Phillip opened the remaining canisters and found more diagrams and drawings.
“You can throw them all away now.”
“I might keep them awhile. Just for laughs.” Phillip picked up the pace, suddenly motivated to finish cleaning the attic.
***
A Charles Chips canister holds upward of two thousand sheets of paper. Phillip spent the rest of the day examining the contents of the three canisters. Try as he may, he didn’t understand anything; incomprehensible mathematical formulas, logarithms, mathematical equations; many several pages long. The pages varied in degrees of whiteness, tinged nicotine yellow to eggshell. The dates spanned four decades. Most baffling was the sporadic social commentary interspersed among such intellectual ideas. They didn’t make sense, either. For example, one comment read, “The tyranny of dictator’s pales when compared to the tyranny of entrepreneurs.”
Phillip didn’t understand the correlation between a dictator and an entrepreneur. Hitler came to mind at once, he had read a few books about World War II and flawed German combat strategy. An entrepreneur took a bit longer. A few minutes later, Bill Gates flooded his thoughts. He had to laugh. Bill Gates more tyrannical than Hitler? How? And why would the developer of such high concepts make such a notation?
Philip dove deeper. He tried to maintain a semblance of order among the notes, drawings, and commentary. He separated the few concepts that were recognizable from the many that were not. The latter ones concerned him most. Page after page of equations; molecular structure; chemical compounds; physics; gravity; inertia, they boggled his mind. Concept names that conjured up visions of Doctor Frankenstein in his laboratory or aliens from other galaxies. “Vixen Venom,” poisonous to all, but humans, the key word, poisonous. How could something be poisonous to insects or animals, but not harmful to people? Had he discovered some genetic code that differentiates humans from other species? And how could he prove this claim? Phillip, eyes bloodshot and heavy, read on.
“The Electrostimulator,” as far as Phillip could tell, regulated the bioelectric activity of the human nervous system. An early design of the Defibrillator, elaborate circuitry led to a washboard-like device strapped around a patient’s chest. “The undergarment of Kings and Queens, denied the masses,”
“Electrostatic Deuterium Oxide,” hundreds of tiny molecules on page after page with numbers and symbols, it resembled a child’s color by number book, but it was “The end of tyranny.”
Phillip tiptoed past his grandmother’s room to use the bathroom.
“Phillip, are you awake? Sweetie, it’s seven-o-clock, why are you up so early.” Phillip was still dressed. “Phillip Washington, have you been out all night dressed like that?”
“No, Grandma. I haven’t left the house.”
“Why are you still dressed? Did you sleep in your clothes?”
“I haven’t slept yet.”
“Phillip Washington, you didn’t bring a girl into that pig-sty bedroom, did you?”
“Relax, Grandma, there’s nobody here.” Phillip explained that he’d been up all night going through the Charles Chips canisters.
“Get some sleep right now young man. Those papers belonged to a loon, I want you to throw that stuff away as soon as you wake up, and clean your room while you’re at it.”
“Yes, Ma’am, goodnight.”
“Don’t tell me goodnight. It’s morning.”
All those notes and diagrams the work of a loon, Phillip had doubts. Although, many would lead you toward that conclusion. Phillip recognized the later writings, the ones on the eggshell paper were much more far-fetched than the older, nicotine yellow pages. The scientist’s faculties had probably reduced, diminished, but his imagination appeared still vibrant, judging from his concepts. Phillip wondered about this “mad scientist.” Why hadn’t he read any books about him?
Many of the documents, although written in English, had a foreign caption or signature. Phillip thought it was Russian, which made some of the concepts frightful. Did the Russians have a “Death Ray?” His imagination ran wild. Maybe he was the loon.
Sleep would be best, but hundreds of documents covered his bed and much of the floor. He changed into his pajamas, grabbed a pillow, blanket, and the notes for Electrostatic Deuterium Oxide and went downstairs to the sofa. His grandmother had already gone to church. Phillip stared at the clusters of molecules and realized he perhaps should have chosen an easier concept to read at bedtime, still, he wondered how those tiny molecules could end tyranny. Exhausted, he tucked the pages under his pillow and fell hard to sleep.
