by Tim Kizer
What if it didn’t end on Kenneth Shelton? What if Nick emailed him another name after he bumped off Shelton? He would have to dispatch that person, too.
How many times was Ted planning to repeat this? The answer was simple: he would keep doing it until he received an email that said he would die of old age. That was the kind of death Ted desired. Death of old age. Very old age. Triple-digit age. By the way, he should ask Nick to figure out a way to send him a life-prolonging drug that would let him live to be a hundred and fifty; they would surely have these in 2223. These pills would probably cost as much as a house, but it was okay—his boy Nick Duplass must be loaded.
A wild thought flashed in Ted’s mind. What if Nick was playing with him? What if Kenneth Shelton was just some random name Nick had pulled out of his ass?
Ted shooed this thought away. Why would Nick do that? He was correct about Nora, remember? She had indeed tried to murder him; that was an irrefutable fact.
Ted lowered himself into the chair, switched on the laptop, and started typing. He was finished two and a half minutes later.
‘Dear Nick,
Thank you for the information. I hope you’re doing well.
You mentioned Kenneth Shelton in your last message. What is his address? What is his date of birth? What is his social security number? Can you send me his picture?
Ted Duplass, October 29, 2013.’
Yeah, he sucked at writing letters, but who the hell cared? Ted clicked the Print button.
A few seconds later, Ted took the letter from the printer, folded it in half, and dropped it in the time capsule. Then he printed his first message to Nick—the one with the death question—and put it in the capsule, too.
Ted was glad he had purchased a metal detector. He would have spent hours looking for the old capsule without it. Once again, his instincts proved right.
He screwed the cover on the time capsule and headed for the garage.
Fuck fate. He was going to kick this bitch in the face until it got tired of trying to kill him.
THE END
THE DREAMER
A psychiatrist discovers that a man claiming that the world is just a dream could be right.
1.
“No, you’re not real, either,” Richard said. “You’re a product of my imagination just like everyone and everything else.”
“So the entire world is just a dream?”
Richard nodded confidently. “Yes, just a dream. But not an ordinary dream. It’s what I call a high definition dream.”
“High definition?”
“Yes. Did you notice how crisp, how vivid and detailed everything looks here?”
“Actually, I wanted to mention that, too. Dreams do tend to be somewhat blurry.”
“No surprise at all. We think alike because your thoughts come from me.”
“I see.” Stanley made a note in his notepad.
“You know what I call reality?”
“Shoot.”
“God HD.” Richard laughed softly.
“Clever.” Stanley bit on his pen. “And you are the one who’s dreaming this dream?”
“Yes, Sir. The entire thing comes courtesy of my fertile mind.”
Stanley took a moment to process what Richard had told him in the last two minutes.
The guy was either a genuine schizophrenic, or a bored jackass with too much free time on his hands. Anyway, as long as his insurance company paid the bills, Stanley was ready to listen to his drivel till the cows came home.
“How long do you think you’ve been dreaming?”
“Good question, Doc. This is a very long dream. It could be many years since it started.”
“And in all those years, this dream’s never been interrupted?”
“Never.” Richard paused. “I suspect it’s a permanent dream.”
“What do you mean?”
“In all likelihood my dream will never end.”
“I guess it’s good news for all of us living here.” Stanley flashed a thin smile. Richard’s face remained serious. Then Stanley went on, “Where is your real, physical body, Richard? Do you know what happened to it?”
Richard shrugged. “Perhaps, buried in the cemetery. Or maybe it’s in one of those cryogenic freezers, waiting to be revived a hundred years from now.”
“How did you discover that you’re living in a dream? Why did you question reality in the first place?”
“I’m glad you asked. You see, Doc, I’ve been curious about this matter for many many years. Back in high school, I read about this French mathematician by the name of Rene Descartes, who lived in the seventeenth century. He said that the sensations we experience in our dreams feel as real to us as those we experience while we’re awake. Therefore, any beliefs based on sensations could be called into doubt, because it all might be a dream. The logical conclusion was that the whole world could be nothing but an illusion. And ever since I became familiar with this proposition, I’ve been regularly wondering, especially when I was having some kind of trouble: is this world still real or am I stuck in a dream?”
Richard glanced at Stanley to see if he had any comments; Stanley had none.
“My dad was a very skeptical man,” Richard went on. “He said that until he saw or touched it, he reserved the right to doubt that it existed. I remember him telling me that Australia might not be real. ‘I’ve never been there,’ he’d say. ‘How do I know it’s not just a fairy tale? They call it the land of Oz, don’t they? What if it’s nothing but a stupid hoax the government’s playing on us?’ I’d tell him that you can’t question every single thing in the world. And he’d say, ‘Why the hell not? You can’t blindly believe what you’re told. Always look for proof. People used to think that Earth sat on the backs of four elephants. How dumb is that?’”
“So how did you find out that everything around you is not real?”
