Alternating Current: A Tesla Novel

by Agostino, John

  “All kinds. I’ll tell you while we put these away.” They headed down the main aisle. He was unsure if he should be truthful about his reading list, not wanting to come off as nerdy. He could always lie about what he liked, but what if she didn’t like what he lied about. He decided on the truth. “I like anything legal. Legal thrillers, suspense, whodunits. Like Grisham or Turow. Espionage and Special Ops stuff like Clancy and Ludlum, and I’m big on conspiracy theories. The Camel Club is one of my favorites.”

  “What about something like this?” She held up David Kiser's “Road to Dallas.” A book about the Kennedy assassination.

  “No way, I stay far away from J.F.K. books. I think he’s still alive. Marilyn Monroe, too.”

  His remarks appeared to catch Carrie off guard. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Sure I am, let me explain.” Right away Phillip wished he hadn’t offered to explain. He had a theory for everything, some good, some far-fetched, and some silly. His JFK theory teetered on the border between far-fetched and silly, only because he refused to admit the darn thing had landed right smack in the heart of “Sillyville.” Nonetheless, he let her rip. “Okay, right now on some deserted island near Fiji, some old couple is humping inside a grass hut.”

  Well that worked. Carrie blushed, but regained her composure quick. “So, you think he gave up his presidency and his family to run off with another woman?”

  “Of course he did, Marilyn was smokin’ and besides, Jackie was a prude, just look at her.” When the words left his mouth, he realized he wasn’t in “Sillyville” anymore. He had entered “Stupidtown.”

  “You can tell just by looking at her?”

  “Yep, I’m a pretty good judge of people.” He tried to recover, but only got in deeper.

  “Okay, what about me. Am I a prude?”

  Phillip went silent for a moment. His mind frantically checked for the shortest route out of “Stupidtown.” He didn’t want to stay another minute, but there wasn’t an easy way out. He thought he’d answer, “I hope not,” but that would be childish. A more dignified approach was necessary, or better yet, a way to change the subject. How? He needed something compelling to take her mind off the question at hand, at least for the time being. And what did he know about her anyway? What did they have in common? Books? What would move their conversation in another direction? A non-sexual direction. And did he really want that? No, not really. He just came out with it and hoped he wouldn’t offend her. “You’re too sweet to be a prude.”

  Carrie let the remark pass unanswered.

  Phillip had dodged a bullet. He realized that he sucked at flirting and trying to impress women, he made a mental note to read up on the subject.

  Carrie tossed him a book about Martin Luther King. “What about him? Did he run off with another woman, too?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, you can never be certain.” Thankful the conversation had turned; he wouldn’t say anything embarrassing about the Martin Luther King assassination.

  “What about Elvis?” A large book fell off the cart. After Carrie reached down and picked it up, her cleavage was unavoidable.

  Phillip stared, more than obviously.

  Carrie adjusted her blouse and asked again. “What about Elvis?”

  “Alive. Somewhere jammin’ with Bob Marley.” He shouldn’t have, but he continued to stare.

  Carrie stopped the questions. “Sounds like you have all the conspiracies figured out, what do we do now?”

  Phillip didn’t answer.

  She stepped around the cart and sashayed toward him, close enough that she didn’t extend her arm fully to hand him the last book on the cart.

  “Nymph” fell to the floor, bounced and landed behind Phillip, who stood frozen.

  Carrie leaned forward, careful to brush against his leg as she picked up the book.

  Phillip still didn’t move. She was toying with him. Why? She had never done so before, and he’d stayed late plenty of times. Then again, he’d never been caught staring at her tits before. Had she figured out he was an easy target or was she bored? Either way, it was time to get out of there. “That’s the last one.” He grabbed the empty cart and headed for the checkout area.

  “I appreciate your help, Phillip---hey, get out of here, I’m sure you have plans.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to meet some friends at this party.” He lied hoping to regain some cool points. “How ‘bout you? Doing anything exciting?”

