“Whatta you mean?”
There were sealed historical documents in our possession which offered incontrovertible proof that Mister Kurt Cobain survived only through direct chrono-intervention. We were forced to intervene because once we already had.
This is making my head hurt. “So you weren’t trying to change the past, you were trying to enforce it.…”
Correct. And by failing to rescue Mister Kurt Cobain, I have doomed the exceedingly optimal timeline that sent me here. Doomed it, that is, unless I can succeed in saving the life of the primary backup individual.
Suddenly it dawns on me in a blaze of light. I feel humble and important all at once. “It’s me, isn’t it? I’m the backup individual. Only I can replace Cobain. Hot damn! I knew it all along! My life is gonna be legendary! I’m like the father of my country, right? The whole existence of the future revolves around me. That’s why you stopped me from shooting myself.”
The sweater is silent for a moment, like it’s choosing its response carefully. I am afraid to say that no information on your personal future has been programmed into me. Our meeting was strictly accidental, yet driven by a certain strange attractor. You are not the backup candidate. If you were, we would not be making this journey. However, this is not to say that your newly extended life has no intrinsic value or merit, on a strictly personal level without major historical significance. Remember, today is the first day of the rest of a life you would not be enjoying were it not for me.
I’m stunned. I was so sure I had the answer. Shit, shit, shit! Oh, well, what’s really changed? I was a nobody before and I’m still one. Except now I’m the puppet of a wool Terminator with delusions of saving its world.
The car has just passed under a sign announcing the junction of Route 82 with 90. Traffic is light, but we’ve still got a long way to go, right up one side of the Cascade Mountains, through Easton, North Bend, Snoqualmie and Preston, then down the other slope and into the city, a route I’ve gone once before on a school trip. I vaguely wonder again if the Toronado is up to it, but I’ve already kinda lost interest in this expedition. What can it possibly mean personally to a nothing like me? I think about the shotgun back in the trailer and wonder if Mom will ever let me get my hands on it again, if I ever get home.
Just like it could read my emotions, the sweater pops in with a perky question calculated to snag my attention.
Perhaps you would like to hear how I failed to thwart Mister Kurt Cobain’s self-extinction…?
“Well, not really. But I guess you’re gonna tell me anyhow.”
The sweater ignores my feeble sarcasm. I was propelled by Mission Control back in time to early in the year 1993. My spatial destination was the interior of the Cobain-Love household—a closet, to be precise. There it was assumed—quite accurately, I might add—that I would be unquestioningly adopted and donned by the subject. The sweater’s tone assumes an air of pride. Perhaps you might have seen one of my public appearances…?
“Yeah, yeah, on MTV.”
I did not make my nature known to Mister Kurt Cobain. There was no point, and it was agreed beforehand that he might be disconcerted. I could perhaps have been regarded merely as the token of a “bad trip, “and discarded. So unlike the two of us, the subject and I never conversed. To all appearances, I was just a conventional nonintelligent garment. But whenever I was being worn, I was subtly rewiring the Cobain brain so as to remove his suicidal impulses.
I perk up. “You can do that?”
Certainly. That is one of my main functions. In fact, just seconds ago, when you thought about the shotgun again, I did it to you.
Suspiciously, I probe around inside my mind like a guy tonguing for a sore tooth. It seems impossible that a big urge like that can just be erased. But after a minute or so of inner inspection, I have to admit the sweater isn’t bullshitting. It’s true. I simply can’t imagine killing myself anymore. Or maybe I can imagine it, but there’s no motivation to actually do it. I don’t really know whether to be grateful or angry at this messing with my head, but because it’s less work to be grateful, I don’t push it.
“All right, so you’re not jiving me. What went wrong with Kurt then?”
Mister Cobain’s suicidal gestalt was much deeper, more longstanding and intricate than yours, and was bound up with his entire being including, of course, his artistic drive. I had to pick it apart thread by thread, if you will allow the egotistical metaphor, without damaging his musical abilities. The treatment was unfinished when it was interrupted.
