by Paul Melko
“All righty, then. I’ll take that form from you.”
He was tempted to rent a car, but that would have raised as many eyebrows as hiring a patent lawyer in Findlay. John had to go to Toledo to get his business done. Three days off school was just about perfect.
As the northern Ohio farmland rolled by, he wondered how hurt he’d be if he had to transfer out right now. He was always considering his escape routes, always sleeping on the ground floor, always in structures that were as old as he could find. His chest itched where the device should have been. It was Johnny Farmboy’s problem now. He was free of it. No one would come looking for him here. He blended right in. No police would come barging in at three AM. No FBI agents wanting his device.
What an innocent he’d been. What a piece of work. How many times had he almost died? How many times had he screwed up within inches of the end?
For a moment, he had a twinge of guilt for the displaced John. He hoped that he figured out a few things quickly, before things went to hell. Maybe he could find a place to settle down just like he had. Maybe I should have written him a note, he thought.
Then he laughed to himself. Too late for that. Johnny Farmboy was on his own. Just like he had been.
*
A car horn screeched and a massive shape bore down on him. John tried to scramble away, but his hand was stuck. As his wrist flexed the wrong way, pain shot up his arm.
He looked up, over his shoulder, into the grill of a car. John hadn’t made it into the park. He was still in the street, the sidewalk a few feet in front of him.
John got to his knees. His hand was embedded in the asphalt. He planted his feet and pulled. Nothing happened except pain.
“Buddy, you okay?” The driver was standing with his door open. John’s eyes were just over the hood of the man’s car.
John didn’t reply. Instead he pulled again and his hand tore lose with a spray of tar and stones. The impression of his palm was cast in the asphalt.
The man came around his car and took John’s arm. “You better sit down. I’m really sorry about this. You came outta nowhere.” The man led him to the curb, then looked back and said, “Jesus. Is that your dog?”
John looked and saw the head and shoulders of one of the cat-dogs. The transfer had caught only half the beast. Its jaws were open, revealing yellowed teeth. Its milky eyes were glazed over. Blood from its severed torso flowed across the street. A strand of intestine had unraveled onto the pavement.
“Oh, man. I killed your dog,” the motorist cried.
John said between breaths, “Not . . . my . . . dog . . . Chasing me.”
The man looked around. “There’s Harvey,” he said, pointing to a police officer sitting in the donut shop that John had eaten in that morning. Well, not the same one, John thought. This wasn’t the same universe, since this car was gas powered.
“Hey, Harvey,” he yelled, waving his arms. Someone nudged the police officer and he turned, looking at the blood spreading across the street.
Harvey was a big man, but he moved quickly. He dropped his donut and coffee in a trash can at the door of the shop. As he approached he brushed his hands on his pants.
“What happened, Roger?” he said. He glanced at John, who was too winded and too sore to move. He looked at the cat-dog on the street. “What the hell is that?”
He kicked it with his boot.
“This young man was being chased, I think. I nearly clipped him and I definitely got that thing. What is it? A badger.”
“Whatever it is, you knocked the crap out of it.” He turned to John. “Son, you okay?”
“No,” John said. “I twisted my knee and my wrist. I think that thing was rabid. It chased me from around the library.”
“Well, I’ll be,” said the officer. He squatted next to John. “Looks like it got a piece of your leg.” He lifted up John’s pant leg, pointed to the line of bite marks. “Son, you bought yourself some rabies shots.”
The officer called Animal Control for the carcass and an ambulance for John. The white-uniformed Animal Control man spent some time looking for the other half of the cat-dog. To Harvey’s questions about what it was, he shrugged. “Never seen nothing like it.” When he lifted up the torso, John saw the severed arm straps of his backpack on the ground. He groaned. His backpack, with 1700 dollars in cash, was in the last universe under the other half of the cat-dog.
A paramedic cleaned John’s calf, looked at his wrist and his knee. She touched his forehead gingerly. “What’s this?”
“Ow,” he said, wincing.
“You may have a concussion. Chased by a rabid dog into a moving car. Quite a day you’ve had.”
“It’s been a less than banner day,” John said.
“‘Banner day,’” she repeated. “I haven’t heard that term in a long time. I think my grandmother said that.”
“Mine too.”
They loaded him into the ambulance on a stretcher. By the time the door had shut on the ambulance, quite a few people had gathered. John kept expecting someone to shout his name in recognition, but no one did. Maybe he didn’t exist in this universe.
They took him to Roth Hospital, and it looked just like it did in his universe, an institutional building from the 50s. He sat for fifteen minutes on an examining table off of the emergency room. Finally, an older doctor came in and checked him thoroughly.
“Lacerations on the palm. The wrist has a slight sprain. Minor. The hand is fine.” Looking at John’s knee, he added, “Sprain of the right knee. We’ll wrap that. You’ll probably need crutches for a couple days.”
A few minutes later, a woman showed up with a clipboard. “We’ll need to fill these forms out,” she said. “Are you over eighteen?”