  “Oh yeah, I have to clean my apartment before my boyfriend gets in from D.C. tomorrow. He works at the Smithsonian.”

  “Wow, sweet job.” Phillip though about the boyfriend, no doubt some Harvard type. Still, working at the Smithsonian was worth some cool points.

  “I guess we’re both cleaning this weekend.” Carrie grabbed her coat from behind the counter.

  “What? Oh yeah, my grandma’s attic. Fun stuff.”

  “Hey, if your grandmother decides to throw away any old furniture give me a call. I’m still a couple of pieces short for my apartment.”

  Their small talk had turned dull. They left the store, Phillip turned right on Seventh Avenue and Carrie went left. They headed to different parts of town, to different worlds. Phillip didn’t belong in her world, but he liked it nonetheless. He wanted more. A smart, successful, and beautiful woman with a black belt in Aikido and her boyfriend worked at the Smithsonian. Who wouldn’t want more of her world? Except for the part about the boyfriend. Phillip would deal with him later.

  CHAPTER 3

  Turbo stood in the kitchen of his new flat and watched his frozen dinner spin, blasted with microwaves. Six minutes later, voila, pot roast with new potatoes and glazed carrots. With a napkin draped across his wife-beater, he retrieved the three-compartment-plate from the device he despised, yet those days, couldn’t live without. The annoying machine cooked his food unevenly and spattered gravy everywhere, but that's not why he hated the contraption. He loathed all electronic appliances. He left the oven’s door ajar for the light and finally read the divorce papers from earlier.

  The light made new potatoes look old. Turbo dug into the pot roast, careful not to spill gravy on his undershirt, or the papers. He’d mastered the operation of the microwave, but the washer and dryer frightened him. He eluded doing household chores of any kind during twenty years of marriage. Perhaps one of the reasons his wife, Maria, filed for divorce.

  Midway through his meal, Turbo realized his frozen dinner lacked a dessert. Resigned to glazed carrots instead of apple crisp---he vowed never to purchase that brand again---he thought about Maria’s apple pie or cherry cobbler. What he wouldn’t do for some right then. Disappointed, he tossed the plastic plate and fork into the trash. No need to support Con-Ed by running the dishwasher. Even if he could figure out how it worked. He closed the microwave’s door and went to bed. His thoughts held sleep hostage. Why did his wife leave him after twenty years? Sure, they fought, but Turbo worked hard and you couldn’t find a better father. Was there another man? He tried not to think about it, but he knew it was useless. The thought consumed him. Most nights he thought about his failing business, or his weight, or his vendetta against Con-Ed and the United States Government to name a few. But those weren’t important that night, not with the divorce papers next to him on the nightstand.

  ***

  The repair shop was located about five blocks from his new flat. A tiny building sandwiched between two larger buildings, not in the most desirable neighborhood, it housed the family enterprise for years. His father taught him to fix radios in that shop. Then he advanced to televisions and small appliances, even microwave ovens. The radio remained his favorite; he had a connection to it. He didn’t despise electronics; he despised what they had become. He had earned a decent living during the 80’s and 90’s, and then it became cheaper to purchase new products rather than repair broken ones. Advances in electronic circuit boards and computer chips made
it easier and less expensive to mass-produce those products, while, at least in Turbo’s mind, much of the technology was stolen from his uncle. These days customers were rare.

  The many nearby apartment buildings had enjoyed better days, when they had tenants. Among the boarded up storefronts on Turbo’s block, only a Jewish Deli and a “claimed-to-be-real” designer shoe store remained.

  “Cosmo, turn on the damn sign. How we gonna get any customers if you don’t turn on the sign?”

  “Sorry,” was all Cosmo said.