I thought I had been insulted to the max, but this took the cake. “You fixed me in like two seconds, but weren’t done with Cobain after a year?”
Please do not be offended. It is simply that you have no artistic abilities. Otherwise you are just as complex and worthy an individual, of infinite value to yourself.
“Thanks for nothing. You know what? I’m glad you couldn’t fix him!”
Oh, but I could have, if I had not been stolen. It happened on his last European tour. A determined and tricky American fan stole me from backstage. Perhaps you’ll recall Mister Kurt Cobain’s deliberate yet nonfatal drug overdose during that period…? Already he was backsliding without me. In any case, I was not donned by the thief—he perhaps wanted to preserve the mana of Mister Kurt Cobain’s rather vital sweat scent intact—and so I went dormant, hoping that I would later be in a position to resume my treatment. Eventually, it seems, by one means or another, I arrived back here in Mister Kurt Cobain’s native state. But it was too late, as we both know.
All this time the sweater from the future, using my handy stolen body, has been pushing Mister Harris’ old Detroit iron to its limits. We’ve passed RV’s and flatbeds full of timber, pickups and minivans, hauling ass more or less parallel to the Yakima River, zooming by the exits for Tearaway and Cle Elum. The land has been rising around us, and we’ll soon be in the actual mountains.
It is interesting to note that the drier microclimate on the eastern side of this range breeds lodgepole and ponderosa pines, interspersed with grassy meadows, in contrast to the more densely ranked Douglas firs and hemlocks we shall encounter on the other side.
“School’s cancelled today, so you can skip the lesson.”
Although I can’t move my head, I discover that the sweater has granted me a little control of my eyes which it’s sharing. I figure maybe this has something to do with its limited power supply. Anyhow, looking at the dash, I can see that we’re gonna need gas pretty soon. Maybe if I don’t say anything and let us get stranded, I can escape somehow.…
But my bad luck is holding, cuz of course the sweater has seen the gauge at the same time as me.
My calculations indicate that we should be able to arrive safely at the pumping facilities in Snoqualmie before running entirely out of fuel. That is, if we maintain the optimal speed for this primitive engine.
A screaming siren suddenly cuts through the air. I flick my eyes up to the rearview and spot the cruiser, its rooflights blazing.
“Or unless we get pulled over by a fucking smokey.”
This is unfortunate, but not terminal. Please cooperate.
“Like I got a choice!”
The sweater slows us down and comes to a stop on the highways shoulder. We leave the engine running, cuz of no key.
The smokey is right behind us, still sitting in his car. I see him talking into his mike. Then he gets out.
The sweater is rolling down my window. The cop comes right up, a hand near his gun. He’s big and mean-looking, wearing sunglasses and a scowl.
“Shut it down, and show me license and registration,” he says, so at least I know Mister Harris hasn’t woken up out of his drunk and reported his car stolen. That’s good. But what’s bad is I got no license.
“One moment, officer,” says the sweater, commanding my vocal cords. It pops the glovebox and gets out some papers, offering them out the window. “Here you are.”
As the cop reaches for them, the sweat
er makes its move.
Down my hand and right over the papers it flows like water, jumping across the inch or so of dead air to embrace the cop’s gunhand! Then it continues up his arm, right under his shirt and jacket!
“Hey!” the cop yells, jerking back and pulling the sweater sleeve like taffy between us as he tries to go for his gun.
But then the sweater must have reached his neck, cuz his eyes roll up in his head and he falls unconscious to the ground.
The elastic sweater pulls back off the fallen cop to its normal shape. Not the most subtle of techniques, but all I had time or energy for.
My voice is my own again. “You idiot! What are we going to do with a zonked-out cop and his car? He’s radioed the stop back already!”
No problem.
The sweater hauls me out of the idling Toronado. With strength I didn’t know I had, I lift the cop up and position him in his car, arranging his limp hands on the wheel. With his shades on, he looks like he’s thinking or even dozing, and I pray that none of the few dozen vehicles that have passed us saw that much, and that none of the rest to come will bother to investigate.
