Psecret Psociety Pshort Pstories, vol. 1 Read online

Game Note: SDP 1 SFG 2

  41. Beanstreets (April 2015)

  Back in 1998, when I lived alone in a 907-square-foot camper-to-house conversion on High Peak Mountain (actually more of a low ridge than a prominent peak) in Etowah (NC), I would often take a 31-mile drive to Asheville on Friday afternoons after my safety writing was done. Once I had parked my white 1991 Plymouth Voyager minivan in the ‘pearl of the Blue Ridge’, I would ensconce me-self for several hours in a lower level, worn-but-extra-soft, gold-colored chair at Beanstreets coffeehouse at the corner of College and Broadway.

  Beanstreets was a hit with the locals – a certified caffeinated cerebral power pumper (oh, yeah) – winning best coffee shop year after year through the ‘90s. Thus, I figured it would be a good place to start my first novel (though, actually my first novel, Gold, a summer story, would not come about until 15 years later in Charlotte). I already had the title in my head; it would be called Monique by the Creek (hasn’t yet become a novel, but did become a short story; not sure what drive it is stored on).

  Let me tell ya, this Beanstreets joint had a world-class chill about it. Once nestled in the back catacombs, I often felt like I was back in San Francisco. And on this overcast April day, the interior scene was no exception. The usual kewl, [sic] hip, casual ambiance pervaded the multilevel confines.

  At a table three feet above me (yes, up a yard in elevation), there were two young customers, a white and a black guy, playing a strange version of chess with coins. What is a rook? Two nickels?

  Near the front counter, two 20-something females, an Asian and a Caucasian, were comparing notes on poetry. Or, maybe it was song lyrics. The next female folk-rock duo?

 

  And, at a table about seven feet to my right was a 50-ish Caucasian fellow donning a brown beret. He was talking to two guys and a girl, who appeared to be college students.

 

  Luckily for me (and you, my highly esteemed voracious reader), I had my analog audio recorder on my person, just to make sure that I could later transcribe their conversation precisely. I flipped the switch to ON, slid it in my shirt pocket, and began to earnestly eavesdrop on their conversation.

  The 50-something white guy was already in mid-speech, sounding very professorial. “And, get this, according to the current standard model of cosmology, the observable universe – you know, the part of the whole shebang that we can detect, containing all the billions of galaxies and trillions upon trillions of zillions of stars – is just one of an infinite number of universes existing side-by-side, like soap bubbles in a foamy, spiraling bath tub.” Now, there’s an interesting theory. I sure picked the right table to record.

  The 20-something, Caucasian, dirty-blonde-haired, maroon-and-white-sweatshirted female then had a follow-up question. “A spiraling bath tub?”

  But, before the older man could offer a reply …

  “Hey, what if some entity pulls the drain plug on it, professor?” the 20-something, Caucasian, dark-long-haired, tall male asked.

  “Yes, what if, indeed?” the older bereted gentleman asked. “And, yes, Lori – spiraling all around, becoming braided together.” He must have tenure at UNCA. [University of North Carolina at Asheville]

  They all had a chuckle. Cosmic humor. They are probably from a cosmology, astronomy or astrophysics class.

  “Sounds like scary end-of-times stuff,” the other white, shorter, short-brown-haired male student said.

  “I tend to think it would be very exciting, John. Watch that wormhole! Don’t get too close to the grommet zone. Watch those loose electrons!”

  “Grommet zone?” Lori, asked. She continued her line of questioning. “But, professor, why and how can this be?”

  “Because it is all infinite, Lori. Every single possible history must have played out … somewhere, sometime and somehow. All the many permutations and combinations. All of them.” The professor then glanced my way for a millisecond. He had detected my interest in their conversation.

  “Sounds like infinite imprecision to me,” John said.

  “Well, hold on, John. Actually, the number of possible histories is finite, because there have been a finite number of events with a finite number of outcomes. Oh, the number is astronomically huge, but it is finite, nonetheless. Trust me on this. I stayed up all night calculating it.”

  “I bet you did,” Bill said. He chuckled for three seconds.

