Afterlife Crisis

by Randal Graham

  “Well, yes,” said Isaac, looking at me as though I’d lost a marble or two.

  What this chump didn’t realize was that he’d underestimated the suave and debonair guest before him and that I was hep to his science jargon. I’d read all about this quantum business in the fairly recent past, having discovered the May edition of Popular Science in my powder room at the Hôtel de la Lune. I perused an article on quantum thingummies for the space of at least fifteen minutes before concluding that the title “Popular Science” had been intentionally ironic.

  “So,” I said, preparing to demonstrate the fruits of my encounter with this Popular Science rag, “your attention is directed solely at quarks, bosons, gluons, and whathaveyou?”

  “Precisely,” said Isaac. “The key to my plan lies in adjusting reality at the subatomic level, manipulating the eigenvalues of elementary particles and their constituents.”

  “And by subatomic,” I said, just to ensure I’d collared the gist, “you mean, in fact, smaller than atoms. This reweaving you describe, your experiments, all of your fiddling with the fabric of Detroit — it is focused entirely on messing about with subatomic thingamajigs?”

  “Absolutely,” said he.

  “So . . . just teeny tiny things, then?”

  “I suppose so, but—”

  “Your efforts are confined to the realm of the infinitesimally small? The teensy weensy? The ‘I can’t even see the bally things without a couple of highly powered microscopes’ level?”

  “Yes,” said Isaac, a touch defensively. “But when I implement these quantum-level changes—”

  “I’ve heard enough!” I said, waving a dismissive teacup, for I had, in fact, heard enough. And as you might imagine, my relief at what I’d heard was stupendous. It’s not going to far to say that only the circumstance that I was sitting in a chair kept me from dancing a carefree step. This officious number cruncher was, as Abe had foreshadowed, tugging at the very threads that formed the fabric of Detroit. But he was doing so on such a minute scale that it didn’t matter a single damn. The quantum level, I mean to say! If he wanted to poke around with subatomic doodads, snipping a lepton here and a gluon there, then who was I to stand in this chump’s way? “Carry on, Newton,” I might have said, “and may Abe speed your efforts!” for now I saw that Abe had gotten the thing all wrong. He could be forgiven for this, of course, not being privy to the hot news I’d uncovered. Abe must have heard that Isaac was, to use the fellow’s own impassioned, hyperbolic lingo, mucking about with the very fabric of the universe, or shaking Detroit to its very foundations. But what Abe failed to realize was the laughably small scale of Isaac’s fiddling. This science fancier was no cloven-hoofed terrorizer of the innocent but merely a peevish nerd intent on fiddling with infinitesimally teensy weensy things which even the meanest intellect could perceive would be of no consequence to anyone. I knew in a heartbeat this was one of those misunderstandings you often get — those laughable cases where one half of the world doesn’t know what the other three quarters is up to.

  The quantum level. That’s all it was. An amoeba might take note of Isaac’s experiments, but nothing but an amoeba, and even then, only an amoeba with a magnifying glass.

  Now that the scales had fallen from mine eyes, as the expression is, I realized Isaac wasn’t a danger to anyone at all, with the possible exception of undergraduate students who messed up their long division. He certainly wasn’t a candidate for the office of “most dangerous chump in the world.” Let him tinker with his quantum thingummies, and I hope he has a fine day for it. I breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

  I suppose nothing is more uplifting than having a major task struck off of one’s to-do list. My quest to put a stop to Isaac’s mischief was at an end, and I could now turn my attention to the less esoteric problem of tracking down my missing pal. I was so braced at this turn of events that I sat there grinning for a space, forgetting to hold up my end of the conversation. Coming out of my reverie, I recalled that Isaac had suggested I might help him with his tinkering. If he was right — if I might help him push along his quantum business — this could have the effect of putting the old egghead in my debt and convincing him to lend a hand in my efforts to locate Zeus; something he could readily do by convincing Dr. Peericks that Oan was sane. I steered the conversation back in that direction.

