The Tower of Endless Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

Simon balanced the bags in his arms and started across the parking lot, wishing he’d thought to get a shopping cart.

  Tires screeched, and the front bumper of a battered old blue Chevrolet skidded to a stop six inches from his knee. An elderly woman sat behind the wheel, blinking at him in befuddlement.

  Simon growled and kicked the fender. “Watch where you’re going!”

  The old woman blinked at him. No doubt she had been calling Marchson Appliances customer service earlier today.

  Simon sighed and managed to get the groceries to his van without getting run down. He had only been in the store fifteen minutes, but the van had heated up like an oven. He cranked down all the windows and started the engine. After a few moments of careful driving, he escaped the parking lot and headed for home.

  His eyes felt gritty, and he kept wanting to yawn. He had only gotten five hours of sleep the night before. Maybe he could get some extra sleep tonight. Or, more likely, he would stay up all night working and drink five or six cups of coffee in the morning.

  The glamorous life of the doctoral student.

  He reached an intersection, pulled into the left turn lane, and waited for the light to change. At least his expedition to the grocery store hadn’t taken too long. The light changed, and he turned onto the narrow one-land street that would take him home. Parked cars lined both sides of the street, shaded by the trees. A red car one the right had been parked a little too far into the street.

  And in the wrong direction, too.

  A moment later Simon realize that car was coming the wrong way down the street.

  He cursed, slammed on the brake, and tried to swerve. The red car clipped the front of his van. Metal screeched and glass shattered, and his van skidded sideways and almost crashed into the parked cars. The red car slid another ten feet and screeched to a halt.

  “Darn it, darn it, darn it.” Simon turned off the ignition and climbed out. His front left headlight and turn signal had been smashed to pieces, his bumper had been dented, and a trio of deep scratches ran down the driver’s side door. “Darn…darn…damn it!”

  If there was ever a time for profanity, this was it.

  First he had lost his job, and now this.

  It had not been a good day.

  He looked at the other car and winced. It was a Jaguar Coupe, a very expensive looking Jaguar Coupe that had just lost its left side mirror and headlight. Whoever owned the car had a lot of money.

  Simon was in a lot of trouble.

  He saw the driver struggling to get the door open. The guy didn’t look injured, at least. Simon grabbed the handle and pulled. The door shuddered open, and a short man with slicked-back hair and thick glasses got out. He looked somewhat familiar, but Simon could not place him.

  “You hurt?” said Simon.

  “No,” said the man, glaring at Simon. He wore an expensive-looking suit. “A bit rattled, but I’m fine.” He looked over his car and grimaced. “The same cannot be said of my car.” His glare returned to Simon. “A bit far over in the other lane, weren’t we?”

  “Other…” Simon’s fists balled in fury. “You idiot! This is a one-way street!”

  The man blinked. “It is?”

  That was the final straw.

  Simon stomped into the middle of the street and waved his hands. “Are you freaking blind? Look! The parked cars on both sides of the street are facing the same way! That usually implies a one-way street, doesn’t it?”

  The man lifted an eyebrow. “I would assume so, yes.” He sighed. “Oh, dear. You’re right. It looks like I am at fault for this.”

  Simon stalked back towards him. “I would say so, yes.”

  “At least nobody was hurt, unless you work yourself up to a heart attack,” said the man. “We’d best report this. The last thing I need is some reporter sniffing after a hit-and-run scandal.”

  Simon looked at the houses lining either side of the street. “I’ll ask if we can use someone’s phone.”

  “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

  Simon pointed at his damaged van. “I’m driving a Ford Aerostar with 180,000 miles on it. Do I look like I can afford a damn cell phone?”

  The man smiled and reached into his jacket. “Good point. Fortunately, I have a cell phone. The benefits of modern technology, as one of my business partners likes to say.”

  Simon rubbed his forehead. “Fine.” His headache had returned with a vengeance. He hoped he didn’t have whiplash.

  The man nodded, dialed, and spoke a few words into the phone. After a moment he nodded and hung up. “The police are on their way, as is a tow truck. From the noises my engine made, I suspect my car can’t make the trip to the garage.”

  Simon jangled his keys and leaned against the side of his van. “My engine didn’t go out. I should be able to make it home.”

  The man tucked his phone away. “We should take the opportunity to exchange insurance information.” Simon laughed. What insurance? “Again, I would like to apologize. I was unaware that this was a one way street.”

  Simon shrugged. “Factum est illud, fieri infectum non potest,” he mumbled. “Accidents happen.”

