiled.

“Just fine.”

“And Allan?”

That was a trick question. Allan had died in 1999. But Angie seemed concerned, hesitant, so I decided to repeat the question.

“Is Allan alive?”

She just stared at me, So I pressed forward.

“This isn’t a complicated question. Allan, my father, is he alive?”

Some feelings of frustration crept in that didn’t belong.

She took a deep breath.

“Mark, your father died in a plane crash before you were born.”

The world tilted, off center.

“Brothers, sisters?”

“Your mother never remarried.”

Vertigo, everything moving.

I’m losing it.

“That’s not small. I knew my father. He died over ten years… shit, well in 1999 of brain cancer.”

“A Glioblastoma.”

What?

I stared at her.

“What did you just say?”

As she spoke she watched me, like she expected something.

“He died of a Glioblastoma. You had a brother named Mike and two sisters, Leslie and Melissa.”

I was losing it and I had no idea why.

“You said my mother never remarried. Is this some sort of test, or a joke? It isn’t funny.”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck are you saying? Did he die in a plane crash or not?”

She looks, worried?

She hesitated again.

“Yes, he died in a plane crash before you were born. You never knew him.”

Frustration, edging into panic, I wanted to ask about Blair, but I couldn’t go there.

She knows how he died and she’s saying he died and I don’t know him.

It can’t be both…

“How the hell do you know how he died. How do you know my brothers and sisters names if I don’t have any?”

Abruptly she stood up.

“You need to come with me.”

She started walking toward the door.

I stood up and walked through the lounge chair, following her.

“Wait, stop. What the hell? This isn’t fair.”

She stopped at the door, turned to face me as she opened the door. Fearless. It slid silently open. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, my head was going one way, my body another…

Shit she is what? Like I know her, but not…

She was speaking.

“I need to show you. Just come with me.”

She stepped through the door. I followed.

She said, “stairs.”

The piece of the stairway against the living room wall folded and then the platform lowered smoothly creating a stairway to the loft, a hydraulic sound.

“And what the fuck is this about? Lifestyles of the rich and too much fucking money?”

As the stairs lowered she looked at me and spoke, as to a child.

“Yes. Rich and too much money. You just had to have it.”

Instead of riding, she just walked up the stairs. Her movie walk.

“I had to have, this? How can you go insane if you’re already insane?”

I started up the stairs.

“Wait, come on, give me a hint, what the fuck is going on?”

At the top, she turned around, looking down at me she said, “It’s a good life.” Then she waited, watching for my reaction.

Why would she know that?

“Allan used to say that, why do you know that?”

There was something really wrong with me. My emotional responses were wildly unfamiliar. Half me, half someone else, I could feel it, feel the instability.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll show you.”

She walked into the loft and crossed straight to the desk.

Shit, I had left the bed a mess.

Some uninvited house guest.

Not.

Leaving a mess for the maid.

Standing next to the desk she reached out and pushed. There was a click and a door in the wall opened upwards and slid back into a recessed opening, revealing a single long row of books. Angie scanned the books, selected the last one on the right, pulled it out and handed it to me. The first thing I felt was the weight. It was heavy. Hard bound. Shiny book cover, smooth to the touch, like new. The cover was all white. I looked at it. The title along the top read, IT’S A GOOD LIFE. Along the bottom was the author’s name, MARK ELLIOT.

My fucking name.

The world was now slowly tilting sideways, like a ship sinking, listing to the side. I had lost it, but my mouth kept going, oblivious.

“I’m an author?”

I heard her, but I wasn’t seeing her.

“Yes.”

I blundered forward, dead man walking.

“How many books have I…?”

Angie pointed at the shelf.

Maybe twenty?

She stepped close, both hands on my shoulders. I sensed that I had a few fleeting moments of sanity left. I think I was looking out the large windows. It was bright outside. She put her hand on my face, a soft warmth, a moment of distraction, pausing the spiral. She turned my head so I was looking into her eyes.

“Mark, I need to go do something. It will just take a couple of minutes. Wait. Please wait. Don’t do anything. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Go? Go where?”

I blinked.

She was gone.

Had she even been here?

I was alone. On a sinking ship. I felt the weight of the book in my hands, so I looked at it, at the shiny white cover. I slowly turned it over, saw a photo, a stupid smiling Mark Elliot. There was writing, it would be some sort of glowing ad-copy bullshit. I read it.

Critically acclaimed author Mark Elliot’s life began with tragedy, his father dying in a plane crash shortly before he was born. It’s A Good Life, his Pulitzer Prize winning masterpiece, is the fictional autobiography of the life he shared, with the father and siblings he never knew.

It’s a Good Life became a major motion picture staring Harrison Ford, Clint Eastwood and Faye Dunaway, and received the Academy award for best adapted screenplay. Mark Elliot is currently married to Academy award winning actress Angelina Jolie.

This is what’s real?

My life, the life I know to be true, is a book, a story, fiction, a delusion?

My family doesn’t exist?

This is my life?

The room was still tilting. Ship sinking. Water was dripping on the shiny white book cover.

What about Blair?

I looked up at the ceiling.

Is it raining?

It was sunny outside.

I looked down at the book. Drip, drip.

Water.

From where?

I touched the cover, the dampness, the moisture coated my finger, like oil. I touched my finger to my lips, salty. Put my hand back on the book, wiped my hand across, soaked, drip, drip. Touched my hand to my face, my eyes, more water…

Tears.

I’m crying.

Insane.

I am insane.

I don’t believe it.

It’s impossible.

I don’t believe it.

An explosion ripped through my reality, the world displaced sideways, a blur, spinning, then my mind abbended, the blue screen of death, filling with incomprehensible rows of letters and numbers. Filling and filling. Diagnostics for someone else. Not me.

Yank out the plug.

All gone.

Put the plug in.

Push the start button.

Upgrade request, brain needs a fucking safe mode.

A toe tapping endless reboot process.

Resulting in what?

Lights up.

An awareness.

We have returned to the story of your life in progress.

Somebody is screaming.

No.

I am screaming.

No.

Raving.

“Wake up, wake up, I want to wake up. Where am I? Who am I? Why am I screaming? Standard operating procedure. My memory is pixilated, what do I do? Do what you always do, wait, your memory will come back.”

A hand touched my shoulder. I turned to look. The face of a woman I didn’t recognize, trying to be helpful, she was speaking, I couldn’t understand her. Then a flicker of memory.

“Angie. That’s her name. But too soon. It’s returning too soon.”

The rest of my memory flooded back. Shiny. New. Wrong.

“Fuck. No, no, no.”

“Mark, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. Please sit down.”

“No, it’s too soon, this is the wrong stop, I got off at the wrong stop, it isn’t going to be okay.”

Some mismatched square peg in a round hole part of me acted out, bad code, running on the wrong hardware, it began yelling in her face.

“I don’t like this dream anymore. I want to wake up. I want to wake up now, I want to wake up, I want to fucking wake up!”

She tried to hold me, but I twisted around and pounded the desk with my fist.

“WAKE UP. God damn it. Wake up. I am fucked. I am so fucked.”

We, me and other me, dual wave fronts, looked directly at her. I shoved my words into the output, pushing something, someone, away, which resulted in shouting instead of raving.

”My memory always comes back. It always comes back. It always fits. But not this time. You have malfunctioned. A continuity error. Wrong guy, wrong place. So everybody I know, everything I know, is gone, they’re gone, just gone. Gone, gone, gone. You may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house. You may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful wife…You may ask yourself, where does that highway lead to? You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? You may say to yourself, my god, what have I done?”

The insanity bled out of me as the other me died. Gone too, like everything else. I was marooned. I knew it. I sat down and looked up at her, her expression one of concern. Tears pouring from my eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault. I wake up and I remember, I always remember.”

“Wow, that was something.“

“Am I acting?”

“No.”

She rolled a chair over and sat down directly across from me, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.

I started talking.

“Okay, so my memory came back, like it always does, but it came back too fast, and it’s wrong. It doesn’t fit any of this.”

“I got that.”

“So. Maybe I’m just insane. But, really, how bad can it be? I’m here now. Why should I be unhappy? It looks like I’m rich, I have a famous wife, a beautiful house, all this…”

I waved my open hand at the book filled shelf.

“Hell, I even have an Academy award. Should I be unhappy? What more could anybody want?”

She had funny expression.

“You didn’t win the Academy award.”

She said it, but that didn’t seem to be the point. So I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I ignored my gap in understanding, and something boiled up in me, more bad code.

“Oh, you’re so right, I’m sorry, I not at my best today because I’m having a god damn mental breakdown and I think this is my life.”

I held up the book.

“But, on closer inspection, it’s the best adapted screenplay. I get it. I just wrote the book. I didn’t write the screenplay. I am so stupid.”

“You wrote the screenplay too.”

Her expression was odd, not readable, another gap, which I ignored. I was under attack. Not sure why. Do I care why?

“Okay, so this is this some sort of puzzle? A trick question? I’m being slow. So I wrote the screenplay, but I don’t have the Oscar? Please, I’m not an authority on the rules. I wrote the screenplay but I don’t have the Oscar, help me, what am I missing?”

Still odd, but now concern.

“You were fired during post production. Peter got the Oscar.”

“Oh. Okay. Peter? Do I know Peter? Do I care if I know Peter? No. I don’t feel anything. No, as a matter of fact, I do feel something. Relief. Something recognizable. That kind of sounds like me.”

She looked puzzled.

“You’re not angry.”

The noise and static in my head cleared, and I began to feel like me. I hadn’t realized it was there. The change continued, it was an oscillation, I stopped feeling completely.

“No. Angry about what? I don’t remember doing it, but my name is on the book right here. It looks like it did well so I assume I got paid. Whats the big deal?”

“The lawsuit. You’ve spent three years and millions of dollars, pretty much every penny you had, trying to get it back.”

“Get what back?”

“The Oscar.”

My feelings flowed back. I was me again.

“I did what?”

I stood up.

This definitely requires standing up.

“Let me get this straight. I am clearly insane, no doubt about it. Stark raving mad. I mean, I don’t remember any of this.”

I waved my arm around the room.

“And I somehow believe that this…”

I waved the book I was still holding.

“This is what is real. I am delusional. Fine. But, I clearly remember having people take credit for my work before, so fucking what? Let me make sure I have this right. You are telling me that the guy that was sitting here yesterday, the sane Mark Elliot, has spent millions of dollars, every penny he had, over a trophy? A fucking trophy? Really?”

I sat down.

“Yes.”

She studied my face intently.

“You really don’t care.”

“I don’t think so, not about a fucking trophy anyway. Maybe about my sanity, but a trophy? No. To be honest, the being insane thing has me pretty distracted, and I don’t remember losing the trophy. I guess I would have been pissed, but my name is on the damn book. Peter, whoever he is, can keep the stupid trophy. What can that mean to anybody? To him? Hey I have a trophy for work I didn’t do. Really? He can go pound sand.”

