by Adam Felber
“Now move in closer and observe that even inside these clusters there’s mostly smooth, unwrinkly space. Within this there are further clusters—clusters of stars or solar systems. But even within these, it’s mostly space. Pure, empty space, perhaps a bit more ‘wrinkly’ than outside the galactic clusters, but pretty damn smooth nonetheless. But now let’s move in even closer, to a planet and its atmosphere, and for the sake of argument we’ll say we’re looking at this planet, Earth. What do you think we see, from a spatiotemporal perspective?”
We were mainly thinking about how to attract the waiter back to us (we hadn’t gotten the chance to order), so we were not immediately aware that we’d been asked a question. However, the doctor’s uncharacteristic silence made us look up; we saw him watching us patiently. He appeared frozen, ready to wait all night for a response if necessary, the one moistened, circling finger the only evidence that he was not a wax figure.
We hazarded a quick guess, suggested that we’d see more spaces and wrinkly clusters. The doctor seemed to smile slightly, blinked once, breathed….
“Wrong!!” he screamed, his open hand slamming the table hard enough to overturn the bread basket. People were staring, making us more than a little uncomfortable. “Wrong! Inside, the atmosphere is a veritable riot of wrinkles. Large stable hunks of solids; drifting, rolling, wrinkly liquids; and the air. The air is a seething, whirring, buzzing mess of jam-packed string clusters, grouped together in lumpy molecules and whizzing little ions, bumping and bashing into one another like soccer fans celebrating a championship in a sold-out stadium. We speak of the ‘space’ between us, but it may be important to remind ourselves that there is none.”
Now the doctor is staring at us intently, seeming to get personal again, though we can’t imagine what he’s talking about, not really, no. “There is nowhere you can go,” he says, his finger tapping the table, “nowhere on this earth, where you are not part of the swirling, interweaving knot of shifty stringiness. Nowhere.”
The old foop thinks he’s getting at something, and we don’t know what it is. We don’t.
The President of Montana (Yeah, Right) marvels and wonders, wonders and marvels. Harvard Square is the same as it was but very, very different. Cleaner, filled with more stores, some new buildings … but still the same old place. What’s missing is the blight, despair, and lawlessness. At least, there’s no more of it than he saw back when. Back when he thought that physical and psychological pollution were going to overwhelm the earth.
The PoM(YR) doesn’t feel chagrined anymore—just amazed and impressed. Maybe a little left out, at first. But even this feeling doesn’t last—it’s a beautiful, warm evening, and there are smiles and glad comments coming his way from everywhere. It’s not until he sees his face in a darkened store window that he figures out why—he’s got a perpetual, moist-eyed, idiot’s smile on his face. Well, fine.
The bars welcome him in, give him beers, wish him well as he leaves. Ice cream falls into paper cups for him. Guitars play him tunes, windows show him miracles, restaurants offer him fragrances, and everywhere he goes there are smiles.
And people! They’re everywhere, mostly young, all beautiful. He’s no longer looking on with grandfatherly detachment—the parade of sweet-faced women throw hips and breasts and legs directly into his eyes. It’s not like his libido’s been dead all these years, but it’s definitely been taking it easy. He now has one more reason to wish for Tammy’s presence—she’d like this new … vigor of his, that’s definite. She’d even be amused at the cause of it, the way she was that night after Dix brought his niece over for dinner. Tammy’d understood, taken advantage of it, trusting him and their marriage enough not to be put off.
The President wonders if finding the absolutely most perfect woman in the universe might’ve made him less of a man than he might’ve been. Like maybe he’d known he never needed anything else and just ran away from it all with his take. And he wonders how fair that’d been to Tammy, and why she put up with it, etc…. On top of that comes the realization that they’re not old yet, at least not really. That there’s time and a million places to go and thousands more warm, friendly evenings.
As long as Tammy’s all right, that is.
He absently follows a pair of feminine buttocks into a gigantic record store. There are racks and racks of headphones where you can listen to music for free. He listens, and it’s yet another revelation. It all sounds like hope to him, even the stuff about “smacking bitches” and “popping caps” and “crazy niggaz.” It sounds hopeful somehow, like at least the world’s ready to admit it has a problem. Or something. It’s a great beat, though.
