The Wooden Sea

by Jonathan Carroll

  “Gravity.”

  “Look, Zio, since I got here, this whole experience has been like sitting in the electric chair getting five thousand volts through your head all day long. It’s fried everything, but ‘specially our brains. So I say we just try it and see what happens. We’ve seen again and again anything’s possible. So now we start using that. This whole world around us is nuts: Me and you are here together at the same time. Isn’t that crazy? We’ve been time traveling, that dead dog rose up out of its grave, birds disappear in plain sight ... so why not flying? We want to fly, we try. If it don’t work, then it don’t work. Why not?”

  It was me talking, but a me I hadn’t known for years. The me who believed in why not? Rather than no way / no can do / no exit or no, period. Middle-aged, this-idea-is-ridiculous me started to get up and leave the movie theater. But the rest of me shouted at him to sit down again and watch the rest of the show.

  Why not fly? Why not?

  “Let’s go.”

  Gee-Gee grinned like a carved pumpkin and clapped twice. “Excellent.” Without a moment’s hesitation he extended his arms as if he was preparing to dive into water. Then he jumped off the roof of the Audi. And hit the ground a second later, hollering in pain. Old Vertue looked at him and back up at me just as I sailed off the roof of the VW bus—and flew.

  Could I describe to you what it was like to fly? Certainly. Will I? Never in a million years. I will tell you this: Remember the best kiss you ever had? How suddenly all sound, all life, all matter, disappeared? How for that holy while all of your life was only on your lips? That’s some of what it was like in that first moment when I realized it was happening, that it was real.

  I flew like an astronaut on the moon. The leap off the car roof drifted me forward at ten feet off the ground. Slowly I began to descend. Touching down, I pushed off with one foot and at once rose up again up up and back to the height I’d been. Floating gently forward, flying... sort of.

  “You bastard, you bastard, you’re up there! It’s working! I told you. I knew it would work. Get the hell away from me, dog!”

  Gee-Gee ran along below me, waving his hands excitedly.

  For a few moments my shadow actually passed over him and the earth, as if I were a plane casting its dark image down. He shouted when Old Vertue ran into his leg and made him stumble. As I was coming down for my first landing, fifty feet from where I’d started, I saw the kid kick the dog full-bang in the head. Orange cowboy boot on dog skull. Result? A draw. Vertue stopped and gave his head a couple of shakes. Which made enough time for me to push off again and for Gee-Gee to start running.

  “You got it now, Uncle. You are definitely airborne!”

  I turned halfway around in midair to check on Vertue. It was keeping its distance now but wasn’t about to give up the pursuit. As I was turning again, I felt my body beginning to descend. But now I had the hang of it and when I touched ground it was only that—a touch. A push off and I was gone again.

  “This is the coolest thing! You-are flying.”

  “It’s your doing, Gee-Gee. If you hadn’t said try, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Who cares how it happened? It’s just so damned cool.”

  This was true, but what was I going to do when I got to George’s house, besides land? Floon was there, George was there, Vertue was here trying to bite me while I tried to get there—

  As if he’d read my mind, down below Gee-Gee asked, “What are we going to do when we get to Dalemwood’s house?”

  Before I could answer, I saw a jogger coming down the sidewalk toward us. I started to smile. How would he react to: a man floating overhead like a kite, a boy in thirty-year-old clothes and a bad Elvis haircut following below, and a dog with three legs, one eye, and a jaw going clock-clockl This was going to be rich.

  He wore one of those ridiculous-looking jogging suits that no real jogger ever wears. It was a traffic jam of clashing colors, all of them made more ugly because they were on top of each other. What kind of person would actually buy clothes like that? I’d seen something like it recently, but didn’t register or remember that until later. When I had a chance to think about the details.

  I was so tickled that another person was seeing the three of us now like this. I was so eager to see how they’d react to the absurdity of our picture. I didn’t pay attention to anything but the fact a man in a jogging suit was coming toward us and what would he think?