I was feeling more like me because something, some bit of inspiration, started rattling around in my head.

“Okay, there’s a lawsuit over a trophy, and I’m broke. That can’t be everything. What else have I screwed up?”

“What else?”

“Yes. Look, I don’t do anything halfway, what else have I done?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I asked, which means I’m as sure as a crazy person can be. What did I do?”

“The advance. Your publishers and the studio wanted a sequel. You told them they could, as you just so eloquently put it, pound sand. You negotiated a two million dollar advance for a new project. It was due a year ago. The rumor is they’re filing a breach of contract suit against you.”

“The rumor is? We are married right? Or am I confused? No. Strike that. I am confused. Do we live together?”

“Yes. You won’t, wouldn’t, damn it. You refused to talk about it.”

“Wait…”

Another inspiration. I stood up, feeling more and more like me, and started pulling the rest of the books down, one a time, looking at the publishing dates, dropping them on the floor.

“One per year, like clockwork.”

I went through the entire shelf.

“Yep, one per year.”

I picked up Its a Good Life.

“Published in 1999, and it’s 2003 right?”

“Yes.”

“So I haven’t done anything since this? If this is 2003, that makes it four years… What the hell have I been doing for four years?”

“Lawsuit.”

Now I was shaking my head.

“This is just me with an extra zero. I couldn’t possibly be further away from who I was than I am right now. And yet. It’s really amazing. I am dysfunctional at the quantum level. I’ve never been here but I have been in this exact spot.”

“You remember?”

“No. I didn’t mean this spot, as in this you and me thing. This spot.”

I pointed at the ground.

“Here. Like some sort of emotional nexus, call it, the eve of destruction, the day before I destroy my life. Wow. The details don’t matter. Everything is different, but everything is exactly the same. And I arrive here on the exact day? I’m the guy who can’t get anyplace on time. Except today. Today, I am exactly on time. Exactly. It can’t be random.”

“On time for what?”

“Right on time to catch the self annihilation express. I have arrived on the exact day, you are about to start Mr. and Mrs. Smith. The die is cast, you’re gone, I’ve spent every cent I have chasing a fucking trophy, I haven’t written anything in almost four years, and I am about to get sued for breaching my contract.”

I stood up.

“I’ve been here, this exact spot. Minus a few zeros.”

I sat back down. A missing piece fell into place,

“We had a fight last night, right? I’ll bet I asked you for money.”

Irritation, held in check, terse,

“You were there.”

“Actually I wasn’t. Did you give it to me?”

“No.”

“Did I say something like how little the money I needed would matter to you?”

“Yes.”

“I am the quantum fucking asshole.”

“But you don’t remember.”

“Not remembering doesn’t make me any less of an asshole. I know what I would have said. On behalf of all of me, I apologize for being such an asshole.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Sure.”

“Mark, I have a request. Could you please stop telling me what I am going to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“About Brad.”

“I’m from the future. I know what you do.”

“You’re confusing me. Do parallel universes exist in order for us to do exactly the same thing over and over? Seems kind of stupid.”

“No, of course not, you can’t actually do the same thing, you can try, but it’s never exactly the same. The harder you try the more it makes you miserable, and, shit … and …Am I an idiot or what? Things are never the same. A variation on a theme, related but different.”

“Then we agree, whatever happened before, or whatever you think may have happened before, I am here right now, and I get to make all my choices this time, and they will be mine.”

“You weren’t ready to leave me?”

“If you had asked me yesterday, I would have said no and I would have been sure of myself, but after this, I’m not sure. Actually I think you are right. I probably was.”

“Was? So you’ve changed your mind?”

“I didn’t say that. We are talking about Brad Pitt.”

“I could really hate you.”

“Why? You don’t know me.”

“Because you are ignoring safety protocols. I’m a god damn civilian. I’m not equipped to deal with this kind of crap. Don’t you know what you are? How long do you think I can survive standing this close to you? You should hand out fucking badges to monitor the exposure level.”

“I do. They’re downstairs next to the front door. Lets see how you’re doing…”

She leaned forward, pretended to look at my badge. Stealing my gag.

“Oh, that’s not good.”

She looked up, her face inches from mine.

“I’m sorry. It’s red.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. So I’m the damsel in distress. Aren’t you supposed to be rescuing me or something?”

“I thought that’s what I’ve been doing.”

“Well, that’s true, I’m not freaking out this second, but, in all seriousness, you must think I’m totally insane, right?”

“That would be an easy conclusion to come to. But you said it yourself, you can’t act worth a damn. I’m not seeing a crazy person. I’m seeing a sane person in an insane situation.”

She paused, I watched, waited, and then she said, ”You’re not my husband.”

“So you believe me?”

“Yes and no.”

“You just said I’m not your husband.”

“Not exactly. You are, but you’re not. It’s strange, you’re older, and you’re younger. Until this moment I had never realized how much of you was missing. Your father. After just an hour with you it’s obvious. And it’s not just that…”

“What?”

“I called Doug. He was on the phone with Brad’s representatives this morning. He didn’t tell anybody, including me. He wasn’t going to say anything unless Brad decided to do the film.”

“And.”

“He did. Seriously Mark, nobody knew. I didn’t know. Then there is the script, the changes…”

“Don’t forget the espresso…”

“Amazing but true.”

“I should cook for you sometime.”

“You can cook?”

“Yes. Where I came from, I’m a really good cook.”

“I’m going to make you prove it.”

“That should be fun.”

A thought crossed her mind.

“Your jealousy, is gone. I say Brad, and see no reaction.”

Shaking her head.

“I’m looking at you, I see it, but I can’t believe it.”

“Can you believe that I’m not your husband?”

“No. Yes. But something, something I can’t explain is happening. Mark, so, you’re here, what are you going to do? Other than cook for me.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do. I’ve already destroyed my life once. Once was more than enough, I’m not doing it again.”

“How…”

“Easy. I do the job. I fix it. I’ve got an eight year head start. I know the route. I can see the choices he couldn’t see.”

“What choices?”

“Drop the lawsuit. Make a deal, write a sequel.”

I found myself grinning.

“I am so fucking smart I can’t stand it sometimes…How hard can a sequel be? This is the sequel.”

15. Family Man

“That’s …”

“Do you see it, the fictional me from the book, here, what would he think of this life? Wait a second…“

Angie jumped in, “So a fictional autobiography that is actually the truth? Family Man, only backwards.”

“Family Man?”

“You really aren’t at your best. Family Man, it was with Nick Cage. His character is a rich and successful prick and then one day he wakes up and his life is completely different. He is just a normal guy, not rich, but successful in a different way, with love, with a family.”

“So a normal guy becomes a rich successful prick? How is that unique? Well this would be better than most, you’d be in it.”

“I haven’t agreed to be in it.”

“It’s a book. You don’t have to agree. If someone wants to make a movie, getting you to agree is their problem.”

Something nagging occurred, a thought, in the back of my mind.

“Wait a second…”

“Mark, are you okay?”

“Yes, it’s nothing.”

It isn’t. But what?

I was of two minds. Split. A nagging thought, something about a book, a misstep. I fell off. Impact. My daughter and my siblings were gone, forever. I tumbled into the despair, a cold, dark, hell. She picked up on it. Concerned, grabbing my hands.

“Mark, what’s wrong?”

I looked at her.

“There is no luck. Everybody wins the lotto, everybody dies of cancer at the age of five.”

“What is that?”

“The quantum reality of life. Never mind. At first I thought this was my version of the winning lotto ticket.” I looked down, my mood darkening, “But, it just isn’t. I get everything I wanted, but I give up everything to get it.”

“Mark, that is a line. You made me watch K2…”

Of course I did, spinning down and I still used a line.

“Yea, but it’s true. Everybody I know and love is gone. Dead.”

Her mood shifted, intense.

“Dead?” Incredulous, “Really? Are you absolutely sure about that?”

She reached for the book sitting on the desk, picked it up, held it up between us.

“If they are dead, explain this to me.”

“Explain what?”

A light went on, albeit dimly.

“This. An award winning masterpiece. Your masterpiece. Everybody called you a genius. Maybe that was generous. Maybe you just wrote what you remembered. Maybe part of what is called genius or creativity is actually sensitivity, but to, what? How did you put it, memories of past futures? Am I making any sense?”

I stayed mute.

“Why do I know how your father died? Why do I know the names of your brothers and sisters? Those little details seem kind of important, but maybe not. Am I wrong? Are you a genius? Or were you just some guy, writing what you remembered?” She pushed the book into my hands.

“Which one is it Mark? Is this a story invented by a genius, or is it real?”

I didn’t answer.

She asked again, “Well?”

“It’s real.”

“Then they aren’t dead. How can they be? My Mark wrote this book. He found them, he found you. Can you find yourself?”

Against my will, I smiled.

“Better. I asked if you were working on a story. So is this your sequel?”

“That’s what I said. But that does present a small problem. I’ve never written a book. I’m not a writer. I’m a computer guy, a data analyst.”

“Well, you’re a writer now. I think you have plenty of examples to look at, and the good news is, nobody’s going to accuse you of copying yourself.”

She smiled at a thought.

“Actually they will pay you to do just that.”

“I think I love you.”

“Get in line.”

I had used a line from a horrible movie, and she had responded with the next line.

“How embarrassing, I made you watch Barb Wire?”

A smile like a search light lit me up.

“Yes and I will never forgive you. This is much better. What’s your plan?”

“Plan?”

“You said make the choices he couldn’t make. It sounded like you had a plan.”

“Yea. Say, if I’m famous I have minions, right?”

“Of course.”

“Cool. Do I have an agent?”

“You have two agents and a lawyer.”

“Two agents?”

“A literary agent and a theatrical agent.”

“I need to call my agent, about the book.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“So call him.”

“Angie, I’m from the future, I don’t remember how to use that.”

This time she did roll her eyes.

“When you went into the kitchen I really started to have hope.”

She slid the phone over, started to hand me the handset.

“Can you put it on speaker? It’ll be more fun.”

She put the phone down, punched a different button and then did a speed dial.

“What’s his name?”

“Phil Tolk.”

She made my look of recognition.

“You know Phil?”

“Yea, only he isn’t, wasn’t, an agent”

The phone rang, was answered, “Conlynn and Associates.” It was a female voice, young and enthusiastic.

I responded, “This is Mark Elliot could you tell…”

“Mr. Elliot, thank you, I will put you through right now.”

There was a long pause, then Phil spoke, “Mark, you finally decided to take my call. Did you call to say the book was done?”

“Actually not, but don’t worry, I was never going to write it. I’m actually working on the sequel.”