The President smiles and bobs his head to the rhythm that’s pounding through his headphones. There’s a teenager of indeterminate race at the station next to him doing the same thing, and they turn toward each other at the same time. There’s a moment of communication there, a split second of smiles widening followed by a grinning acknowledgment of how incongruous the image is, how it’s the stuff of after-school specials and public-service announcements from religious organizations. They turn back to their respective stations, still grinning.
Inside the President’s head there’s: the music, the afterimage of his notions about hope, the desire to put his arm around the boy, the growing lamentation that he and Tammy hadn’t trusted the world enough to have kids, the ever-present worry about Tammy, the lingering buzz of alcohol, the awareness of a slight chill from the air-conditioning, the ignored perception of the album cover and console in front of him, the lingering taste of that slice of pizza, and the automatic picture of himself which includes the position of his body, what he knows about the store’s layout, and his location in reference to the Square, Boston, the United States (and Montana, of course), and the world.
Lester ran. Powerfully, desperately, he ran. He’d dashed out of the alley, found a route to the beloved underground, and now he was streaking through the dark, fleeing the smell and the sensory overload. He still hadn’t clued in that the odor was now emanating from his front paw. He didn’t have enough of a brain to realize that a simple rinsing of the paw in the fetid sewer water around him would’ve alleviated the problem. Had he realized this and acted upon it, things would have turned out very, very differently.
Instead, Lester ran. He ran past Melanie, a slender young rat (who was, as a point of fact, his sister), without even noticing her. He couldn’t smell a thing, not with that acrid, sickly aroma filling his brain. He veered slightly as he ran, not knowing exactly where he was going, his sense of direction (so very dependent on smell, like everything else) also offline.
Melanie, for her part, didn’t recognize Lester, either. Her brain registered “ratty shape” and “ratty sound” and “really bad smell” and nothing more, so she shrank back from him as he passed. Not that she would’ve intervened if she’d been able to tell that it was Lester. She was, after all, a rat.
Chapter 12
… 4. And the Prophet Bernie did pass from place to place, but at every inn and way station he was denied. 5. For the people there would say unto Bernie, though they knew him not, “Lo! Begone! For we see that thou art a beggar, and our facilities are not for thee.” 6. And Bernie was sore pressed to find some comfort, for his loins did ache with the pressure, and he wast almost like to cry out to the Lord for succor. But Bernie remembered the Lord’s command that He be Pestered not, and Bernie held his tongue and clenched his bladder and sojourned on. 7. And at last Bernie did come to a room of rest that was Public, and existed for all Men, and Bernie did cry out with relief and thanked the Lord and thereafter took comfort in the providential plumbing. 8. And whilst Bernie was voiding himself in accordance with the way the Lord had made him, the Lord’s voice spoke unto Bernie once more. 9. “Bernie!” quoth the Lord. “Where hast thou wandered to? I have need of thee!” And Bernie didst reply, “Lord, I am here. Behold, for I am in this booth, doing as my body dost demand.” 10. And the Lord beheld Bernie, and He did s
peak again. “Oh, I am sorry to interrupt thee, good Bernie. I can come back when it is more convenient….” And the Prophet Bernie said, “Not at all, Lord, I will be but a moment, and Thou mayst speak unto me as Thou dost desire, for my ears are open and unoccupied for the present Task.” “Art thou sure?” asked the Lord. “Indeed, good Lord,” quoth Bernie, “for I am even now ever Thine servant.” 11. “Then know, Bernie,” spake the Lord, “that thine Business here must end quickly, for the Time of the Crossing has come, and thou must make thine way to the Place of the Crossing.” 12. And Bernie did gather up his garments and bathe his hands in accordance with the Lord’s command, and he said unto the Lord, “Lord, what is it You would have me do in the Crossing? For Thou hast told me nothing of it save that I must Cross.” 