John shook his head, thinking fast. “My parents are on the way.”
“Did you call them?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll need their insurance information,” she said as she left.
John stood wincing and peered out the door until she disappeared. Then he limped the other way until he found an emergency exit door. He pushed it open and hobbled off into the parking lot, the bleating of the siren behind him.
*
The first lawyer John visited listened to him for fifteen minutes until she said she wasn’t taking any new clients. John almost screamed at her, “Then why did you let me blather on for so long?”
The second took thirty seconds to say no. But the third listened dubiously to his idea for the Rayburn Cube. He didn’t even blink at the cash retainer John handed over for the three patents he wanted him to research and acquire.
He called Casey from his cheap hotel.
“Hey, Casey. It’s John!”
“John! I heard you were expelled for a month.”
“News of my expulsion has been greatly exaggerated.”
“What happened?”
“Just more of the Ted Carson saga. I told Gushman I wasn’t going to apologize, so he kicked me out of school. You should have seen the colors on his face.”
“You told Gushman no?” she asked. “Wow. He used to be a colonel in the army.”
“He used to molest small children too,” John.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why? He sucks.”
“But it’s not true.”
“It could be true, probably is in some other universe.”
“But we don’t know for sure.”
John switched subjects. “Listen, I called to see if you wanted to go out on Saturday.”
“Yeah, sure,” she said quickly. “Yeah.”
“Movie?”
“Sounds good. What’s playing?”
“Does it matter?”
She giggled. “No.” After a moment, she added, “Didn’t your parents ground you?”
“Oh, shit!”
“What?”
“They don’t know yet,” John said. He looked at the cheap clock radio next to the bed: six-thirty. “Shit.”
“Do yo
u think we can still go out?”
“One way or another, Casey, I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
He hung up.
His parents. He’d forgotten to call his parents. They were going to be pissed. Damn. He’d been without them for so long, he’d forgotten how they worked.
He dialed his home number.
“Mom?”
“Oh, my God!” she yelled. Then to his father, she said, “Bill, it’s John. It’s John.”
“Where is he? Is he all right?”
“Mom, I’m okay.” He waited. He knew how Johnny Subprime would play this. Sure, he’d never have gone to Toledo, but John could play the suspension for all it was worth. “Did you hear from Gushman?”
“John, yes, and it’s okay. We understand. You can come home. We aren’t angry with you.”
“Then, Mom, you know how I feel. I did the right thing, Mom, and they took everything away from me.” It was what Farmboy would have said.
“I know, dear. I know.”
“It’s not fair.”
“I know, Johnny. Now where are you? You’ve got to come home.” His mother sounded pitiful.
“I won’t be home tonight, Mom. I’ve got things to do.”
“He’s not coming home, Bill!”
“Give me the phone, Janet.” Into the phone, his father said, “John, I want you home tonight. We understand that you’re upset, but you need to be home, and we’ll handle this here, under our roof.”
“Dad, I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“John —”
“Dad, I’ll be home tomorrow.” He hung up the phone and almost chortled.
Then he turned on Home Theatre Office and watched bad movies until midnight.
*
John shivered in the morning cold. His knee was the size of a melon, throbbing from the night spent on the library steps. The bell tower struck eight; John Prime would be on his way to school right now. He’d be heading for English class. John hoped the bastard had done the essay on Gerard Manley Hopkins.
He’d slept little, his knee throbbing, his heart aching. He’d lost the 1700 dollars John Prime had given, save eighty dollars in his wallet. He’d lost his backpack. His clothes were ripped and tattered. He’d skipped out on his doctor’s bill. He was as far from home as he’d ever been.
He needed help.
He couldn’t stay here; the hospital probably called the police on his unpaid bill. He needed a fresh universe to work in.
Limping, he walked across to the Ben Franklin, buying new dungarees and a backpack.
Then he stood in the center of the town square and waited for a moment when no one was around. He toggled the universe counter upward and pressed the lever.
“It turns this way, this way, and this way!” John made the motions with his hands for the fourth time, wishing again that he’d bought the keychain Cube when he’d had the chance.
“Why?” Joe Patadorn was the foreman for an industrial design shop. A pad of paper on his drafting board was covered in pencil sketches of cubes. “Rotate against what? It’s a cube.”
“Against itself! Against itself! Each column and each row rotates.”
“Seems like it could get caught up with itself.”
“Yes! If it’s not a cube when you try to turn it, it’ll not turn.”
“And this is a toy people will want to play with?”
“I’ll handle that part.”
Joe shrugged. “Fine. It’s your money.”
“Yes, it is.”
“We’ll have a prototype in two weeks.”
They shook on it.
His errands were finally done in Toledo. His lawyer was doing the patent searches and Patadorn was building the prototype. If he was lucky, he could have the first batch of Cubes ready to ship by Christmas, perfect timing.