  “You were saying I might help you,” I said, cheerily.

  “Yes! Your ability to perceive what you refer to as the ‘rewriting’ of the universe makes you a uniquely useful aide.”

  “It’s my pleasure to be of service,” I said, inclining the bean.

  “Excellent!” said Isaac. “But before we get to that, I need more information about the Napoleons. Their memory patterns hold the key to the aberrations I’ve observed in neurochemisty. I need to understand why this particular pattern remains consistent across subjects — why so many Napoleons seem to remember multiple visits to the beforelife, and how those specific memory engrams can be replicated or changed.”

  “And with Napoleons disappearing left and right, you need access to their records?” I ventured.

  “Exactly! The records are of the essence. I can’t see how we’ll proceed without them. Now that all of these records have been stolen—”

  Here he broke off. Not so much because he had finished what he was saying, but because at this point I leapt up from my chair and danced a few of those carefree steps I’d forgone earlier. And the reason I danced was this: I had just been struck by one of those bolts of inspiration which always seem to come along just when you need them.

  He eyed me strangely.

  “Perhaps not all of the records have been stolen!” I said, cheesing the choreography and returning to position one.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when you’ve known as many Napoleons as I have, you get to know a thing or two about their condition. And one thing only the cognoscenti know is that a small whatdoyoucallit of Napoleons are misdiagnosed.”

  “Misdiagnosed?”

  “With Arc Disorder. Happens to female Napoleons all the time. Show me an honest-to-goodness female Napoleon, and I’ll show you a beazel who, nine times in ten, will not be counted as a Napoleon at all but will instead be lumped in with those who suffer from Arc Disorder — a closely related but medically distinct malady. Why, one of my good friends experienced that very thing, and it cheesed her off no end. A pipsqueak called Nappy. Friendly sort. Chummy with my pal Zeus. She was proud to be a Napoleon and chafed visibly at the notion that she might be something else.”

  “So what’s your point?” said Isaac, trying to rush to my crescendo.

  “My point, impatient egghead, is this: the blighters who stole the records from Detroit Mercy may have stolen only those of patients officially diagnosed with Napoleon Syndrome. They may not have known to look among those who were diagnosed with something else.”

  “So you’re saying—”

  “Nappy’s records may still be in Dr. Peericks’s medical files! And if I can lay my mitts on Nappy’s records—”

  “They may assist me in my work! They might even lead to this Nappy person herself. And if you could bring her here, I could perform my own neurological scans and get on with my experiments!”

  “Precisely!” I said, now smiling a secret smile. And I’ll let you in on the secret behind that s. If I was an astute judge — which I think we can all agree I am — then it was highly likely that any trail that led to Nappy would also take us several furlongs closer to Zeus. I mean to say, the two of them were almost as inseparable as Zeus and self had been during our time in Detroit Mercy. And at the very moment that I had left Zeus behind, suffering the effects of Socratic bullets, I had left him in the care of this same Nappy.

  Once again the Author had set my course Zeusward, tossing bread crumbs on my path.

  And thus it was that, having divined t
he Author’s will, I tied my lot to Isaac Newton’s, and signed up to assist this personal-secretary-cum-Lucasian-Chair with his current work.

  Chapter 8

  For me it was the work of a moment to book return passage on the overnight bus bound for the hospice. And as my return trip was one of those dullish, yawn-inducing sequences in which nothing of consequence happens, I shan’t waste our collective time bunging in any superfluous descriptions, if superfluous is the word I want. The one thing the trip did provide in heaping measure was time for planning my next steps.

