The Moondust Sonatas

by Alan Osi

  But first things first. I reached my stop and walked to the lab. This time, when I entered, Peter was leaning over a computer, somehow managing to type furiously and wolf down what appeared to be a roast beef sandwich at the same time.

  “Peter, hello,” I said. “How’d it go?”

  He finished a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly, not looking at me. After he swallowed, without looking at me, he said, “Interesting stuff you gave me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. What you got here, this stuff defies principles.”

  “Please elaborate. What kind?”

  “Well, the subatomic kind. Actually, every kind—what’d you say it was called again?”

  “Moondust,” I said. “What kind of subatomic principles does it violate?”

  “All of them.”

  “Meaning?”

  “None of my tests work on this stuff. All I can tell you is it’s a complete unknown. It’ll probably end up challenging everything we know about science.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That sounds big.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you explain what’s happening?”

  “Well, the first step in analyzing something is weighing out a small amount of it. When I went to do that with this stuff, the scale said it weighted 7.68 grams, which surprised me; that’s an extremely high weight for the volume I measured. So I tried it again with the exact same sample, and the second time the scale said 0.42 grams. Third time it said 14.93. So I figured the scale was busted, and I tried a different one. But, those readings were all over the map, too. I went to a third scale, same thing. It wasn’t the equipment.

  “I tried quite a few different types of tests. The results were either inconclusive or varied unbelievably every time. Moondust seems to be an impossible substance.”

  I said, in a measured voice, “What do you think that means?”

  “I have no idea. Beyond that, this substance defies science as I know it.”

  “If you had to guess why it defies science?”

  “Scientists don’t guess,” Peter said.

  “Indulge me.”

  “It reminds me of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, if that principle governed not only velocity and location of subatomic particles, but somehow magnified itself in relation to a specific substance, affecting atomic makeup, weight, everything.”

  “Was that English?”

  Silence followed this.

  “Please tell me more?”

  “The basic idea of the uncertainty principle is that it is impossible to know both the location and velocity of very, very small particles. For some, the basic takeaway is that the observer changes the observed.” He scratched his beard. “It’s an abstract principle that’s acted out on the subatomic level in multiple ways. It has even been shown to violate our understanding of the laws of cause and effect, as well as space-time. It just supersedes them.

  “The uncertainty principle raises a tricky theoretical question: If the act of observing a thing changes it on a subatomic level, is consciousness interacting directly with reality? If so, how far does that go? That’s the kind of philosophical leap we scientists rail against. I never took the idea seriously. But, now, having seen moondust…”

  “Okay, let’s pause for a second,” I said. I took out my minidisk recorder, the kind used for interviews, and turned it on. “Peter, I’ve followed everything you’ve said, and it’s been helpful. But, I was wondering if you could boil it down? Give me something I can put in an article. We can use your name, or not. It’s your choice.”

  “The substance you brought me cannot be studied, at least by my equipment. The results of all the tests I tried to run fluctuated wildly and for no particular reason I can determine. No set of data was ever duplicated, and I mean, not a single datum. It’s almost like I created each datum merely by looking for it, and it generated itself randomly. You’ve found something that perhaps illustrates either hitherto unknown subatomic or atomic forces. I can guess about how that is, like saying maybe science needs to rethink the uncertainty principle, what consciousness is, and how it interacts with matter. Or whether we’re living in a dream world. All I really know is my life just changed.”

  “Sounds like we’ll be famous.”

  “Famous? Sure, if that’s what you want. Does this really do what you said it does?”

  “I sure hope so,” I said. “Do every test and analysis you can. Please.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. If there’s anything I can do to help, call.”

  “I could use more of the substance.”

  “You need more?”

  “As much as you can get, yeah. Study requires samples and independent verification. Also, if you can find out how to make it. That’s important.”

  “That’s a big ask. But, I’ll do what I can. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  Outside, I felt like singing for joy. I was about to break the story that a new drug—some kind of religious, farcical experience—was on the streets of Manhattan, that this drug violated subatomic principles—or stretched them or something—and that it would spark a scientific revolution, proving… what? I wasn’t sure.

  I felt a wave of doubt. I stood there, in the street, watching people walk by, looking up at the skyline. I pulled out my phone, and I called Justine.

  Justine told me she was lying on the sofa, watching a movie. Something in the manner of her voice made me able to imagine, vividly, her heavy eyes as we spoke. I shrugged it off, and tried not to think about the fabric of reality.

  9. JUSTINE

  When Maxwell called, my instincts told me to lie, and I acted on them without thought. Almost without my permission, my mouth said the words, “Oh, I’m sitting on the sofa, watching a movie.”

  An innocent fib on the surface. But, since I’d been staring at this small packet of powder all day long and remembering my faith, it seemed rather significant.

  The reason I lied—that I didn’t want him to know how I once believed—became clear to me as soon as I finished saying the words. The implications made me queasy.

  I didn’t want to think about it, so finally I put the stuff away, in a box under my bed.

