by Ray Deeg
Now Monty was getting annoyed, as only a retail store owner can understand. “Buddy, if I had a nickel every time someone told me they’d be back later, I’d have one big-ass pile of nickels. Like any store, we operate on a first-come, first-served basis…”
“What is the name and address of the person who now possesses the medal?” Esha asked. His dark-brown eyes seemed to be bending the light.
“Look,” Monty said, trying to calm the mood, “I’m willing to call him and see whether he’d be interested in selling it back, but I can’t just give out a customer’s private information.”
“You silly, silly man,” Esha said, stepping closer. “As I told you before, I don’t like negotiating.” He pushed the roll of cash back into his jacket pocket, and the store fell silent. Monty sensed real trouble when his assistants scanned the pavement outside the window, as if they knew what was coming next. “The choice you are about to make is a simple one,” their leader said, “and I want you to understand that it is your choice.” Esha reached behind Monty towards a display case.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” Monty said, realizing how silly he sounded.
Esha slid the door open and removed a large ceremonial dagger and sheath. He removed the dagger, and its blade glistened polished silver. He stared into Monty’s soul, and Monty wished he’d stayed in bed.
CHAPTER 14
A GREAT VARIETY of native wildflowers thrive in Pennsylvania; the region has a cool climate, year-round rain that keeps the mineral-rich soil moist, and—most importantly—wind patterns that routinely distribute pollen spores from as far north as Boston to as far south as Norfolk. New Hope, Pennsylvania, is a virtual hotspot of horticulture. But these same winds also carry human spirit and aspirations. Grand visions of possibility glide aloft amid the same ether, pushing higher and farther in order to break free of the gravity of yesterday. The achievement of new hopes and joys in this life should not be relegated to comic books or confined to that sublimated region of the stars that fill the night sky. New hopes exist in things far nearer to home.
Gwen stared across the Delaware to a white field of oldfield aster, watching birds hunt insects in the brush. She and Tom sat at a cozy two-top at a restaurant called the Landing, where Tom was examining his new purchase, the Edison Medal, with the excitement of a six-year-old on Christmas morning. He unwrapped the roll of silverware and used his butter knife to pry the inside lining from the medal’s clamshell case. Gwen chuckled at the sideshow and entertained herself by stirring her drink with the useless little red straw. She watched Tom pry the square lining up, and, with a poof of dust that took flight in destiny’s breeze, the inside structure popped out like a cork from a champagne bottle. Tom examined the underside of the case. As he lifted the leather, he saw a tiny black notebook fall onto the table, along with a folded piece of paper.
The small leather notebook was cracked and dried out—the leather looked like a sun-dried tomato. Emblazed on the front of the notebook was an abstract design in a dull orange color. It was obvious that the piece of paper had been folded over many times.
“Aha—there’s even more,” Gwen gushed playfully.
The thin leather was clearly very old, and the covers had fused together, sealing it shut. “This has to be decades old,” he said, tentatively placing the edge of the butter knife against the wrinkled thing. “I need a razor blade; I don’t want to damage it.”
Still feeling playful, Gwen quipped, “I would have brought my archeology kit if I’d known we were going all Indiana Jones.”
Tom didn’t say a word or make eye contact—he felt something pushing on his mind.
Now he turned his attention to the paper square, unfolding it carefully. The little square opened up and transformed itself into a black-and-white photo, its glossy finish still intact. The many square folds gave the illusion that a grid had been superimposed on the photo, which featured five men and a woman sitting around a table in a grassy yard with a stone mansion in the background. The scene was charming and appeared three dimensional. The candelabras on the table, the formal settings, the fine tablecloth all exuded the feeling of a grander, more patient and civilized time. More interesting still was the orchestrated manner in which the photo’s subjects lifted their wine glasses as if in a toast. Wondering about the occasion, Tom flipped the photo over. On the back was a handwritten poem. Tom read the words as Gwen looked on.
The universe is a mystery filled with wondrous bliss.