  I don’t know about you, but one thing that has frequently struck me is just how dashed elusive a plan can be. I mean to say, you see your aims and objectives dangling tantalizingly on the horizon, but however you strain your eyes you can’t see a path to reach them. Take the problem of Nappy’s files. They were, as Isaac had said, “of the essence.” They were needed. Without those files, Isaac’s work would run aground and no competent bookie would rate my odds of finding Zeus at better than 100 to 8. But how could I lay my mitts upon them? I mean to say, I couldn’t just saunter up to Peericks and say, “Ahoy there, psychiatric pinhead, let’s have a look at your files.” The doctor would issue a nolle prosequi quicker than I could say “what, ho!” And even if I were to explain that these files were needed by Isaac Newton in service of scientific inquiry, the old mule-headed dimwit wouldn’t budge. As Isaac himself had already specified, the recent theft of patient records had cheesed any chance of Peericks willingly forking over the goods.

  Nor was there any percentage in a plan to purloin the things. I mean to say, had I still been a resident of the hospice, clad in the standard-issue white robe and able to blend in with the native loonies, I could move hither and thither about the joint without fear of attracting attention. But as it was — now that Feynman had been designated a stranger in a strange land — I was scarcely able to move from spot to spot without an escort. True, I had developed a talent for sneaking stealthily about the hospice via the air ducts and other secret paths, but in those happier days the prospect of being collared while marauding merely raised the trivial risk of being sent back to my room, or hearing another lecture on civil conduct from Oan, Dr. Peericks, or Matron Bikerack. If I was discovered stealing files in my current state, I ran the risk of landing myself in the jug for forty days without the option of a fine.

  Casting my mind back to my midnight hospice raids summoned another line of thought, this one supporting a strategy I call “power politics,” but which others, in a less charitable vein, might call blackmail.

  I had, if you’ll recall, spent several years hitched up in the hospice, and if there’s one thing you can say about a lengthy sojourn in a mental facility, it’s that it affords the opportunity to gather scads of useful data about the other denizens of the joint, particularly if you’re inclined to skulk around at night picking locks and opening cabinets. And while I hadn’t uncovered anything you might call damning intel concerning the man up top — by which I mean Dr. E.M. Peericks — I had, while rummaging through his personal desk, discovered the fact that this mental hygienist dyed his hair and wore a rubbery somethingorother about his tum — one of those girdle-like devices designed to improve the silhouette of anyone who, like Dr. Peericks, is somewhat fonder of pies than he is of jaunts on the treadmill. And while you might be thinking these trivial nods to vanity don’t amount to state secrets or solid blackmail material, you’re forgetting about the aims and aspirations of the vain object in question. Dr. Peericks was, unless I was much mistaken, hoping to woo Oan, and Oan had frequently established that the trait she values most is staying true to one’s “authentic self,” of all the dashed silly things. Show me a man who cinches a girdle about his waist and dyes his hair with Madame Jourard’s black-umber number 7, and I’ll show you a chump who has thoroughly disqualified himself from plighting his troth to Oan. I mean to say, in this life you can chart one of two courses: you can hitch up with a bird who says “to thine own self be true,” or you can waddle about the joint wearing girdles, not both. Thus it occurred to me, in a moment of whimsy, that I might sidle up to Peericks, elbow him in the ribs while winking one of those conspiratorial winks, and inform the vain quack I was aware of his cosmetic conceits, and that only by coming across with Nappy’s files could he avoid the dire consequence of me revealing all to Oan.

  I toyed with this idea throughout the night, as the bus meandered along its route. But by the time I’d reached the hospice I’d rejected the plan in toto. Not because it was unseemly — why, the bounds of seemliness are murky when it comes to any strategy that holds the promise of helping a pal in trouble. No, I rejected the blackmail angle because I was sure it wouldn’t work. The only thing presently stopping Peericks from pitching his woo in Oan’s direction was a hospice rule preventing the staff from fraternizing with crazies. Peericks had shown by his deportment that he wouldn’t break the rules for love alone. And if he wouldn’t break the no-fraternizing rule in service of his affections, he surely wouldn’t break the rules regarding secret patient files. It’s how the man’s brain was wired. As specious as this medical blighter’s reasoning was, at least it was both predictable and consistent.

  I needed another plan. But another plan being precisely what I didn’t have, I simply showed up at the hospice and hoped for the best.