13. And the Lord God replied, “Thou needst not know, for thine actions will be dictated by what thou dost see there at the Crossing. But be there thou must, for events do run apace, running on the feet of men and rats, on birds’ wings and worms’ bellies. The design hath been assembled lo these long years, though the design knows it not. But I do know it, good Bernie, and I see that it doth require thine presence.” 14. And Bernie did ponder this, and asked the Lord, “God, if the design is set, then am I not part of the design?” “Indeed thou art, Bernie, as I have told thee, thou art bound up in the Machinery of Fate,” spake the Lord. “Then,” said Bernie, “why dost Thou command me to do what Thine design hast made inevitable? Why dost Thou not simply allow me to take part in the Crossing unknowing, as Thine other Creatures do? Why dost Thou tell me this and command me? Doth this telling me really accomplish aught but the calling of attention to Thyself and Thy name?” 15. And the Lord did take a moment and spake not as Bernie dried his hands. And when the Lord did speak again, His voice was like the thunder and did echo across the tilings. “Dost thou question Me, the Lord, your God?” came the angry voice of the Lord, for He was wroth. “Dost thou, a mortal, who knows naught of My Design and does naught but eat and sleep, think that thou couldst perform better the Considerable and Taxing works of the Lord? Perhaps I should step down from My Place in the heavens among the Angels, and allow thee to take My place. Would thou likest that? Oh, verily, perhaps that is what I should do if thou art Dissatisfied with My Works.” 16. And Bernie did cringe at the Lord’s mighty sarcasm, and he spake naught but apologies, for he did know how Difficult the Lord was when He got like this. And in time the Lord did hear Bernie’s prayers, and His storms did calm, and He spake to Bernie in Quieter, more Civil tones: “Go, then, Bernie, for it is the Time of the Crossing, and I am not wroth with thee any longer.” 17. And Bernie, who saw that the Lord had smote him not despite His righteous anger, strode out with a glad heart toward the Place of the Crossing.
TTHEY WENT TO HARVARD rather than Central. For cover, Grant realized. Central Square was their place, the place where they knew everyone. Harvard Square belonged to everyone, and was both familiar and marginally more anonymous. They stayed close to one another, briefly waving to or high-fiving people they knew. Their acquaintances dimly perceived the bubble of privacy that surrounded the foursome (it wasn’t the first time, though it was the first time they’d ever needed it so badly) and more or less respected it.
Grant saw that, whatever was going on, it was almost over. In the morning, he’d go to work, and this would shatter Johnny-Watch, and whatever was wrong with Johnny would be Johnny’s to resolve or not resolve. Grant felt vaguely guilty about this, as though he were abandoning a drowning man, but he reasoned that there was nothing demonstrably wrong with Johnny, that this “situation” (whatever it was) might continue indefinitely, and that they all had lives to lead in the meantime. Besides, Arlene, given her new carnal entanglement with Johnny, could be counted on to keep an eye on him. Definitely.
None of this flawless reasoning made Grant feel much better.
Even Grant, with his grandmaster-level cluelessness, couldn’t avoid the notion that he’d bypassed an opportunity or two with Deb. He needed time by himself to process everything, fantasize about what he’d seen and done, and somehow find a way to reconstruct the shabby illusion that if the “right opportunity” arose he might just Do or Say Something.
“Now, let’s look at what we’ve got. Let’s, shall we say, put it all back together.”
Dr. Schrödinger had devoured his entire apple-glazed pork chop while waxing romantic about “superstrings” and such. Now we were watching helplessly as his fork casually roamed the table, dipping into our plates, casually snagging bits of salad and pasta primavera without asking our permission. Apparently, the doctor’s new thoughts about the fundamental inter-connectedness of all things had erased his ability to differentiate between what was “his” and what was “not his.” If he’d ever had that ability.
