Welcome to the Multiverse

by Ira Nayman

  “I really don’t think –” Investigator Chumley began.

  “How did you even get in here, anyway?” Rapier-Chumley cut him off. “This is a $25,000 a plate dinner. Cops must be really well paid where you come from!”

  “Not really,” Investigator Chumley admitted. “We were generously given a pair of comps by a staffer for Congressman Flegman in exchange for our silence on a certain matter involving a yak, 27 cantaloupes and a Home Universe Generator™.”

  “You blackmailed a Congressional aide?” Rapier-Chumley’s eyes widened.

  “We…came to a professional agreement,” Investigator Chumley corrected her.

  “Which one?” Rapier-Chumley wanted to know, looking around the room. “Was it Freddy? I’ll bet it was Freddy! You know, when he graduated from high school, his motto in the yearbook was ‘Most Likely to Embarrass Somebody in a Position of Authority.’ It was Freddy, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m really not at liberty to say,” Investigator Chumley told her.

  Rapier-Chumley frowned. “It could be Amanda,” she mused. “She’s such a goody two left feet – I’ll bet there’s a dark side to her that nobody knows! I thought she was allergic to cantaloupes, though…”

  “Look,” Investigator Chumley insisted, “there’s really no point in speculating. I’m not –”

  “Signal’s gone,” TOM interjected. “And, just when I was beginning to enjoy myself, too!”

  “Did you get a read on the location of the transmission?” Investigator Chumley asked.

  “Toronto,” TOM answered.

  “Who is it?” Rapier-Chumley insistently asked.

  “Time for us to go,” Investigator Chumley responded.

  “Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!” Rapier-Chumley loudly demanded.

  “Tell you what?” a tall man who looked like he had spent one session too many in a tanning salon, asked. If his picture hadn’t been plastered all over the walls of the hall, he would still have been identifiable as the subject of the event by the entourage he trailed behind him like so much confetti clinging to the back of a coat.

  “Oh, no!” Rapier-Chumley peeped.

  “Congressman Flegman,” Investigator Chumley, standing, greeted him. “Good to see you.”

  “Funny,” Congressman Flegman responded, “I could have sworn I saw you on the other side of the room.” He turned his head to look for confirmation of his observation.

  “You must be mistaken,” Investigator Chumley averred, hastily adding, “Will you be attending Batboy’s impending wedding?”

  “I am, as you know, a great believer in the institution of marriage,” Congressman Flegman, turning his attention back to them, responded. “However, I do believe I have a prior engagement that day…whichever day it happens to impend on.”

  Investigator Chumley looked at Rapier-Chumley, who smiled, impressed. Then, he asked, “So, how are you enjoying the fundraiser?”

  Congressman Flegman answered, “Money is always good, I suppose. My war chest is twice what my opponent’s is, though, and I have served the people of my district for six terms, now. I have to wonder if this fundraiser was strictly…you know…necessary?”

  “Oh,” Investigator Chumley said. “Ah…”

  He looked at Rapier-Chumley. She stood up, nearly falling out of her seat but managing to correct herself at the last minute.

  “Congressman Flegman,” she said, her voice surprisingly the essence of sober professionalism, “our latest internal polling shows that you are only ahead of your opponent by 23 points. Do you understand what this means? You’re vulnerable. In these circumstances, as large a war chest as you can muster is highly recommended.”

  “Of course, you’re right,” Congressman Flegman smiled indulgently. “You’re the best Washington power couple since Mary Matalin and that Democrat moron from the south!”

  Investigator Chumley and Rapier-Chumley smiled at each other. His smile was filled with professional courtesy; hers was filled with the hot bile that she could feel bubbling in her throat. Fortunately, Congressman Flegman was not an especially clever or sensitive man, so he beamed upon their obvious expression of love.

  A weasel in a bland business suit standing next to the Congressman whispered in his ear. “Quite right,” Congressman Flegman told him. Then, turning to Investigator Chumley and Rapier-Chumley, he said: “I can only afford to spend 12.354 seconds per person if I am to talk to everybody here, and I have already spent almost a minute on you two. Enjoy the rest of the evening – I’ll be in touch.”

