by Richard Bard
Sammy’s featured a collection of over one hundred different beers on tap, simple but good food, and a serving crew that relished the growing crowds of one of the newest hot spots in the South Bay. But it wasn’t just sports and food that drew people in. It was the addition of small computer terminals along the bar and at each table that allowed patrons to surf the web through fiber optic lines at speeds many times faster than most could experience at home. This allowed patrons to interact in real time with sports-network websites during games, to ping other tables for anonymous chat sessions, and to win free drinks and T-shirts by participating in trivia contests after each sporting event.
It was nearly six, and the place was filling up. The Lakers were playing the Utah Jazz at home.
As he pushed through the front door, Jake caught the sweet smell of barbecued ribs as a waiter drifted by with a platter of food. A burst of laughter from one of the larger tables broke through the din of conversation, clattering silverware, and classic rock ’n’ roll. Jake caught Tony’s wave from their favorite booth on the other side of the bar. He and Marshall twisted their way through the maze of tables, nodding at one or two familiar faces along the way.
The three tapped their fists together in greeting. “Hey, pal,” Jake said as he and Marshall slid across the smooth Naugahyde booth opposite Tony, neither of them wanting to compete for space with the linebacker spread of Tony’s shoulders.
Their favorite server, Lacey, stepped up to the table, her Caribbean blue-green eyes fixed on Marshall. “Hey guys, you still climbing the ladder, or do you want something different today?”
“Just the regular for me,” Tony said.
“The ladder,” Jake said. At the rate he was pounding them down, it would only be a few more weeks before he reached the top rung—all one hundred beers consumed. As a reward, his name would be added to a brass-framed plaque that hung behind the bar. Kind of like a tombstone, Jake thought.
“Ladder’s fine,” Marshall said, ignoring Lacey, his eyes glued to the screen of the terminal in front of him.
“You got it,” Lacey said. She made a point of showing an exaggerated pout to Jake and Tony at Marshall’s lack of attention. She turned toward the bar, her straight, shoulder-length golden hair spinning like the silky hem of a dancer’s skirt.
“It ain’t fair,” Tony said, shaking his head and admiring Lacey’s lithe surfer-girl form as she walked away.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” Marshall said, finally looking up.
Kicking him under the table, Tony said, “I’m talking about girls, man, and how they’re always comin’ on to you. Lacey’s got it bad for you.”
“You think?” Marshall asked. “She’s nice and all, but when I finally decide to settle down, I’m going to need someone with a little depth. Know what I mean?”
“Hey, bud,” Tony said. “Don’t kid yourself. Just ’cause she’s an out-of-work actress waiting tables don’t mean she doesn’t have it going on. That girl’s got layers.”
“Shut up. What the hell do you know, anyway?” Marshall said. “You’re married.”
Tony sat back with a sigh. “And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”
Jake smiled as his buddies pressed on with their usual banter. He felt lucky to count these guys as his best friends. On the outside, Tony was as tough as they come, an ex-Special Forces sergeant who now worked SWAT for LAPD. But behind his crusty exterior, Tony was a caring family man who would do anything to help a buddy in trouble. Marshall was socially inept but whip smart, with hacker abilities that were the envy of the NSA recruiting team. Whether you needed to break through a heavily encrypted firewall or just learn the inside cheats on the latest video game, Marshall was your go-to guy.
Tony said, “So what about that shaker today? The squad cars in the parking lot downtown were bouncing up and down like they were on air shocks. Car alarms went off all over the city. How was it out here?”
Marshall looked at Jake, as if asking for permission. Jake shook his head, but Marshall couldn’t contain himself. “Dude, it was crazy. You’re not going to believe what happened!” The story of the day’s events spilled out of him like water through a breached dam. Tony hung on to every word, looking over at Jake with growing concern. Jake sighed and chugged his beer.
“What the hell’s going on, Jake?” Tony asked. “Why the MRI?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t tell me you’re fine.”
“Forget about it. It was just a test.”