“See, we have several seemingly competing worldviews here. Yet they’re all scientifically valid. We’ve got the hard physics of atoms and molecules, the uncertain world of quantum mechanics, the wrinkly, interconnected space of string theory, and the grand design of chaos math. Obviously, we’re talking orders of magnitude here. Our string-riddled world forms those shifty particles which make the hard molecules … like this one,” he said, producing a Humdinger from his breast pocket while using the gesture to cover his other hand’s foray into our garlic bread. “And this little baby will interact with the world in a seemingly chaotic pattern whose rules are nonetheless discernible. So where, you ask, where is human thought in all this? What level do we look at it on? What does it DO, physically, besides issuing commands to its body? These are your questions.”
No, these were the doctor’s questions. Our own concerned our rapidly dwindling food supply and the need to speak up about the check before the old physicist stiffed us again.
“When I first took on Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, when I first gave birth to my Cat,” said the doctor, conjuring up an image that we tried desperately to push from our minds, “I was flying blind to some extent. I still am, but less so. See, it’s one thing to know that a particle or wave’s very nature is determined by the presence of an observer, but quite another to understand exactly why that’s the case. I wasn’t concerned with why when I invented the Cat; I just wanted to explain how that breaks down under scrutiny. Of course, it turns out the power of the observer works on so many levels, so very many levels. As does the understanding of the observer. One’s thoughts do not have to be right to influence the very nature of reality. So we men of science must be careful with our explanations, lest a world of semicomprehending clods end up changing the very laws we worked so hard to discover. Reality is permeable from both sides. It’s all give and take. Give and take.”
In reality, there was a lot more “take” going on with the doctor at the moment. Our meal had unmysteriously vanished right before our ever-observant eyes. We were not pleased. Not that we weren’t listening. One of the world’s preeminent physicists seemed to be on the verge of validating witchcraft and voodoo and spoon-bending and the like, and this was a matter of concern. He was also on the verge of ordering several expensive desserts.
He scanned the little dessert menu, bouncing the Humdinger on the table as he did so. Individual molecules, we were pretty sure, should not bounce, should they? “To think, just to think, that, after all this time, a lifetime and then some, devoted to science … that I’d find myself speaking like some sort of neo-Jungian, advocating some kind of ‘collective subjective’ model of reality—it’s quite humbling, really. In some ways, Heisenberg opened the floodgates—he let the psychological contaminate the immutable physical world we’d worked so hard to nail down. But the psychological is right at this moment a more pressing concern. Wouldn’t you agree?” The old man gave us that hard stare once more. We were sure he was going to dig into us, start getting too personal more. Looking right at us, right through us, he parted his lips and intoned …
“An apple tart, a slice of the Black Forest cake, lime sherbet, peanut-butter pie, and a cup of coffee, please.”
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nbsp; Lester the Rat was far from home. His unthinking, panicky flight had taken him a great distance underground, and he was in unfamiliar territory.
Now that the stink had more or less washed off his paws and his nose was starting to clear a bit and fill with the more palatable aromas of waste, mold, and other rats, Lester felt a lot better. He began to think again, as much as rats think. His first thought was, of course, that he was hungry.
He’d been hungry in the alley, and that had been a long time ago, back before that … thing … happened (rats do not have extremely good memories; Lester wouldn’t recall the egg incident until the next time he came across an egg, and even then it would be a general and vague warning that can be roughly translated as “Oh, hey, this is one of those things that might be very good or might be very bad….”). Going all the way back to his usual haunts was out of the question. He knew the way back, in a general sense, but he was hungry now.
Lester hurried around in the dark, finding nothing but paper, waste, and a few unfamiliar rats (or evidence thereof). Instinct, experience, and some tantalizing smells told him that the world above held much better feeding prospects. Up he went, toward a fresher breeze and a faint light.
It was a sewer grate in a curbside that Lester’s nose eventually poked through. Being a fairly competent rat (rotten-egg fiasco notwithstanding), he knew not to emerge any farther until he’d checked out the situation. The situation was a street, night, many humans, cars, the usual …
… and a piece of meat.
Right there, about twenty feet away, visible in the lamplight, a small but appreciable slab of bona fide, only slightly rancid meat. Unattended, unnoticed, suitable for immediate rat consumption. Lester began to salivate. Well, to salivate more.