  Investigator Chumley and Rapier-Chumley watched as Congressman Flegman and his entourage made their assault on a table next to them.

  “I…I need a breath of fresh air,” Rapier-Chumley, collapsing into her chair, stated.

  “CATE,” Investigator Chumley, smoothly pocketing TOM, ordered, “please let Noomi – my Noomi – the other Noomi know that we’re done and I will meet her outside.”

  “Will do,” CATE responded, and scooted off.

  Investigator Chumley led Rapier-Chumley out the front doors of the hall. It was a cool night, with clouds obscuring the new moon. They sat halfway down the staircase – well, actually, there were 10 stairs above them and only eight below, so, strictly speaking, they weren’t exactly halfway down the staircase, but there isn’t a word in the English language that means “sitting with 10 stairs above you and eight below on the staircase,” so we have to work within the limitations that the language imposes on us, and, in any case, while the phrase “halfway down the staircase” is not precise, it does describe the scene in a way that is sufficient for any reasonably intelligent reader to get a more or less accurate image of –

  “Jesus, Noomi, are you alright?” Charles asked. He ran down the stairs and sat next to Rapier-Chumley.

  “I…may have indulged a bit much,” she gargled. He put a comforting arm around her.

  Investigator Chumley sitting on her other side, looked at Noomi, who nodded her head in the direction of the street where they had parked. Investigator Chumley rose and walked over to her.

  “I would just like to say,” he said, “that your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated by the Transdimensional Authority. If we manage to apprehend the time-space criminal, it will be because of conscientious Multiverse citizens such as your…” He trailed off when he gave himself a dirty look. “So, ah, yeah. Thanks.”

  Investigator Chumley and Noomi walked towards their car.

  * * *

  9:09 pm

  Ordinarily, because it was such a cool vehicle and all, the Dimensional Delorean™ tended to get everybody’s attention. However, all of the cars hovering above it made it look, to Noomi’s eyes, a little…ordinary. As they approached it, she patted the Dimensional Delorean™’s trunk in sympathy.

  “Do you believe this?” Investigator Chumley asked, pulling a ticket out from under the windshield. “A parking ticket? The sign clearly says: ‘No Parking over six feet 9am to 9pm Monday to Friday!”

  “Maybe there’s no parking under six feet at any time?” Noomi suggested.

  “I’ll let the legal department take care of it,” Investigator Chumley muttered, pocketing the ticket.

  Noomi opened the passenger side door and was about to climb in when Investigator Chumley turned away from his open door and, shaking his fist, turned his attention to the sky.

  “Okay, you scumbag!” Investigator Chumley shouted. “No more wild goose chases! You may think it’s fun jerking us around like this – sending us to universes where we have to meet our doubles! But, I got news for you! We’re closing in! It’s only a matter of time before we catch you! And, when we finally put your ass behind bars we’ll be the ones who are laughing!”

  Investigator Chumley turned to get in the car and, noticing Noomi’s open-mouthed stare, kindly suggested: “Time to go.”

  They closed the doors of the Dimensional Delorean™ behind them. Investigator Chumley turned the key and started the engine. Within seconds, the
world around them shimmied and blurred out of existence, replaced by the Pollockscape.

  “Do you have to be insane to be me in another dimension?” Noomi rhetorically mused when they had settled in for the journey.

  “Is that the set-up to a joke?” Investigator Chumley replied. “Because if you were serious, I would hate to –”

  “They…they’re crazed,” Noomi told him. “Even the first version of me – the housewife? Did you notice that she sometimes had this…demented look in her eyes?”

  “I was hoping that was just the light,” Investigator Chumley diplomatically responded.

  “They’re nasty,” Noomi rhymed off. “They’re self-absorbed. They have to be blackmailed into doing the right thing! They –”

  “They’re you,” Investigator Chumley simply stated.

  “You take that back!”

  “Look,” Investigator Chumley took a hand off the steering wheel to wave it placatingly in front of her. (Then quickly put it back. You don’t want to get into an accident between universes – you can wait forever for a tow truck!) “This is the way the Multiverse works. Think of it like a maze. Have you ever been in a hedge maze?”

