Solly studies me. He obviously has something on his mind.
“Hey, why so formal? You used to call me Uncle Solly, remember?” Solly says, giving me a quick, playful punch to the stomach. Oddly, I feel relieved.
“I thought I might find you here.” Solly stares at the bench’s engraving, which reads, “To a man who saw beneath the surface. A man who knew that science was spirituality. A devoted husband to Monica and a loving father to Michael. Benjamin Eisenstein 2313–2378.”
We both stand silently, the wind howling into our faces. It is as if our brief reunion triggers someone’s or something’s anger. I thought, The man lying six feet under the ground was neither an angel or a devil… at least in my mind. But which one was it?
“Let him rest in peace,” we both say quietly.
Solly pats me on the back. “Thanks for sending out that remembrance note.”
I force a smile. Actually, I send those cards out every year, but no one has ever come. I wonder why Solly finally embarked upon the journey to my father’s bench—why now? For just a moment, I wonder what secrets Solly may possess. Solly was a close friend of my dad, and Maya’s father as well.
“You look good, Michael,” Solly says tenderly, as if I am his own son. “I’m so sorry about everything that has happened to you. It just isn’t fair.”
“Too much has happened, Solly; I’m not the same little boy that you remember,” I say somberly.
“What can I say?” Solly utters grimly. “Let’s sit on your father’s bench. What do you say, Mikey? I don’t think he’d mind. I’m sure you miss him a lot.” Solly turns up the collar on his coat. “This damn weather! It’s either hotter than Satan’s cape or it’s freezing. You know, I think this planet is spinning off into oblivion.” He pulls his hat over his eyes.
“You know, your father may have seen that whole thing coming.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I believe so. He kept telling me that his conversations were somehow being recorded. He knew that there was an interloping signal that was invading his space. He just couldn’t locate it. Ach, it probably wasn’t your father’s fault; that’s the sad part, Michael. We still don’t know who’s to blame. Shouldn’t we be able to blame someone? That’s the worst part of the whole damn thing.”
I nod in agreement and pull my collar way up, trying to shield my face from the mercurial wind.
“At this point, I don’t know what I believe in, Solly.” I turn to him and pat him on the shoulder. “Ya know, my dad didn’t pass on too many secrets to me, Solly.”
“Well, you were just a kid—a smart kid, but just a kid.” Solly blows on his hands, trying to generate some heat. “Did you know that your dad was working on some getaway plan for those big-eyed spooks?”
“Honestly, Solly, I try not to think about much. Things haven’t exactly worked out the way I planned.” I clear my throat. “Tell me more.”
Admittedly, I am fascinated by this reticent man. Solly’s tired eyes seem to embrace me; He studies me. His eyes are playing peekaboo out from under his bushy eyebrows. He examines me up and down, as if he is making some spooky mental X-ray. As I survey our surroundings, wondering if we are being watched, I detect something—an intense sadness that seems almost out of place. Again the word “secrets” seems to run rampant in my brain. Why is he here? What does he know? What game is he playing?
“Your dad was an amazing man, Michael. Did you know that I helped him develop one of his greatest research experiments? He trusted me, Michael; I hope you do too.”
“Of course. What were you two mad scientists working on—Frankenstein? No, that’s been done before.”
We both share a brief but taunting deriding chortle.
I don’t know how to tell Solly after all these years, but I have grown rather cynical of my father. I thought he had crossed over to the dark side with some of his ideas on defense and bombs, and some spooky notions about light beams. Actually, I knew that my father was interested in Einstein’s entanglement theory. My dad inquisitively wondered if he could use some of his electron discoveries to destroy enemies across other galaxies. Strange, huh? Hey, this is reality today.
Solly glances upward, seemingly beseeching a prayer to be answered.
“I loved your father, Michael. The man was my hero. Anyway, your dad was a genius. I’m going to tell you something that you’ll never believe, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” Solly laughs. “Besides, I won’t be able to stand this cold too much longer.”