  The man titled his head to one side and smiled. “Done is done, it cannot be made undone.”

  Simon blinked. “What did you say?”

  “The translation to what you said. From the works of the Roman playwright Titus Maccius Plautus, I believe, though I can’t recall which play at the moment.”

  “Um…I don’t remember. I’ll look it up when I get home,” said Simon. “You know Latin?”

  The man slid his hands into his pockets. “Oh, quite fluently. I was a double major in history and classical literature in college. I still remember quite a bit.” He smiled. “What did Lord Byron say? ‘I love the language, that soft bastard Latin…’”

  Simon grinned. “‘Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.’”

  The man smiled. “Very good! You have some familiarity with the classics, I take it?”

  Simon snorted. “More than a bit. I’m doing a doctoral program in Greek and Roman history at the University of Constantina right now.”

  The man beamed. “Good! Very good, sir. I almost did the same thing myself. I was working on a Master’s program when I dropped out to go into business with a few partners.”

  Simon looked at the expensive suit and car. “It seems to have worked out.”

  The man smiled. “Quite well. Still, I wonder from time to time if I should not have pursued it anyway. There are so few ancient scholars today, and appreciation for the classics has vanished.”

  “I know,” said Simon. “I was a TA for an intro class last year. The students just didn’t care. They were more interested in business administration or women’s studies or just playing computer games.”

  The man sneered. “Crass and ignorant pursuits of time, certainly.”

  Simon nodded. “The decline of western civilization.”

  The man laughed. “I wouldn’t worry too much. The decline of western civilization has always been in sight. Tacitus complained about it in the second century AD, and every major writer before or since has said something about it.” He smiled. “Men do not change. It is one of the great truths of the world. Well. As enjoyable as a good intellectual discussion would be, we must get to business.”

  Simon stuck out his hand on impulse. “Simon Wester.”

  The man shook his hand. “Thomas Wycliffe.”

  Simon blinked. “Wycliffe…” He blinked and went rigid. “Wait! I know you…you’re the Senator, the one who won the election last year.”

  Wycliffe grinned. “The same.”

  Simon ran a hand through his hair. “I…I voted for you…”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, man. Oh, man. I hit a Senator’s car. I am in so much trouble.”

  Wycliffe laughed. “Calm yourself, Mr. Wester. Were I the President, Secret Service agents would have arrested you already. But I am not the president. Yet.” He grinned. “
So, we’ll settle this the usual way. Do you have insurance information with you?”

  “Um…” Simon grimaced. “I don’t have car insurance. I can’t afford it. Rather, I couldn’t afford it, and after I lost my job…”

  “You lost your job?”

  Simon nodded. “Today!”

  Wycliffe blinked. “Goodness. Then you’ve had quite a rotten day, haven’t you?”

  “You have no idea,” said Simon.

  Wycliffe produced a checkbook and propped it against his car. “Well…in that case, perhaps I should pay for the damages to your vehicle.” Simon started to protest, and then thought better of it. “How much does that look like? Six hundred dollars worth of damage?”

  “Maybe seven,” said Simon. “Actually, eight hundred. Or nine.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” said Wycliffe. He tore off a check and handed it over. “Here you are.”

  “Thanks.” Simon blinked. He almost dropped the check. It was for five thousand dollars. “I…you…you…”

  “Well, just in case,” said Wycliffe. “And if there’s any left over after fixing the van, consider it a donation to a struggling scholar.”

  “Thanks.” A considerable crowd had gathered on the sidewalks. Some of them called Senator Wycliffe’s name and waved. “Wait. This is all politics, all publicity. You just want to look good.”

  Wycliffe laughed. “Absolutely! Do you think I want a car accident to become a scandal? And you’ve impressed me, Mr. Wester. Not many people have the dedication it takes to properly study history.” He snapped his fingers. “In fact, I have an idea.” He pulled out a business card and pressed it into Simon’s hand. “This is the address of my offices on the South Side. Why don’t you stop by tomorrow morning and pay me a visit?”

  “I have class all morning,” said Simon.

  “Afternoon, then. Or the day after, if it works better. I don’t fly back to Washington until the end of the week. You need a job? Perhaps I can provide something.”

  “Thanks,” said Simon. He could think of nothing else to say.

  “Ah.” Wycliffe craned his neck. “The police are here. Let’s tell them what happened, shall we?”

  Simon nodded.

  It had been a very interesting day.

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