Then the sweater picks up the microphone. A perfect imitation of the cop’s voice comes out my mouth, reassuring the dispatcher in the proper cop-talk. This last trick isn’t so amazing, cuz even I could have pulled that from watching enough Fox TV.
Shall we continue?
“Oh, sure, why not? What’s a little flight after car theft and assault and resisting arrest and probably kidnapping too!”
Before too long we’re fully into the mountains, and the glare from the snowpack is tremendous—until the sweater modifies my vision somehow. The traffic seems like mainly sporty new cars with skis racked on their roofs. Rich people bug the shit outa me, and these are no exception. Buncha selfish jerks without any thoughts for anyone else. You think any of them would give up their own suicide to go help save the world? Fat chance!
The sweater and I don’t talk. I guess we’re both occupied with our own thoughts.
The sign saying that the Sonqualmie exit’s coming up appears after a while. And just in time, cuz I’ve been trying to ignore something urgent for some miles now.
“Hey, Mister Sweater, I gotta piss!”
I can easily shut off that sensation, and we shall save some time.
“No way! I’m not gonna have my bladder burst to save you a few seconds! How long is it gonna take for me to pee anyhow?”
The sweater considers this. Very well. We have to leave the vehicle to obtain currency in any case.
I don’t like the sound of this, but I’m not gonna argue.
The exit is jammed and we have to go slow. Local driving conditions mean the sweater has little attention for me.
The main drag of Snoqualmie is bustling with lots of happy plastic people dressed in their fancy recycled-soda-bottle ski clothes. Spotting a gas station, convenience-store-type place, the sweater pulls us outa traffic and up to a pump. Disconnecting the ignition wires stops the motor.
Now we shall fill the tank with hydrocarbons.
It feels good to get out and stretch my legs, even if they’re not really mine anymore. I don’t bother asking the sweater how we’re gonna pay, since I figure it must have a plan.
After topping the tank off, we go inside the store and join the slow-moving line for the cashier. In front of me is a fancy-dressed babe in a white one-piece snowsuit, standing lovey-dovey close to her obnoxious boyfriend. She’s carrying a Gucci purse on a strap, but the boyfriend has his own wallet out to pay.
The sweater makes me pick up a copy of People and hold it with both hands. Amazingly, it opens right to a page that shows Courtney Love punching someone out.
This is a good omen, says the sweater. Then, without warning, its hem starts to stretch out at one point like some kinda vine! It snakes up through the air and into the babe’s purse! Without even unsnapping the catch! I hear a kind of mild rustling noise from inside the purse, and then the tendril comes back out with a wad of money clutched in its woolly grip!
At this point the babe notices something. She clutches her purse and turns to glare at me, but I’m obviously innocent, holding my magazine, no hands free to rob her. The sweater makes me smile at her in what I’m sure is a demented way She glares some more, pulls her purse around, opens it, obviously sees her wallet intact, gives a snort, then ignores me.
By now the sweater has put the money in one of its pockets— pockets I never noticed before. When it’s my turn with the cashier, I say on my own, “Um, whatever’s on pump four, this magazine, and, er, ten Slim Jims.”
The sweater makes my hand bring up the money.
It’s a couple of hundreds, some fifties, and, thank God, three twenties.
The clerk—a guy not much older than me—looks suspicious. But in the end, he takes two of the twenties, gives me change back.
“Uh, got a bathroom?”
“Round the rear.”
I leave, already peeling the cellophane off a piece of jerky.
That was draining, says the sweater. I shall trust you to micturate on your own.
Hungrily chewing and swallowing the Slim Jim, I try to hold down my excitement. This is it, my last chance!
In the john, I set my purchases down on a sink. I lower my hands with my own sweet willpower down toward my fly. But at the last minute I grab the hem of the devil sweater on either side and start to yank the whole thing up over my head!
