The Glitch in Sleep

by John Hulme

  As Fate would have it, the next day was a snow day, and with a few hours to spare before his meeting with Amy, Becker considered the offer more seriously. Of course, there was the prospect of going to an undisclosed location at the behest of a strangely dressed man, which would have sent chills up the spines of every parent and educator in Highland Park. But Becker was his own man, and believed strongly in his street smarts and ability to escape from any potential hazard—though he brought along a little “protection” just in case.

  That morning, he got on his bike, picked up a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich from the Park Deli, and followed the directions to the back of Cleveland Avenue. This part of town was a strange netherworld—a cross between warehouse-type businesses, doctor’s offices, a small chocolate factory, and a marshland of thickets and weeds. According to the packet, the so-called Door was somehow located at the very back of Illuminating Experiences: Becker’s friend Connell Hutkin’s mother’s second husband Bernie’s lighting company, which had gone out of business not three years ago.

  “Hello—anybody there?” Becker checked the fresh powder and saw one set of footprints leading to and from the abandoned plant. “You should know that I am heavily armed and extremely dangerous.”

  No response except the wind and the tinkling of icicles in the trees.

  Becker proceeded with caution, placing his hand on the Chinese star in his back pocket (the one he’d gotten at the Route 1 flea market before it got turned into a multiplex), and followed the footsteps around to the back. There was a stairway here that led down to a single black door, which looked suspiciously like the entrance to the basement or boiler room.

  “If I’m not home in an hour, the police know where I am!”

  Again, nothing but the wind in the weeds.

  He threw another peek over his shoulder, then started the short but slow trip to the bottom of the stairs. The Door itself was still covered in snow, but when he wiped it off he was shocked to see the same logo that was printed on his packet— except faded and weathered from time. There was a swipe pad next to it and, following the instructions, Becker took out the temporary ID and slid it straight across. For a second there was no reaction, then a loud click emanated from the other side of the door.

  Becker jumped and considered making a run for it before managing to pull his nerves together. He was still pretty scared, but now that feeling was mixed with something different: anticipation. He took one last look around the area, this time to make sure that no one could see what he was up to, then grabbed the handle and pulled the door wide open.

  “Holy—” but the rest was lost in the roar.

  Standing in front of him was the mouth of a blue tunnel, which apparently extended into infinity (as opposed to Illuminating Experiences). The tube itself seemed to crackle with electricity, and the noise inside was deafening. Hands shaking, Becker fumbled through his Orientation packet, but the instructions simply told him, “Put on your Transport Goggles™ and make the Leap!”

  “Easier said than done,” he said out loud, but at this point Becker was pretty sure that Amy’s snowball had hit him in the head much harder than he’d first thought. Soon he’d be waking up on the ground with her and a few concerned neighbors asking, “Are you okay?” and then he’d tell them about this crazy dream he’d had when he was out cold. So he figured what the heck, there’s nothing to lose—and did what the packet suggested.

  He jumped.

  The In-Between

  The voyage through the vast expanse of electromagnetic blue known as the In-Between has best been described as a combination of “being shot out of a cannon, sky diving, and getting turned inside out,” which is why the experienced commuter never eats a thing up to an hour before making the trip. Unfortunately for Becker Drane, it had only been twenty minutes since that bacon, egg, and cheese.

  By the time he hit the first turn of the Transport Tube, Becker was blowing chunks all over his brand-new North Face parka. His knapsack had emptied itself midway through the Big Bend, and not even Carmen (the best barber in HP) could rescue what was happening to his hair. But even though Becker felt like his face was about to peel off from the sheer speed, he couldn’t suppress a “WHOOOOOOAA!!!!” at what was transpiring all around him.

  Everywhere he looked were transparent blue tubes much like the one he was traveling through, only what was moving through those wasn’t people. It was packaged goods instead—crates, bags, even canvases rolled up like rugs—all stacked on giant palettes and stamped with the insignia of The Seems. What was inside the containers was impossible to say (for each item was sealed up tightly), but they were all meticulously arranged and headed in the opposite direction.