  On my arrival I wasn’t met by another one of those bolts of inspiration for which I had hoped, but by a receptionist who informed me that I’d been added to Oan’s guest list, preparatory to chivvying me directly to Oan’s room in a brusque manner.

  On entering Oan’s quarters I found myself alone with the weird old bird, her roommate having apparently moved on to greener pastures. And while any man of regular habits couldn’t help but enter Oan’s presence with a feeling of trepidation, I was heartened to find that nothing could have exceeded the warmth with which I was now greeted.

  “Oh, Mr. Feynman!” she said, beaming over a plate of eggs and b. “I’m so glad you returned. Did you have a comfortable journey?”

  “Oh, rather,” I said, falsifying the data in order to skip the dreary details of my to-ing and fro-ing via Detroit’s transit system. “Everything was boompsa-daisy. Most efficient, the transit service. Back and forth without a hitch. And how about you? Everything still pretty bobbish?”

  “Why yes, Mr. Feynman. I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier.”

  “Good, good!” I said, displaying the suavity of the perfect in-room guest. “No doubt your mood is assisted by having the barracks all to yourself. The bunkmate has checked out, has she?”

  “Why no, Mr. Feynman. She’s in a meeting with Dr. Peericks. He’s helping her with her memory.”

  “Still harping about two chairs?”

  “She is, but now she’s saying so much more! She improved almost immediately after you left! Why, you hadn’t been gone more than an hour when she started saying the strangest things — things about two chairs defining men, both freeing and binding, uniting twin souls and—”

  “Most interesting,” I said, interrupting the addle-minded babbler, for I found myself in no mood to delve into the ravings of crispy character who, whatever her qualifications, still warranted a long-term lease in a padded cell.

  “She still remembers very little,” said Oan, apparently keen on fleshing out the roommate issue. “Dr. Peericks thinks he can help her. That poor woman. She doesn’t remember who she is, but does seem to remember some things about other people. She even said she remembered you, Mr. Feynman.”

  “No doubt. We met yesterday.”

  “No! She had other stories about you; several of them. She said she remembered riding an elevator with you in City Hall, returning your hamster to you when he’d been lost, and helping you search for hidden clues concerning someone called ‘the regent.’”

  On the cue “returning your hamster to you,” I fished about in my pocket to ensure Fenny was still among those present
. I was relieved to find that the little chap was still minding the store with his usual air of quiet dignity. This brief taking-of-inventory had caused me to rather lose the thread of Oan’s babbling.

  “Do her stories seem familiar?” asked Oan.

  “Familiar?”

  “The stories about you in an elevator in City Hall, or about the regent, or someone returning your hamster to you? If these stories seem familiar, they might be clues to who she is.”

  “I’m sorry, no,” I said. “The sequences you describe fail altogether to ring any bells.”

  I was conscious, as I said this, of a certain amount of doubt. I mean to say, the last two days had shown that the Feynman memory, though sound as a bell as far as early drafts of the Author’s text might be concerned, now failed to correspond with the memories stored in the beans of secondary characters, all of whom seem to have been updated with the Author’s latest edits. Once again, I resolved to keep my responses on the cagey side of par.

  “I mean to say, one has ridden elevators a time or two, accompanied by assorted hangers-on, but none who seem to meet the description of your roommate, either in a pre- or post-charbroiled state. And Fenny and I have parted ways when he’s had errands to run elsewhere, but like a boomerang, or one of those well-trained pigeons you sometimes meet, he’s always made it back under his own steam.”

  “And this regent person?”

  “Doesn’t prod the Feynman memory banks at all!”

  “But why would she report these memories if they’re not true?”

  “Ah. That we shall never know. But I’m not here to talk about elevators, hamsters, regents, or roasted roomies. I’m here, as you might have guessed, to talk about our plan to get Isaac Newton to chip in and tell Peericks you’re of reasonably sound mind and fit to circulate with the masses.”