We’re alive just a blink, waiting death’s final kiss.
Our bodies just vessels that wither away,
Even kings with gold fortunes turn death’s feeble prey.
Falling into darkness, disintegrating to dust,
Our memories grow lighter like metal turned rust.
Life’s broken wings can’t fly through space-time, it’s certain,
But our soul is immortal when we pull back the curtain.
Until you are called, rejoice in this birth;
You are the master and commander of your life here on Earth.
Our burden is great, our secret hidden away,
May our secret hold steadfast and no one betray.
Close your eyes now and remember all that you are,
Your soul returned to the Gulf by the light of a star,
Then delivered again cross beams of blue light,
Our souls reborn till forever, from darkness to light.
The two stayed silent as they pondered the words. “Rather haunting,” Gwen finally offered. “But, without a doubt, the more interesting part of your purchase today. Who are the people in the photo?”
“The one of the left looks like Tesla,” he replied. “And this has to be Albert Einstein.” Tom noticed small type in the lower corner of the photo. “Split Rock, Tuxedo Park,” he said, pointing. “Tuxedo Park is where this laboratory was operating. I suppose one of these men could be the Alfred Lee Loomis Monty mentioned, but I wouldn’t recognize his face.”
“This business about the soul returning to the Gulf by the light of a star—very beautiful,” Gwen mused.
“Do you believe in the soul?” Tom asked.
“Of course. But what most people call the soul, I call the observer—the real ‘you’ we talked about. But the soul can mean different things to different people. The most common belief is that the soul is the essence of a person or animal, the thoughts of a creature, its consciousness. Not just the memories, but the identity and the things the individual holds dear. I suppose the soul is somewhere past the brain, deep within the mind.”
“Aren’t they the same, the brain and mind?” Tom asked.
“Your brain is an organ. It’s flesh; it’s made of tissue, cells, veins, blood. It’s a synaptic machine processing electric impulses through a network of neurons. Your brain weighs about three pounds, but the mind has no weight, no mass at all. It’s not material. It’s the virtual place inside the brain where you perceive the world and yourself. It’s the place where you have discrete, conscious events or conscious moments about forty times a second.”
Tom stared at Gwen, captivated by the whimsical movements of her hands as she spoke; they seemed nearly independent of her arms.
“At those intervals we realize each of our inputs,” she said. “And this happens within your mind.” Gwen could see that Tom was processing the idea. “Cogito ergo sum,” she offered. “I think, therefore I am. We’ve all heard the Latin term. It’s a very fundamental philosophical idea postulated by René Descartes. But none of us have ever experienced reality outside of the electrical signals our organs tell us is reality.”
“There’s always a conundrum, isn’t there?” Tom asked.
Gwen straightened up in her chair. “Well, think about it. We’re limited to perceiving the electrical impulses that our crude senses bother to send to our brains. That’s the only way our mind gets input. Your organs send signals, but it’s your mind that converts those signals into thoughts and feelings.” Tom was thoroughly enjoyi
ng her explanation. “It’s very bright right now, because we’re outside in the sunlight,” she said.
“Yes it is,” he replied, anticipating it as one of those statements designed to make a point.
“But it’s completely dark in your brain,” she said. “No light has made its way into your head or touched your brain—at least I hope not. It’s totally dark in there, I promise you. But you perceive light because it enters your cornea, is focused by the lens, and shines onto your retina. The light stops there and goes no farther. In a very real sense, none of us have ever experienced reality—we’re trapped in here. The only things our minds have experienced are the electrical signals our organs tell us is reality. The brain is where the self lives—it’s where we live our lives—but we don’t know much about how consciousness works. We don’t know where the perceiving self resides in that pink, fleshy thing. Do you see me right now?”
“Enjoying the view,” he replied.