  At this point in the game, Becker’s grip on reality (and thus his sanity) had begun to slip. There wasn’t much time to worry about it, though, because up ahead a small dot of white was quickly getting closer. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger until everything else in his field of vision was gone save the whiteness itself. There was a burst of cold air, a loud clap, and then . . .

  WHAM!

  Whatever force had been propelling Becker was gone, and he suddenly found himself on his hands and knees on some kind of soft rubber padding—but he was not alone. A loud burst of applause shot through the air and before he knew it, somebody was giving him a blanket, someone else was shaking his hand and patting him on the back, and still others were telling him how proud they were, what a great moment this was, that they were so glad he had come.

  To be honest, all of it was kind of a blur, except the one unforgettable image of a tall black man, with blue-tinted sunglasses and a welcoming grin on his face. Becker figured he must have been somebody important, because the crowd parted as he approached and put a hand upon the boy’s shoulder.

  “Well done, Mr. Drane,” the man said in a thick African accent. “I knew you would make it.”

  But before Becker could respond, he totally passed out.

  Orientation, The Institute for Fixing & Repair, The Seems

  Of the sixty-one persons who’d been tapped by Nick Dejanus, five threw out the packet without ever opening it, eight woke up the next morning with cold feet, ten turned back at the sight of the Door, and fifteen opened the Door but couldn’t bring themselves to walk through it.4 That left twenty-three brave souls who’d placed the strange pair of goggles that had been included with the package over their eyes and summoned up the courage to make the Leap.

  “The first thing I want to say to each and every one of you is, ‘Ìkíniàríyöìkí ayö fún àlejò Seems,’ which in my native language of Yoruba means ‘Welcome to The Seems!’ ”

  The same imposing figure who greeted Becker on the Landing Pad now stood in front of a lecture hall, still wearing his blue shades, along with a sweatsuit bearing the initials: “IFR.” On the one hand he looked chiseled out of hard obsidian, but on the other, his voice and manner betrayed a deep warmth of spirit.

  “I know what many of you must be going through. To find out The World is not what you thought it was can be a very disconcerting thing.”

  The group of attendees quickly nodded in agreement. They were a motley collection from every corner of the globe, most of whom still looked white as ghosts from the shock of the journey they had just endured.

  “My name is Fixer Jelani Blaque and I will be your guide this day—and hopefully your Instructor for the length of your Training.”

  A woman in her mid-forties who had spent the last half hour puking her guts out raised her hand and spoke in German.

  “Entschuldigen Sie mich, geehrter Herr, aber Training für, was?”

  “Aktivieren Sprecheneinfaches™ Sie bitte Ihr, Frau Von Schroëder,” suggested Fixer Blaque. Frau Von Schroëder affixed a small plastic tip to her tongue and began to speak in a language that everyone could understand.

  “I’m sorry, but I was just wondering where we are exactly?”

  “Yeah, yo,” spoke up a med student from south-central LA. “Somebody
better tell me what’s going on up in this joint!”

  From the sound of the grumbles, the rest of the crowd seconded this emotion, but Fixer Blaque had been expecting this. He simply smiled and leaned forward on the podium.

  “Kevin, kill the lights!”

  The lights dimmed and a flat-screen monitor slowly descended from the ceiling. It took a moment or two for the projector to warm up before an image of The World appeared—pristine and shining in green, brown, and blue.

  “On the other side of The World, through the Fabric of Reality and across the In-Between, is a place we call The Seems.”

  Onscreen, an animation kicked in, mirroring the voyage they’d all just taken and ending with a sweeping overhead shot of what looked like a massive corporate complex.

  “Here in The Seems, it is our job to build the World you live in from Scratch. From the Department of Weather . . .”