  “No.”

  “But, you’ve done maze puzzles?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not even on the backs of menus while you were waiting for the waitress in the restaurant to bring you your kid’s meal?”

  “I was never a kid.”

  “Okay, but you must be familiar with the concept of a maze…right?”

  “Right,” Noomi reluctantly agreed. Petulance was clearly not going to deter this guy! And, yet, her mood brightened.

  “Okay,” Investigator Chumley explained. “Now, imagine you’re in the middle of a maze that exists in a million dimensions. You get to a crossroads where you could go left or right, straight or back. Now –”

  “A million dimensions?” Noomi complained.

  “I know,” Investigator Chumley allowed. “It is something of a simplification, but –”

  “Could we maybe make it smaller?” Noomi pleaded.

  “Okay,” Investigator Chumley conceded. “Let us say we have a maze that exists in…seven dimensions.”

  “Why seven?” Noomi asked.

  “People seem to like the number,” Investigator Chumley mumbled. He was beginning to think Noomi wasn’t taking this thought exercise entirely seriously. “Think it’s lucky or something. So. You’re in the maze. You come to a crossroads. You decide to go straight. But –”

  “I would go left,” Noomi interjected.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Investigator Chumley assured her, “but, okay. You go left. But, in one of the other universes, you go…straight. Right. Sorry. You threw me off for a second, there. You go straight. And, in a third universe, you go right. And, in a fourth universe, you decide to double back. And, that –”

  “And, in a fifth universe, I curl up in a ball on the grass and go to sleep,” Noomi added. “And, in a sixth universe, I start singing ‘In a Gadda Davida’ in a god-awful loud voice until somebody comes to rescue me. And, in a seventh universe, I pretend like I’m a daschund and smell the right path out of the maze. And, in an eighth universe, I am a daschund. And, in a ninth universe, I dream I am a butterfly and –”

  “So,” Investigator Chumley, amused, said, “you seem quite clear on the concept.”

  “Yeah, I get it,” Noomi told him. “But, just because I understand how those other mes came to be doesn’t mean that I have to like them!”

  Investigator Chumley shook his head. “But, they are all you,” he insisted. “Aside from the, under the circumstances, very canny physical resemblance, they all have similar intelligence, similar self-assertiveness, similar quick wits in difficult situations…”

  “You think I have all that?” Noomi asked.

  Investigator Chumley almost smiled. It only lasted a fraction of a second, but Noomi clearly detected an uptick of his lips, a use of his facial muscles that she had, frankly, never seen before. She found it endearing.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I think all of you do.”

  They spent several minutes driving in silence.

  “What was that all about?” Noomi asked. “The yelling before we left?

  “Did you like it?” Investigator Chumley asked back.

  Noomi considered for a moment. “You had a nice level of outrage going,” she allowed, “but shaking the fist – could you get any more clichéd?”

  “The problem when you’re playing a scene like that,” Investigator Chumley told her, “is always what to do with your hands.”

  Smiling, Noomi asked, “Okay, so, why the shouting at all?

  “Whoever is doing this probably uses his Home Universe Generator™ to find dimensions with versions of us that he thinks will rattle us when we get there,” Investigator Chumley reasoned. “Then, he watches – I mean, what would be the point, otherwise? That would be like producing a TV show and never airing it. A complete waste of resources. Well, Mister Rattler, two can play at that game. I just wanted to keep the bad guy on his toes.”

  And, then, he almost smiled again.

  “Do you want to come to my apartment for dinner?” Noomi blurted.

  “I’m sorry?” Investigator Chumley blinked.

  “The weekend is coming up,” Noomi explained. “So, I just thought, you know, if you don’t have anything better to do…”

  “Sure,” Investigator Chumley said, almost smiling a third time. For him, it was practically a laughing fit! “I’d like that.”

  As the Transdimensional Authority parking lot shimmied into existence around the Dimensional Delorean™, Noomi, perhaps pressing her luck, asked, “Is it true that when you were 6 years old, you had a purple unicorn you named ‘Flightpath Alpha?’”