“You’re kidding. The sequel. Holly crap? Really? The truth? I love you man but if I go to them with this and it’s not straight up…”

“Straight up Phil. Look Angie is sitting here with me, ask her.”

“Hi Angie. It’s great to talk to you. How’s my boy? Do I need to get my affairs in order?”

Angie looked me in the eye steadily, searching for something. A subtle change, something serious.

“Phil, he’s good. We’ve been working on it all morning. I haven’t been able to get one thing done.”

“So I’m not going to die, that’s great. Mark, they are going to want assurances…”

“I would hope so, since the price is double.”

“Shit. Excuse me. Mark, they’re stupid, but they’re not that stupid.”

“Are they desperate?”

“That would be one way to describe it. They’ve been burning up the phone lines here for two months. One year late, two million…”

“Perfect. Double the amount. And I will provide whatever assurances they want. You can infer that I did this to drive the price up, making me a greedy asshole, as opposed to an unreliable burnout.”

“Okay. You’re a greedy asshole. They might believe that. Can you tell me anything about the sequel?”

“Sure. The Mark in the book goes to bed one night and he wakes up here.”

“I get it. Family man, only he gets rich instead of poor. Does he go back?”

“No. But he does get to be the husband of a famous actress.”

That drew a fake frown from Angie.

Phil came right back, “That’s wonderful, it’s a twofer, life with Angie and a fish out of water. You’ve got me, I want to read it. Let me make some calls. We probably won’t get an answer until tomorrow.”

“That works for me…”

But he was gone.

“Now who exactly am I suing?”

“Sony Pictures.”

“Can you get my lawyer?”

“Don’t bother. You have a meeting with your lawyer,” she glanced down at her watch, “in two hours. Right here.”

A thought occurred to me, “Get my theatrical agent on the line.”

“Yes sir.” Her posture changed, she changed. She became, was a secretary, in a fluffy white robe.

“That robe is messing with my ability to suspend disbelief, who is this guy?”

“Don Long.”

Don, as an agent?

Can the universe survive this?

“Not again.”

“Again.”

The ringing phone was answered, professional, “Silverman and Long.”

“This is Mark Elliot.”

I get it, minions.

Just wait.

“Mr. Long will be with you momentarily.”

It was a moment.

“Markie. How goes the war buddy? Have they sued you yet?”

“Yes, but it was all part of the plan. You ready to pitch the sequel?”

“You said you would never…”

“Please. What? Drop the lawsuit or write a sequel?”

“Both.”

“Well I lied. About both. As I said, it was all part of the plan.”

“And you didn’t tell me. I thought I was your best friend.”

Don is still Don.

What a relief.

“Donnie, the plan was a secret. I don’t tell you until I want the world to know.”

“True. Are you saying I can go to Sony?”

“Sure. As a matter of fact, go to them first.”

“What can I tell them?”

“The Mark in the book goes to bed one night and he wakes up here.” I stole Phil’s line, “It’s a twofer, life with Angie and a fish out of water.”

There was a long pause. “Life with Angie? Bless your heart. Are you going to describe…”

I know Don, so I intercepting it, before it got, Don like.

“Don, do not go there. I have two words for you, speaker phone.”

“Angie, are you there?”

“Yes Donnie.”

“It sounds like Mark is going to be working late, are you busy tonight?”

Hitting on Angie, while I am sitting here. Vintage Don. With any other person it would be a problem, but not Don. The population of women who find either of us attractive is mutually exclusive, so the answer is always no.

Angie took it in stride, “Tempting, but no.” Her expression was priceless.

“Don, they will need to start negotiations with my… wife.”

My wife, ha, ha, ha…this is so stupid.

“Thanks buddy. I hope you realize that you have totally fucked up my day, in a beautiful way, back at ya.”

He hung up.

Angie covered her eyes, “Don is unbelievable.”

“Yes he is. Is Don a problem for us?”

“No. He is a great agent, the best, but I really wonder sometimes how he manages to survive.”

I started laughing.

“It’s good to see you laugh.”

“Is he your agent?”

“No. He can’t be because I would have to kill him,” she paused, and appeared to be imagining something, “I think something, slow and very painful.”

“Yes. Listening to Don, I had an epiphany.”

“What was it?”

“Don is still so Don. He is dysfunctional in any universe. Wait, this is great. Ready? In the two lives I am now aware of I’ve had three wives, and I have married, in sequence, my mother, my father and now my daughter, which is quite the trick, considering that my daughter doesn’t even exist here.”

“So who am I?”

“My daughter.”

Dead serious, “I’m your daughter?”

“Not literally, come on, you are like her, and that is a compliment by the way…”

Still deadly serious, “Mark, I’m your daughter?”

“No, Angie, that’s not what I’m saying…”

As the words came out, her expression changed… Then she was laughing, hard, and I was trying not to.

Still laughing, “Mark, you said three wives, who was your first wife?”

“Allison, why?”

Angie looked at the books strewn across the desk.”I wondered about this.” She looked through them and picked up one, the title was ‘Pure Gold.’ There was a photo of Allison on the cover. “This Allison?”

“Yes, that’s her. Was I was married to her here?”

“No. She was already married. There was something missing from your book, something unsaid. Not your best, it was funny but you were not very sympathetic. You kind of over played the victim card. I wondered if something was going on.”

“I would bet there was, I was married to her for a long time. This is interesting. I am seeing the same people, they’re just kind of different and the same. It’s like we remember but we don’t remember. It would be great if I could remember something from here.”

“Maybe you can. Mark, you are trying to remember things, people, places, events. You are encountering the same people. So maybe we remember feelings rather than events. What if you tried for something more fundamental, like a feeling.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know yet. Mark, my job is to feel what a character is feeling and that must be done on demand. A lot of times I find the feeling by thinking of a smell I can associate with it, a smell, like the smell of winter, right when the season changes, or the smell of rain, just before it rains. Like this,” She closed her eyes; her expression became a look of warmth, and relief.

“What were you smelling?”

“Spices, dampness, rain, where we first met…”

“A story I would love to hear.”

“Well, let’s see if you can remember it, or feel it.” She stood up. “Hold me, and try.” I got up and she stepped close, I put my arms around her, just above her waist.

Okay, this is really weird.

She wrapped her arms around my head, looking up at me.

Shorter than me by about two inches, strange, Rhonda is two inches taller than me, it has been a long time since I was taller.

Pulling her closer, I moved my head next to hers…and I started to sense something. Then I lost it.

Wait one second…

I extended my arms pushing her back, at arms length, “Angie, I thought we were trying to perform a scientific experiment here. You are messing it up.”

A mischievous grin, “how am I messing up the experiment? Were you feeling something?”

“Angie, a dead man would react to… that…”

“What?”

“What you were… Look, I think you are really on to something, I need you to be passive. No. That’s wrong too. Crap, just don’t do anything so… distracting. Okay?”

“Okay Mark. I’ll try not to be distracting.”

I won’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen.

I moved her close and held her again, this time she rested her hands lightly on my shoulders. I felt the softness of the robe; her build was unfamiliar, light but stronger than expected. I turned my face into her hair, and inhaled deeply. No memories but something started happening, just feelings, opiate like, they built in intensity, becoming almost narcotic.

Pushed her back to arms length.

“I felt something.”

“I wasn’t too distracting was I?”

“Yes. No. You were perfect.”

“What did you feel? Did you remember anything?”

“No memories, but the feeling was … Euphoria…drug like, but other things too.”

“Good. Progress.”

“Let’s do that again… Wait, I’m not coming off as too eager am I?”

“Hardly.”

“I was trying to remember if I’ve ever met anyone as distracting as you are.”

“Susie Steel?”

“Do I know Susie?”

“It would break her heart to hear you say that.”

“You won’t tell her, right?”

“No. I think you should, it’s only fair.”

“I can’t stay in character anymore. Let’s try the hug again.”

“Without distraction?”

“Yes. Please,”

I drew her in, held her close and inhaled, slowly. Was ready when the waves of euphoria washed over me, then faded and became edged with something, something alarming, disturbing, it blossomed into fear, overwhelming fear, which blasted the remaining euphoria away, leaving emptiness, despair and loss. I dropped my arms and stepped back.

That was unpleasant.

Do not say that.

“That felt weird. Have I been acting strange lately?”

“I’d have to say yes.”

“No, not today, like … before.”

She didn’t answer, her features becoming unreadable.

“Hey, this isn’t about you, I’m not blaming…”

“No. Its okay, I know. You’ve been really down, depressed.”

“How long?”

“A few months, maybe more. Why?”

“I’m not sure, but there is something…”

She wasn’t hearing me, she was looking at my side.

“Mark, you’re bleeding.”

Distracted, “huh?”

“Blood.”

She pointed at my shirt.

“Take that thing off.”

I pulled off the shirt and handed it to her.

She tossed it into the waste paper basket under the desk, and then looked at me.

“You should have thrown that shirt away. You hold onto crap forever.”

She strode into the closet and returned with a new tee shirt, black, with some sort of red and gray design and threw it at me.

“Don’t put it on yet.”

She opened up the medicine cabinet, retrieved a box of band aids, and pulled one out. After putting the box back, she knelt down in front of me and put the band aid over the cut.

“Now you can put your shirt on.”

“Hey, while you’re down there do you think…”

“Of course.”

She started trying to open my pants. Laughing, I grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands away.

“No, no, no… my shoe, I wanted you to retie my shoe.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so.”

She looked at my bare feet and then back at me.

“What shoe?”

“Oh, right. Never mind then.”

Her expression shifted, blank innocence to something else.

A cat looking at a mouse.

I put on my shirt and she watched, her expression changing again.

“That looks better.”

“I need subtitles. What is your face saying?”

“I was waiting for you to pull the old shirt out of the garbage. This is an improvement.”

“Probably not, I don’t remember my emotional investment.”

I looked at the bed.

“Wait a second…there was a bottle, a prescription bottle.”

“What just happened?”

“I had an idea.”

I went over to the bed and started searching. Of course I couldn’t find it.

Where is that bottle? God damn it.

“Where is that bottle. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

Tearing up the sheets, walked right across the bed, on it and then stepped down on the other side, looking around on the floor.

“I didn’t fucking dream that bottle, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Was throwing stuff around, getting more and more frustrated building into a major temper tantrum, tore the sheets off the bed shook them out, threw them at the wall.

“God damn it.”

I was down on all fours, searching between the bed and the sliding door. Suddenly it dawned on me what this looked like, yet Angie hadn’t said one word.

Oh.

I cringed, resting my forehead on the floor.

“You have the bottle in your hand don’t you?”

When I looked up, she was trying to hold a straight face, but failed, and began laughing hysterically. She was standing on the other side of the bed, the prescription bottle on her finger. It was contagious, and I began laughing myself.

Still laughing, she struggled to get the words out.