  He shot the boy first. The man shot Gee-Gee.

  Ten feet from us he casually reached into his pink-on-yellow pocket and pulled out a pistol. I saw it, realized it, took the image into my slow brain. Ten feet above the ground I was powerless to do anything. I shouted out, “A gun! Look out, he has a gun.”

  Blank-faced, Caz de Floon pointed it at Gee-Gee and shot him in the throat, the chest, the stomach. The boy collapsed, dead before he hit the sidewalk. Floon then turned to Old Vertue and shot it in the head.

  Bang Bang Bang.

  The Rat’s Potato

  I’m sure I fell from the sky the moment Gee-Gee’s heart stopped beating. Because when he died, so did the “why not?” and renewed sense of wonder in me he had brought back. I don’t remember dropping or even hitting the ground because I was so horrified by what had happened.

  Arms at his sides, Caz de Floon, looking exactly the same as I’d seen him in Vienna, stared indifferently at the two bodies. I got off the ground but stayed where I was. I had no idea what he’d do next. Maybe I was going to die too.

  “Why? Why did you do it, Floon?”

  “I don’t like the future I was living in, Frannie. I want a different one. Had to make a few changes. You had an unfair advantage with those two. I know who the boy was.” He pointed at the dead dog. “Now it will be different.”

  “How did you get back here?”

  “I don’t know. Divine intervention—manus e nubibus–a hand from the clouds; I suppose someone powerful wants me here. In the same way they brought the boy back to help you.”

  I remembered Gee-Gee saying Astopel had made a mistake by manipulating my life. Because the result of that was anything could happen now. Floon here with a gun in his hand was immediate proof of it.

  “But you killed them. What for? Do you know who they were?”

  “Yes, George explained. I just told you why, McCabe. You’d better be careful too. From now on I’m going to be as close to you as the vein in your neck. Or the eye in your socket.”

  “Or the shit passing through my bowel. Put the gun down and we can get real close to each other, Caz. I’ll French kiss you while I cut out your brain.” A bad thought blinked on in my head. “Where is George?”

  Floon furrowed his brow and sounded surprised. “At his house. Where else would he be?”

  “You didn’t hurt him?”

  “No, I need him. I need George and you but I don’t know in what way yet. When I do, we’ll see. But don’t follow me now because I’ll shoot you in an instant. You know that?”

  “Yes, Floon, I know that.”

  “But don’t be sad when I’m gone because I’ll always be nearby. I’ll check in with you now and then.” His voice was cheerful, all good will.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Make some changes here now. So that life will be even nicer than it was.”

  “For you. Not for anyone else.”

  “Of course for me, Frannie. At least I’m honest about it.”

  Disgusted, I turned away and looked toward Gee-Gee to show myself again that it had really happened. But his body was gone and so was the dog’s.

  Floon must have seen my expression change; aiming the gun at me, he looked over and grew a smile. “Ah, that’s considerate; they saved you the trouble of having to explain two bodies to your colleagues on the police force.”

  “Who’s doing all this, Floon? Do you know? Did you meet Astopel?”

  “No. But my guess is God. And if it is, I like this deity. Maybe He decided to
get involved again. Wouldn’t that be interesting? I’ll see you.” He waved with his gun hand and walked away.

  When he was gone I stood-stock still without a single idea of what to do next. The obvious move was to go to George’s and see if he was okay. Instead I stared at the spot on the sidewalk where the boy and the dog had lain when I last saw them.

  I’d always thought of him as the boy, the pain in the ass, or Gee-Gee. Now that he was gone I remembered, if that was the right word, he was me. And he was dead. That me was gone and I was sure there were more things he still had to show me but never would now.