“It didn’t happen quickly. It was a series of observations I made over a week or so. First, I noticed that every single movie I saw completely lacked originality. None of them was anything that I couldn’t have written myself. The same went for every fiction book I read and every TV show I watched. Nothing surprised me anymore. Literally nothing.” Richard paused. “I was looking for something that would make me say, ‘Wow, this is brilliant. I couldn’t have thought of it myself.’ Unfortunately, everything I came across was predictable, derivative. I stopped being amazed.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Every science book I looked at contained information I already knew. To me, that was one of the most convincing pieces of evidence that I’d fallen into a dream.”
“Are you a scientist?” A moment later Stanley corrected himself, “Were you a scientist before you fell asleep?”
“I was involved in research, so yes, you could call me a scientist.”
“And you know everything in every science book there is?”
Richard nodded silently. To Stanley’s amusement, the man managed to keep an absolutely straight face.
“So, to put it briefly, your theory is based on the fact that nothing impresses you anymore and that you know everything there is to know, is that correct?”
“That’s what gave me the first clue. But you must admit it’s nothing to sneeze at. In the real world, it’s impossible for one man to possess the entirety of human knowledge and creativity.”
“I can’t disagree with that.”
“There were other signs, too. For example, one day I crashed into a concrete wall while driving on the freeway. I was going more than seventy miles per hour when it happened, but the next day I didn’t have a scratch on me and my car was in perfect shape. The hardest part here was to remember that I’d been in a crash the day before.” Richard cleared his throat. “Yes, the trick to figuring out that you’re dreaming is to recall that something weird took place and to have the sense to realize it was weird. It appears every character who lives here is unable to retain the memories that could help them make the same discovery I did. It’s probably by
design, I don’t know.”
“Character?”
“That’s what I call people who live in my world.”
“People are just characters to you? That’s cold.”
“You don’t have to like me, Doc. I’m not trying to start a cult dedicated to me, although I’m one of the few who actually deserve it. I’m just reporting the facts.”
“I understand.”
“And then I jumped off the roof of that ten-story building across the street from here.”
“The Allied Bank building?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“And you survived the jump, of course.”
“The next morning I was as good as new.”
“Fascinating.” Stanley scribbled in his notepad. “Why did you decide to come to me?”
“Boredom, I guess.”
“Is it possible that you have doubts about your theory?”
Richard shook his head. “You know, I’ve always wondered if my dream’s characters have their own lives, their own thoughts and feelings.”
“Well, let me satisfy your curiosity. I do have my own life and thoughts.”
Richard smiled. “How do you know that those thoughts were not planted by me?”
“Touché!”
Richard leaned back and crossed his legs. “If I indeed managed to create characters sophisticated enough to have their own thoughts and feelings and to come up with some sort of daily grind, that would make me feel like…” Richard creased his forehead, looking for the right word.
“Like God?”
Richard’s lips stretched in a thin smile. “You said that, not me. But yes, I guess that’s how it would make me feel.”
How many months of therapy was this gentleman going to need?
No, wrong question. How many years of therapy was he looking at?
“Your registration form says that you’re a judge at the Richmond Circuit Court,” Richard said.
“I made it up. I’m not a judge. I have a very superficial knowledge of the law. I used to dream of becoming a judge when I was younger. Even when I was finishing my PhD program, I still entertained this idea. And now that I’m dead, I can be anything I want, can’t I?”
“You sure can.”
“Oh, I was curious, Doc. What medical school did you go to?”
“I got my medical degree from Michigan State. Why are you curious about it? You have doubts in my competence?”
“No, that’s not it. You see, it was me who gave you your background, and to tell you the truth, I’m not particularly knowledgeable about medical schools. I’m not sure the real world Michigan State University even has a medical school.”
“Of course it does. I studied there.”
“Well, unfortunately, there’s no way to independently verify that.”
“Come on, are you telling me that I printed this off the Internet?” Stanley pointed his thumb at the framed diploma hanging on the wall behind him.
“No, not at all. I’m just saying that in the real world this piece of paper might be completely worthless.”
“I see.” Stanley took a sip of water from his glass and continued, “Let me return to the characters of your dream. You believe that I’m just an imaginary figure, right?”
“Yes.”
“And all those people in the streets are imaginary, too?”
“Yes. They’re mental replicas, just like you.”
“And my family? They’re not real either?”
“That’s correct. They’re not real.” Richard raised his left hand. “I have an idea, Doc. Let’s conduct an experiment. Call your son. Let’s see if he exists.”
Their eyes met, and they stared silently at each other for a few seconds, which was enough time for Stanley to realize that Richard was not joking. Having quickly weighed all pros and cons, Stanley nodded and said, “Okay. Let’s call him.” He took out his cell and opened the contact list.
“What’s your son’s name?” Richard asked.
“Derek.” Stanley dialed his son’s number and pressed the speaker button so they could both hear Derek’s voice.