Stop! Stop! This girl will die without us!
Like sunrise over the desert, my whole brain is flooded with a portrait clear as life. It’s a short-haired, dark-haired white girl with glasses, just a little older than me, kinda pretty, kinda goofy-looking, freckles, snub nose.
My arms are raised up above my head, with the sweater hiding my face. Only the collar is still around my neck, making contact with my private spinal cord. I can feel the sweater trying to make me lower my arms, but I’m mentally fighting it to a standstill! I figure I can last longer than it can, so I take the time to ask, “Whatta you mean, she’s gonna die?”
Simulations of her alternate chrono-vectors reveal that under current conditions the backup candidate staged a successful suicide attempt at four-fifteen this afternoon. We have less than three hours to save her.
The image of the girl is fading, but still bright. She looks so cute and helpless. “She’s really gonna kill herself if we don’t stop her?”
The sweater manages to sound weary. Correct. And every minute wasted is lost forever.
Goddamn! This is probably the one thing the sweater could have pulled that would get me to cooperate. After my own close call with blowing my own head off this morning, there’s no way I can ignore this.
“All right! But after this is all over, you’d better help me straighten out the mess you got me into!”
If I can. But one would have thought that saving your life was sufficient compensation.
I let the sweater drop down around me. It flows alertly into place. “Yeah, well—”
The cashier is standing in the doorway looking at me like I’ve got two heads—which I more or less do.
“Heh, heh—just a little itchy under this thing.” I turn around to the urinal on the wall, unzip and start to pee. When I’m done, I sidle out past his stunned face.
We get the car going, pick up 90 west again, and are soon descending the Cascades. I notice the different trees, something I never would’ve done if the sweater hadn’t mentioned it.
Is it changing my mind further? Or am I changing on my own?
No way to really know, is there? And is there any practical difference knowing one way or another would make?
I go back to thinking about the girl. Another suicide. That makes three of us, Cobain, me and her. It’s more than coincidence, that’s for sure.
The sweater must be listening in, because it starts to explain.
The entire universe is determined by the quantum operations of consciousness upon it. Not
hing can exist or come into existence without being observed. Perhaps you are familiar with the case of Schrodinger’s Cat…? Well, no matter. The termination of any conscious entity closes down a multitude of possible futures. The self termination of an individual is a unique, somewhat paradoxical circumstance, consciousness acting to negate itself. It is almost as if a black hole were to swallow itself. Such ruptures cause the very structure of spacetime to temporarily fray, forming weak spots in the fabric of history. It is here that the course of events is most amenable to interference. Riding such gradients of self-destruction is what brought me to you.…
“Wow, talk about your special interest groups! We should all like form a union! ‘Give me what I want, or I’ll kill myself and change the world!’”
I assume you are joking. Without the benefit of hindsight and petaflop computing power to chart alternate chrono-vectors, without the ability to gauge the utility and spinoffs of any individual life, such a threat would be useless.
“Well, speaking of utility, what’s so special about this girl? Who is she, and what’s she gonna do for you?”
Her name is Miss Ernestine Schnabel. On my original timeline, upon her graduation from the Seattle public school system next year, she became—or will become; tenses are confusing in such cases—first, the live-in governess of the young Miss Frances Bean Cobain, then later, her intimate friend and confidante. For the next fifteen years, she was—or will be—instrumental in shaping the personality of that crucial individual, second only to the child’s now-deceased father. Simulations, however, revealed to us that if the suicide of Mister Kurt Cobain was successful, Miss Ernestine Schnabel would eventually become so distraught as to take her own life. Our only hope is that in rescuing her now we can somehow put her life back on the old course, and thus the life of Miss Frances Bean Cobain.
“So that crap you fed me about her definitely killing herself at four-fifteen today was just some kinda guesswork?”
Rather say a simulation with a probability close to certainty.
“You’d better hope so, or I’m gonna be really pissed.”
Fractal Paisleys Page 28