CHAPTER 6
Turbo had eaten his fifth frozen dinner in as many nights. Tired, he welcomed bedtime, even though hours would pass before he’d fall asleep. He’d learned to cope with this pre-sleep time when his mind raced. No more self-pity, no more over analyzing his failed marriage. Instead, he used this time to plan, to strategize new marketing ideas and practical business solutions for the repair shop. On some nights, he dreamed up new inventions or improved ones already in existence. He longed to be brilliant like his uncle. Occasionally, he plotted revenge against Con-Edison. Turbo excelled during pre-sleep. It’s when he felt most important, empowered to accomplish great things.
Turbo’s father had told him stories about his uncle. One, in particular, came to mind that night. Tesla had claimed many times that he’d contacted life on Mars. Of course, no one believed him. His peers bantered and ridiculed him. Even Turbo had doubted him, until the other day. What about Alex Gaye? Did he really contact Mars? Turbo could kick himself for not getting the young man’s phone number.
***
Maria entered the repair shop in a much calmer manner than on her previous visit. Cosmo high-tailed-it into the backroom. Turbo stood ready behind the counter.
“William, we need to talk.”
He knew right away that it wouldn’t be good. “William? Who’s William? All these years I’m Turbo, now I’m William. Did your hot-shot lawyer tell you to call me that?”
“I’m not here to fight. I just want to let you know that we're moving.”
“Moving? Where?”
“Florida.”
“Florida. Are you crazy? You’re not moving my kids to Florida.”
“Yes, Turbo---I mean, William. I am.”
“Where are you gonna live?”
“With my sister in Naples, until I find a place. It’s a lot cheaper to live down there. And God knows you can’t pay child support. Were leaving next Sunday, you might want to say goodbye to the kids before then.”
Turbo took a deep breath. “You’re just gonna pack up and move? Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Her voice cracked and a tear rolled down her cheek.
“Goodbye, William.”
The whole “William” thing was really pissing him off, but he rose above it. Not wanting their conversation to end, he had to think of something to say. “Maria, wait. At least tell me what I did wrong.”
“That’s the problem, Tur---Will---oh, fuck it, TURBO. You have no idea what you did.”
“Then tell me. Right now, tell me.”
“It’s too late, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Please, tell me anyway. So I don’t screw up with my next wife.”
Maria laughed.
“That’s not funny.” Deep down, he knew it was.
“Look at you. You’re overweight, going bald, and you spend your days rotting away in this hellhole. You watch soap operas and plot revenge for a relative that died over fifty years ago.”
“Leave my uncle out of this.”
“Leave him out of this---leave him out of this---he is this. There, I said it. You're obsessed with your dead uncle, that's why I'm leaving you.”
“Obsessed? Give me one example.”
“You think the government stole your uncle’s concepts---
“They did.”
“Maybe they did, but they were his concepts, not yours. You’ve had a chip on your shoulder your entire life, just
like your father. You think the government owes you something and you want them to pay.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It consumes your entire life, one outrageous scheme after another and none of them work. You’re wasting your life away and I can’t bear to watch it anymore.” Again, her voice cracked. “Goodbye Turbo.”
***
When Cosmo came back out front, Turbo was slumped in the recliner. He stared at the blank TV screen.
“Why’s the TV off? Did somebody die?”
Turbo just stared at the darkened screen.
“C’mon, ‘All My Children’ starts soon. Where’s the remote?”
Turbo pointed to the floor, the makeshift remote was smashed to pieces.
“What happened?”
“I smashed it.”
“I see that, why?”
“She’s moving. Just like that, after twenty years.”
“Where’s she moving?”
“She blames me for everything, she’s moving to Florida.”
“Florida?”