  Turbo made a beeline for the recliner. He half-expected Cosmo to give him some bullshit excuse why he didn’t turn on the sign, which he did most mornings. Turbo was glad he didn’t. He just sat there in the recliner thinking, not about Maria. He’d done enough of that last night. He thought about relocating the shop. He thought about it often. Would another location improve business, or was his a dying art form, destined for extinction? Like so many other devices he worked meticulously on over the years. He witnessed the death of the phonograph, the eight-track player, the cassette player, and the VCR. He’d marveled at the Compact Disc and DVD, and tried to keep up with the latest advances in technology. Yet the more he learned about the latest and greatest, the more he realized those devices used his uncle’s designs and innovations. Especially all the wireless technology. He grew agitated and craved revenge, retribution. Somebody had to pay. Even all those years later, somebody had to pay.

  CHAPTER 4

  Maria entered the shop and slammed the door hard enough to knock off the tiny bell attached at the top. The bell hit the floor with a clunk. “Where is he?” She asked, waving the bounced check in Cosmo’s face. She knew she was being a bitch, but she didn’t care. She was that upset.

  Cosmo didn’t flinch. Obviously comfortable with Maria’s animated entrances. He pointed across the street. “Mrs. Fuda’s garbage disposal is broken again. I keep telling the old bat not to put fish bones down it.”

  “Cosmo, that’s not nice. She’s old and forgetful.”

  “She remembers who to call when it breaks.”

  Maria half-smiled. “At least she’s a customer.”

  “No she’s not. Turbo hasn’t charged her in years.”

  Maria’s anger subsided. For a second she remembered that her husband was a kind and caring person, he’d been a good father and husband for most of their marriage. She put the check in her purse.

  With Maria calmed a bit, Cosmo used the opportunity to pry. “Maria, when you two gonna quit this nonsense and get back together?” He had a puppy-dog-like expression on his face.

  “I wish we could, Cosmo, but it’s complicated.”

  “What’s so complicated? You’ve been together for twenty years. What about Nic and Angie?”

  “They’re smart enough to know what’s happening.” Maria thought about the kids. Angie, their seventeen-year-old daughter seemed to be taking it all in stride, but their fifteen-year-old son, Nic, was having a rough time.

  “I’m glad they’re smart enough, because I can’t figure it out, neither can Turbo. He thinks there’s another man.”

  Maria went silent. After all those years, how could he be so stupid? How could he even think such a thing? She’d been in love with Turbo since their second date, and that would never change. Then all at once, she realized Turbo was right, there was another man.

  The long silence had Cosmo shaken up. Maria could see the gears turning in his brain as he tried to choose the right words. She smiled a devilish grin and waited for him to speak.

  “C’mon Maria, I know you better than that, I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t believe I could find another man?”

  “No, not that, you could get plenty---that’s not what I’m saying. I refuse to believe it”

  “I hate to tell you, but there is another man. And he’s right over there!” Maria pointed to the portrait on the wall.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Phillip, wake up Sweetie. C’mon, you promised to help me clean the attic today.”

  He’d heard her clear enough, but he didn’t respond. Pretending to be asleep was the only time he disrespected his grandmother, but it was okay because she never knew it.

  “Did you get home late last night?”

  He gave in. “Around three.”

  “THREE A.M.?”

  “Yes, Grandma, gimme five more minutes, please.”

  “Five minutes, then I get the garden hose.”

  Phillip knew his grandmother would never do such a thing. He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Two minutes later, his grandmother returned.

  “I brought you a bowl of cereal, throw on some old clothes and meet me upstairs when you’re ready.”

  Phillip grunted in agreement.

  A few minutes later, he heard loud steps above him. He hadn’t been in the attic for a while, but he knew there was no visible pathway, it was that cluttered. He heard his grandmother kicking things out of her way. Then there was silence.

  Phillip stomped up the stairs. “Grandma, let’s make this quick---you’re crying, what’s wrong?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  A quick look around told Phillip why she was crying. The attic held so many memories. His grandfather’s bellman uniform hung from the rafters. After all those years, could she bear to part with it?

  Phillip noticed his mother’s things, too. A Barbie dollhouse and a black Barbie doll. He picked up the doll.