  I was back in my own time with too many bits and pieces of information to swallow but no time to digest them. I assumed that there were only a few days left to complete whatever it was I was supposed to accomplish. I couldn’t return to the future for another look because my magical phrase “holes in the rain” hadn’t worked when I tried it. I couldn’t ask Astopel or Gee-Gee any questions. And the cherry on top of this shit was Floon had gotten loose in the here and now and would surely snarl things up more. All I could hope was that he would stay out of my way while I tried to figure out what had to be done.

  “Hey, Frannie, how come that guy was pointing a gun at you?”

  Johnny Petangles is a tall fat man. He exists on Burger King Whoppers and candy. Physically he has looked the same for fifteen years. There are people in our town who think he’s some kind of idiot savant. I don’t know about that. The only unusual thing Johnny ever did that shows he’s more than mildly retarded is memorize decades of television commercials—not a talent that’s going to get you a job at the White House or Microsoft. Since his mother died a few years ago I’ve kept an eye on him. That isn’t hard because so do most of the people in Crane’s View. We feed him when he’ll accept it, give him odd jobs that pay for his hamburgers and Arnold Schwarzenegger video rentals, and feel very protective toward him. He may not be a rocket scientist, but he’s our Johnny and that’s enough. I have always tried to be as straight with him as I can.

  “Where are you coining from?”

  “Mrs. Darnell made me French toast for breakfast. That was nice, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. He’s a bad man, Johnny. His name is Floon. If you see him around town steer clear of the guy.”

  “Shouldn’t you arrest him? He held you at gunpoint.” Johnny loved movie phrases like that—”held you at gunpoint.” Sometimes when he was watching a video he would hear one and laboriously write it down in block letters on a pad he kept near the television.

  “Maybe later. Not right now.”

  “Okay. But would you like me to follow him? I could give you a secret report on where he goes.”

  My first instinct was to say forget it, but I stopped. What could it hurt? Even if Floon noticed him, he only had to speak with Johnny for two minutes to realize his mental Swiss Army knife didn’t have all its blades. Who would feel threatened by a fat retarded guy reciting Isuzu commercials? What Floon didn’t know was that once John got his mind set on something he was as tenacious as a mongoose battling a cobra. Why not let him follow Floon?

  “You’d have to be very careful, Johnny. If he saw you he might make big trouble.”

  Johnny never smiles but he did then. “I know how to hide. I used to hide from my mother and she could never find me anywhere. I’ll just hide from him too. You watch—I bet you ten thousand billion dollars that guy will never see me.”

  “Then go ahead, John, but be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I am a little stupid, Frannie, but not about hiding.” He was still smiling when he left.

  So much had already happened in the last few hours that it was a wonder I arrived at George’s house on two feet rather than crawling on all fours. My brain felt like it had been fucked by demons on acid and then tossed away. On reaching his street I began walking faster and faster without realizing it. I wanted to see my friend George Dalemwood, someone real and solid and an important part of the life only a few days before I had taken so blithely for granted.

  I climbed the porch steps and pressed his doorbell. No one answered but that was no big deal. Even when he was home George frequently ignored a ringing telephone or doorbell. “They want me,” he was apt to say, “but I probably don’t want them, no matter who it is.” And he would go on doing what he was doing, oblivious to whatever bell scolded him in the background.

  Before trying again, I walked back down a few steps and looked toward the roof. That’s where he’d been sitting the other day when my world was a simpler place, a world where “only” dead dogs reappeared and not versions of myself past present and future. Who then subsequently got shot by Dutch industrialists from the twenty-first century.

  My friend wasn’t sitting on the roof today, but while looking up there I heard something that calmed my heart. George is an exceptionally good guitarist. He’s such an original that that shouldn’t be surprising but it is. And knowing his strange and conservative tastes, you’d expect him to play only classical music but not so. He ranges from Mozart to the Beatles to damned good imitations of Michael Hedges or Manilas de Plata. He spends at least two hours a day practicing on the most beautiful guitar I have ever seen. I would love that instrument just for its name alone—a very rare model called a “Church Door.” When I asked George how much it cost, he swallowed hard and got colloquial on me, saying only “five figures.” It’s worth it. He handles that wooden box like he’s making love to it and maybe he is.