“That I’ve seen before…”

Still laughing, I leaned over the bed and ran my hand across the pillow. Vomit, dried, but, I could feel partially digested pills. Walked around the bed to her and took the bottle. The label read, Thorazine.

There were tears of laughter in her eyes. She responded to my blank stare.

“What is it?”

“I’m glad you found that so funny. I don’t know, I need to use the computer, you wouldn’t happen to know the password would you?”

“Your password? Me?”

“Never mind.”

An inspiration, I sat down and pressed the space bar, getting the Windows XP login screen. The user name was already displayed, I keyed in the password B1airE11i0t and was in.

“What was the password?”

“My daughter’s name. Almost like I planned this.”

I opened Google, and typed in Thorazine.

a drug used to treat schizophrenia. Overdoses resulted in seizures or a coma.

“Did you know that I was being treated for schizophrenia?”

“No. I didn’t know anything about that. Are you schizophrenic?”

“Not in any life I am familiar with.” Was thinking and it came out as words, “When I have non causal memories they are additive, I end up with two memories of the same moment, but more, if the moments are far apart there are two me’s for a little while.”

“I’ll bet that’s confusing. So multiple personalities.”

“I can make things really interesting. Imagine some of the relationship conversations I’ve had. You did that, no I didn’t, shit did I?”

“I’m glad you can laugh at it.”

“I’ve never known anything different. This drug is used to treat schizophrenia, which might be the result of a person’s sensitivity to non causal memories, so if it works by preventing two memories of the same event, under the right circumstances, you could loose the primary. Oh.”

Oh shit, that’s a weird thing to realize…

“Mark, what?”

“I didn’t come here. The real me is still where ever I was. I’m a afterimage, a god damn copy. When I end up with two me’s the one who doesn’t belong fades away. But not this time. The only way I could still be here is if he overdosed on this crap, allowing me to step on him, meaning he’s never coming back and I’m stuck here forever.”

Angie didn’t say anything. I had another emotional spin out, becoming despondent, “I’ve just told you that your Mark overdosed. You don’t seem very upset.”

“Mark, slow down, take a deep breath and put yourself in my place for one minute. I am looking at you. You are not dead, you are sitting right here. You are talking to me. You look the same now as you did yesterday. You were crazy yesterday and you are still crazy. Yesterday I couldn’t understand what you were doing. Today, it’s incredible, I just watched you straighten out your life in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes. Everything. I wouldn’t have believed it possible. What can I say? This is a miracle. You want me to complain? Well I’m not going to. I can see you’re upset, but today is a huge improvement over yesterday, and you, however different, are still mostly you. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes, it does. But, maybe you could clear something up for me. What the hell am I doing here?”

“I thought you just cleared that up”

“I was changing the subject. No. Here. With you. Are we really married?”

She held her ring up, “Yes.”

“I can’t see it.”

Wiggling her finger, “This isn’t invisible is it?”

I held up my ring.

“No. See, I have one too. Not the ring, I can’t see being married to you. It’s nonsensical. Now it’s your turn to look at things through my eyes. This is preposterous. I’m just some guy. And even if I choose to ignore how ridiculous finding myself married to you is, I still don’t get it; you’re not my type. I go for buffer women,” pantomimed lifting weights.

“I’m not your type?”

An injured look?

No.

Pretending to be and letting me see the pretext.

I looked at her again, she was actually far fitter than I remembered her to be.

Because she is with me?

“That came out wrong. You are beautiful, and that is too weak, you are more than beautiful actually, you are hypnotic.” I leaned forward, wanting to make this point clear, “I’ve heard singers with perfect pitch, and it is amazing. You are like that. You have perfect emotional pitch, and I mean perfect. I was thinking to myself earlier, just watching you emote is mesmerizing, performance art. I keep catching myself staring or loosing track of where I am. You don’t need words, your expressions say what you are feeling, and it is so consistent, so pure, and a pleasure to watch, even when you are pissed.” I looked carefully at her expression, “Like right now, I see amusement, which is strange, because I thought I was complementing you…”

As I spoke her amusement became laughter.

“I’m sorry. Honestly, I’m not laughing at you.”

She collected herself, and then continued.

“Mark, you made exactly the same speech to me, word for word, one week before you asked me to marry you.”

“All right, I can see why that would be funny. This is going to be a really interesting week.” I paused, but she just waited. I had lost the thread again.

What was I trying to ask her?

I remember.

“Angie, what part of my life could possibly have included you?”

“Your mother introduced us.”

That was no help at all, so I tried again.

“My mother? Then it’s the same question, what part of my mother’s life could possibly have included you?”

“You don’t know?” She paused, having trouble accepting the missing context, “no, you don’t. She is a set designer…”

“A set designer? How? We were living in Memphis.”

“That story is actually a Hollywood legend. After your father died the two of you moved to California from Memphis, you lived with her aunt in Hollywood. Elsie got a job down the street at Paramount as an assistant to Robert Priestly. She was working on her first movie; I think it was named Picnic? The story goes, she gave the art director, Bill Flannery, an earful about his color choices and she wouldn’t back down. She didn’t get fired, they listened, and the two of them, Priestly and Flannery, both ended up getting academy awards that year for art direction and set decoration.”

“That sounds like Elsie. So she did a film you were in?”

“It was a TV movie, Wallace. Anyway, when we started filming I met her for the first time. I knew the legend, but there she was, this tiny blond woman who was incredibly confident, and totally fearless. She had them moving pictures and furniture, changing colors. All the director could say was ‘yes Elsie, yes Elsie’. She was the only person who dared talk to him like that. It was inspiring. She had such a sense of style, what she wore was so current, I loved her rings. When I had an opportunity I asked about her jewelry, and we ended up spending the entire shoot talking about clothing, art, politics and activism. After Wallace wrapped, she had a trip to Kenya planned and she invited me to go with her. We stayed at Alan’s place.”

“Alan Donovan? Heritage house?”

“Yes. Alan is wonderful, the food, his stories, and his house is spectacular…” she put her hands on the sides of her face, a look of amazement, “it was like staying in a museum. The first morning I woke up, I couldn’t even get out of my room.” Her face lit up, “everywhere I looked, everything I looked at, was like oh my god, and then, oh my god. And then I looked at the room itself, how it was made, and it was a work of art too.”

“That place is amazing, there’s nothing like it,” in any universe. “You arrived after the first week. You had just climbed Mt. Kenya with, I forget her name, some unnaturally pretty blond TV sitcom actress, Sally Steel or something like that.”

“Angie, I’m sorry, but you are the last person on Earth allowed to describe someone as unnaturally pretty. But seriously, a sitcom actress name Sally Steel?”

“Yes. You showed up at Alan’s alone, something about some guy named David. She was already flying back and you were there with all her gear and a trip to Kilimanjaro planned. We spent the evening exchanging screwed up relationship stories and then you asked me to go.”

“And you went.”

“Johny and I had just split.”

Who is Johny? Do I care?

“You were really sweet, and you listened to me. Mark, I’ve got to tell you, with most guys…”

I finished her sentence for her, “You really can’t set the bar low enough.”

She smiled at that, “It was really nice. You felt so safe,” eyes closed for a moment, a pleasant memory.

“That act works doesn’t it?”

“Mark, remember the part where you can’t act? You were safe. You listened to me. You treated me like any person, which was nice, and frustrating at the same time. Sometimes I don’t want to be any person. Kilimanjaro sounded really fun. So I went. Nothing of hers fit, which I worried about, but it didn’t matter. Climbing was so elemental, so physical, so beautiful, so alien. I’ve acted like I was in places like that. But doing it, for real…”

“There’s nothing like the real thing.”

“And then there was the safari.” She closed her eyes, remembering, “It was so quiet, peaceful, just wind, words, animals, birds. Nothing mechanical, nothing artificial. Then there was what I saw, it was the most visually astounding experience, there’s no way to describe it. Vivid green, the migration, millions of animals, the sky, the clouds, the people.” The look on her face, she was seeing it again, I was seeing it again, “For two weeks, the rest of my life was just gone. Gone, gone, gone. I was a person, pure and simple, living and feeling.” She opened her eyes and looked at me, “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t me, it was you. Where I am from, without me, you still find Africa.”

“Well where I’m from, we shared it. So shut up and say you’re welcome and you loved it too.”

“You’re welcome and I loved it too.” I saw it. This inconceivable relationship was based entirely on having sharing an extraordinary two week experience. There is no describing Africa, so there was no describing the result. “We got married because of Africa? How did it happen?”

“It was memorable. We were watching the sun set at Lava Tower when you asked me. You said I could say yes but since we were climbing, I could back out for a full refund after the trip, and if I didn’t change my mind, we would have a great story. It was very romantic…in your strange way.”

“I guess I have my moments…even if they are strange”

“Well that was one. Truthfully, when we met at Alan’s, I was thinking, this is a nice safe older guy, a friend, not a relationship, but you grew on me.” She kicked my leg.

“Thanks. I understand, but I there’s something I still don’t get. You really don’t seem dysfunctional enough to be with me.”

“Mark, come on.”

She looked at me, deadpan.

“I married a guy old enough to be my father.”

“Oh, right.”

“Right.”

“You want me to take it back?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, I take it back.”

“Thank you.”

Her mention of our ages sparked a thought,

“Have you heard of a guy named Billy Bob Thornton?”

“No. What is he, a country western singer?”

That was a joke.

She didn’t recognize the name.

Interesting.

A puzzle piece dropped into place.

“No. It was nothing, never mind. Tell you what, you told me about my past. What to hear about the future?”

“Fine. As long as you don’t tell me about me.” I sifted through the pile of books. Every one reflected some aspect of my life, my real life, not this whatever life. “No, it won’t be about you, it is about just how weird the world is. I was looking at these books and they reminded me of something. There is this mobile phone thing three or four years from now called Twitter.”

“Twitter?”

“Yes. It’s like text messaging, but you send the text out to the entire world. You can also receive texts, but not all of them. You decide whose texts you want to read to by subscribing to their twitter feed. For example, you are famous, so you would have a twitter account and you would just blather on endlessly about your day and there would be millions of subscribers hanging on your every word.”

“That sounds insipid on a global scale.”

“It can be, on the other hand, it also changes the world, the way fax machines destroyed the Soviet Union. Twitter had a similar role in an event called Arab Spring.”

“What will Arab Spring be?”

“About eight years from now, a bunch of Arab countries toss out their dictators. Day to day, in the normal world, Twitter is just what it is, millions of people blathering on and on with no one listening, and millions of people consuming the unremarkable and boring details of the lives of the rich and famous. The twitter world is divided into two groups, subscribers and content providers.”

“Interesting. I see where you are going. My Mark was a subscriber, and the you, where you came from, you were the content provider.”

“Yes, a quantum Twitter feed.”

“Mark, you know what else I see?”

“Tell me, please.”