“Yes, Florida.” Turbo sat up and turned to Cosmo. “Am I obsessed with my uncle?”
Cosmo tried to change the subject. “Oh, I almost forgot, Mrs. Fuda called earlier---
“Am I obsessed with my uncle?”
“Maybe a little, but in a good way.”
Turbo went behind the counter and grabbed his coat and hat.
“Where are you going?” Cosmo asked.
“To see my kids.”
CHAPTER 7
Phillip woke-up to the high-pitched sounds of a truck in reverse. Disoriented, he rolled off the sofa and went over to the window. What time was it? What day was it? The sunlight made easy work of the shear curtains and blasted Phillip in the face. He rubbed his eyes and moved the curtains aside to absorb the dawn. The grass glistened with dew and birds chirped. An early spring day with a blue sky. Unfortunately, the massive garbage truck butted up to the curb ruined the image. Large men wearing coveralls and work gloves tossed Charles Chips canisters into the rear of the truck. It took a minute before Phillip processed the whole picture. He cringed as the truck drove away.
He rushed upstairs. His room was clean and his bed made. Not a single sheet of paper remained. He fell onto the bed, face down to muffle his scream.
A few minutes later, his grandmother tapped him on his shoulder. “Phillip, what’s wrong?”
“Grandma, did I wake you?”
“No, dear. I have to go to work. You caught up on your sleep, didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I didn’t see any reason to, you were up all night and you came home late the night before.”
“Did you throw it all away?”
“Yes, honey. It was just paper. You better get ready for work now.” Mavis kissed her grandson goodbye. “Don’t forget to make up the sofa.”
Phillip followed her grandmother downstairs and collected the pillow and blanket from the sofa, careful to hide the one remaining concept between him and the pillow.
***
The various Russian-American dictionaries at Barnes and Noble didn’t help determine the foreign signature on the concept. Phillip noticed Carrie glancing over at him when she went behind the counter. After the other night, he was quite certain that she was either mad that he was reading on the job, or she was curious about the several foreign dictionaries open on the counter. He decided to show her the document.
Carrie was intrigued from the start. She suggested they talk about it in her office.
Phillip grabbed the Russian-American Dictionary and followed her to the office. “I think it’s Russian, but I can’t find any similar words in this dictionary.”
“Maybe it’s another language.” Carrie glanced at the signature. “Why don’t you “Google” it?”
Phillip wished he had come up with that idea. “Good idea.” He typed the signature into the search engine. “Bezplatna Struja.” A split second later, five-hundred-thousand results appeared. Unfortunately, they were all in the same unknown language.
“Try a language translator site.”
Another good idea he hadn’t thought of. He typed “free translation sites” into the search engine.
“I’m curious, why did you type “free translation sites?”
“I always use the word “free” when I search the Internet. It brings up all the free sites first.”
“Not always.” Carrie revealed a flaw to his theory. “Almost every site offers a “free” trial period of some kind.”
Phillip changed the subject. “Here’s one, let’s try it.” He typed the signature into the translator site. It required you to select the language you want translated.
“Go with your first instinct. Try Russian.”
Phillip chose Russian from the drop-down-list of languages. The translation came back: “Bezplatna Struja.” Obviously not Russian.
“Try German or Italian.” Carrie was definitely intrigued with it all.
Phillip typed away. The German translation came back the same. The Italian translation changed “Bezplatna” to “Bezplatne.” They tried Albanian, Hungarian, Dutch, and many others. Greek, Hebrew, Norwegian, Spanish and Portuguese all bore the same results as Russian or German. Polish translated to “Free Struja.”
One by one, Phillip tried every language available on the site. Ready to give up, he chose “Serbian” from the drop-down-list and clicked the “Translate” button. The translation came back “Free Electricity.”
"That can’t be right.” He exclaimed. “No parent would name their kid that.”
Carrie suggested something else. “Maybe it’s not a name. Maybe it’s a motto, you know, like a slogan, maybe a belief, or a goal. It could mean just about anything.”