“Cut the crap, pal. How you doin’?” Tony’s New York accent slipped out, as it usually did when he got agitated. His large-knuckled right hand grabbed Jake’s forearm across the table as if to squeeze the truth out of him.
Jake jerked his arm back.
Tony sank back in the cushioned booth, studying his friend. “Just tell me one thing. You gonna be okay?”
Jake relented. “Yeah, sure.” Hoping to end the discussion about his health, he added, “Every now and then, I get lightheaded, like catching a buzz, but only for a few seconds, and it seems to be happening less and less. A few more beers and I won’t even notice it.”
As if on cue, Lacey returned with their drinks, her smile brightening the smooth features of her tan face. “Longboard Lager for you, Jake. That’s number forty-three on the ladder. A Stella for you, Marshall. Number twenty-five. And a Budweiser for you, Tony. Still on number one.”
Tony grabbed his beer. “And I ain’t ever gonna switch, darlin’. I’m a Bud man.”
Marshall glanced up from the screen. “Number forty-three, Jake? Weren’t we dead even just a week or so ago?”
Jake shrugged off the question. “Nah, I don’t think so. Hey, Lacey, how about some chips and salsa? And by the way, what’s with all the camera equipment stacked up over there?”
“There’s a TV crew setting up to do a local-interest piece on Sammy’s tonight during halftime. My boss says it’s going to be great publicity.” She turned to walk away, paused, and looked back at Marshall. “Who knows? Maybe someone will finally notice that I’m a natural-born star.”
Marshall feigned dramatized surprise at the snub but followed it with a full smile that brought a flush to Lacey’s face. She headed for the bar, this time with a spring in her step.
Three beers later—four for Jake—it was halftime. Usually by this stage of the evening, the packed crowd, sports action, and animated conversations swirling around him would wear a little thin on Jake. But not tonight. He felt like a sponge absorbing all the disjointed data coming in from around him.
A few minutes into halftime, a voice over the PA announced that the trivia match was about to begin. The TV crew moved through the crowd on the other side of the bar, pausing to interview patrons. Groups along the likely path of the camera were trying to act cool, but most failed to disguise their longing for TV fame.
Looking for Lacey in order to ask her for a refill on salsa, Jake saw her smoothing her hair near the crew, nowhere near her assigned tables. He had to smile at the superficial image she so successfully presented when the bar was full like tonight. He knew better. He’d gotten to know her pretty well in the past two weeks when he came in on his own during the day. Tony was right. She definitely had it going on. It would serve Marshall well to pay a little closer attention to her.
Marshall tapped Jake’s shoulder and swiveled the computer screen so that all three of them could see it. “The trivia contest is about to start. Let’s win some free beer and T-shirts.”
Tony used his beer mug to angle the screen away from him. “Why bother? We’ve never even made it to the finals.”
“Well, if you’d pay less attention to the pretty girls, Mister Married Man, and more to the game, maybe we’d have a chance.” Marshall slid the keyboard over toward Jake. “Here, brain man, give it your best shot.”
Jake shrugged. Why not? All the trivia questions dealt with the game they were watching, and he could pretty much rewind the entire first half in his
mind. He took a swig of beer. The first question scrolled across the screen, and before Tony or Marshall said a word, Jake punched in the answer on the keyboard. The second question appeared, and Jake answered it just as fast, grinning.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Tony asked.
Jake’s smile widened. He was entering answers before most people finished reading the questions.
A few moments after the last question was displayed, the manager’s voice over the PA announced, “We have our three finalists: tables four, fourteen, and seventeen!”
Friendly boos and catcalls from the losing tables were drowned out by Tony’s triumphant roar as he leaped up, fist in the air.
Jake chugged the rest of his beer. The questions had been pretty easy, and the mounting beer buzz provided a nice temporary escape. He winked at an attractive girl at a nearby table. She smiled back.