  Lori giggled. “Oh, professor, you’re too much!”

  The prof smiled. “That’s not what the wife says, Lori.” Wow, wasn’t expecting that.

  They all had another chortle. John almost spilled his coffee. The professor coughed a few times.

 

  Bill, the long-haired student, restarted their astronomical discussion. “Ok, so what you’re saying now is that this conversation here at this point in space-time …”

  “Yes, go ahead, Bill,” the professor encouraged. “Keep running with the universal ball. Put it over the goal line this time. All of the cosmos is counting on you.”

  “Gosh, that’s a lot of pressure, professor,” Bill leaked out.

  “You can do it! Reason it out. You have a good brain, Bill.” Did they examine it under an electron microscope?

  Bill took a deep breath and sighed. “Ok. Well, is this now –this present – any more significant than any other parallel-universe present moment?”

 

  “Good question, Bill. Correction: That’s a great question. Your thinking is crisply keen today.”

  “But, what’s allowed to be this present moment, professor?” Lori then asked.

 

  “Another great question, Lori. Are you guys always this sharp-witted at Beanstreets? Or, is it only when I’m buying the coffee?”

  They all laughed. Quite a jolly astro-bunch, they are.

  The professor continued. “Ok, yes, we must set boundaries, unless the boundaries are actually borderline events themselves.”

  “Borderline events?” John was startled by that term. “I think I need a chart for all of this, professor.”

  “Maybe an interlocking Venn diagram, John?” the professor suggested. “Hey, remember the famous poem by Robert Frost?”

  “Which one?” Lori asked.

  “The one with the line, ‘good fences make for good event aggregators’,” the professor said. Good event aggregators? What the fuque! [sic]

  “Very funny, professor,” Lori said. “However, I think the line is good fences make good neighbors.”

  “And, they just might, Lori,” he replied. “They just might.”

  “Ok, you’ve lost me again, professor,” Bill sheepishly said.

  “Listen, Bill; I’ve lost myself, too, on more than one occasion. For two whole weeks at Humboldt State. Or, was that years?” The professor chuckled for a few seconds.

  Bill took another sip of his light brown coffee. “Ok, let me give this a try. So, this exact event, where we speak, listen and think right now, must have happened, is happening, or will be happening a countless number of times.”

  “Hey, who’s counting now?” the professor lobbed as he began to laugh uncontrollably.

  “My lord, professor, is God really that bored?” Lori asked while twirling her bangles.

  “It’s total tedium for the gods! It’s just not worth it anymore to be a deity, Lori.” The professor began laughing again.

  They all joined him and erupted into a mighty group guffaw. After ten seconds, their heart rates and breathing stabilized.

  The professor regained his composure and spoke first. “You three are one sharp group. Top of the class and top of the league. I can tell that you will all be great theoretical physicists.” Ah, theoretical physics students.

  “You really think so?” John asked in a doubtful tone.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. Just remember to accelerate your wildest macro theories.” What did he just say?

  “What did you just say?” John asked. A mind echo in here.
/>   “Listen. Please listen closely, my terrific trio. We all know the world at the subatomic realm is wacky, right? Quantum physics and that probable-state stuff.”

  “Yes,” Bill said, knowing his reply would just be a conjunctive segue.

  “And, we know that our current laws work out fairly well at the human scale,” the professor continued. “But, what about at the thousands-of-light-years-across macro scale?”

  “Just thinking of such incredible distances makes me tired, professor,” Lori said.

  “Believe me, I wouldn’t want to be on that bus, either, Lori,” the professor said. He then cleared his throat and continued. “Wow, yeah, pass me another bottle of Sominex. Make it a case. You would certainly have plenty of time to think … of just about everything.”

  “Yeah, no doubt about that,” Bill said.

  “Imagine thoughts upon dreams upon notions, shimmed by whims. And to the 366th power!” I think the old prof [sic] is missing a few hundred thousand neutrons … or neurons.

  “Why 366?” Bill asked, suddenly very engaged again.