“How old is he?”
“He’s nineteen.”
The phone rang a third time, and Stanley reckoned Derek was going to answer any second now.
“Are you married?”
“Yes. My wife’s name is Gina.”
A fifth ring. Stanley shifted in his chair, being acutely aware of how embarrassing and awkward the situation was getting.
“He’s not picking up,” Richard announced in a satisfied tone.
“Just a second, okay? He’ll pick up.”
A sixth ring.
“Are you sure you dialed the right number?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“It’s okay, Doc,” Richard said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
The answering service picked up the call, and Stanley hung up. Knitting his brows, Stanley glanced at his watch and said, “Unfortunately, our time is up. I will see you next week, Richard.”
“See you next week, Doc. It was fun, by the way.”
2.
On the way home after work, Stanley caught himself worrying that he might not see Gina tonight—or ever again. What if Richard was right and his wife was a figment of imagination? Of course, it was not a serious concern—rational people didn’t doubt that the universe is real—but he still couldn’t shake it off.
Stanley reined in his anxiety by the end of the trip. He didn’t panic when he saw that his house was empty. As soon as he found himself in his study, he did what he’d forgotten to do after his first session with Richard a week ago: he went online and checked if there was a judge by the name of Richard Marshall in the Richmond Circuit Court. Then Stanley searched for Judge Marshall’s photo and was relieved to find out that the man had not lied on the registration form; his name really was Richard Marshall and he indeed was a judge.
Then he called his son. Derek was a freshman at University of Southern California, majoring in business administration. Stanley didn’t mind Derek not following in his steps.
The uneasiness returned once Stanley pulled his cellphone out of his pants pocket. He was afraid of a repeat of the fiasco that had taken place during his session with Richard Marshall, and he was irked with himself for that. The fact that Derek had not answered his call should not have discomfited him the way it had. He was a rational person, after all.
Fortunately, his fear did not come true.
“Where were you, Derek?” Stanley asked in a noticeably upset voice. “Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called you three hours ago?”
“I was in class. Was it something important? Why didn’t you text?”
Oh brother. Derek always tried to shift the blame to someone else.
“Next time I call, you pick up the phone, okay?”
“Oh Jesus. What is this all about, Dad?”
“Just pick up the damn phone. Class or no class.”
When Stanley hung up, it suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t be certain it had actually been his son who he’d just talked to. He had not seen Derek, he had only heard his voice, and a voice could be imitated. For all he knew, it might have been a computer on the other end of the line. A very smart computer.
3.
“Last week you said that it could be many years since your dream had started.”
“It could be a week. It could be a year. And it could also be ten years. Or fifty. It’s hard, perhaps even impossible, to keep track of time when you’re dead.”
“Are you suggesting that this world,” Stanley drew a circle in the air with his index finger while pointing it at the ceiling, “could be only a week old?”
“I was talking about the real world time. In a dream, time flows much faster.”
“I see.” Stanley made a note in his notepad. “You also said that this dream might last forever.”
“Yes, it might. And, honestly, I wouldn’t mind if it did.”
; “In other words, you don’t want to wake up and face reality.”
“I didn’t say that. I believe this dream might never end, because I suspect that I’m dead, and you don’t come back from the dead in the real world.”
“So this is an afterlife dream?”
“That’s a good way to put it.”
“Did you believe in afterlife when you were alive?”
“No, I didn’t. I might have had a hope, but that’s as far as it went. Now it looks like I was wrong, assuming I’m dead, of course. I must say I’m certainly glad it’s not just lights out when you die.”
“Do you believe in God?”
Richard shrugged. “There may be God, but he’s not almighty. An almighty god wouldn’t allow war and diseases. And if he would… Then he’s not the kind of god I want to believe in.”
Stanley nodded pensively. “Did or do any of your blood relatives have a mental disorder?”
Richard shook his head. “None. I believe I’ve already answered this question on your questionnaire.”
“Yes, you have. Do you find this question offensive?”
“It’s all right. Everyone thought that Galileo was insane, too.”
“I didn’t say you are insane. I’m just collecting information, that’s all.”
“I understand.”
“Okay.” Stanley smacked his lips enthusiastically, staring at his notepad. “So you dreamed me up, you dream up this office, this building. You dreamed up this whole city. It sounds like a very difficult undertaking, doesn’t it? Very large-scale. Very elaborate. Would you agree with that?”
“Elaborate? I’ll tell you what, Doc. The world that I created—with all its cities, rivers, mountains, people, animals—can’t hold a handle to a pebble from the real world. The pebble consists of trillions of trillions of trillions of molecules, which in turn consist of atoms, which in turn consist of protons, neutrons, and electrons. That’s what I call elaborate, Doc. What I have done here is just a child’s play.”
“Child’s play. Sure.”
“By the way, I believe this room is an almost exact replica of my cousin’s office.” Then Richard added, “My cousin is a psychiatrist, too.”
