Thomas World

by Richard Cox

  “You tricked us,” David says.

  “What?”

  He sets the book aside and stands up. His eyes are calm, his posture is relaxed, not threatening, and yet his hands are shaking badly.

  “You tricked us somehow.”

  He lunges at me.

  I roll off the couch, out of his way, but David’s hands grab my shoulders. I grab his arms. We struggle to the floor.

  “David!” Sherri yells.

  His hands slide inward, reaching my neck.

  “David!” Sherri yells again.

  His hands are around my throat, and immediately I can’t breathe. I bring my knee up, squarely into his crotch, and the contact is so solid I wince at the same time he does.

  He screams. Rolls off me. Squirms on the carpet.

  “Fucker!” he yells. “Fuck you!”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  No answer.

  “Thomas,” Sherri says. “Maybe you should leave.”

  “Leave? Why?”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to stay?”

  “Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do?”

  “You could go home.”

  “Yeah,” David says. “Feel free to leave. We don’t want to be characters in your fucked up story.”

  My first instinct is to pretend like I don’t know what he’s talking about. But I do.

  “Don’t you see?” Sherri says. “If all these things are true, all these names and references and whatever, it’s all about you, Thomas.”

  I know this. I’ve known it. A part of me wants desperately to believe I’m special, that all this is for me…but let’s be honest: Paranoid delusions are the domain of psychotics.

  “If everything revolves around you,” Sherri says, “what does that make us, Thomas?”

  It can’t be true. It can’t.

  “It makes us supporting characters,” David says. “We’re here to move your story along. We only know what we need to know.”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” I say. “All of this. Maybe I’m wrong about everything. Maybe I’m hallucinating because of stress.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” David says. “Simulation, hallucination…either way we’re still just characters.”

  “You people are real. I met you in the bar. Sherri overheard Dick and me talking—”

  “He’s a character, too,” David says. “Probably an important one. His name is Dick after all.”

  “Dick is real,” I say. “He’s worked at my company for years.”

  “It’s possible no one you know is real, Thomas,” Kevin says, finally speaking up.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Every person you’ve ever known, family members, friends, co-workers, whoever…they could all be characters in this story, the one you’re starring in.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say. “It isn’t possible. I remember growing up. I fought with my mother every day. She was an alcoholic. One day when I was fourteen I tried to run away. I took off on my bike, but I ran over a nail in the street and had to turn back.”

  “Your mother could be a character,” Kevin says.

  “Don’t say that. She was my mother.”

  “I don’t even know my mother’s name,” David says in a monotonous voice that is downright chilling. “I can’t picture her face.”

  He bends over and puts his head in his hands.

  “I can’t remember anything. I can’t even tell you what I did yesterday. We have no backstory. We only know enough to get through this conversation.”

  Even after everything that has happened, this is so difficult to comprehend that I don’t know how to respond.

  “I bet if you went back and asked Dick,” Kevin says, “he would say the same thing.”

  Sherri’s smile, which has been a permanent fixture on her face since the mushrooms took hold, has vanished. Kevin’s face is vacant, like he just took a blow to the head.

  “Do you remember anything before the blue orb in the church?” David asks.

  “Lots of things. Everything.”

  “I suppose those are implanted memories. Have you heard of the Omphalos hypothesis?”

  “Of course he hasn’t,” Kevin blurts. “That’s what we’re here for, remember?”

  “It’s the idea that God created the universe with everything exactly as you see it today. An Earth with mountains and canyons already fully formed, trees with rings already in them, mature stars already in the sky. From that point of view, you can’t really say the whole universe wasn’t created five minutes ago. It could be everything was made to look like it had been around forever.”

  “But when did it begin? This simulation? How can I know?”

  “You can’t. It could have started five years ago. It could have begun when you took the mushrooms. It could be two minutes ago. But I would guess it began in the church, when you saw the blue light. That seems to be where your life took a drastically different turn.”

  I think back to the mass, the headache that came on so quickly, that ended as soon as the blue orb touched my forehead.

  “If it’s a simulation,” David says, “that could have been the inciting incident. Or if you’ve suffered some kind of mental breakdown, that’s probably where you diverted from reality.”

  Obviously it’s difficult for me to conceive of these things, to even consider they might be true. But how much worse does it look from his point of view?

  After all, it’s one thing to be an existentialist, to wonder about the meaning of life, of the universe. But what happens when the debate is over? What happens when you know for sure there is no meaning…at least not for you?

  “Whatever is happening,” David says, “it has clearly been orchestrated. Your friend Dick told you about the Ant Farm game, and you guys happened to sit next to us at the bar, and we just happened to be experts on the work of Philip K. Dick…those things did not happen randomly. Someone planned it that way.

  “If it were me,” David adds, “I’d want to know who was behind this. And how. And most importantly…why?”

  I nod at him, already wondering those questions myself.

