Other Times and Places

by Joe Mahoney

  Fizz

  They came in the night, dressed in black, just as Archie was reaching into his fridge for a bottle of Fizz. They got to him before he got the Fizz, airborne dispensers drugging him well before the intruders even entered the house. They carried him out in a sedative-induced haze. Archie returned to his senses in an unfamiliar hover car, thoroughly annoyed. He hadn’t got to drink even a single drop of Fizz. He sure had craved a sip.

  “What do you want?” he asked the two men book-ending him in the hover’s backseat. “Don’t have much in the way of money. Think maybe you got the wrong guy.”

  One of Archie’s abductors smiled, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth. “It’s not your fortune we want, Archie. Just a few bucks here and there.”

  The man’s blue eyes sparkled beneath a head of beach boy blonde hair, his tan at odds with the snowflakes dappling the moonlight outside the hover. He looked like a walking advertisement for a product Archie had been hearing a lot about recently—something called The Vibe—some kind of genetic makeover promising eternal youth, or the next best thing. Archie couldn’t afford The Vibe and wouldn’t want it even if he could, but it seemed as if he couldn’t turn around without hearing or reading about it.

  The advertising industry had been getting way out of hand lately. The very air you breathed was thick with advertising. Why, you couldn’t flush your toilet without fresh new ads popping up in your toilet bowl. Archie blamed deregulation for that, and for the greatest problem he faced in life, his current abduction notwithstanding: a dearth of his favourite soft drink, Fizz.

  The makers of Fizz were people of integrity. They marketed their product with restraint, believing that Fizz stood on its own merits, that blaring its name from the rooftops was unnecessary. Their integrity had done them in. Shops no longer sold it, because no one was buying it, except for Archie and his wife. Seeing the writing on the wall, Archie had bought as much Fizz as he could afford. He figured he had enough for about eleven more weeks, properly rationed.

  He had trouble rationing it properly.

  “What do you want?” Archie asked Beach Boy.

  Suddenly he had an irrational fear. They were after his Fizz. It wasn’t inconceivable. He himself envisioned a time when a lack of the bubbly nectar might drive him round the bend, but then, a kidnapping seemed a mite extreme just to obtain a recently obsolete soft drink.

  “Understand you like Fizz,” Beach Boy said.

  A chill ran up and down Archie’s spine. “What?”

  Beach Boy leaned forward. “Fizzzzz,” he said in Archie’s face. “What is it about that stuff anyway?”

  “You can’t have any,” Archie said.

  Beach Boy laughed. “We don’t want your stupid Fizz. Nobody wants Fizz. Haven’t you noticed? They don’t sell it anymore.”

  Archie waited.

  Beach Boy leaned back. “So. What are ya gonna drink? What with Fizz off the shelves and all.”

  Archie had been giving that a lot of thought lately. He had discussed it ad nauseum with Rachel, until she told him that if he uttered another word on the matter she would divorce him. Archie continued to ponder the matter in private. There were only two soft drinks left on the market, and it had been a tough decision. But Archie had decided to go with the number two brand, Nutrilicious, because he had a thing for underdogs. If Nutrilicious ever became number one, maybe he’d switch.

  But he wasn’t about to tell Beach Boy that.

  “Don’t hurt Rachel,” he said.

  “Ah yes,” Beach Boy said. “Married, three children, seven grandchildren. Pastor in a large church, popular preacher. Lots of friends. A man of not inconsiderable influence. Like to golf, dontcha Archie? Like to drink Fizz when you golf. Isn’t that right? Don’t worry, Archie, your wife’s not the problem. You, Archie, are the problem.”

  Archie felt the vehicle come to a halt. His abductors led him through a parking garage into a small nondescript room containing several chairs and a wooden table. Beach Boy took one of the chairs and indicated for Archie to take another. The other kidnappers remained standing. A short, squarish man entered, carrying three bottles and two glasses, which he placed on the table.