  The campus was replaced by images of Weathermen throwing the switches that control the Rain and Snow.

  “To the Department of Energy . . .”

  A huge magnet was being positioned to ensure that Gravity kept its hold.

  “To the Department of Time . . .”

  Brass gears were being oiled and cranked by hand.

  “Everyone does their best to make The World the most amazing place it can be.”

  The image shifted to a conference-room table, where a group of high-level executives pored over complex flow charts and graphs.

  “As you can imagine, this is quite an extensive operation, and usually things run exactly according to Plan. But sometimes things go wrong, big things that the people in various departments can’t handle on their own.”

  The screen changed to a picture of the sky, which was falling, and a team of ordinary workers who were unable to hold it up.

  “And that’s when they call in one of us.”

  Up came an exterior shot of the building they were in right now, which was newer and more modern looking than the rest.

  “Here at the IFR, Candidates are given a mastery of the very inner workings of The World and trained to repair the machines that generate Reality itself.”

  And last but not least, the telltale symbol of a double-sided wrench materialized.

  “And though you may not know it yet, each of you contains something within you that has called you to be at this place, at this moment in Time. It will be my job to take that spark and shape it into what we here call . . . a Fixer.”

  As the lights came up and the Instructor shuffled through his papers, the dazed Candidates sized each other up. There was a shepherd from Kashmir, a computer scientist from New Zealand, a mechanic from Azerbaijan, and even a nine-year-old boy from Highland Park, New Jersey—who had thankfully been revived and given a new set of clothes.

  “Tu t’appelle quoi?”

  Someone elbowed Becker from the seat next to him.

  “Huh?”

  It was a cool-looking French teenager in a suede jacket and bandanna. He motioned an apology and attached his own Sprecheneinfaches.

  “What’s your name, dude?”

  “Oh. Becker . . .” Becker slid the translation device over his tongue as well. “Becker Drane.”

  “Thibadeau Freck.”

  They shook hands, and immediately Becker felt a whole lot more comfortable. Everybody else in the audience was like “What’s this little boy doing here?” but Thibadeau looked at him like there was no question he belonged.

  “Pretty trippy, huh?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Fixer Blaque cleared his throat and called everybody back to attention.

  “Now please leave your belongings on your chairs. There is a lot I have to show you.”

  When the tour was over, the Instructor gathered the shell-shocked Candidates on the Field of Play—a huge green expanse at the center of the complex—and shared with them a few parting thoughts. First and foremost, he explained that most of the people who worked in The Seems were born there. But being from The World made one uniquely qualified for the particular job of Fixer, which is why Human Resources only recruited from the other side.

  “Which side is the other side?” asked a weird guy with a Sherlock Holmes hat and pipe.

  “Whichever side you’re not on,” quipped Fixer Blaque.

  “Oh.”

  Becker leaned back in the cool grass and took in the sights. Employees on lunch break were throwing disc and a family unpacked cherries from their picnic basket. As far as Becker could tell, The Seems itself wasn’t all that different from The World— it’s just that the greens were greener and the blues were bluer, and the smell of fresh air was just a little bit fresher. His head was exploding with questions, the first of which was, “Why do they call it The Seems?”—but that’s Another Story.5

  “I was exactly like you once,” said the Instructor, adjusting his shades to refract the glare. “Going about my life, trying to survive in what seemed to be a crazy World, yet deep down, always yearning for something . . . more.”

  The Candidates nodded in recognition. Whatever that something more was, Jelani Blaque seemed to have found it, for there was an “okayness” about him that each and every one of them yearned to have themselves.

  “Then one day, in the heat of the lunch-hour sun, I wandered into the marketplace in Abuja, and tucked inside an empty stall—between the bookseller and the juju man—what did I discover?”

  “A box with a sign on the front?” asked a Swedish line cook named Jonas Larsson.