  During the phone call, Max had said he wanted to have dinner. I wasn’t interested like I should have been.

  I remembered the church I’d gone to as a child with my father, before his accidental death.

  The tall, pointed, stained-glass windows, filtering sunlight into holy pictures. The altar, the priests, the rhythmic, comforting drone of Latin prayers.

  Today I dressed simply in jeans, a beige T-shirt and flats, my hair pulled back in a pony-tail. I read a magazine. But I barely even saw the words.

  It’d been thirteen years since I’d gone to confession.

  Thirteen years since my father died.

  I don’t think I ever resented God. But, without my father, I couldn’t go back to church. I just couldn’t. I needed to be distant from faith: I needed the promise of holy happiness to fade. Without my father, I could not reconcile it.

  And now perhaps God was in powder form under my bed. As ridiculous as it seemed, I knew, intuitively, that this was so, and I wondered what I’d say in the presence of God. Would I feel contrite for having forsaken His church? Or angry at of the loss of my father? Would I ask about all the suffering in the world, and indeed the pedophilic actions of some of priests, which strengthened my resolve to be alienated from the flock? Would I dare?

  I was reminded of the book of Job. I went to my bookshelf to where I’d buried a copy of the Bible, and I took it out, and read the story. As always, the cruelty with which God and the Devil conspired to ruin Job’s life, and more importantly, the callous disregard for the lives of his wife and children, disturbed me.

  It’d been so long since I read that. I came into the world a Catholic, and there were questions one was not supposed to ask. So I did what I always did: I closed the Bible and put it away. Max
would be coming to get me in two hours. He left our destination a surprise, and we’d take a cab there.

  He was an avowed atheist. I respected this in him at first, his resolute conscription to the laws of logic. But, now I wished… that he was more spiritual. At least, in a tiny part of me.

  I remembered Daddy singing hymns, his expression calm, reverent.

  Religion wasn’t defined by that anymore, as it had been when I was a girl. Now it had nothing to do with me staring up at the person closest to me in the world, as he sung sacred hymns. Now, religion was scandals on the news. Suicide bombers and doomsday policies.

  I badly needed to think about something else, so I picked up another magazine. But, nothing caught my interest. I turned on the television on which a model interviewed Little People. I turned off the television, showered, and got dressed.

  When Max arrived, he embraced me hurriedly. He wore the same blue collared shirt and kakis as this morning, when he left. He hadn’t gone home. Mania tinted his eyes. But, that might have been my imagination.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, as if he couldn’t see. I checked my outfit, now doubting it. I felt that distance again.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To celebrate,” he said, and kissed me. I let him, but barely returned it, disentangled myself.

  “Celebrate what?”

  “This story is going to make me. I got that stuff analyzed by the lab. You know, the powder that guy gave us? It’s going to rewrite the laws of science. It’ll change everything.”

  My heart quickened. “Tell me all about it,” I said. And he did.

  Of course, he only cared about his story. But, for me, this meant about something else entirely. He described a substance beyond science, an impossibility—or a miracle. The man who gave it to us called it a portal to God. I’d held out a crazy hope it was real, and science proved it.

  We went to dinner, with me in a daze. Max didn’t notice until some time after our food arrived; he was too busy yammering away about his opportunity.

  “You seem quiet,” he finally said. “Everything all right?”

  I almost wanted to laugh.

  10. MAXWELL

  Justine stayed quiet after I asked about her day, which bothered me. I wanted her to be happy with me.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she finally said.

  “Of course.”

  “The… moondust. You said it doesn’t respond to scientific inquiry?”

  “Yeah.” I took a bite so I wouldn’t have to say more. I’d been explaining so much I barely touched my food, and I was hungry. The chicken was a classic coq au vin.

  “Do you think it’s possible it’s holy, like we were told?”

  That froze me. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why can’t I be serious?”

  “Because you aren’t religious. Are you?”

  Was she? Justine never spoke about God, so I assumed she left God in the realm of superstition where He belonged. But, the look on her face made me doubt.

  “What if I was?” she said.

  “I thought you were smarter than that.”

  Justine’s face grew harder and colder. I said, “I didn’t mean to offend you. But, God is a fantasy, you know that. Should I have been more PC?”

  “That’s your truth,” she said. “Not the truth. There’s a difference.”

  “So… shit, you are religious? Since when?”

  She responded, “I want to try it.”

  “Try what?”

  “Moondust.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. What’s wrong with you?”

  She threw her napkin on the table, grabbed her stuff, and left. I couldn’t believe it.

  11. WILLIAM

  I swear the whole world changed shape. Everything I believed, I now questioned. The good news is I never believed in much of anything, so I could stand it. I’d first taken moondust five days ago.

  At the moment, I was sitting on a roof in Benson Hurst, Clyde’s friend Rob’s building. Clyde had introduced me to moondust, and he was explaining it to this Rob guy now, but taking his time. It certainly wouldn’t hurt Rob to have another second to get used to the idea that his world was about to change shape, for good.