Phillip couldn’t believe her zeal. They were both neglecting their duties, but she didn’t seem to care. “Many of the concepts my grandmother threw away had to do with electricity. Maybe this person wanted everyone to have free electricity.”
“Could be,” Carrie said. “But this concept is about water.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Well, I’m not a rocket scientist, but I’m pretty sure those molecules marked “H2O” are water.”
“Very funny.” Phillip played it off, but deep down he was impressed. “Okay Miss PH.D, what about those molecules marked “D2O?”
“That’s easy, Deuterium Oxide.”
“How do you know that?”
“I told you, it’s not rocket science---well, it might be---but either way, it’s right there in the project’s name.”
“I'll Google it.”
The Google results for Deuterium Oxide, better known as “Heavy Water,” revealed its use in nuclear reactors. Heavy Water contains a high proportion of the isotope Deuterium. A stable isotope of hydrogen abundant throughout the oceans.
“Boring.” Carrie yawned.
“Not really.” Phillip explained. “My grandfather was given those papers in 1943. There weren’t any nuclear power plants till the late 50’s.”
“Do you think it’s a nuclear bomb?”
“I hope not. I don’t know what to think. I just wish my grandmother hadn’t thrown away all those other documents.” Discouraged, Phillip leaned back in his chair.
“Hey, Google ‘Free Electricity.’ just for the hell of it. It can’t hurt.”
“What? Uh, okay.
The results for “Free Electricity” were endless, about 11 million. They skimmed through page after page of ideas and foolproof ways to obtain free electricity from various sources. Blueprints for homemade solar panels and devices to either slow down or stop the electric company’s meters. Build-it-yourself windmills, turbines and countless books about how to obtain free electricity legally from local power companies. Even a video showing how to wire a lamp to a phone jack, thereby using the phone company’s power instead of your own.
“That’s pitiful,” Carrie said.
Bored with most of
the websites, Phillip perked up when they watched the last video. “That’s awesome.”
“No it’s not,” Carrie said. “It’s just a lamp. You couldn’t power an entire house that way.”
“No, not the lamp. The extreme measures people will go through to get free electricity.”
Carrie had a dumfounded look on her face.
Phillip had a huge grin on his. “I get it, now.”
“You get what?”
“What the mad scientist meant by his comment. I understand it now.”
“Then please tell me, because I’m lost.” Carrie leaned closer to Phillip.
“One of the concepts my grandmother threw away had this comment; ‘The tyranny of dictators pales when compared with the tyranny of entrepreneurs.’”
“I don’t get it.”
“I didn’t either, until now. Look at all those websites that offer gimmicks for free electricity, there are millions of them, and each one gets thousands of hits or more every day.” Phillip’s enthusiasm had escalated.
“Okay, but I still don’t get it.” Carrie wasn’t quite as enthusiastic.
“People will try just about anything to get free electricity. Even steal it from the phone company to light a small lamp.”
“I get that part. What about the tyranny.”
“Don’t you see? The electric companies are the tyrants, and the phone companies. The entrepreneurs.”
“I see what you mean, but they’re not really tyrants. They haven’t killed or tortured anybody.”
“Maybe not, but they have driven people to do extraordinary things.”
Carried stepped out to check on the bookstore. When she came back, Phillip was surfing the web with renewed vigor. There had to be a clue there somewhere. As she closed the office door, her cell phone rang. The ringtone diverted Phillip’s attention from the computer screen and caused Carrie to blush. Marvin Gaye crooned “Let’s Get It On.”
“Hey, Baby. You just wake up?” Carrie walked over to the other side of the office for some privacy.
Phillip went back to the computer, but strained to overhear her conversation.
After a few minutes, she made her way back over to Phillip. “Okay, just relax and enjoy your vacation, I’ll be home around six, we’ll do something fun for dinner. Love you, Baby.”
Alternating Current: A Tesla Novel Page 3