“This is a brilliant idea. You said you were a computer guy, so do it, do Twitter.”

“A quantum Twitter feed?”

“No, don’t get dense on me. The real one.”

“That would be cheating, it isn’t my idea.”

“Well I’ve never heard of Twitter. It sure sounds like your idea to me. Do you need a rationalization? Here’s a good one. Maybe the guy who invented Twitter cheated and got it from you. Maybe he isn’t even here, like your Billy Bob whoever. Maybe he is here, so if you feel guilty about it, hire him, I guarantee you some venture capitalist will own most of his idea anyway, so you get to own it here. Let me put it another way. I won’t give you money to chase a stupid trophy, but I would invest in this. So do it. Change this world.”

From downstairs, a voice, accented, “Miss Angie, I have the car ready, it is time to go.”

“Shit, Mark, I’m not even dressed.” She stood up and shouted downstairs, “Hernando, I will be ready in five minutes.”

From downstairs, “Yes Miss Angie.” A door closed.

“Wait. You’re not going to do the baseball cap and sunglasses thing are you? Why do celebrities think that is some sort of disguise? You may as well bolt a neon sign on your back that says somebody to bother right here.”

“What’s your idea?”

“For you?” I looked at her for a second, “uuuh, a character that matches your body type, say a dancer, so no makeup at all, hair tied back, severe like, sweatshirt, leggings, something to distract the eye from your famous face.”

“Mark, I usually go with bullet proof glass and a dark tint.”

“Oh, okay, I guess you could teach a masters in celebrity survival. Do they have classes? I was thinking I should take one.”

She ignored me, “I’m going to go downstairs and change. Can you take care of yourself for a few hours?”

“I suppose so. Just leave me your number. I am allowed to call you, right?”

“The number is on your cell and this,” she tapped the land line. “You might spend a little time and figure out how it works. And remember, your lawyer will be here in an hour. Some clothes possibly?” She pointed at me, “but just a suggestion.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Try searching and, while you’re at it, maybe you should draw a map so you don’t need to keep asking where things are. You do live here. I’m going to go downstairs now, is that okay?”

“Okay, go.”

She dashed down the stairs. I followed at a far more leisurely pace, and passed my time looking around the living room while she got ready. I decided to make something to eat after I said my goodbye. Faster than I could possibly have expected, she emerged, looking like she had spent hours getting prepared. Very unlike me, I actually studied what she was wearing, a loose gray shirt, the neck open, exposing a single shoulder, with black pants. A pair of aviation sunglasses were on her head, her hair was back far enough to reveal a pair of beautiful pearl earrings. I intercepted her just before she got to the door.

“You look lovely. Is that what I usually say?”

A smile, “You are in charge of your own dialogue. But no, it isn’t usual, and I like it. Thank you.” An arm around my neck, she planted a kiss right on my lips. I was caught completely off guard and reacted awkwardly, got my feet crossed and almost collapsed, before saving it, managing to avoid stepping on her foot. She ignored my reaction, and with her arm still around my neck, her face only a few inches from mine, she smiled and said, “Have fun, see you in a few hours.”

A second kiss, quick, which included something else, a fleeting expression. I couldn’t read it and I knew I was missing something.

“Wait. I saw that, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Why nothing, nothing at all.”

A blatant lie, so blatant that it was a joke. An inside joke she was enjoying. She turned, opened the front door and walked out. I followed her outside through the double doors across a wood deck to where a short series of steps led down to the driveway. A car was parked, waiting at the bottom.

“Wait, come on, what don’t I know?”

Hernando opened the back door. The car was completely predictable, black, long, with dark tinted windows. It was spotless, shining.

As she slipped into the back, Angie illuminated me with a glowing smile, and said, “Have fun.”

Whatever it was, she certainly was enjoying it.

Hernando closed the door. “Good morning Mr. Mark.”

I knew Hernando, but telling Angie that he had worked for my family, taking care of my dad while he had cancer, just seemed repetitive. Encountering people I knew before was going to be happening a lot. Hernando had previously worked for Arnold. I think his wife was still there while Hernando was working for us. Hernando clearly had an important aspect to his personality for this type of work. He shared my complete immunity from being star struck. His casual, just another job, regard for having worked for Arnold had been refreshing.

“Hi Hernando, it’s great to see you,” I reached out and we shook hands. My gesture seemed to take him off guard.

More evidence of me being a complete asshole.

I continued, “Take care of her.”

Hernando seemed in great spirits, “I will Mr. Mark, see you this afternoon.”

As he walked around the car, I put my face close to the darkly tinted window and mouthed, “What don’t I know?” fogging up the window in the process. There was a slam as the front door closed. A moment later the car started and slowly headed up the hill to a gate, leaving me to my fate, whatever that would be.

Idle curiosity compelled me to walk up the hill, trailing the car. The gate rolled open, freeing the car, and then rolled shut, all automatically. The surrounding wall was a light colored stone and probably twenty feet high. The gate was solid, offering no view to the inside. There was a guard house, made of the same stone as the wall. Adjacent to the gate, the guard house extended out from the wall and was inhabited by two massive men, their crew cuts and conservative attire screamed professionalism and they appeared exactly as I had imagined that morning. I stood there looking at the gate.

Now what?

Explore a celebrity’s house of course.

Like, the last thing in the world that would have interested me.

It is also your house.

Yes, there’s that.

An espresso was never going to hold me, I was hungry, so I decided the first thing I needed to search for was food. The kitchen seemed like the best place to start. Wandering back down the hill and into the house, it occurred to me that I had no idea what day it was. If I was the guy who never walked into a kitchen, it was odd that there were no minions around to feed me. Perhaps they had the day off. Do minions get days off?

I need to read Celebrity Survival for Dummies as soon as possible.

16. Help Me Rhonda

My search of the kitchen revealed that it was well stocked. The stove was a beautiful commercial model, gas, stainless with eight burners with a center grill. Above it was a massive stainless, restaurant style, exhaust hood. My measure of a quality kitchen is the ability to cook without filling the house with smoke or setting off all the smoke detectors. This qualified. I chopped up some mushrooms and green onions using the butcher block center island and made myself an omelet, making sure to clean up carefully as I went along.

I sat down at the bar to eat. Flipping through an eight year old LA times between bites was an odd experience. A lot seemed dimly familiar and although I couldn’t identify specifics, some details appeared to be subtly different.

I had just finished when a disembodied voice in flawless but accented English said “Mister Elliot.”

It was all I could do not to ask him if his name was Hans or Frans. I had no idea if a button needed to be pushed so I said, “Yes?”

A button wasn’t needed. The voice answered, “Your lawyer has arrived.”

Shit, I haven’t changed my clothes.

Screw it.

I answered “Okay, thanks a lot,” and tossed the dish into the sink.

So much for good behavior.

The bell rang on my way to the door. I opened the door, expecting to see some guy in a suit. Not even close. Surprise couldn’t begin to describe the experience.

Tall,

Beautiful,

Familiar

She was about two inches taller than me, with short cropped blond hair. She was wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans. She had an overwhelming physicality. Her shoulders, stretched the t-shirt to its limits, her muscle definition, carved in stone. A briefcase in one hand and what looked like a legal brief in the other.

I was my wife Rhonda, or a version of her. The Rhonda I know is an incredibly fit one fifty pounds…this Rhonda was probably fifteen pounds heavier, which had been added to a six foot frame that included not a speck of fat.

What don’t I know?

Clearly nothing.

It was unmistakably her. Named after the song. Her and not her.

Help me Rhonda.

My mouth started talking, way out in front of my brain. I tried to stop the words, but it was too late. They were, “You’re my lawyer?”

Aaaaggghh.

So dumb.

She was very agitated, “I don’t know. Am I still your lawyer?” As she spoke she entered the house, her surrounding force field brushing me aside. Standing inside, she turned so we were face to face, maybe three feet apart. “What is wrong with you? What are you trying to do?”

I managed to close the door. My mouth opened. This time nothing came out. My mind was still trying to accept the apparition that confronted it. Her rage was formidable enough in the physical incarnation I was familiar with. This?

She threw the legal brief at me, “Here, special delivery.” I hardly saw it coming, slow motion, it hit me in the chest, and before it could fall to the floor I plucked it out of the air.

I stared at the brief in my hand as my mind filled with banks of blinking red lights.

Danger Will Robinson.

How did that happen?

I don’t catch anything.

Penetrating my distraction Rhonda’s voice was saying, “Mark, when someone gives you two million dollars to do something, and you don’t do it, bad things happen. What did you think they were going to do? Did you think they were going to say, no problem keep our money? What the fuck? You’ve been lying to me about this for months. You lied to me? I’m your lawyer. It’s like lying to yourself. How can I possibly help you if I get blindsided like this?”

Okay, a lawyer too.

And confident.

Scary.

Not a trainer.

Not here. Not this time.

I got my mouth in gear, “Hi, it’s nice to see you too. I need you to do something for me.”

One thing at a time.

I handed the brief back to her. “Throw it at me again.”

“What?”

“You heard me. The situation clearly warrants it. I need you to throw it at me again.”

“Mark this is my Sunday.”

“All the more reason. Throw that fucking thing at me.”

She did. This time at my face. I flicked it aside, spun around and caught it blind, backhanded.

I could get used to this.

“Happy now?” she asked.

The why was obvious.

I only hear one question. Not three.

It is quiet here. No noise. No confusion.

Only one outcome. No quantum instability.

Whatever I had before, I don’t have it here.

Is that good for me or bad for me?

“Mark, I asked you a question.”

Again, only one question.

“I know. I’m trying to come up with a good lie.”

“I thought we agreed that lying was a bad idea?”

“In your opinion it is a bad idea. I had a plan. Why don’t we go upstairs and sit down? I can tell you now.”

Not in good humor, “What plan?”

I pointed, “Upstairs. Sitting down. Please.”

“Are you on something?”

“Something what?”

“Drugs.”

“No. I wish I were. Why?”

“You’re different. There’s something wrong. Tell me the truth, are you on drugs?”

How fucking perceptive.

“Only the espresso I had this morning.”

Now silent, she looked at me.

“Do I have some history of drug abuse I’ve forgotten about?”

Still silent; I couldn’t imagine what choice she was pondering. Without answering she walked across the living room and headed up the stairs.

Shit the unmade bed, again.

Angie, unknown, but Rhonda would see the mess. Genetics. I wondered if being my lawyer would buy some restraint.

Probably not.

Strike that. Take a note, ready

You don’t know what the fuck is going on.

No more assumptions.

As soon as Rhonda hit the top of the stairs, her eyes found the bed, then the books on the desk and on the floor. A genetically programmed heat seeking missile. Mercifully her vow of silence continued, so I said, “Please sit down.”

She complied and I turned my chair to face her. Then she spoke. Her voice was steady, calm, “Okay, I’m sitting. What plan?”