  “That’s Barbie’s friend, her name is Christie. Your grandfather was so proud when he gave it to your mother. He said if Barbie could have a Negro friend, then anyone could. It was a different time then.” Her eyes welled with tears again.

  Phillip hugged his grandmother. He knew she missed her husband and daughter. He missed them, too. Even though he’d never known his grandfather and couldn’t remember his mother. Still, the memories were there, connected to all those items in the attic. He was certain that once his grandmother overcame her sadness, he would learn a great deal about his mother and grandfather. “So, where should we start?” He tried to muster a cheerful voice.

  “Oh, Sweetie, maybe this isn't such a good idea. I'm not sure about this.”

  “It's okay, Grandma. These are just things. It’s the memories that are important.”

  Mavis hugged her grandson. “You’re a good boy, Phillip. Your mom would be proud of you. Your grandfather, too.”

  Phillip picked up a box filled with old National Geographic Magazines. “Wow, I bet these are collector’s issues. We could sell them on e-bay.”

  “Your grandfather will roll over in his grave. He loved those magazines. He even joined the National Geographic Explorer’s Club.”

  “Grandpa? An Explorer?” Phillip set the box aside. He wanted to read the old magazines someday. He stumbled over a small tricycle and grabbed the hanging uniform to maintain his balance. “Hey look, my mom’s tricycle”

  “No, Sweetie. That’s yours.”

  Phillip cringed. “But Grandma, it’s pink.”

  “This nice woman gave it to your mother. Her daughter didn't ride it anymore. Times were tough, besides, you didn’t care at the time. You loved it.”

  Phillip placed the tricycle near the stairs. “This has to go.”

  The other toys had him worried now. Dolls, tea sets, an Easy-Bake Oven, dress up clothes and more. “Please tell me these aren’t mine.”

  “No, those belonged to your mother.”

  Phillip sighed with relief.

  Mavis opened a small trunk and retrieved a beautiful dress from inside. It flowed with lace ruffles and a puffy hooped skirt, something reminiscent of “Gone with the Wind.”

  “I want to wear this dress when you bury me. Don’t worry about shoes, you won’t see my feet, but the dress is important.”

  “Grandma, I don’t want to talk about it, we have a long time before I’ll need to worry about that.”

  “I hope so, but tell me you’ll honor my wishes.”

  “I pro
mise, Grandma.” Phillip changed the subject. "What's that?" He pointed to five large canisters stacked nearby. Much larger than coffee cans, the logo on the cans read "Charles Chips."

  “What are Charles Chips?”

  “Oh, your grandfather loved those potato chips; they were so light and tasty.”

  “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “They came out about a year before he died. We had some friends that traveled to Pennsylvania quite a bit. They always brought your grandfather back some Charles Chips. I don’t know if they’re still around.”

  “What’s in the cans?”

  “I’m not sure. Your grandfather always said they were great for storage. He thought they were fireproof.”

  “Let’s open them up.” Phillip took the top can from the stack and popped off the lid. It held hundreds of old photos.

  “I’ve wondered where those pictures disappeared to. That’s your mom there, she was five years old.”

  Phillip stared at the photo.

  They rummaged through other photos. Phillip saw relatives he’d never met and a few celebrities, too. His grandfather took their pictures when they stayed at The New Yorker.

  The second can had more National Geographic Magazines. The more valuable issues, Phillip thought. Why else would his grandfather store them in the fireproof can? The third can was packed full of paper. Mostly drawings and sketches. Schematic diagrams with notations. Some right out of a science fiction movie. A giant telephone booth with rods and coils protruding from the top. And schematics for something labeled “Hypersensitive Vacuum Tubes,” which, if you believed the notations, detected the presence of ghosts. There was even a drawing for something that looked like a Death Ray.

  “I didn’t know Grandpa was into science fiction.”

  “He wasn’t. Some old man that lived at The New Yorker gave him that stuff for safekeeping. He said the government was after him. He died a few months later; he was eighty-six years old. Your grandfather was quite fond of him. Saved all his documents, just in case. Ridiculous, huh.”