Tales
From Our
Near Future
Jackson Coppley
Second Edition
Copyright©2014 Jackson Coppley
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1496128515
ISBN-10: 1496128516
DEDICATION
To Ellen
CONTENTS
Google Boy
1
Aureal
53
Tau and Sue
93
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I thank Jane Knaus, whose creative talents not only made this book cover sparkle, but who also provided me with great observations and support as one of the first readers.
Thanks, too, to Jennifer Rasche for her expert edits to the manuscript.
But not least, my love and thanks to Ellen Coppley, my wife and muse.
Google Boy
Google Boy
CHAPTER 1
KNOWING EVERYTHING
One would think that knowing everything would make you the life of the party, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
“Hey Freddy!” called out Mitch from across the room. “Come over here.”
The brew pub was its usual lively self. Even on Thursday nights, the young single men of Washington, DC and a few women gathered to drink beer, watch sports, and hang out with friends. Mitch was Freddy’s friend. As Freddy approached the tall table, he saw that Mitch had a guy with him he didn’t recognize. Mitch looked almost like Freddy’s brother with his height just under six feet, his olive skin, and dark hair. Both even had the same hazel eyes. Mitch and Freddy knew each other since college and, when they were together, everyone asked about an apparent sibling connection. The other fellow at the table would not be mistaken in the same way. He was taller than Mitch and Freddy, skinny, and blond.
“Hey Freddy,” said Mitch, “they didn’t have the Nationals game on.
Is it over?”
“Yep,” said Freddy. “It just ended. The Nats won 3 to 2.”
Mitch looked to his companion. “Hank, this is Freddy. Freddy, Hank.” Freddy shook hands with Hank and took a seat.
Looking to Hank, Mitch smiled and said “Freddy knows everything.”
“Yeah?” responded Hank.
“No,” Mitch said, just to be clear. “I mean everything!”
Hank studied Freddy as Freddy grimaced.
“Go ahead, Hank,” Mitch said. “Ask him something.”
Hank thought a few seconds as Freddy shot visual daggers at Mitch for pulling this trick yet again.
“OK,” said Hank, “how many Popes have there been?”
Freddy thought a moment and replied “265.”
“Hmm,” questioned Hank, “that many?”
“Yep,” said Freddy, “although the first few were kind of bestowed posthumously and there were a few times there were more than one claiming the title.”
“OK,” Hank continued, “who was number 100?”
“OK, OK,” Mitch said before Freddy could answer, “I didn’t mean to start the Jeopardy lightening round here.” Turning to Freddy, he said, “Sorry.”
“So, have you been on Jeopardy?” asked Hank.
“No,” replied Freddy.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It seems a little strange, but I have a hard time forming the answer as a question. I just want to blurt it out,” Freddy explained.
Freddy knew Mitch from college. Freddy was in engineering, getting a double-E degree, while Mitch was in business. They’d shared a dorm suite and both moved to DC after college. Their classes never overlapped, so Mitch was never certain whether Freddy was a genius or a dullard. Mitch just thought Freddy had always been this way; in fact, Freddy was no genius in college. He only became this smart in recent years. It was an unintentional transformation that Freddy had come to appreciate. However, since Freddy acquired this new intelligence, he had to make some adjustments.
In the past, when he was at a wine tasting, he might spot a bottle of Denavolo Catavela Vino Bianco and start into a recitation from the Wine Observer: “This is a fascinating wine from Giulio Armani’s eight-acre estate. Biodynamic, mostly Malvasia, short-duration skin-fermented—they call it a baby orange wine—it’s all kinds of intriguing: flowers, eucalyptus, camphor, cider and flor, with stony minerality and faint tannins on the finish.”
The result was always silent stares en masse.
Now he’d say it differently: “Hey, this is the vineyard run by one of the Armani guys, but not that Armani.”
Dumbing down his recitations was a slight annoyance; but Freddy thought it was more than compensated by knowing what was going on around him at all times. He knew when a Metro train was going to arrive before he even stepped up to the station, not to mention whether the escalator was under repair. He knew what the weather was like without stepping outside. He also knew a lot about anyone he met just as he met them. As soon as Mitch told him Hank’s full name, he would know all about Hank as well.
“Well, anyhow, it’s a gift,” said Hank.
“I guess,” said Freddy.
“So,” asked Hank, “do you know what happened every single day you’ve lived?”
“No,” said Freddy. “That’s hyperthymesia. I actually have a crappy memory. I can just remember things like ‘hyperthymesia.’”
Soon, they moved on to another topic, much to Freddy’s relief. He enjoyed knowing everything, but he liked to keep it to himself and use it to his advantage. He found out quickly how boring it was as a parlor trick.
The conversation moved on to sports, politics, and women. In the area where opinions, not facts, ruled, the playing field was leveled and Freddy could talk about which team he liked, which congressman was a bone-head, and what women wanted. That last item evaded even Freddy’s power to comprehend.