  “Go ahead, Archie,” Beach Boy said. “Pour yourself a drink.”

  “What is it? Poison?”

  Beach Boy laughed. “Not as such. You’re worth more to us alive, Archie.”

  “I’m not thirsty,” Archie said.

  Beach Boy pointed to one of the bottles. “This one’s Fizz.”

  There was no turning down Fizz. Archie drank. Afterward, the short man produced a small handgun from an inside pocket and pointed it at Archie’s left knee.

  “Sample the rest,” Beach Boy said.

  “I thought you wanted me alive.”

  “A bullet in each kneecap and you’d be moaning but alive.”

  Archie sampled the rest. He recognized the bland taste of the other soft drink brands but couldn’t tell which was which.

  “Whattaya think?”

  “Are you telling me you kidnapped me for a taste test?”

  “Not just any taste test, Archie boy, the single most important taste test of your life. Now. Whattaya think?”

  “Well, that Fizz sure was good. Could I have some more?”

  “Sure you can, Archie. You can have as much as you like, later. But first, what did you think of the other two?”

  Everyone in the room leaned forward to hear what Archie would say. “The first one was flat, insipid. Tasteless, really. Yet sugary, with a bitter aftertaste—”

  “That much we know already. What about the second one?”

  Archie made a face. “Even worse.”

  Beach Boy shook his head. “Archie, Archie, Archie. Wrong answer.”

  Archie tried not to look at the short man with the handgun.

  “Drink the Fizz, then,” Beach Boy said, surprising Archie. “If that’s what you want.”

  Something about Beach Boy’s tone made Archie balk. He told himself he didn’t really want any Fizz. Ah, but who was he kidding, he pretty much wanted Fizz all the time. He took hold of the entire bottle and drank a big, wet slug of the stuff. Afterward he burped, and felt… nauseous.

  Beach Boy held forth the bottle. “Have some more, Archie, go ahead. Drink all you like.”

  Weakly, Archie waved him away. “No, thank you.”

  “Strap him in, boys.” Beach Boy smiled. “Expect we’ll be here awhile.”

  Archie remembered nothing the following morning, of course. He even felt quite spry. His wife Rachel was the first to notice something amiss.

  “Archie! What are you doing with all that Fizz?”

  “Had my fill of it,” he said. “Just can’t stomach the thought of drinking any more.”

  “Huh!” said Rachel. “Who’d a thunk?”

  Archie shrugged. “Gonna chuck it and try out that other brand, what’s it called, Nutrilicious.”

  Rachel wasn’t about to argue, not if it involved cleaning out the basement. Realizing there would never be a better time to mop down there she made a beeline for the laundry room where she plucked a jug of Glo & Shine from the shelf above the dryer. Glo & Shine was her number one choice for mopping floors these days. Not because it made the floors cleaner than other products (it didn’t) but because of its one unassailable virtue: it was the only disinfectant she’d been able to use for the past year the smell of which didn’t make her want to vomit.

  Of Platypuses and Things

  Dave’s death came as a bit of a surprise to him. Not that he particularly cared whether he lived or died; having had somewhat of a bleak attitude toward life, he’d never become all that attached to it. The manner of his death surprised him—although he’d heard stories of people dying similarly, he had never given the stories much credence, and certainly had never expected to die that way him
self.

  It happened as he walked home with a friend after class—a class in which the professor had managed to discuss both platypuses and proofs for the existence of God.

  “I don’t believe in God,” Dave had said, failing to notice the faint rumble of thunder that emanated suddenly from the clear blue sky. “What kind of a God would create a world like this one? Full of misery, war, and hunger. The planet’s coming apart at the seams, if you ask me. There is no God. If there were, he’d do something.” The thunder grew loud enough for Dave to notice it, and he held out a hand to see if it encountered any raindrops. It didn’t. “Where is this God, anyway? I’ve never seen Him, Her, or It. It’s never introduced Itself to me.”