“Shoot!”
“Do you believe in G_d, Michael?”
Boy, I didn’t see that coming.
I think for a second, not really wanting to engage in any profound discussions on this sad day. Actually, the only things I truly believed in were destruction and death.
“I’m not sure what I believe in, Solly. I guess I’m still searching.”
“Listen, Michael, your dad constructed a mathematical formula for evolving dimensions.”
We stare at each other in silence.
“Really?” I say attentively.
It was Solly’s turn to pat me on the back. “Your father was always pushing the envelope, Michael. Before he passed, he was busily engaged in transforming matter into different dimensions.” Solly smiles. “I know this will freak you out, but I think he actually found it—a conversion of matter from a three-dimensional world to a four-dimensional world.
“Amazing,” I say, intrigued by the possibility. “What about the eighth dimension?” I jest.
It is Solly’s turn to snicker. “Here’s my card Mikey … or Michael—whatever you’re going by these days. Don’t ever believe in the obvious. Your dad told me that. Life is full of secrets, Michael, and surprises. Yes, pieces and puzzles. And whether you like it or not, it’s up to you to uncover them—you and you alone.” Solly’s eyes display a worn, exhausted appearance. “I think I’ll start back. I want you to think about our conversation, and if any of this makes sense, I want you to give me a beep on your … well, whatever you call those.”
Solly arises slowly from my father’s bench. “Good-bye my young friend,” he whispers, still studying me.
Another gust of wind suggestively shoots uncontrollably toward us like an unwelcome stalker eavesdropping on our conversation. The drizzle dismally falls as if an old faucet is relentlessly leaking. Drip, drip, drip. Tears form spontaneously, welling up in Solly’s eyes. One lonely tear falls from those lonely, cloudy orbs, making its journey down his grizzled face. “I have to go, Michael. Call me sometime! We’ll talk more.”
“Wait! Tell me, what was my dad going to do with his fourth-dimensional equation?”
A meek smile flashes on his mercurial face. The man appears as if he is as old as time itself, with the exception of those enigmatic eyes. They’re still young and inquisitive, but most of all, secretive. Yet he is a man who truly knew my dad and was trusted explicitly by him.
“Don’t let the swirling masses of this life get to you, my friend,” he moans softly. “Don’t lose faith, Michael.” Solly begins slowly walking toward his car, leaving me with a feeling of emptiness and mystery. Pieces and puzzles? I pull up my collar, attempting to deflect the impetuous wind. What in the hell is he talking about? I wonder, staring down at my father’s bench. I’ll bet he knows.
“Capturing a fourth-dimensional world? Really?” Another blast of contentious wind smacks me hard in the face. Just then, a rogue thought occurs to me. Does Solly know my secret?
I shake my head. “No, the Copernicus situation was only really known by certain people.”
Have you ever had a feeling that something important was unsaid?
What wasn’t Solly telling me? There’s a missing piece, and somewhere between the wind and the rain is the truth.
CHAPTER 39
October 16, 2393
Is it possible to redefine o
riginality? Can every brain cell in your body possess uniqueness? Can a person be so intelligent that all his or her thoughts are running and screaming out of the box? In case you’re interested, I’ve just described my partner in crime, Proto!
Proto hits pause on her VR program called Inside the Body. Proto is hunkered down inside of a cyber bunker, well away from society’s trappings. How did Proto become so unique? I once heard that Proto experienced a major head injury when she was a child. So her brain is a product of a totally rewired neural system. It’s called neuroplasticity. Some people live in a world where their central nervous system is a superhighway. Being with Proto is more like hanging around a being who knows all the back roads—not just the small dusty, country roads; she knows all the invisible pathways. You know, like how all the subatomic particles operate, how to enter a wormhole—that kind of stuff.