“Okay, folks. All three of our finalists have an equal chance of winning, based on the highest number of correct answers out of the next five questions. But before we begin, I’d like to give kudos to table seventeen, who is the first group since we opened three months ago to get a perfect score on round one. Fifteen out of fifteen!”
The crowd cheered at that announcement. Tony and Marshall tapped their beer mugs together and took a chug. The TV crew made its way over to their table. Lacey was right on its heels.
“Okay, the last five questions,” the manager announced. “These are tough ones. Ready? Here we go!”
Question one appeared: Near the end of the second quarter, Jack Nicholson stood up, took off his tinted glasses, and yelled at the ref over a bad call. What was the score? Jake thought back to the scene, replaying the image in his mind. It had been a charging call against Kobe. He pictured the scoreboard: forty-two to thirty-nine, Lakers. He entered the answer.
Questions two, three, four, and five flashed on the screen, and Jake’s fingers continued to dance on the keyboard. He had to squint as the light from the TV crew’s camera swept across his eyes and illuminated their table. He grinned at Marshall and Tony after he entered the final answer. “What size T-shirts do you want?”
There was a brief pause as the manager checked the results. The noise level sank several decibels as the crowd awaited the results.
“Incredible! With a perfect score, our winner is table seventeen. Get that table a round of drinks!”
The crowd erupted in a loud cheer. Tony high-fived Jake and Marshall across the table, and a frustrated Lacey stopped midstride just before sliding into camera view and headed back to the bar to get the free drinks and T-shirts for the so-called awards ceremony.
The attractive interviewer was about to ask Marshall a question when someone from a losing table nearby yelled, “Cheat! Setup!”
Tony immediately stood up, red-faced, a heat-seeking missile armed and ready to fire.
“Sit down, big guy. I’ll talk to them,” Marshall said, his hand on Tony’s beefy shoulder.
“No,” Jake said. He jumped up onto the table, knocking the half-full basket of chips to the floor. “I’ll handle this one!”
Marshall and Tony reached for Jake to urge him back down, but he’d have none of it. Literally in the spotlight, he turned to the six college kids across the aisle who had yelled the challenge. He raised his voice. “We didn’t cheat, and I can prove it!”
The most boisterous of the college kids, a big boy with an even bigger mouth, said, “Bullshit! How’re you gonna do that?”
“Easy,” Jake said. “Let’s talk about you.”
The noise in the bar had dropped noticeably. People maneuvered for better positions to enjoy the unexpected entertainment.
Jake closed his eyes for just a moment, sorting through the scattered conversations he had overheard from the nearby table. Time to take my new eidetic memory on a test flight.
Looking down at Big Mouth, he said, “Have you or anyone else at your table ever met me before?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The rest of his group murmured their agreement.
“Your name is Steve, right?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Never mind, just pay attention, Steve, and learn.” The crowd giggled. Steve scowled. “Steven, you’re sitting with Todd, Mason, Matt, Ben, and Jason. You’re all students at UCLA except Mason, who’s visiting from UC Monterey. You’re the oldest of the group at twenty-two, and you think you’re the leader. You were a quarterback in high school, right?”
“How could you know that?”
The crowd had quieted down, intent on the conversation.
The camera was rolling.
Remembering the table’s conversation from when Steve had made a visit to the restroom, Jake continued. “Your friends feel like you can be a real jerk sometimes. Like now, acting like you’re still the hotshot quarterback. You’ve always got to be the center of attention, Steve, even if you have to push and shove your way to get there. Your friend Matt says that’s why your girlfriend, Liz, left.” A low giggle spread through the crowd.
Steve’s face turned red. He stood up at his table and opened his mouth to speak.
“Shut up, Steve. Mr. Cheater here is not finished yet.” Jake scratched his head as he recalled the memory. “Let’s see. According to Todd, your twenty-second birthday was last Friday. You couldn’t hold your liquor that night any more than you seem to be able to tonight. Anyway, last Friday was February 12, so if you’re twenty-two, that means you were born on February 12, 1988, right?”
“Big deal. Anyone could have figured that out.”