  “Fisí lòbèrè sàn Jùlô iÿë Kékeré Ayéaráyé,” replied Blaque. Everybody laughed, remembering the stories of how each of them had found their own box, their own stack of applications and No. 2 pencils. “And let me tell you, friends, ‘The Best Job in The World’ does not begin to do it justice.”

  Just then, a blimp passed overhead, loaded with Stars for a new constellation—which only hammered home the scope of the opportunity they were being offered.

  “Now, I know this will not be an easy decision for any of you, for you no doubt have families and homes and responsibilities in The World. And there is no shame at all should you choose to decline. But should you accept,” his eyes burned with the pride and love of his profession, “I promise this will be the greatest adventure of your life.”

  Blaque waited for someone to speak, for someone to make a move, but the invitees were frozen in silence. The moment of truth had arrived, and no one knew quite what to do with it . . . until a lone hand rose in the air.

  “Mr. Freck?”

  With his Serengetti eyewear and five o’clock shadow, the teenaged Frenchman was the epitome of Parisian cool. His weather-burned skin spoke of winters at Chamonix and summers hiking the G-5, and he’d clearly heard all he needed to today.

  “Count me in, Monsieur Blaque.”

  “I already did.” The Fixer smiled.

  A buzz rippled through the crowd—especially when the youngest member of the group promptly followed suit.

  “Count me in too.”

  Thibadeau extended a fist, Becker bumped it, and the rest—as they say—is History.

  4. This was part of the process of narrowing down the field, and a hefty job for The Cleanup Crew—a division of Human Resources responsible for “humanely unre-membering people” of what they knew about The Seems and collecting all hard materials that might leave a paper trail.

  5. See Appendix B: “Another Story.”

  2

  When Duty Calls

  Lafayette Middle School, Highland Park, New Jersey—Now

  It was a pleasant day in The World, and why not? Fall had settled in and the leaves were that mix of yellow, red, and Occasional Orange they only use one week a year. Over by Lafayette Middle School, the grounds were eerily silent, for it was only 3:04 p.m. Sixteen minutes later, the bell would ring and the doors would fly open, and giant backpacks strapped to kids would streak across the lawns, heading for the yellow school buses, silver SUVs, or locked-up bicycles that w
ould transport them into the rest of the day.

  In Classroom 6G, Dr. Louis Kole continued his lecture in Honors English class. “And so, to conclude, though the use of flashback in I Am the Cheese risks alienating the reader, it contributes greatly to the immersive nature of the story world and is essential to the development of plot.”

  I Am the Cheese was this week’s selection in Dr. Kole’s “Best Books Ever” class, but despite the quality of the novel in question, the class had been allotted an eighth-period time slot, which doomed it to a form of mass distraction.

  In the back of the classroom, Eva Katz was carving Bobby Miller’s name into her desk, while John Webster was staring at a point in the universe that only he could see. But in Aisle 4, Seat #3, another activity was underway. A twelve-year-old boy with shaggy hair and faded corduroys was incessantly checking the black device that was clipped on to his belt.

  “Mr. Drane!”

  Becker was caught red-handed.

  “Perhaps you would like to enlighten us on the development of plot?”

  He scanned the entire classroom, but finding no aid, was forced to hazard a guess.

  “Um . . . it thickens?”

  This got a laugh from the peanut gallery, but not the kind you want.

  “This is unacceptable!” Dr. Kole was fuming because Becker had always been an honors student, but lately his GPA had begun to suffer. “If you want to be a space cadet, English B is down the hall.”

  “Sorry, Doc.” Becker truly meant it—he knew his teacher loved literature, and he didn’t want to disappoint him. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind these days.”

  “I can see that. Maybe a few sessions with Mrs. Horner will help clear that up.”

  Mrs. Horner was the vice-principal in charge of discipline and no one wanted a piece of that. Thankfully, Becker was saved by the proverbial bell.

  “Remember, young readers—pop quiz tomorrow!”