  I was thinking about existence. Not directly about God, but about what my vision of God had showed to me. I’d gained an appreciation of beauty. The sunset floored me.

  The lecture finally ended. “All right,” Clyde said, “Let’s do this. Rob, tilt your head back and hold your eye open.”

  “How do you mean?” said Rob.

  “I’ll show you,” I said. Clyde started to protest, so I added, “You don’t have to wait for me to come back. We can be gone together.”

  I sat down on the roof-tar, and I held my eye open. Clyde dropped moondust in, and I felt that terrible sting. And again, my soul was ripped from my body.

  And this time I became a file clerk in a jail in Tucson.

  I had big, calloused hands. I had wrapped these hands around my girlfriend’s neck and squeezed until she had no breath in her. Some days, like today, I could still see the look in her eyes as her light went out. It wasn’t the only bad thing I’d done, but maybe the worst. I told people I was innocent, just for the hell of it.

  They said I killed her out of anger because she cheated. But, I hadn’t loved her and never really felt betrayed.

  Prison made sense to me. Everything inside was right on the surface, immediate. No ambiguity, but I missed women, and at first it was agony and that made me hurt people. But, after a while I barely noticed anymore.

  On this particular day, while filing mail, I was thinking about the afterlife. Did they consider your circumstances when they decided where you go?

  Probably not, I figured.

  All the sudden, a shout sounded down the hallway, then two more, then the thumps, bangs, and grunting you hear when the guards beat someone compliant. I expected the usual lockdown noises after that, but instead came the sound of people running and more shouts. It didn’t have nothing to do with me. I just kept on doing the mail.

  I thought about the outside. Like I’d done a million times, I imagined myself in a car. Any car, as long as I was free. Just driving.

  The shouts got louder, and I realized I smelled smoke; distant teargas scratched my lungs. I put the mail down and snuck over to the door to peek out. I didn’t see anything so I walked down the hall a little, toward block A.

  A-block was pandemonium. Some inmate ran by holding a shotgun. A guard in the distance fired at people I couldn’t see, until he was hit by a flying chair and went down. I went back into the mailroom.

  A riot.

  Going out there gave no win for me. Not yet, at least. I decided to wait it out in the mail room, knowing anyone who came in and saw me, sitting in my chair smoking cigarettes, would view me as a non-combatant.

  The guards would probably take the ward back soon. If not, then things would definitely get interesting.

  I sat down, put my feet up on the desk, and lit up, listening to the sound of rioters outside. First riot I’d seen or even heard of. The sirens finally came on, and after a moment, I thought I heard the distant sound of helicopters. Automatic gunfire couldn’t be far off. I wondered what had taken the sirens so long. Either some inmate was real smart or some guard was real dumb.

  I had a flask hidden under a desk, which I’d gotten from a crooked screw I did stuff for sometimes, just like the cigarettes. I pulled it out and took a deep swig—the beautiful burn of whiskey. I killed my cigarette and lit up another, content to wait. Outside, the gunfire picked up again.

  And then I came rushing back to myself, William. Clyde was looking down at me; that guy Rob sat next to me, his wide eyes darting back and forth, an overjoyed grin plastered on his face.

  “How was it?” Clyde asked, and I shrugged, and reached into my coat to pull out some weed and papers. The remains of the stranger I’d been echoed all through me. It was difficult
to say anything.

  I’d found moondust was like that, maybe the only thing that still shook me. This was my fourteenth ride. So I’d been hitting it pretty hard, but it was just so wicked. It had no side-effects, nothing to come down from, at least aside from deep thoughts about life. It was the cleanest…drug. It barely even felt like a drug.

  “You want me to put in on the joint?” Clyde said, offering to add his own weed to mine. I didn’t need more. But, I appreciated the offer, so I nodded.

  I always thought crazy violent dudes, like the guy I’d just been, weren’t that cold or that calm or calculating. But, he was capable of anything, all the time. For him, hurting people was easy.

  I was never going to be like that. I never realized it until then. But, when it came to the life of crime, I was a tourist. Just another kind of fucking hipster, playing a role because I thought it was fun. I was a little disgusted in myself, but quite a bit disgusted in having seen inside the kind of person who really did have what it took. That kind of person would break me, no question. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Luckily we had a new plan. It was going to make us lots of money, and I would never have to tangle with his type. It was perfect. The big score. If you hustle, then you dream of this kind of thing, to corner a market, make tons of bank, and get out before enough heat comes down to burn you. We would move from city to city, setting up shop, flooding the market, and moving on before competitors had a chance to track us down. Was it a dangerous plan? Sure. But, how could we not try? This would make us. We would be legends, kings of the underworld. Everything I ever wanted.

  I tried to focus on rolling the joint. The papers were Bambi, and I glued two together. It was a difficult operation to do on a roof, with wind and without a table or even chairs.

  I was free.

  I wasn’t in jail, I wasn’t that guy who I had been in jail. And, thanks to moondust, I would soon be very rich, and live the life I always wanted.