“Aw, thanks. Well, that perceiving self and the thoughts wrapped around it—the sound of my voice, the smell of the wind—it can’t all be happening in a single cell or neuron. It’s not possible; there’s too much data for even hundreds of neurons to process. Individual brain cells can only perform fundamental processing, so the real you, your perceiving self, doesn’t reside in one cell or even a group. On the other hand, if the perceiving self resided throughout a larger area, like the bulk of the brain, then we’d need to postulate that if much of the brain was removed or damaged, consciousness would no longer be possible. But that’s also not the case. People have survived massive brain injuries. So consciousness, the self, the soul—where our perception resides—it’s still a great mystery. We can’t speak of where the self is, but, as Descartes says: I think, therefore I am.”
“I knew some of that,” Tom replied, crunching an ice cube. “But I hadn’t considered the distinction between the brain and mind. I didn’t know that we became self-aware forty times a second, or that you were a fan of antique pens.” Tom pointed to the poem on the back of the photo. “So if you’re still conscious and have no memory, do you still have a soul? I mean, if you lose your memories, do you lose who you are?”
Gwen’s hands fiddled with a packet of sugar. She folded the sides together to form a box shape and stood it on end next to the pepper shaker. “Another age-old question.” She sighed. “There are many cases that have allowed researchers to study that. One case is well known, a man from Virginia named Jude. Well, his name was Jude; he passed several years ago. Jude had a tumor in his temporal lobe and could no longer retrieve his memories. He stopped knowing who he was. When Jude’s family and friends visited the hospital, Jude was famous for asking them to please tell them who they were and how it was that they had come to know each other.”
Tom began folding sugar packets too. He stacked them in a circle to form what looked like Easter Island. Gwen added her packets to Tom’s exhibit. “How could the man still remember how to speak but not have a memory of his life?” Tom asked. “And if he didn’t know who he was, was it really him, or just a soulless body still breathing?”
“But Jude’s observer was still in there, and that’s the soul—not the memories. Take away your memories, and you’re still watching, aren’t you? Jude’s tumor created a retrograde amnesia, but any person’s ability to speak, to communicate, and to understand his environment operates in a completely different part of the brain. What’s fascinating about Jude is that he retained so much of himself despite losing his memories. He retained the same taste in food, music, and humor. His family and friends—even a doctor who’d known him before the tumor—all swear his personality remained intact. It was recognizable and plain as day. Jude still acted like Jude always had. He was pleasant, kind, interested—and adored playing the blues on his guitar.”
Tom interrupted. “Wait—he didn’t know who he was, but he remembered how to play the guitar?”
“Yup, and he knew the same songs he always had. Jude was still Jude.”
Tom raised his glass and toasted. “To Jude’s soul.”
Gwen clinked her glass and then turned it in tiny circles. “I want to ask you something, and you can tell me if I’m being nosey. How did your grandfather build such a successful company?”
“It’s fine. My grandfather is a mystery to me too. Phillip was like a dream, a real-life enigma. He was missing an arm, and one side of his face was basically gone, some sort of accident when he was a kid. Phillip died when I was nine. I don’t remember him very well, but he was clearly an intelligent man.”
“Was his family wealthy?”
“No. I think his father was a metal worker, and his mother worked as a seamstress. But somehow Phillip had a flair for knowing what methods and processes would be key in all types of technologies. He didn’t invent or file all the patents Empyrean owns, but he had an uncanny flair for predicting which of them to buy, and he personally bought over a thousand. Phillip had an amazing sense of timing and built an empire licensing technology. Empyrean Ventures now collects licensing fees from thirty percent of the Fortune 1000. I don’t know how he did it, but I’m grateful—and hateful.” Tom looked into the distance with a pensive face.
“You’ve had an easy life with all that money; you do know that, right?” Gwen said as she knocked down Easter Island and corralled the sugar packets to her side of the table.