After several beers, Freddy was ready to leave. He shook Mitch and Hank’s hands and started for the door. Over his shoulder, he tossed, “By the way, it was Valentine.”
“Who was Valentine?” said Hank.
“The 100th pope,” said Freddy with a smile. “Look it up. He was the only pope with that name.”
Mitch and Hank laughed. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Freddy,” said Mitch.
“You too,” Freddy said as he left.
CHAPTER 2
THE DOCTOR
The doctor peered into Freddy’s ears with his otoscope, or at least that was the nearest name match Freddy found for the gizmo. This final exam was done after the doctor had performed all the usual vital sign checks, all of which were fine.
“So,” said Dr. Feldman, “have any headaches?”
“No,” replied Freddy. “You know, you ask me that every time.”
“And you know I’ll ask the next time, too,” said Dr. Feldman.
One of the leading researchers at the National Institutes of Health, Dr. Jacob Feldman was the physician assigned to Freddy’s case. Freddy’s regular doctor passed Freddy along to Dr. Feldman once Freddy started displaying extra, unexpected characteristics. Dr. Feldman was a middle-aged, avuncular man; he wore a thick mustache mixed with grey that matched the thick, wild, curly hair on his round head. He looked like a jolly mad scientist.
“You can hop down now,” said the doctor. Freddy complied. “Please, take a seat,” said Feldman, showing Freddy the leather chair in the corner. The doctor sat opposite him in a matching seat.
“You’ve always been a good talker and usually let me know what’s happening in that head of yours,” said the doctor. “So, let me know what you’ve been thinking lately.”
Freddy did, in fact, open up with Dr. Feldman. Feldman was a prolific writer and Freddy knew every title he publis
hed, just as Freddy knew every book published by anyone, anywhere, although he had to admit that the recent wave of self-publishing was a little overwhelming.
“Dr. Feldman,” said Freddy, “in your book, The Hidden Subconscious, you say that our state of mind may filter the information we receive.”
Dr. Feldman long ago got over the fact that Freddy could quote anything, including obscure books like his own. “Yes,” he said, “that is true.”
“OK, this is crazy, but when I drink,” Freddy said, leaning in toward the doctor conspiratorially, “When I drink, the information that comes to me seems a little on the steamy side.”
“Steamy?” asked the doctor.
“Yeah, you know, sexual.”
“Hmm,” said the doctor, “how so?”
“Let’s say that I think of a generally broad subject, like I am walking down the street in New York. I don’t know New York, but I want to know what’s around me. I know there’s a good restaurant over there that has three dollar signs in most reviews. That’s a little more than I want to spend. I know that around the corner there’s a bar that has good bar food. The menu looks good. I’m in the mood for a burger and they have a bunch with different toppings, so I head over to the bar. I have a burger and a couple of beers.”
“OK” prompted Feldman.
“Now, I do virtually the same thing as before and wonder what’s around me. This time, I see nothing but two gentlemen’s clubs and one bordello.”
“Bordello?” asked the doctor. “But how?”
“Police reports,” explained Freddy.
“Fascinating,” replied the doctor rubbing his chin in a professorial way.
“What?” asked Freddy.
“Well, the breadth of information you know is always interesting, but this filter is a new twist.”
“Well, I guess that it is not hard to believe a guy thinks of places to get laid after having a beer,” said Freddy.
“It’s doubtful you’ll get laid in a gentleman’s club,” corrected the doctor.
“Well, OK, laid and fantasy-laid,” responded Freddy.
“But don’t you see,” said the doctor. “In the first part of your story, you were hungry and you knew all about places to eat. Were you aware of any other places nearby other than places to eat?”
“No, but that’s the way it develops. I only know about things that are front of mind.”
“Very interesting,” said the doctor, jotting notes.
A few moments passed. “Could I ask you something?” asked the doctor.
“Sure,” responded Freddy.
“Do you like this capability of yours?” asked the doctor.
“Sure,” responded Freddy. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“OK,” continued Feldman, pensively. “Let me ask you this. Remember the experience in the lead-lined room?”
“Sure,” responded Freddy.
“You were cut off, right?” said the doctor.
“Yes.”
“That probably happens to you when you’re in a tunnel or in an isolated spot, right?” asked the doctor.
“Well, there aren’t many spots like that.”
“But it’s happened, hasn’t it?”
“Sure.”
“How did it really feel when it happened?” asked Feldman seriously.
Freddy paused a moment to collect his thoughts. “It’s hard to express, but you know how a dream feels?”
Feldman nodded.
“It’s at those times that it feels like the dream has stopped.”
“I see,” said the doctor, adding notations to the file.
“Look,” said Freddy. “When all of this started happening, it was gradual. Things came to me and I thought I really knew them. Then I found that I could push and know more. It took some concentration. Little by little, it got easier. It’s natural. I don’t think about it much.”
“And the downside?” asked the doctor.
“No downside,” said Freddy.