  “Why not, Bill?” the professor asked semi-rhetorically. “A leap-light-year?” He chuckled once more. What a bunch of scientific laughers. Did they inhale nitrous oxide before coming here?

  “Sure, professor,” Bill said, looking somewhat astounded.

  “Ok, now … and ok, then, if there are all of these alternate realities going on, what does that mean at the end of the day, select group?” the professor asked intently.

  “It means that we’re going to need a whole lot more traffic signals and street lamps?” John cautiously submitted.

  “Good one, John. Great answer. Stellar, in fact and in fiction.” And in fiction? Was that just an off-hand dismissal.

  Lori shyly posited an answer, too. “We all have doubles out there?”

  “Wow! You got it, Lori,” the professor said with verve. “It’s a doppelgänger bonanza across the universe. In all of them. And, amazingly, we can work out how far away our nearest doppelgänger is.”

  “How far away is my nearest other-me?” Lori asked, very curious to know. Maybe she fears that her doppelgänger is wearing the same clothes?

  “Not that close, Lori. Nothing to worry about it. To put it mildly, a very, very, very long distance away. How far? Try 10 to the power of 10 to the power of 29 yards ... or meters if you prefer, as we are in the States. And, that number, in case you were wondering, is one followed by 10 billion, billion, billion zeroes. McDonald’s hasn’t even put that many grams of fat into the collective human gut yet.” Yuck!

 

  “Good, that’s far enough away,” Lori said as she laughed. I think that I guessed her concern correctly.

  Their conversation carried on, but when I glanced in my shirt pocket, I saw a blinking yellow light on the top of my voice recorder. It would be dead in a matter of seconds. And since my mug o’ java was now empty, I figured that it was time to roll. That sure was one interesting conversation. Hope it was recorded clearly enough to transcribe. Some good material for a short story someday.

  I got up for a refill to-go and walked towards the table with the professor and the three students. As I neared, they hushed their discussion, as if anticipating my interjection.

 

  I looked at all of them, and then made eye contact with the professor. “What do you think about a present moment in 2015?”

  That’s exactly when my analog audio recorder cut off. I recall them asking me qualifying questions to my question, but I forget the exact wording. Bill – I believe it was Bill – asked why I picked the year 2015. And, I can’t remember what I told him. I wished them luck with coming up with the next grand cosmic theory, and said goodbye.

  I then walked up to the counter. The 30-something, bronze-skinned Brazilian barista asked, “Get an earful back there?”

  “A story-ful,” I said as I grabbed my refilled mug. I smiled at her and then walked towards the corner door.

  It was almost dark outside. Car headlights whizzed by on Broadway. Time sure flew by in there. Guess I was transfixed by their conversation. Didn’t get much writing done. Oh, well. Maybe try again next week.

  As I drove towards High Peak on NC 191, I replayed fragments of their conversation in my head. And when I came upon the French Broad River flowing to my left in the Sandy Bottom area, oh, what a sublime moment. Wow! What a day. Must write it up as soon as I get back home. Don’t let this one float away.

  Sad note: Beanstreets is now closed.

  42. Bottled (August 2015)

  The prevailing topic of discussion the other day in our near-uptown, closer to midtown, heavily air-conditioned office (why, it’s hot as hell in Charlotte in early August) was the old message-in-a-bottle bobbing literary motif. The other two agents with me pleaded to have their numbers changed to random symbols, and not have their names mentioned to protect their identities (for what reason eludes me). Yet, supreme ringleader Ernie (the electronic earwig) relented. Well, without further ado and undo, here’s a transcript of our heady, steady conversation.

  [the sound of some papers being shuffled on a desk, followed by the faint sound of the Message in a Bottle song by the English rock band The Police]

  ^|^: “Ah, Message in a Bottle. Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

  ~(~: [begins singing] “Sending out an S.O.S. Sending out an S.O.S. I’m sending out an S.O.S.”

  ^|^: “Ok, enough. You’re slaughtering that tune.”

  33 (me): “You have an S.O.S. situation – in grave distress with immediate danger to life and vessel – and you are going to launch a message in a bottle? That’s bonkers! Completely nutzoid [sic] in a nutshell.”