  While standing with one foot on a porch step, I heard him playing Scott Joplin’s darkly beautiful waltz “Bethena,” a great favorite of his. Relieved, I blew air out through my lips in a quiet raspberry. Hearing it told me he was all right. George played certain pieces depending on his moods. I knew “Bethena” was performed when he was stuck in his work and trying to figure his way out. Normally that tune meant stay away if you happened into his neighborhood; George was definitely not fun to be around when he was thinking something through. But today he would have to put that Church Door down and listen to me.

  The music flowed out from behind the house. I made my way around to the back. George sat on the ground in the middle of his yard with the guitar propped between his knees. An unopened Mars chocolate bar lay on the ground nearby. Music filled the air. Chuck the dachshund sat nearby staring at his master like the dog staring at the old victrola on the RCA label.

  “George?”

  He looked at me and smiled. The dog ran over to say hello. I bent down and lifted him up. He attacked my face with hot fast licks. “Glad to see you back, Chucky.”

  George heard that and his smile widened. “Did you see Caz de Floon? Did he find you?”

  “Yes, Caz found me.” I walked over with the dog in my arms. He was a bundle of warm squirm and kisses all the way. George played two chords—a resolve—and stopped.

  “When did Chuck reappear?”

  “Caz brought him. He said he was a gift for me. So many things have happened, Frannie.”

  “I know.”

  It was a while before he spoke again. “And you talked to Floon?”

  “Yes indeedy.”

  “What did you think of him?” The question was unbelievable. George never, ever asked what you thought of people because he didn’t care. Neither about people nor what you thought of them. As a rule of thumb, George Dalemwood’s interest in humanity was akin to the average man’s interest in feldspar.

  I sat down nearby and put Chuck on the ground. He walked over to George, curled confidently against his side, and closed his eyes. “What did I think of Floon? I already met him.”

  George opened the candy bar. “Me too.”

  That straightened me up fast. “You knew Floon before?”

  “According to him I did.” He bit into the candy. A thin thread of tan caramel looped down and around his thumb. He licked it off. “He said we’d met back when he was in his thirties.”

  “Why?”

  “Supposedly he hired me to
write the instructions for something he had invented.”

  A warm gust of wind picked up the brown and red candy wrapper and flipped it into the air. I snatched it. “Do you remember him?”

  “You have the fastest hands I’ve ever seen, Frannie. You really should play an instrument.”

  “Is that true about his hiring you, George?”

  “No, I never saw him before. And even though my memory is perfect, I checked my records to be sure. I never worked for anyone by the name of Floon.”

  “So he’s lying?”

  “He doesn’t think so. Plus he knew exactly who I was and specific aspects of my life. He cited both old and obscure examples of my work.”

  “He could have found that out anywhere.”

  “True, but the breadth of his knowledge was impressive. He must have done a lot of homework to find out what he knew. Would you like some of my Mars bar?”

  “No. So Floon appears at your door with Chuck in tow as a little gift to gain your confidence. Tells you who he is and says you once worked for him. Did you know he was carrying a gun?”

  “Everyone has guns today, Frannie. You said that yourself. That’s why you gave me one.” He offered a piece of chocolate to the dog, who sniffed it but turned away. George shrugged and popped the chunk into his own mouth.

  “I’ve gotta tell you what’s been happening to me. It’ll make you see things differently.”

  “Maybe, but Floon’s already told me a lot.”

  That pissed me off and my voice reflected it. “Floon’s not me, George. He wasn’t where I was. What did he say?”

  For the next half hour I told him my news and he told me his. To my great surprise and dismay, everything Floon told George was true, down to the last particulars. No exaggeration, no shading of the actual details of the story so that he would come out looking better. He answered all of George’s questions and then—get this—they tried to figure out what was happening to me and why.

  “That’s rich! You two compared notes about me?”