Actually, it goes beyond that. You’ve heard of the horse whisperer, haven’t you? Well, in the year 2393, Proto is what is known as a proton whisperer. Did you know that since the discovery of subatomic particles, Proto has found two more major categories of these SAPs? They’re called lepton and quarks. You can call them force carriers, if you wish. Proto has her own names. Lepton is now lapis, which refers to a beautiful azure-blue stone. Why? Because it has medicinal properties and has been valued since ancient times. The quark has been renamed quibilah, which is Egyptian for “peaceful.” Lastly, the proton is the most beautiful of all. Proto has given this miniature gem a special name—Nefertiti, which means “the beautiful woman has come and gone,” of course.
If you put them all together, you get this: the beautiful, peaceful Egyptian woman wearing a beautiful azure stone. You guessed it! Proto wears a gorgeous blue stone on her right hand. She claims that she possesses the most powerful healing property in the universe. Who am I to argue?
“C’mon in, Michael! Come into my tech lair cave! Don’t you just love the talking neurotransmitters?” Proto hangs from her bat couch, laughing upside down, for that’s the way she sees the world. What’s a bat couch? It’s a couch from which you can hang upside down. Proto loves to hang upside down and watch her VR creations from bottom to top. She says the additional blood circulating to her head makes her more creative.
“You’re not laughing, Michael! What’s wrong with you?”
“Maybe I just don’t find depression that funny.”
Proto opens her foot noose, allowing her to fall onto a huge foam mattress. After wiping off the extraneous particles, she does a few pliés while prancing toward me.
“What’s the point?”
“Listen, you drudging doofus dullard! We’re treating depression with humor, creativity, and a strong case of reckless abandon. That’s who we are!” Proto says, channeling the ancient Robin Williams in her odd little clown voice.
“Well, let’s not forget drugs while we’re at it; depression is a tough nut.”
“Okeydoke!” Proto quips irascibly like Liza Minelli’s great-great-great-granddaughter. “You’re a depressed little lemon puppy. I get it! You’re so, so, so, so sad. Proto makes a quintessential sad face.”
“My job is to make depression fun! And I’ve done it with over six million people! It’s worked on everyone except my psychotic, chronically depressed partner, Mistoo Crabby!” Proto pokes me in the stomach.
“Your crazy shit doesn’t make me laugh,” I say woefully.
“Well, it is making you rich! Neuro Madness is a best seller! And you—you’re a millionaire! And you’re still wonderfully, unrefreshingly lonely.
“Why? Just because I don’t hang upside down and color my hair shades of pink and purple? C’mon, Proto, tell the truth; you’re up and down like a yo-yo, and you know it!”
“At least I can laugh every once in a while. Oh c’mon, tell the truth! Making neurotransmitters that can perform back handsprings, touch one hand to a nerve fiber, switch hands to a nerve impulse, and then do a backflip over a synapse and stick the landing on a muscle fiber”—she makes a clicking sound with her tongue—“now that’s funny!”
“Only when you have them speaking Portuguese,” I quip.
“The most boring man in the world makes a yuk-yuk! You’re so hilarious! You’re out of control! C’mon, Michael; I’m begging you! Break out of your trancelike pooey mood! I want my Michael back!”
Proto and I walk into her office. I droop onto my quantum memory chair.
“Oh G_d, don’t do that!” she says.
I’ve already hit the button and am placing on my headphones. They were made especially to bring out positive past memories—in my case, real recollections of Maya and skipping stones and laughing by the water; that’s my go-to!
Proto bolts over to me and rips the headset off. “What are we going to do about you? This can’t go on!”
“Don’t you get it, Michael? Your memories are no longer memories; they’re contrived hallucinations! Wake up before it’s too late! Your wonderful mind is turning into gooey, schmooey mush!” Proto hovers above me like a crazed soothsayer.
I nod listlessly. “You can switch on Neuro Madness if you think it will help!”