I answered, “Ah, my plan. We are dropping the lawsuit…”

“What? After two million dollars? You said you’d never…”

I interrupted, “I know. You need to hear the rest.”

“There’s more?”

“Yes. That’s why it’s called a plan.”

She is too perceptive, this is a bad idea.

Come on, suck it up. This part is true.

“They wanted a sequel, now I will give them the sequel, for double the price.”

“Double? Impossible. They’re stupid, but they’re not that stupid.”

“I disagree. They are that stupid. Think. What does doubling the price after not doing anything for a year make me look like?”

“A greedy, untrustworthy asshole.”

“Far better than looking like an unreliable burnout.”

“Which one is it?”

Not a fucking clue.

Ignore the question.

“Phil said he would talk to them today. That should take care of this,” I said while tossing the paperwork she had handed me on the desk, “I expect you will hear from them. Phil said that at double the price they will demand assurances. I assume you can handle that.”

“You expect to hear from them today?”

“An assumption, based on the amount of money, plus there’s the movie. I called Don this morning. He’s going to offer the sequel to Sony first. I really can’t be suing them if I want them to buy the sequel.”

“What? You’ve been ranting about them for four years. You hate them. They betrayed you. You said you’d never do business with them.”

“Did you agree with that choice.”

“No.”

“As you shouldn’t have since I now find myself broke with a wife who doesn’t appear to be the enabling type. Doing a sequel instead of fighting a prolonged court battle is more appealing to me, and them. Probably appealing enough to pay a premium.”

“That is a lot of assuming. After the lawsuit what makes you think that they will risk doing business with you again?”

“My famous wife is in the sequel. By the way, I was wondering, did you read my book?”

“You know I did.”

Ooops,

“I just wanted to be sure.”

Remind me again why I asked that question?

No idea.

Suspension of disbelief?

“Honestly, was it really that good? This whole thing about a sequel hardly seems real. I say yes, I’ll do it, and they fall at my feet. What’s that about?”

“Are you fishing for some sort of validation?”

“Assume I am.”

“Mark, the book was beautiful. I didn’t want it to be over. Nobody wanted it to be over. Okay? Now I’ve said it again. Do you feel better? Think about this. I know you. I know what a mess you are. I can’t imagine how you did it and I don’t think the success was good for you. As much as everybody wants a sequel, I’m not sure that it’s a good idea.”

“The damage is done. I may as well have the money.”

The phone rang. I fumbled around before getting it on the speaker.

“Markie?”

“Donald, your timing is … absolutely fucking sublime, do you have something for me?”

“Well, I had a long interesting chat with Carl, once he got over the shock of hearing my voice. When I told him you wanted to drop the suit and offer him the sequel I swear he almost shit himself. What a day. I wish I had been recording it. He said that he would need to clear it with the rest of the board on Monday but assuming Angie is in, your end would be ten.”

“Don, I have you on speaker and my lawyer is also with me, so, for her benefit, ten what?”

He laughed. “Hi beautiful, Markie is back! It’s a brave new world. I’ll say it slowly, ten, million, dollars. Has a nice ring to it don’t you think?”

By the look on Rhonda’s face, it was clear that her opinion of Don was not bound by time or space. She gritted her teeth and with visible effort said, “Don, how sure was Carl about the board’s approval?” She made it sound smooth and effortless.

“He said it would be a slam dunk. Rhonda, speaking of a dunk, do you have a bikini with you? This place has a great pool, all it needs are those long legs of yours. Come on over. We can have a little race. You can punish me. I know you want to.”

I was everything I could do not to burst out laughing. Rhonda, the lawyer, did not react. She was measured in her response. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes, she was composed, calm, then she spoke, “Don, everybody has delusions of grandeur. This is a delusion. I am never going to say yes.”

“I know,” he said, the casual truth.

“Then why do you keep asking?”

“Are you sure you want me to answer that question,” he responded, restraint, surprising, unexpected.

Where is he going?

“No, I’m not, but I’ll have an answer.”

“Because I’d rather strike out against Sandy Koufax than hit a hundred home runs off Milt Papas.”

A lovely metaphor, which was lost on Rhonda. She said, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Sandy Koufax, the greatest baseball pitcher who ever lived. Any baseball player would want to get into the box against him. Even if getting a hit was impossible. Even if there was no chance of doing anything but striking out. Mark, help me out.”

“Rhonda, think of arguing a case in front of the Supreme Court.”

“Not if I knew I was going to lose.” Rhonda responded, “Why do you want to bat against him if you are going to lose?”

“To argue a case in front of the Supreme Court, isn’t that enough.”

“Not for me. Why do it if you’re going to lose?”

“Because it isn’t about winning or even getting a hit. It’s about maybe getting the bat on the ball, maybe fouling one off.”

I tried to recover from my Supreme Court example, “That would be amazing. You might even dribble a roller back to the box. Sandy wasn’t much of a fielder.”

Don continued, “Realistically, we’d never touch the ball.”

“Realistically,” I responded, “Could you stay in the box?”

“There is nothing like the sound of a hundred mile an hour fastball that moves.” Don said, finishing the thought.

Rhonda had been waiting patiently, now she responded, “You haven’t answered. If the measure of success is a hit and you can’t get one, why do it?”

Don answered, “Forget possible. Forget winning. You get three swings. A mortal against a god. You make him show it to you.”

Rhonda was done with the conversation, “You should have tried a basketball metaphor. I suppose this is some sort of compliment?”

“Yes it is. And I believe I just got my bat on the ball. Mark?”

“Yep, a foul tip straight into the catcher’s glove, strike three.”

“Thank you. By the way, I know you heard it, she’d never say yes to me. We both know what that means. You’re in a lot of trouble buddy, and I want to watch. We’ll talk on Monday. Rhonda, you I’ll see this afternoon. Bring the bikini.”

The movie end of conversation. Nobody says good bye in movie phone calls.

“Every time I finish a conversation with him I feel violated. But, ten million dollars, forgives a lot.” Her expression transitioned from distaste to something unreadable, she continued, “Now, what’s really going on? You’re lying. A plan? Come on. I’ve been your lawyer for five years. I’ve listened to you for five years. Give me some credit. If this the truth, which it isn’t, it’s stupid, and you aren’t. If they’re going to pay ten million now they were always going to pay ten million, and there are ways we do it. Jesus, your wife knows this backwards and forwards. What the hell are you thinking? These people are serious, making this dangerous. Your choices don’t make any sense. Your lies don’t make any sense. What do you gain by lying to me? What are you paying me for? If you don’t take the consequences seriously you may as well just put a gun to your head.”

Fuck. I am an idiot. She is too perceptive. God, can I make amnesia believable?

“Mark, are you going to answer me?”

How about the truth?

There is no way to prove anything.

Maybe Angie can talk to her.

No.

How about revealing personal details about her life?

If I am right, she might think I spied on her.

I have to lie. I have amnesia.

“Mark?”

“You’re right. I was lying. I just didn’t think the truth was believable. I don’t know why I didn’t work on the book and I don’t know why I didn’t tell you.”

“That makes no sense.”

Unless the unbelievable truth is amnesia. Here goes.

“It will, but it will take a minute to explain. Trust me. Let me start by telling you the most difficult thing to believe first. Then I’ll prove it to you.”

“Just do it.”

I opened my mouth. And what came out was, “I don’t know because I’m not the guy who made those choices. I am this guy.”

I picked up the book, so that the title It’s a Good Life, was facing her.

“This isn’t fiction. This is real. This book describes the only life I’ve ever known. Yesterday I was here. Last night I closed my eyes, and when I woke up I was in this weird ass place. Give me a break, like I would be married to Angelina Jolie? You’re fucking joking right?”

She started to talk, I put my hand up, “Don’t. Not until you hear the best part. Ready? When I went to sleep last night, we, as in you and me, we were married, and had been for almost twenty years.”

“And I am an idiot. Do you have any idea what this sounds like? Mark this is completely insane. Are you insane? Are you trying to destroy your life?”

“Define insane. Why in the world would I be married to some movie star? But, let’s find out. Do you remember the part where I said I could prove it?”

“Mark, I’ve had about enough.”

“You’re my lawyer right? Are you saying that you quit?”

“No.”

“Good. Do you remember the part where I said I could prove it?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me prove it. You look uncomfortable. I think you need to have your back done. Stand up.”

“That’s your proof?”

“Is there a problem with my English?”

“Disbelief, not a lack of understanding.”

“Good. Disbelief. Belief. That’s what this is about. My next question is, have I ever done your back?”

“No.”

“Then it’s time.” I got up. “Stand up.”

She hesitated.

I said, “What are you worried about?”

She relented and stood up, “Enabling you is a waste of time.”

“Time for which, I trust, you are very well compensated.”

I stepped close to her.

“Pardon me, I have to…”

“I’ll live through it. Go ahead.”

I wrapped my arms around her, placed the palms of my hands flat on her back and pulled her against me. The proximity was awkward and she stubbornly remained non reactive, rigid, her arms at her sides.

Jesus, she’s big, this is going to be fucking funny if it doesn’t work.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Ask yourself why I know how to do this.”

I lifted and pressed inward. The extra weight and size wasn’t an issue. Her back cracked. I shifted positions lifted and did it a second time. I waited. This wasn’t about her back. It had worked for me. Now it had to work on her. Rhonda’s sense of smell was infuriatingly sensitive, which I was counting on. She remained in my arms. Too long. Then wrong. The delay unnatural. Rhonda’s posture shifted and she inhaled sharply, like she’d been slapped. The physical reaction was striking, I felt her recoil, flushed, radiating heat. Her hands moved to my shoulders and she shoved me away, stepping back.

She seemed disoriented, in shock, her eyes reddening, desperately searching for words, the right words, she said, “I… miss you.” Tears started flowing, she looked at me, a look of profound disbelief, confusion, “I miss you. Why do I miss you?” She was crying, “I miss you. How can I miss you? What did you do to me? Mark, what did you do to me?”

I tried to reach for her, “Rhonda, it’s okay.”

She avoided my hand, “No, get the hell away from me.” Still crying, she fended me off, shouting, “Get away. Get away from me. This is impossible. Impossible.” Louder now, approaching hysteria, screaming, “What did you do to me?”

“I didn’t do anything to you.”

“Yes you did. Did you drug me?” then another rush of tears, “How? How can I feel this way? How can I miss you?”

“We were together for a long time. People can’t remember details but they can sometimes remember feelings. Smell and emotions are linked. I’m sorry. You are just too perceptive. I had to try the truth.”

“What truth? You drugged me. You’re sick.”

This wasn’t working, at all, she was ready to run, backing away from me.

“I drugged you?”

“Yes you sick fuck.”

“You’re right. I confess. I call it love potion number nine. Makes you fall in love. We are going to make a fucking fortune. What do you think?”