  “Like Gnosis, Thomas. Find a way to talk to God, whoever he may turn out to be.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  After that no one says anything for a while. The three of them keep glancing at each other but not at me, which I guess is my cue to leave. To be honest I’m ready to go. I’ve held the exhaustion off for too long and feel suddenly like I might collapse from it. I get up and walk to the door, intending to bid them goodbye, but then Sherri stands up.

  “Can I talk to you outside for a second?”

  “Sure.”

  A moment later we are on the porch, the door closed behind us. Sherri doesn’t say anything.

  “I thought you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Yeah,” she says.

  “Then talk.”

  “You think it’s an accident we met at the wine bar? That I overheard you talking to Dick? After everything we talked about, do you think there could be a real-world explanation?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me, neither. But I’m afraid, Thomas.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’m not sure what’s going to happen to me when you leave.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what if these are my only lines? If you never talk to me again, will I even exist?”

  “Sherri, come on. That’s not…I mean, that doesn’t—”

  But I stop myself, because it actually does make a lot of sense. If by some chance all of this is true, where do Sherri and David and Kevin go when I exit their lives?

  “Don’t leave,” she says. “Stay here with me. I know you must be exhausted. We’ll take something for sleep, and you’ll feel a lot better in the morning.”

  “But what then? I can’t stay here forever. I have to go home sometime.”

  In fact, when I think about home, about how fa
r I’ve strayed from my life, I miss Gloria more than ever. Where is she right now? Has she already gone to the house to get her things? Does she honestly want a divorce?

  “Let me have your number,” I tell Sherri. “I’ll call you as soon as I leave, and I’ll call you when I get home. Let’s get together tomorrow.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “I’m sure if we stay in touch, everything will be fine. I’ll come see you guys tomorrow. I’m telling you right now I will. So that means…well, you know.”

  “You’re saying if we make plans to see each other, there’s still a reason for me to exist.”

  “Right. I mean, assuming it’s true at all.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t any way I can convince you to stay?”

  “Sherri, I’m overwhelmed by all this. I feel like I am going to pass out. I need to sleep in my own bed.”

  “My bed is pretty comfy,” she says, and glides her hand over my crotch, squeezing gently. “Especially when I’m in it.”

  “I would love to take you up on that offer,” I say, though I really wouldn’t. “But not tonight.”

  A flash of spite passes over Sherri’s face, like she’s going to say something mean. But then she smiles.

  “Tomorrow night, then,” she says. “You think you’re tired now. Wait until I’m done with you.”

  She leans in and kisses me, her mouth open, her tongue alive. She squeezes my crotch again, and even though I’m ready to go home, I can’t deny my body’s reaction to her. But I realize now it was a mistake to let Gloria go so easily. For some reason it feels like days or weeks ago that she left, but it wasn’t. It was today. Maybe I can convince her to give us a second chance. And to be honest I’m surprised she hasn’t called. Surely she would have checked in with me, to see how I was doing, or simply to say she was on the way to the house to get her things.

  I gently pull away from Sherri. She licks her lips and smiles. I reach in the back pocket for my phone and realize it isn’t there. Ah, shit. No wonder it never rang. Where did I leave it? In my car? Where—

  Oh shit.

  “Sherri.”

  “Yes?”

  “You drove me here, remember? I can’t go home until you take me back to the bar.”

  “Shit. I forgot about that! Looks like you’ll have to stay.”

  “Sherri.”

  “What? I’m in no condition to drive.”

  “You’re no worse off than me.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be driving either, come to think of it.”

  “If you don’t drive me I’m going to walk.”

  That look passes over her face again, that quick look of spite.

  “Why are you so intent on getting back home? Do you think she is going to be there?”

  “I’m sure she won’t be there,” I lie. “We’re getting divorced. I just want to go home and rest. This has been the longest day of my life.”

  Sherri thinks for a minute and finally says, “Oh, all right. But you have to promise to call me later and come see me tomorrow.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Okay, wait here.”

  She goes inside, and I wonder what she is going to say to David and Kevin. Will she tell them what she told me, that she fears for her existence if I leave? Will she keep it to herself? Surely by now they should have figured it on their own.

  At this point I don’t care. I really will walk. I want to get back home. I can’t remember the last time Gloria and I went this long during the day without talking or at least sending each other a text message.

  A moment later Sherri pops out of the door and says simply, “Let’s go.”

  She drives back the way we came, but much more deliberately. I don’t know how strong the mushroom effect still is on her, but mine has faded a lot. It’s there, though, in the odd and wonderful splashes of color around traffic lights and illuminated signs alongside the road. The sound of the engine and the tires against the road are battered in a light coating of reverb, like we’re driving in a giant, underground cavern. But my coordination is fine, and it seems like Sherri’s is as well.

  Finally we reach the bar. Sherri finds a place to park, and I expect her to kiss me again, but now she hardly makes eye contact and in fact is leaning away from me.

  “Call me when you get home, ’kay?”

  “I will.”

  “Can I count on you, Thomas?”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Because this is my life we’re talking about. And David and Kevin’s. We need you.”

  I can’t think of a way to respond that doesn’t either sound condescending or crazy.