“Hey, Steve, what day of the week was your birthday back in 1988? Was it a Friday?”
“How would I know?”
“Well, you were there, weren’t you?”
The crowd laughed. Steve’s facial color resembled a beet.
“Never mind,” Jake said. “Can somebody out there help Steve out by Googling a calendar to confirm that February 12, 1988, was a Friday?”
After a few moments, a woman behind a terminal at a nearby table said, “He’s right!”
The crowd cheered. Steve’s eyes narrowed. He glared at Jake like a linebacker about to blitz.
Jake turned to the woman who had looked up the answer. “Thanks for your help. Could you keep that website up for a minute while we ratchet this test up a bit?”
She nodded.
“All right, here we go. Steve, your fortieth birthday is going to be on a Saturday, your fiftieth on a Friday, and your seventy-fifth birthday will be on Wednesday, February 12, 2053.”
The crowd turned to the woman, who after a few moments said, “He’s right on all three!” The crowd roared. Steve gripped his empty beer mug so tightly his fingers were white.
Behind Jake, someone yelled, “Hey, Rain Man, what’s the square root of seven thousand six hundred and eighty-four?”
Jake turned his back on Steve to answer the question. “It’s 87.658428.”
“Look out!” Tony shouted.
Jake caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Steve had hurled his beer mug in a wobbling spiral straight at Jake’s head. Jake turned wide-eyed toward the oncoming missile.
Sound faded away, and everything around Jake suddenly seemed to move in super-slow motion, as if the entire room was immersed in a huge aquarium of crystal-clear molasses. Each turn of the mug was a movement of grace. It spiraled slowly toward his face, tiny droplets of beer spinning an amber trail in its wake. In a blur of motion that Jake knew was impossible, his hand reached up, and he encircled the mug with his fingers.
Jake looked out at a sea of astonished faces. He was standing on the table, the mug in his hand just inches from his face.
The crowd was stunned to silence.
The red recording light from the TV camera was still on.
***
By lunchtime the next day, the remarkable video of the “super savant” hit YouTube. By late afternoon it had gone viral.
It was ten in the morning i
n Venice, Italy, when Luciano Battista first saw it.
Chapter 5
Venice, Italy
LUCIANO BATTISTA LOOKED OUT on the small crowd of scientists, students, and journalists. Folding chairs had been set up in the gymnasium-sized, enclosed courtyard of the palazzo, the crowd gathered for a rare tour of the institute and its school for young autistic savants.
Battista was just winding up his presentation regarding their research. Like a snake charmer playing a hypnotizing melody on a gourd flute, he had every one of them leaning forward on their small folding chairs, hanging on his words.
“Let me give you another example. A perfectly normal ten-year-old boy is hit in the head with a baseball. He suffers a mild concussion and recovers completely in a few days. Only now he has a photographic memory and can recall images and text in amazing detail. In every other respect, he is exactly the same. How did that trauma unlock this ability? More importantly, if such abilities can be unlocked accidentally, shouldn’t we be able to access them intentionally?”
One of the journalists spoke up. “Dr. Battista, you seem to be suggesting that these abilities reside in each of us, just waiting to be awakened.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Some people are born with genius-like abilities, and many others develop them after trauma. And we’re not only talking about photographic or eidetic memories but an entire spectrum of talents. Imagine what it must be like to be able to perform a vastly complex mental calculation in a matter of seconds, or to learn a new language in a week, or to compose an entire symphony in your head and then write the music in just a few hours.”
He sifted through a slim folder on the podium and pulled out an eleven-by-fourteen-inch image that appeared to be a photo of St. Mark’s Basilica. He held it up. “This drawing was done by one of our six-year-old students. Look at the detail, the incredible depth of color. It’s hard to believe it isn’t a photograph.” He set the print down, rested his hands on the podium, and leaned forward. “There is even one blind artist who draws with crayons. Yes, I said blind. His drawings sell for over ten thousand dollars each. Even our blessed pope has one.”