  Investigator Chumley immediately stopped almost smiling.

  Chapter Ten:

  Noomi Gets Lucky

  Are We Going To Have Sex Scoreboard

  “Noomi’s getting lucky!”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “She’s making the bed!”

  “I can see that. So what?”

  “She hasn’t made the bed since she moved in!”

  “That might not mean anything. It could be her…nesting instinct kicking in. Although, I thought nesting only happened to birds…”

  “Guys,” Noomi mildly objected as she spread the blanket over the bed, “I’m right here, you know.”

  “You’re so naïve. Here – I’m sending you some URLs on the subject.”

  “Okay, yes, I see what you – what’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “Is that – oh, that’s not – they’re not – ooh, that’s gross!”

  “What? Oh, sorry – I don’t know how that got in there. Waterbuffalo have terrible table manners! I’ll just remove that from your queue and add some more vid –”

  “No, really, it’s okay. If that’s what it means to get lucky, I’m burning my rabbit’s foot right away!”

  “GUYS!” Noomi interjected. “I don’t know if anything is going to happen tonight. I’m just making the bed because…it’s that time of the month, okay? I mean, uhh, I plan on cleaning the apartment once a month and…and…and this just happened to be the day, okay?”

  “Oh, I understand,” the headboard of the bed sympathetically said.

  “Oh, I understand,” the foot of the bed said, a little less graciously than the headboard.

  “And, anyway,” Noomi continued, ignoring the foot of the bed’s tone, “I don’t appreciate the way you guys are talking about it. Love between two people is a beautiful thing.”

  “Really?” the headboard asked. “Because, to me, it just looks sweaty.”

  “Yeah, well,” Noomi sputtered. “Sometimes… sometimes beautiful things are sweaty. It…it’s all in the way you look at them.”

  “I guess,” the headboard said, not entirely convinced.

  Noomi looked at the bed. I’m never going to
be mistaken for a maid, she thought. Of course, she continued, tonight can only end in one of two ways: either nothing will happen, in which case Crash will never see the bed, or something will happen, in which case Crash won’t have time to notice how it was made before the bed will become unmade. Win-win, really.

  Noomi went into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

  “Hello, Noomi,” the stove greeted her in what, in a human being, would have been a surprisingly friendly tone. “What are we making for dinner tonight?”

  “I was thinking of a roast,” Noomi told it.

  There was a gentle crackling, some whirring, a bit of a whoosh and a clang. Then, the stove said, “Okay. What’s next?”

  “Whoa,” Noomi said. “What just happened there?”

  “A roast was taken out of the freezer, dropped in a pan and placed in the oven,” the stove answered. “It will thaw for two hours and thirty-seven minutes, after which the oven will cook it for three hours and 12 minutes, regularly basting it in gravy and monitoring its internal temperature to ensure it cooks to perfection.”

  “But –” Noomi started.

  “Don’t fret yerself, luv,” the oven, sounding like it just walked off an episode of Coronation Street, eagerly interrupted. “Ah’m ’appy ta do it.”

  “Look, I don’t need –” Noomi started to protest, when another thought hit her. “How many of the appliances in the kitchen can talk?”

  “Why, all of them,” the oven answered.

  “Hullo,” the fridge, sounding too much like Christopher Lee for Noomi’s liking, said.

  “Hi, there,” the electric can-opener (with a voice that Noomi hated to say sounded…tinny), greeted her.

  “Glad ya could make it, y’all,” the blender said.

  The freezer said hello to Noomi in a sing-song voice that made her think she had accidentally walked into a Disney movie. The counter that greeted Noomi sounded like Groucho Marx with a French accent and a cold. The sink greeted Noomi in a language that sounded like a cross between Lithuanian and an African click language (some objects just refuse to learn English when they come to this country! – not that I’m an appliancist or anything…). The toaster oven greeted her with a voice that would melt butter (and had). The dishwasher said hello as if it had just gargled with Drano. And, so on, around the kitchen.