Proto shakes her head. “No! Not this time! We’re going to develop a plan, you and I. Let’s see; you’ve been all over the world trying to find Maya. Italy! France! South America! Australia! For Chrissake, Michael, You’ve suffered through the ice caves of Mendenhall! You’ve taken a safari in North Tanzania! You had a premonition that Maya may be at the liquid rainbow in South America! You’ve even journeyed to the Kawachi Fuji Gardens in Japan, taking a dangerous train at high speeds through one of the longest tunnels in the world. Michael, you need to quit chasing after a ghost!”
Proto springs to her feet. “No more!” she screeches. “I want you to live! Take a normal vacation! I’m going to go home with you and help you pack! You’re going somewhere, mister, and you’re going to have a good time!”
Squirming, I nod obediently. “Okay.”
“Get up!” Proto shrieks. She saunters over to her confined area where she stores her “poodle,” which is a twenty-fourth-century mouse. A large, invisible subatomic colored screen appears with a large three-dimensional chessboard in the middle.
A huge smile sprawls across her crazed, ingenious face. “Now listen, and listen carefully! We’re going to figure this out, or my name isn’t Proto!”
I cringe, for whenever Proto turns all tripolar on me, nothing good can come from it. I sit in my chair, waiting for the show.
“Say you’re playing chess for your life.” Proto’s black-and-blue eyes sparkle.
“No multiple deaths like some of our VR games?”
Proto manipulates her poodle, causing the chess pieces to form in the air. “You know the reason why so many people like playing so-called virtual reality?”
I amble over to her, staring into her unhinged multicolored eyes.
“No,” I say, terrified she’s going to tell me.
Proto flashes her cursor on a chess piece—the king. “Now, listen up, Michael Eisenstein! Do you know the reason why the king, which is you, is allowed to move only one square at a time, and why it cannot move to a position where it can be checked?” Proto smacks her lips. “It’s because that makes you very inflexible and vulnerable”
“Really?” I cringe.
Proto moves her poodle onto the knight. “Now, you see, the knight has some strengths. The Knight can move through other pieces. Now, that’s something that can really help when you want to make a dramatic move.”
“All right! Now, I’m sure you have a point somewhere in this.”
“You’re really smug, my friend Michael. Do you not think that I have a point?”
“That’s what worries me,” I say, becoming more and more agitated.
“You see, it’s only the queen that has power. Actually, it is the queen that is the most powerful character on the boa
rd. just ask your friend Victoria Vorashian.”
“Now that’s uncalled for,” I say. “Besides, she’s not a queen; she’s a witch.”
“Okay, how so?” I inquire, knowing that I am already falling into Proto’s inevitable trap.
“Because it is the queen, and only the queen, that is not limited by distance or direction.”
“So let me interpret; it’s the queen who decides. Am I on the right track?”
Proto smiles luridly. “You’re getting warm. It’s only the queen who decides whether she wants to see you or not! You’ve been behaving like a king. Simply put, you’re trying to move through people, just like a man! A good chess player doesn’t just forge ahead; he thinks, plots, and maneuvers like a woman. Proto knows!
“Hence, my friend Michael, you have to flush the queen out of her comfort zone. Go on vacation, Michael, and let everyone know you’re on vacation, and maybe—just maybe—your queen will emerge.” Proto smiles smugly. “If she’s alive, I will bet you a reality show inside of a virtual reality game, my friend, that she has a secret that will blow the jewels out of your jockstrap!” Proto glares fiercely at me, and then she peers at the chessboard. “My move! Checkmate! Game over!”
I stare at the board. “You sacrificed your knights!” I reply morosely.
Proto glares at me.
“But you won the game, didn’t you?”
“Michael, if Maya wants to see you, she’ll make her move.”
“How do I find her?”
Proto’s eyes become transfixed as she stares hypnotically at her azure-blue stone glimmering on her right finger. “Somewhere hiding under the full moon, running through the wind and the rain.” Proto says enigmatically. “Just make sure you’re wearing a raincoat.”
CHAPTER 40
October 26, 2393
12:17 p.m.
You know how to whistle Steve, you just put your lips
together, and blow…
—Lauren Bacall (ancient actress)
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