From the bus stop, he hiked the three miles to the farm and stashed his contracts in the loft with the money there. When he was climbing down, he saw his dad standing next to the stalls.
“Hey. Am I in time for dinner?” John asked.
His father didn’t reply, and then he realized that he was in trouble.
His father’s face was red, his cheeks puffed out. He stood in overalls, his fists at his hips.
“In the house.” The words were soft, punctuated.
“Dad —”
“In the house, now.” His father lifted an arm, pointing.
John went, and as he entered the house, he was angry too. How dare he order him around?
His mother was waiting at the kitchen table, her fingers folded in a clenched, white mound.
“Where were you?” his father demanded.
“None of your business,” John said.
“While you’re in my house, you’ll answer my questions!” his father roared.
“I’ll get my things and go,” John said.
“Bill . . .” his mother said. “We’ve discussed this.”
His father looked away, then said, “He pranced into the barn like he’d done nothing wrong.”
His mother turned to him. “Where were you, John?”
He opened his mouth to rail, but instead he said, “Toledo. I had to . . . cool off.”
His mother nodded. “That’s important.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes . . . no.” Suddenly he was sick to his stomach. Suddenly he was more angry with himself than with his father.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay what you did, and we’re glad you’re back. Bill?”
His father grunted, then said, “Son, we’re glad you’re back.” And then he took John in his big farmer arms and squeezed him.
John sobbed before he could fight it down, and then he was bawling like he hadn’t since he was ten.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” The words were muffled in his shoulder. His throat was tight.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.”
His mother joined them and they held onto him for a long time. John found he didn’t want to let go. He hadn’t hugged his parents in a long time.
John climbed the steps to the library. This universe looked just like his own. He didn’t really care how it was different. All he wanted was to figure out how to get home. He’d tried the device a dozen times in the square, but the device would not allow him to go backwards, not even to universes before his own.
He needed help; he needed professional help. He needed to understand about parallel universes.
Browsing the card catalog, it soon became apparent the Findlay library was not the place to do a scientific search on advanced physics. All he could find were a dozen science fiction novels which were no help at all.
He was going to have to go to Toledo. U of T was his second choice after Case. It was a state school and close. Half his friends would be going there. It had a decent if not stellar physics department.
He took the bus to Toledo, dozing along the way. A local brought him to the campus.
The Physics Library was a single room with three tables. Stacks lined all the walls and extended into the middle of the room, making it seem cramped and tiny. It smelled of dust, just like the Findlay Public Library.
“Student ID?”
John turned to the bespectacled student sitting at the front desk. For a moment, he froze, then patted his front pockets. “I left it at the dorm.”
The student looked peeved then said, “Well, bring it next time, frosh.” He waved him in.
“I will.”
John brought the catalog up on a terminal and searched for “Parallel Universe.” There wasn’t much. In fact there was nothing at all in the Physics Library. He was searching for the wrong subject. Physicists didn’t call them parallel universes of course. TV and movies called them parallel universes.
He couldn’t think what else to search for. Perhaps there was a more formal term for what he was looking for, but he had no idea what it was. He’d have to ask his
dumb questions directly of a professor.
He left the library and walked down the second floor hall, looking at name plates above doors. Billboards lined the walls, stapled and tacked with colloquia notices, assistantship postings, apartments to share. A lot of the offices were empty. At the end of the hall was the small office of Dr. Frank Wilson, Associate Professor of Physics, lit and occupied.
John knew associate professors were low on the totem pole, which was probably why he was the only one in his office. And maybe a younger professor would be more willing to listen to what he had to say.
He knocked on the door.
“Come on in.”
He entered the office, found it cluttered on all sides with bookshelves stacked to bursting with papers and tomes, but neat at the center, where a man sat at an empty desk reading a journal.
“You’re the first person to show for office hours today,” he said. Professor Wilson was in his late twenties, with black glasses, sandy beard, and hair that seemed in need of a cut. He wore a gray jacket over a blue oxford.
“Yeah,” John said. “I have some questions, and I don’t know how to ask them.”
“On the homework set?”
“No. On another topic.” John was suddenly uncertain. “Parallel universes.”
Professor Wilson nodded. “Hmmm.” He took a drink of his coffee, then said, “Are you one of my students? Freshman Physics?”
“No,” John said.
“Then what’s your interest in this? Are you from the creative writing department?”
“No, I . . .”
“Your question, while it seems simple to you, is extremely complex. Have you taken calculus?”
“Just half a semester . . .”
“Then you’ll never understand the math behind it. The authorities here are Hawking, Wheeler, Everett.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “You’re talking about quantum cosmology. Graduate level stuff.”
John said quickly before he could cut him off again. “But my question is more practical. Not theoretical.”
“Practical parallel worlds? Nonsense. Quantum cosmology states that there may be multiple universes out there, but the most likely one is ours, via the weak anthropic principle. Which means since we’re here, we can take it as a given that we exist. Well, it’s more complex than that.”