She had stopped backing up, clearly confused, “I don’t understand. What are you saying.”

“Stay in character.”

“What?”

“You heard me. In character. You are my bad ass lawyer. Have you looked in a fucking mirror lately? You standing on a table squealing about a mouse looks ridiculous. Jesus.”

Rhonda hesitated…

“Get down off the fucking table and get in character. Bad ass lawyer. Got it?”

Rhonda hesitated, and then decided. She crossed the two steps to the chair and sat. Tears were flowing freely, “Mark, I can’t, you’re insane.”

“Rhonda. Bad ass lawyer. Say it.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Yes it is. Say it.”

“Bad ass lawyer.”

“Feel better?”

“No. Maybe. Do it again.”

“Tell you to say bad ass lawyer?”

I got a you are a complete idiot look.

“Oh, right, love potion number nine.” I leaned over, put my hands on her shoulders pressing my cheek against hers.

I heard her inhale. After a moment she said, “Fuck you Mark.”

“Good. Anger is more useful than despair.”

I sat down and she glared at me, eyes still red, “That was a line right?”

“Yea, Terminator three I think. I am nothing if not predictable.”

Like she cares about that.

“I, I don’t know what to do with this.”

“I tried my best to lie to you but you are way too perceptive. You made me the moment you walked in the door. I remember being a pretty damn good lair. I can’t imagine why I suck at it so much here.”

“You tried to lie? I thought you were trying to get caught.”

“You asked for the truth. I gave you the truth. No choice.”

“Mark this is impossible. You and me. I can’t go here. I’m in a relationship.” She was shaking her head, confused, exasperated, “and you, you’re married to Angelina, where does that leave me?”

“I think it leaves us where it always leaves us. Can we change the subject for a second, I’m dying of curiosity, are you a swimmer?”

“You know that.”

“So yes, and I didn’t know that you were a swimmer, trophy obsessed Mark knew that. The Rhonda I was married to was not a swimmer. We talked about how you might have been under different circumstances. So how good were you, what’s your best event?”

“This is silly.”

“Look, I’m a fan, please, just answer my questions without any additional editorial commentary or this is going to take forever. What is your best event?”

“The four hundred free.”

“And, your best time?”

She stopped herself from saying something, thankfully, then she said, “Three fifty nine thirty three.”

“Wow that’s really fast. Meters not yards right?”

“The trophy obsessed version of you wasn’t this stupid.”

“Okay. But, it’s just, so fast… that’s, like, a world record, right?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not like. It’s THE world record.”

“The world record? Holly shit. How? When?”

“Sidney.”

“The 2000 Olympics. You were thirty nine years old. So you’re Dara Tores.”

“What about her?”

“Nothing. You look like you are still training.”

“Yes I am.”

“So, for 2004. That was in Greece right?”

“Was?”

“Is. Shit. There’s more, I forgot to mention, when I went to sleep, it was 2011.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Here eyes opened, “You are saying that you are from the future.”

“No. Not the future. You can’t come from someplace that doesn’t exist. Think of time as a place, a location, like a mile marker on river. There is a fork in the river. The location of the fork is 1953. When there’s a fork, one of the forks might go sideway for a bit before continuing, so the mile markers don’t line up any more. On one fork, this spot, where we are sitting, the mile marker reads 2004. On the other fork in the river. It lines up with the spot where the mile marker there says 2011. Somehow I crossed over. My side was at 2011, this side is at 2004. Simple right?”

“No. How can I be on both of your rivers?”

“When the river splits, depending on what causes the split, the effect can be local and then gradually spread out, or it can split all at once. By the time you were born, the split hadn’t reached you yet.”

“So the 1953 one was the gradual type?”

“Yes. So when the split reaches you, you end up on both sides. You understand.”

“No. You clarified why time, your location, could be different. You didn’t explain how I can be in two places at the same time.”

“Because you aren’t. When there is a split, there are two paths, each one starts identical. Like a clone. Same DNA, different paths, different genes activate, two unique individuals. I guess, technically, I was married to your clone.”

“Technobable nonsense. Are you in character? It this your new book?”

“Yes and yes. The truth told as a lie. Does it matter? Look, you’re a lawyer.” I picked up one of the books on the table and said “Watch this.” I let it go and the book fell to the floor. “That’s a rule. Lawyers are rule people. You understand rules.”

“Your point it?”

“Why do you miss me? Love potion number nine?”

“Because I am an idiot.”

“I give up. New subject.”

“Please.”

“Have I come on to you yet, or are we still in the awkward, unacknowledged sexual tension phase.”

“The sexual tension phase.”

“How long?”

“Years.”

“That makes sense. Here’s a rule for you. Rule one actually. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be us.”

“That’s a rule?”

“I’m pretty sure it is. Consider this, how I was able to tell Angie about a script she just got that I had never read?”

“I thought you were giving up.”

“Rule one.”

“Fine. How did you?”

“Mile markers on the river. On the side I came from the movie had already been released. I saw it like ten times.”

“So, you were obsessed with her.”

“You know, I was about to issue a standard blanket denial, but…”

I decided to ham it up.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to describe it as obsessed though.” I paused and got no response. “I definitely wasn’t obsessed.”

Her expression changed, “Mark, what are you expecting me to do? There isn’t any case law on time travel or alternate realities.”

“A joke. That’s good.”

She started smiling, “So … we were married…which means I’ve missed out on twenty years of sex with you?”

“No. It’s actually more like twelve. Anyway, you kind of lost interest in me.”

“Impossible.”

“I got fat.”

She looked me up and down, the whole lawyer thing falling away, “you are lying again.”

“Thank you for not believing me, we can discuss it later…”

“Well I want to discuss it now.”

“Rhonda.”

She looked over at the bed.

“Show me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You say we were married for twenty years. You must know things. Show me.”

“I’m not the guy who can have sex immediately after the world has gone to hell. I may look okay but I promise you, I’m just this side of completely fucking losing it. You and Angie are the only two people I’ve told. The last thing I’m going to do is add a god damn love triangle to a fucked up parallel universe plot.”

“It’s your sequel, why not?”

“Because my first reaction to waking up in some alternate universe is not a desire for sex.”

“So … you’re not planning on having sex with your wife?”

“What? No. Not even. What I am doing is totally freaking out. Like, what the hell am I doing here? And what am I going to do now? So no.”

“You say that you’re the guy in the book right? A regular guy. Regular job. Regular life. Not famous.”

“Yea…”

“Regular. Mister normal.”

“Hardly normal, but not, this.” I used an expansive gesture, indicating the room, “Way not this.”

“So when Angelina Jolie says to mister normal guy, lets have sex, he is going to say no.”

“Exactly.”

“You are full of shit. Time travel is more realistic.”

Exasperation, “No it isn’t. Okay, maybe, probably, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? When Angelina Jolie asks mister normal to have sex, he is going to say no?”

“Well, okay, I might have no choice but to accommodate her …”

“How could you? You said we were married. Didn’t you love me?”

“Fuck, I don’t know the rules. Should a copy of me honor promises made to a clone of you? You tell me what I should do.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“No, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to establish a baseline so I can tell when you’re lying. Burned once, not twice.”

“And?”

She shook her head, “You look together. It’s obvious when you lie, but, there’s something wrong.”

“Insane wrong?”

“No.”

“Maybe being scared shitless makes me a harder read.”

“Maybe.”

“That’ll have to do. Right now I need help. I don’t know anything. I don’t know anybody. I have no idea what’s going to happen. I could go to sleep tonight and wake up somewhere else. But I have to assume that I’m here to stay so I need your help. Can you manage that?”

“Whatever you want Mark.”

“Great. Here’s the situation. I am married to Angie, but I don’t know her. Period. I’ve never met her before today. I remember being married to you, all my instincts tell me I know you. But that isn’t true either. You’re like a twin, the same, but different. Both you and Angie think you know me, but it is the same situation. But the worst thing? I don’t know myself. Unless I was a complete asshole, there is a lifetime of relationships outside of this room and it’s all a big blank nothing. What do I do?”

“See a doctor. A good one.”

“Pretend I am telling the truth. Pretend I have amnesia. I was going to try that lie anyway.”

“I really, really, wish you had. We need to get to know each other, and as far as you getting to know your wife, good luck with that. And, try something new, or better still, make that being someone else thing true. Write the damn book this time. Maybe you will hear me this time. You won’t get another chance. Even if this is your first chance. I must be out of my mind.”

“You’re doing great. I will write the book this time. Keep going, what else?”

“The obvious things. We’ll need to research your friends, acquaintances, and business associations. We can use a security check as a cover, your wife’s public persona will work for us. You’re going to have go to school on it. I can get it started. Will Angelina help?”

“Yes, she already is helping.”

“Good. This is going to be pricey, so write the book and get paid. I hope I don’t regret asking but, is there anything else I need to know? Is there anything you haven’t told me?”

“Yes. Attorney client privilege right?”

“Please.”

Accompanied by a look of contempt.

“Okay. A maybe problem. Angie is about to start a movie with Brad Pitt as her costar. It’s the movie I saw ten times. Where I’m from, they fall love while making the movie and end up together.”

Shaking her head, “Oh my god. Your fate is to be the guy Angelina Jolie leaves for Brad Pitt?”

“Looks like.”

“Okay, that’s funny, but. Jesus, Mark, I can’t believe I am hearing you say this so, calmly.” She leaned close and looked into my eyes. “Imagine them kissing.”

“What?”

“English. Imagine them kissing. Don’t ask questions. Just do it.”

“Okay.”

I did.

“That’s different. You should be in a jealous rage, out of your mind, kicking down doors and throwing stuff.”

“So I’ve heard. Are you speaking from first hand experience?”

A very strange look, “You don’t remember.”

“No. This place is a complete blank. Zip. Nothing.”

“You don’t know?”

“Like I said. Nothing.”

“Do you want me to tell…”

“Fuck it. No.”

“Amazing. You’re not leaking anything.”

“Leaking? What are you talking about?”

“Tells. Never mind. I think I might believe you.”

“I’m in shock. Why?”

“Because this isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve heard this week.”

“That’s hard to imagine.”

“Just listen before passing judgment. My mother told me something. I thought she was just being out of her mind drunk, but now… You know how she’s always been kind of freaked out about you being my client.”

“No, but its easy to imagine someone not handling the celebrity thing.”

“Well, that’s what I thought. Then, last week we had one of our three martini lunches, and after the forth martini, out of the blue, she tells me this fucking story about how I became a swimmer. My parents, they used to be Johova’s witnesses, and mother said it changed when … an angel showed up and told them that I was special, and that I should be a swimmer if I wanted.”

She looked at me, “Then she says that the angel she met looked exactly like you, except he had no eyes and said his name was Asrael. What do you think?”