“I do. I’m supposed to be grateful; everyone tells me that. But as cliché as it sounds, the money is a burden. My obligations never stop, and the money doesn’t make me happier. I thought it would when I was younger and had so little of it, but now I have a rather large quantity, and the same emptiness and anxiety remain. My mother always insisted I be given the space to do what I chose, but my father didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to stay the course with Phillip’s game plan, so I started at Empyrean when I was twenty-three. The board made me CEO when I was twenty-seven. I’ve been there nearly twenty years; been CEO for fifteen of them. I’ve only had one other job—I was a cashier at a movie theater.”
Gwen listened to Tom talk about his granddad’s patents, the Edison Medal, and how Tesla’s inventions had changed the world. Tom listened to Gwen gush about the mysteries of the mind and her ideas about a framework for clear thinking, consciousness, and the soul. And both of their hands stayed busy with the sugar packets, rebuilding their mutual creation.
CHAPTER 15
RANDALL EVANS SAT in his car, staring at the antique shop’s front door. He knew the three Indian men were inside, and he was frustrated at how the morning had played out. He found himself getting frustrated at everything lately. He stared at people, resenting their smiles, their carefree demeanor. He hated them. He hated them for not allowing the world to tear them apart while he schlepped to a job he despised. He hated them because—he presumed—they returned to happy homes each evening while he schlepped back to that cramped apartment where roaches constantly hunted for bread crumbs under sinks and between walls, where drunks and buses and sirens could be heard at all hours on the street below. His wife and three daughters were impossible to satisfy—at least that was his interpretation—so he couldn’t find solace at his apartment or at work. He had to fight for his sanity every single day, and for what? Not quite seventy thousand dollars a year before taxes—a respectable salary in most places, perhaps, but barely a living wage in New York City. He hated that his life could be broken down into weekly activities. Filling out reports, attending meetings, tracking fake checks, training newbies, filing evidence.
I’ve got to get my destiny back on track. The possibilities ran through his mind as he considered his options. The opportunity to get the medal had passed, and now these Indian men were standing between him and the machine. He would have to take decisive action. He felt the weight of the coil, and a radical idea sparked in his mind. The dashboard clock read 12:24 p.m. Reaching down to the passenger floor, he retrieved his camera and adjusted the time from 12:24 p.m. to 12:44 p.m. He readied the camera, with Monty’
s front door in the frame. I’ll do what’s necessary. Finally, the front door opened. Randall fixed the cross hairs on the Indian men exiting Monty’s shop. They were carrying Tesla’s components, loading them into the rear of the black SUV. Goddamn it! But he didn’t have money to buy any of these things anyway. His credit card was maxed, but he thought this just might fit with his new plan. The motorized SLR camera spun away, capturing dozens of high-resolution photos of the men’s faces. They made several trips back and forth. Monty popped his head out the front door, and Randall took a few snapshots but quickly deleted them; his being outside his shop didn’t fit with the narrative forming.
After the men filled the SUV, they piled in and drove off. Randall plugged the camera into a laptop and logged into Sentinel and the Next Generation Identification system. He uploaded the images he had captured, and NGI began its analysis. After a few moments, a record came back: Esha Durga, a prominent businessman and billionaire from the Middle East. Considerable holdings in oil, infrastructure, and technology companies. The gears in Randall’s head spun as he clicked the update button. You are about to become a wanted man, Mr. Durga. He reset the time on the camera so it again matched the car’s dashboard. 12:30 p.m. Randall took several calming breaths, preparing himself for what was next. He didn’t see any other choice. Collateral damage. He surveyed his surroundings and walked cautiously back into Monty’s Oddities.
As the door closed behind him, he locked the deadbolt and flipped the sign from Open to Closed. He saw Monty cleaning an empty area where the Tesla items had been on display. Their eyes met, and Monty noticed what the stranger had done to his door and sign. Monty stood up. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Evans reached into his pocket to reveal an FBI badge and ID. “My name is Randall Evans. I’m an agent with the FBI, and I’m here to help you,” he said, holding the badge and ID for Monty to inspect.
“That was fast,” Monty replied as he looked out the window, scanning the area outside his shop. “I saw you in here earlier today. Are you tracking those Indian fellas?”