“Then this is the first time in history that something has no unintended consequences,” said the doctor.
“Well, that’s not true; 79% of events surveyed by—” blurted Freddy before Feldman raised his hand to stop him. “You know, when you do that, you sound like Mr. Spock.”
Freddy shrugged. “I’m working on it.” He grinned sheepishly. “There you have it: The unintended consequences — I turn into a sci-fi character.”
“One could say that you really are a sci-fi character,” said the doctor.
“And loving it,” smiled Freddy.
The doctor finally smiled. “Good,” he said. “Let’s make sure we keep it that way. See you same time next week.”
“I thought you were on vacation next week,” replied Freddy.
The doctor looked puzzled as he asked, “How do you know about that? It isn’t published.”
Freddy smiled. “I looked at the appointment book on your assistant’s desk. You know, there are some conventional ways to find information.”
“Well,” said Feldman, “here’s an update: That vacation was penciled in. I moved it to next month.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” said Freddy.
“I’m sure you will,” replied Feldman. “Now, get out of here.”
Freddy pushed himself up from the chair and smiled again at the doctor while the doctor shook his head bemusedly. They were making the best of what could be a troubling situation.
As Freddy left, he stopped by the desk of Dr. Feldman’s assistant, René, as usual, to confirm his appointment for the following week. René was a tall, slender woman who appeared to be in her thirties, although a quick search through social media had her pegged as 42. She’d been married to a man she followed from France, but that was years ago. She remained here, an intriguing expat with dark red hair, faint freckles dusting her checks, and a seductive accent. As attractive as she was, Freddy thought of her as older, wiser, and way out of his league.
“Same time next week?” René asked with that slight French accent.
“Yep,” confirmed Freddy.
René wrote the appointment in her book.
“May I ask you something personal?” she asked.
“Sure,” said Freddy.
“There is a girl I know—I believe you may find interesting.”
“Oh?” responded Freddy. He knew that anyone René thought was ‘interesting’ would be fantastic. “What’s her name?”
“Patty Savino.”
Freddy thought for a moment. “Is she the Patty Savino in Columbia Heights?”
René looked startled. “Yes—how did you know—?” Catching herself, knowing Freddy’s power, she rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, of course.”
“She’s cute,” Freddy said.
“Well, Monsieur Freddy, I am guessing you have her email address and phone number?” replied René.
“I see her email address, but no phone number.”
René took a piece of paper from a stack of note paper on her desk, wrote a telephone number on it, and handed it to Freddy. “And now you have the number.”
Freddy took the note and looked at the number as René asked “So, you think you will be giving her a call?”
“Sure,” replied Freddy. “Why not?”
“Good,” said René. She smiled to think how this very unusual match might work out.
CHAPTER 3
THE FIRST DATE
The bar at Sapro’s was abuzz with the post-work happy hour crowd. Housed in a converted old building that formerly housed a dry cleaner on the corner of 14th and Q, it was at the epicenter of the Logan Circle scene. Destroyed by riots in the 60’s, long before most of its current population was born, the 14th Street corridor was now a mecca for DC’s young and hip.
Touted as a tapas and wine bar, Sapro’s bar formed the restaurant’s centerpiece. Three bartenders busily served. Above the center of the bar was a wine chiller in which dozens of vintages were tapped to easily dispense servings by the
glass.
Freddy was sitting at the bar with a glass of Pinot Grigio. He studied the glass. Every wine was dispensed into the same small flat-bottomed water glass. Freddy knew that wine glasses should have stems to keep the heat of one’s hand from affecting the temperature of the wine.
The phone call to Patty had been a pleasant surprise for Freddy. Patty had been expecting his call. Both Patty and Freddy admitted that they had checked each other out online. Freddy knew that it was easier for him to do that checking, but nevertheless, the basic profile data was there for each of them.
What was not there, in all the posted information, was how lively and confident Patty sounded. She had no trouble launching a conversation about her interests and dislikes. Freddy was instantly drawn by her certainty. Many of the women Freddy dated would end so many sentences as though they were asking a question: “I majored in English?” The up-talk drove him crazy. Patty, however, seemed totally self-assured.
Freddy suggested Logan Circle, and Patty suggested this place. He was going to have to ask her about the flat-bottomed wine glasses. Patty said that she could walk to Sapro’s from her condo. Patty walked through the door right on time. ‘Punctual,’ Freddy noted.
Freddy knew that Patty was 5 foot 7 inches (three inches shorter than he) with black hair, but the stats could not paint accurately the person in the flesh. Patty seemed taller. She was slim but with firm breasts and a nicely rounded bottom. She wore a shiny grey dress that emphasized both the blackness of her hair and the shapeliness of her legs. Her shoulder-length hair framed her olive complexion, falling to her shoulders with bangs trimmed neatly over dark eyes. Although Freddy thought he never noticed such things, Patty had elegantly manicured fingernails with a pale pink finish. Patty was pretty, but more smart-girl pretty than cheerleader pretty.
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