Holly fucking shit!

How?

I took a deep breath and spoke as blandly as possible.

“I think its a really interesting story.”

She seemed to be looking past me, at something in the distance.

“Well, there’s more. I remember something, I thought it was a dream.”

Then Rhonda looked down at her watch.

“And I’m late. Shit, I’m late, I have to go.”

She got out of the chair.

Setting my shock aside, “Your relationship, right?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me.”

She looked me up and down again, but not like before.

“Huh? Okay.”

Wordlessly, we walked down the stairs to the front door, where we hugged awkwardly before she slipped out. An afterimage of a lingering look back remained after the door closed. I stood there and stared at the door.

Now what?.

The watched front door opened. Rhonda came back in, leaned back against the door and closed it.

“Forget something?”

“Yes.”

She tossed her brief case to the side and stepped toward me.

I said something like “bla bla bla.”

She kissed me. Or we kissed. I’m not sure.

Seeing someone again,

Someone long lost.

Her but not her

But mostly her

And who am I?

A copy of someone,

Me but not me?

She stepped back, “I don’t know why I did that.”

“Strange days.”

She nodded.

I said something.

She turned back toward the door and retrieved her brief case. I opened the door for her and, again, she slipped out, this time as she looked back at me, a momentary twinkling light reflected off her face. A tear.

The door closed.

Staring at the door. Still.

Did that happen?

Think.

She went out

She came back in

Then she left again

I guess it happened.

My mood spun downward. Still staring at the door.

What is wrong? What am I missing? What have I done?

Take inventory.

I have promised to write a book.

So? What’s wrong with that? What could be wrong?

A professional writer for how long?

Thirty years. Thirty god damn years.

How am I going to fake being a writer for thirty years?

What about a love triangle?

Pray that’s as bad as it gets.

The air in my inflated sense of self confidence was pouring out through a hole, the fantasy collapsing, exposing me to the harsh reality.

I don’t know anybody. Not one single person. I can’t talk to anybody about this, not for real. Nobody will fully believe me.

How can I do this?

No information. Nothing, I couldn’t pay a bill if I had too. I don’t know if I have money. My financial situation seems bad, but I don’t actually know.

And now I have to write a book. A book that looks like a guy with thirty years of experience wrote it.

I was spinning down, sagging, head dropping, eyes now on the floor.

I’ve never written anything.

You’re never going to pull this off.

What did I do?

You screwed yourself.

A white book.

The Good Life.

By Mark Elliot.

I felt the book, its weight and balance. Disassociated hands opened the book, flipping to the last chapter.

How screwed am I?

I grimaced and forced myself to read.

…

And I woke up. In a jolt.

Passed out.

I must be tired.

Awake and no confusion.

I’m still fucked.

I got up and wandered around the loft, it was different this time, absent the panic of, where the hell am I, and, how do I get downstairs. I sat back down and searched the desk which was strangely generic. No personal shit, photos, things like that. Maybe to be expected. No family and all. Boring. The walk-in closet struck me as promising, so I got up and went to take a look.

I had lots of really nice clothes, which hung from both sides on twin closet length rods. On the opposite wall there was a tall, triple wide, set of drawers. On my right, hanging in an organized row, was the more traditional stuff. I took a look.

Jesus, this is a fucking Armani.

Okay, so traditional really fucking rich peoples stuff.

On my left, also hanging in a well organized row, well, that was mostly for climbing. The highlight of which was sick, a full down 8000 meter climbing suit. And then there were the boots. In a tidy row under the clothing, at the end of which was a pair of La Sportiva Olympus boots.

I am a climbing god.

Money money money money.

Wow.

Back on the right side, on the floor, the row of shoes consisted of an assortment of, well, really nice shoes. And a single black case. I sat down on the soft carpet next to the door with my back to the wall and slid the case over so it was directly in front of me. I hesitated before opening it.

What will this be?

Something that will increase the I’m so fucked factor.

Maybe a sniper rifle with an uncomprehendingly technical night vision scope.

I snapped open the clasps and opened the case.

Not what I was expecting.

Not at all.

A saxophone was broken down, the pieces resting in form fitted, felt covered holders. Also inside the case was a tag with a monogrammed Mark Elliot.

I play the saxophone?

My memory, such as it is, was mine, and the only reference to a saxophone was a dim, maybe someday, desire to learn how to play one. Code for never. There’s no telling how much of me, is me, so … perhaps there is some part of me that remembers what to do with this. The first task would be putting it together.

I picked up something that looked like a short fat wood nail file, and without thinking I put it in my mouth.

Organic.

The reed.

I reached into the case and retrieved the mouthpiece. The reed was curved, as the curve matched the shape of the mouth piece, I slipped the reed, curve down, between two things that looked like hose clamps and the curved surface of mouth piece. Then I twisted the little wing nuts on the hose clamps.

Now what?

Probably this, which looks like a pipe adapter with a ninety degree bend.

The mouthpiece slipped on perfectly. Which left the horn part. I reached for that and hesitated.

Wrong somehow.

I shifted my hand and grabbed it by the wide part where there were no keys.

Right somehow.

I slipped the two parts together and found a wing nut which I tightened.

Done.

No.

Remaining in the case was a neck strap with a clip at the end. I put it around my neck and clipped it to an obvious loop on the back of the assembled sax.

I put it to my mouth, inhaled and blew.

Lord have mercy.

The result was a hideously amplified super kazoo howl.

Fuck.

Okay.

No mind.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Another, even louder kazoo howl.

Right.

Okay. I need to distract my mind.

I thought about Blair, specifically the last dance performance I had seen. My left hand found the upper part of the horn’s keys, my right moved to the lower portion. I inhaled, focused on the dance performance in my mind and blew. Like magic, my memory of the dance sharpened and took life, I was in the back of the theater, Blair was on the stage, dancing a solo to music from an unseen accompanist. I moved forward, down the isle to the front row. Blair was alone, lost, her movement and the music conveying a curious mixture of feelings, feelings I somehow shared, feelings of sorrow. And feelings of awe. I watched, she danced, it was so beautiful. At some point I started to cry.

…

Something was resting lightly on my shoulder. Distracting. I turned my head and the theater dissolved into a mist, which blew away with the lightest breeze. Legs. As I was on the floor I had to look up. A stranger. A woman. Beautiful. She spoke.

“Mark. That was exquisite.”

Angie, it’s Angie.

What is she talking about?

“What was?”

“Your playing.” She pointed at the saxophone I was holding.

“This is going to sound kind of stupid, but, I play the saxophone? This is mine?”

“Its yours, and yes.”

“So I’m good?”

“No. Barely competent, yes. Until…right now. I’ve never heard you play like that. It was magical. Did you play?”

“No.”

“Then how?”

I tapped my head, “I watched Blair dance and it just happened.”

“Blair?”

“My daughter, who doesn’t exist.”

“Mark, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Depends how you define okay. Lets change the subject. How was your meeting?”

“I postponed it.”

“And why would you do that? Your husband’s nervous breakdown not withstanding.”

“I met with my doctor and made arrangements for you to go in and get your head examined.”

“Excellent thinking. To eliminate me as a suspect. But … I’m trying to imagine what you could have told him.”

“Everything.”

“I see why you canceled your meeting. What did he say.”

“I’ll tell you about it later. You go in tomorrow morning.”

“Great. That should be fun. What kind of doctor am I going to see.”

“All of them I think.”

I almost laughed. “You know, when I was caught up in the moment and offering to write a sequel, it seemed like an inspiration but, I’m starting to have a crisis of confidence about my ability to deliver on that. I did some reading. He was a really good writer. It’s reminds me of me, but I can’t imagine how I can fake the thirty years of reps it takes to get good at something like this.”

“That occurred to me.”

“Really?”

“Think about it. You are doing the book in character. Do you remember your story? You are a guy who isn’t a writer who has taken the place of one who is. So what do you do? You hire a ghost writer.”

“You hired a ghost writer?”

“I wasn’t sure how you’d react. My Mark would have been appalled. So not hired, contacted. You need to meet him first. His name is Harold Sheldon. That’s tomorrow afternoon.”

“My schedule is filling up.”

“It’s a thing that happens when you pay attention to life.”

“Thanks, that’s a huge burden lifted. I’m hungry. What do we do about dinner in this joint? Since I couldn’t cook, what did we do?”

“I’m putting you to the test. Normally Chu cooks dinner, but today, under the circumstances, I gave the staff the day off.”

“Do you cook?”

“You’re kidding.”

“So no, and, I’m making dinner.”

“That’s why it’s called a test.” She smiled, “And how did the meeting with your lawyer go?”

“Fine. Easy. No big deal.”

“So you’re saying that wasn’t your wife Rhonda.”

“That’s what you thought and you didn’t think to warn me. Of course it wasn’t her. Her name being Rhonda was a funny coincidence, but it wasn’t her. Look, guys like me, don’t end up with women like her, or you.”

“Yet here you are.”

“There’s that, but this? This is some sort of winning cosmic lotto ticket. A person only hits the lotto once.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said that I was going to take care of the problem with my mental block by doing my next book in character, and she would have to deal with it.”

She knelt down, and looked into my eyes, “That’s what you said?”

I made my face a blank mask of incomprehension. “Of course.”

“Did you forget? This is one of those opposites attract things, where I am one of the best actors in the world, and you are, like the worst, right?

“Meaning I can’t possibly lie to you.”

“You are a total open book.”

“Completely and utterly transparent.”

“Right. I couldn’t lie to you if my life depended on it.”

She put out her finger and touched my chest, “So it was her. Did did you sleep with her?”

“Me, sleep with her? Come on, how can you even ask that?. Like she would? And, by the way, I’m not the guy who thinks that having sex is the thing to do after waking up in some parallel universe. But, why do you ask? You aren’t jealous are you?”

“Of you? Don’t be ridiculous. I have Brad Pitt ready and waiting.”

“Look who’s lying now.”

She moved very close, “So…you’re not going to have sex with anyone?”

Her eyes were smoldering.

I am so fucked.

I think she was saying that.

That’s not what I meant.

Uh huh.

Great, now I don’t even believe me.

“I’m on to your tricks. That eye thing you’re doing isn’t going to work on me.”

She smiled.

“And It’s bad form to toy with a civilian.”

“Avoiding the question are we?”

“No. I won’t. Not even if you begged.”

She started laughing.

“You don’t believe me?”

“God Mark, if your cooking is as bad as your acting we’re both going to die. Get down to the kitchen.”

I stood up and walked out of the closet,

“I wasn’t acting.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Fuck.

I think she was saying that.

Shut up.

What’s the problem?

The plot. A man trapped in a parallel universe is clinging to sanity and what happens? A fucking love triangle. With the only people who know the truth.

Yea, I hate it too, but this might be one of those movies that are more fun to make than they are to watch.