  “I know.”

  “Please don’t let me down.”

  Her right hand is on the shifter, and I put my own hand over it. Her fingers are cold.

  “I won’t let you down,” I tell her. “I’ll be back.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  I watch Sherri drive away in her Jetta, which is black like the night sky. The shape of the car becomes less distinct as it moves away from me, until finally I can only see the twin red beacons of her taillights. Then she turns onto another street, where a car pulls in behind her, and is gone.

  For a moment I can only stand there, exhausted, eyes slowly panning across my field of vision, admiring the plastic wrapper reflections of streetlights and bar signs, of headlights and taillights. Music pulses in my head, the heavy bass beat of rap or dance or something contemporary, and I realize it’s not playing in my head at all but rather in a club across the street. The door to the club is a slab of scored aluminum, standing open, and beyond it I can just make out faint flashes of color moving in time with the music. Two muscular guys in black shirts and pants stand guard in front of the door. About ten people are waiting to get in. As they stand there, two young blondes in colorful, sheer dresses approach the back of the line. The bouncers immediately notice and gesture for them to come forward, to the obvious dismay of the people already waiting. The two girls must be gorgeous, though from here, facing away from me, it’s hard to know for sure. The bouncers chat them up for a few moments, and the taller of the two girls laughs. The rest of the people waiting are clearly upset, though none of them says anything, presumably because doing so might get them evicted from the line. Finally the bouncers step aside to let the girls into the club, and I watch them go…until at the last moment, before she disappears into the dark, the shorter girl turns around abruptly and appears to look across the street, right at me.

  Are all of these people characters in my dreams? Is any one of them actually thinking original thoughts, or are they simply empty vessels, like part of the setting? What if I walked up to someone and began a conversation? Could any of them reply?

  At this point I don’t really care. I’ve made a mistake. A grave mistake. I locate my car in the parking lot, and soon I’m sitting behind the wheel, marveling at the sparkly, intense colors on the instrument panel. I start the car and turn on the satellite radio. The 80s channel. Madonna in a squeaky voice, declaring herself to be a material girl.

  The parking lot exits to a narrow street, which reaches a T-intersection at a much busier road—the one with all the restaurants and clubs. Now the biggest challenge will be to keep my car pointed between the yellow and white stripes, these arbitrary markers directing me through space and time. I grip the steering wheel lightly and let the car do most of the work.

  I really shouldn’t drive in this condition. I am totally against drunk driving. You probably don’t believe that, considering I did it this morning, too, but I swear I usually don’t. Maybe I should have called a cab, but tomorrow I would have been stuck without my car. I could have called Gloria, but—

  Gloria! Shit. I was going to call her. I reach into the center console for my phone, but it isn’t there. It’s also not in the adjacent seat. I flip on an interior light and feel along the floorboard. Not there, either. I should probably pull over to look. All this commotion makes it difficult to steer the car. The la
st thing I need is to hurt someone, or be pulled over by a cop when I’m this out of my head. But that’s never happened before, so maybe it won’t happen now, either.

  A traffic light ahead of me turns red. Once the car is stopped I look in more places for my phone…under the seat, in all reaches of the floorboard, the back seat. Mr. Mister is on the satellite radio singing “Broken Wings.” My damned phone is nowhere to be found. I can’t call Gloria, and by the way I never called Sophia back, either. It’s been like two days now and I promised her I would call, and now I don’t even have my phone.

  And Sherri. Shit. Not only has my phone disappeared, but I didn’t even get her damned phone number! How in the hell did we forget that?

  The light turns green, and I inch forward. I have to decide something now. Turn around and go back to Sherri’s house or just go home? Could I even find my way back? Probably not. At the very least I could go back to the wine bar and see if someone turned in my phone.

  While I consider these options, I notice a cop behind me.

  All of a sudden I can’t drive straight anymore. My car, so calm and understanding before, now seems rebellious, defiant even. It tries to pitch left, veer right, and yet for whatever reason the cop doesn’t pull me over.

  I should stop somewhere. I can’t concentrate. I reach another stoplight.

  In the rearview mirror I see the cop. His hair is dark and his shape is a weightlifter’s shape. We make brief eye contact, and I’m convinced he knows I’m drunk. Why hasn’t he pulled me over yet? Is he building a case against me? Videotaping me? You always see that on the show Cops. The officer pulls someone over and a drunk bastard stumbles out of the car and everyone laughs, especially when the guy takes a swing at the officer. Because that’s when the cop is allowed to club him. And everyone knows the whole reason we watch Cops is to see assholes get hit with the baton.

  I don’t want to be one of those assholes.

  Slowly I make my way southward, occasionally weaving a bit, passing one traffic light after another. Some of them are green, some are red. The cop is still behind me. Occasionally he falls back several car lengths, only to pull close again a few moments later. I’ve traveled almost five miles due south. Surely the officer must be outside his patrol area by now. Why is he still following me? Why doesn’t he just pull me over? There are no other cars on the road. In fact I haven’t seen a single other car in miles.