  When Dave’s friend opened her mouth to reply, another more strident roll of thunder pre-empted her.

  “Another thing,” Dave said. “What kind of a God” —and here he raised his voice, unaware that as he did so the thunder was rumbling fiercely and approaching a peak of its own— “would create an animal as ridiculous looking as a platypus?” Dave laughed loudly, and the thunder climaxed angrily.

  A dark, roiling cloud appeared in the sky and produced an elegant little lightning bolt of a golden yellow hue that sped gracefully through the sky and effortlessly turned Dave into a smouldering pile of fine black ashes.

  No, Dave certainly had not expected to die like that.

  Now, thoroughly dead, he stood ankle deep in a lavender mist and watched bemused as a tall, thin man with glasses and a short, pudgy man without glasses appeared suddenly from out of nowhere and approached him.

  “I say there,” the shorter of the two greeted him. “How do you do?”

  “Not well, I should think,” the tall man commented dryly before Dave could respond. He pursed his lips in the manner of one in the know. “At least, he won’t be doing very well very soon.”

  “You are no doubt correct,” the short man agreed.

  The twain regarded Dave mutely for a moment.

  “Are you in trouble,” the tall man said suddenly.

  “Doesn’t look good at all,” commented the short.

  “Glad I’m not in your shoes.”

  “Wouldn’t trade places with you in a million years.”

  The tall man moved behind Dave, where he placed his hands firmly on Dave’s shoulders and propelled him forward.

  “Hey!” Dave protested, but found that he was powerless to do anything except go where the tall man wanted him to go.

  A clipboard appeared in the short man’s hands as he marched along beside them. “Dave Smith, number one one two, four six one, five seven two B.” He flipped a page. “Apathy, pessimism, slander, tsk tsk!” He glanced up at Dave. “Really, Mr. Smith.” Back to the page, he read, “Sins, negligible. That’s good.”

  “Basically just an attitude problem,” drawled the tall man from just behind Dave’s right ear.

  “Let’s hope He sees it that way,” grimaced Shorty. The clipboard disappeared and he moved to whisper confidentially in Dave’s ear, “I think you just caught Him in a bad mood.”

  “Very bad mood,” agreed Tall.

  “If you’re polite, maybe you’ll get off easy.”

  They propelled him through a doorway that blipped into existence before them, and entered a large, sparsely decorated chamber. Torches lining the walls provided a modest illumination. The only feature of note was a bronze throne next to the wall opposite the door. A middle-aged man with a beard fully two and a half feet long occupied the throne. He possessed a great leonine head of snowy, unkempt hair, and pale green eyes that tracked Dave’s movements with interest. Tall and Short escorted Dave to a spot just before the throne, and then moved to stand on either side of it, facing Dave.

  The man with the beard leaned forward to study Dave. He regarded him closely for some time before speaking. “You,” he said. “You upset me this afternoon.”

  Dave’s knees almost buckled and he had to exert quite an effort of will to prevent from trembling. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the Being in the throne was God. And God was glaring at him.

  “In fact,” God said, “you really pissed me off.” The glare intensified.

  Dave’s eyes widened. “Did you just say ‘pissed off’?”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “What kind of language is that for God?”

  “I’m God. I say what I like when I like.”

  “Oh?” Before he could stop himself, Dave said, “And what gives you that right? Might? Might makes right?”

  Tall and Short shook their heads frantically, mouthing, no, no!

  Dave winced and braced himself for another bolt of lightning. But when none came, and Dave found himself capable of opening his eyes, he saw that God appeared more quizzical than angry. Dave took a deep breath and drew himself up a bit. Perhaps, he thought, God respected him for his chutzpah. He permitted himself a small smile.

  “It astounds me,” God said, “that I could have created a creature so remarkably dumb.”

  Dave exhaled sharply.

  God snapped his fingers. Shorty produced his clipboard from the air and presented it to God, who perused the clipboard silently. Abruptly he handed it back to Shorty, who made it disappear.

  “Apathy,” God snapped.

  Dave recoiled at the force of the word. “What?”

  “You heard me. Apathy! Explain yourself.”

  “Apathy.” Dully, Dave tried to engage his brain, give the word some meaning.

  Apathy.

  Apathy! To not care, passionless, without feeling.

  “Insensibility to suffering,” God added. “What was the point of your life, Smith?”

  Dave’s eyes lit up and it was his turn to glare. “What do you mean what was the point of my life? What are you asking me for? You tell me what the point of my life was, dammit!”

  Dave’s words echoed nicely off the far walls of the chamber.

  The silence that followed, however, was less pleasant. Short and Tall trembled on their respective sides of the throne. God glowered threateningly.

  Dave lost his nerve and decided a strategic retreat was in order. “I mean, tell me what the point of my life was, p-please?” He laughed weakly. The laugh sounded foolish. He regretted trying it.

  God appeared less angry. “It’s quite simple, really. Your life had no point.”

  Initially, Dave was stunned by this response. He’d always suspected that life had no point, and had in fact voiced this opinion often, but to hear it stated by God himself, and with such finality! That was a bit of a shock.

  But because he’d figured as much all along, he quickly recovered. “So life really is pointless,” he said.

  God laughed. A raucous laugh, underscored by a low, ominous roll of thunder. Nice touch, Dave thought of the thunder. Subtle yet effective. Really gave one quite a psychological edge.

  “Fool,” spat God. “All life is not pointless.”

  “Wait, are you saying that only my life had no point?”

  “Maybe it’s my fault,” God mused, tapping a slender finger against one arm of his throne. “Perhaps I made your brain too small. It’s a wonder you can think at all with a brain like that.”

  Dave clenched his fists. “Now wait just a minute. As far as I could see, life had no point. I mean, we’ve been trying to come up with a point since day one, and all we’ve come up with is a thousand different religions. Which is the right one? The one you’re born in? I don’t think so. And heck! Up until a few minutes ago, I wasn’t even sure you existed.”

  “As I remember it,” God leaned forward menacingly, “you were quite sure that I didn’t exist.” His emerald eyes locked firmly on Dave’s, as he motioned Tall and Short forward.

  “What kind of God would create a world full of misery,” announced Short.

&nb
sp; Dave winced.

  “War and hunger,” added Tall.

  “Whole planet’s coming apart at the seams.” Short.

  “Where is this God?” Tall.

  “Platypus,” finished Short.

  “I took particular offence to the remark about the platypus,” God commented sourly.

  “Sorry,” Dave apologized, unable to think of anything else.

  “I created the world, Smith, but I’m not responsible for what’s done with it, okay? I created it for you, not for me. Don’t blame me for the mess you’re making of it. And I’ve always been rather fond of the platypus. Don’t be making fun of it.” God scratched his beard. “That takes care of slander and the platypus. Now, how ‘bout pessimism? And we haven’t covered this apathy thing enough yet. Eh, Smith? What’s with this pessimistic attitude of yours?”

  Dave shrugged, as if that explained everything. When it became apparent that it didn’t, he said, “What can I say? Life didn’t look too good to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, the world’s a mess.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you do something about it?”

  “Me? Why should I be the one to have to do something?” God was beginning to sound just like his parents, for crying out loud. Dave decided the time had come to take a stand. “You can’t tell me how to live my life,” he said, just loud enough to be heard.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. You can’t tell me how to live my life.”

  “I am God. Your Creator.”

  “So? Uncreate me. See if I care.”

  “No.” God’s shoulders drooped slightly. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  Dave suppressed a grin, confident that he had just bested God himself in a verbal joust.

  An instant later he realised how absurd that notion was. Even calling it a stalemate would be stretching it. He took another gander at his reflection in the pond, and sighing a big platypus sigh, padded softly away toward a stand of juniper on the other side of the meadow.