Futures Near and Far

by Will McIntosh

  “Hey, Cooper.” Tim Corcoran, his shift manager, gave him a friendly wave. It was his polite way of telling Cooper to get his ass in his chair and start processing envelopes. Cooper considered feigning illness, but he’d just walked in. He hovered a moment longer, then moved his chair two feet to the left so he wasn’t sitting entirely in the same space as the other Cooper.

  It was disconcerting when his fingers or part of his elbow disappeared when he brushed up against his double. The double was working with much more focus, going through three invisible envelopes for every two Cooper managed.

  “Cooper, why are you sitting like that?” Cooper looked over his shoulder at Tim, standing with arms folded. He unfolded his arms long enough to direct Cooper to roll to his right. “It slows you down when you’re not square in your station.”

  Struggling not to wince, Cooper slid over, merging into his double like two soap bubbles joining. His double paused from his work, lifted an invisible cup of coffee and took a sip, then got back to opening envelopes. With Tim hovering, Cooper got back to work as well. It felt like he had four arms; it was confusing, and caused him to fumble as he processed disk after disk.

  At three minutes to twelve his double got up and headed to lunch. Cooper waited until he was gone, then followed suit. He prayed his double wasn’t heading to the same restaurant as him.

  * * *

  On his way out of Larry’s Giant Subs carrying an eight inch turkey on white in a plastic bag, Cooper spotted Julie getting out of her car. He’d known it was only a matter of time before he bumped into her, but his heart whomped in his chest as he fished keys from his pocket and for some reason pretended he hadn’t seen her yet.

  Julie stopped dead when she saw him. Cooper acted surprised and tried to give her a friendly smile, as if there was nothing awkward or painful about bumping into her.

  “Hey,” he said as they stood between the bumpers of two cars in the bleak strip mall parking lot. Maybe he was so nervous because he wasn’t at his best right now. He was losing his mind, and had a monster living in his house. Ideally you wanted to bump into your ex when you were rested and wearing your best suit.

  “I heard you were back in town,” Julie said.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged and glanced back at the entrance to Larry’s as if there was something to see there. “I missed all the great restaurants.” He held up his bag.

  Julie smiled at the lame joke, folded her arms. “I was sorry to hear about your dad. I cried when I heard the news.”

  “Yeah, me too.” He realized it wasn’t a very generous response to her offer of condolence and quickly added, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  There were so many unsaid things hovering between them that Cooper had trouble seeing Julie through the haze of them. Now that he was back, the reason for their breakup was no longer even valid, so what kept them from getting back together? For Cooper it was that he didn’t want to take yet another step back into high school. Or something like that.

  “You still at the bank?” he asked, because he didn’t know what else to say.

  Julie nodded. “Still there. I got a promotion a couple of months back. I’ve got my own desk and everything.”

  “That’s terrific,” he said, trying to muster some enthusiasm but mostly failing. He considered telling her about the monster in his house, but decided against it.

  They stood in silence a beat longer than was comfortable, then Julie said, “Well, I should get going. It was nice to see you.”

  As Julie turned, Cooper opened his mouth to say something, but he wasn’t sure what. He felt like he wanted to cry, but wasn’t sure why. He knew it would be hard the first time he bumped into Julie, but he’d expected her to play the jilted girl, maybe gloat over his fall from the pinnacle. He’d almost forgotten who she was, had replaced her with a cardboard cutout of the ballplayer’s home town ex-girlfriend. Most of the ballplayers in the minors had one. He suddenly felt like they’d just broken up; like he was reliving the pain of those first few barren post-Julie days. He headed toward his car.

  Julie called his name. He looked over at her. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you. I really mean that.”

  The sincerity of her words, her tone, her face, took him by surprise. He paused, almost turned back, but didn’t know what he’d say. “Thanks,” he managed. He turned toward his car.

  For an instant he had the sensation of stretching. An extra set of legs popped free below his hips. They stayed put as he stumbled away. He turned, saw himself still occupying the spot he had just vacated, holding an invisible Larry’s sandwich bag, his mouth moving soundlessly. His double was back, only now he was wearing the same black polo and jeans as Cooper.

  Cooper unlocked his BMW and sped away. In the rear view mirror he saw his double, head down, still talking.

  * * *

  When he got back to Netflix his double was already working. He was back in the white shirt. Cooper took his seat, flinching as he pushed into the space occupied by his other self.

  After opening half a dozen envelopes Cooper rotated his chair to face the other way, hunched over with his face in his hands. He realized now that he’d come to work because some part of him thought the hallucination would wink out of existence here, banished by the hard fluorescent light and the stark drudgery of the work, if not by the distance he’d put between himself and the monster. It wasn’t working, and the sight of those extra hands, the four knees clustered down by his lap, was making him feel even more insane than he clearly was.

  He stood to leave, just as a third Cooper materialized through the door and headed toward him. This was the one wearing the black shirt. The double (or maybe it was triple now) sat overlapping the other duplicate and got to work.

  Cooper tried to appear calm as he got out of there.

  * * *

  One of the doubles—the one dressed like Cooper—also stayed at Shug’s that night. Cooper didn’t know where the other had gone, and he said nothing to Shug about the extra Cooper. When his double showered, dressed in a button-down shirt that he pulled out of thin air, and headed out at a quarter till seven, Cooper followed him.

  His double drove the invisible car to Broad Street, parked in a spot already occupied by a Chevy Trailblazer, and headed into Manny’s Diner. Cooper chose a booth facing his double, ordered coffee and tried not to stare at what to others looked like an empty booth. No. Cooper shook his head. It was an empty booth. He had to be careful not to think of these apparitions as having any basis in reality. If he started believing in them he’d end up in a padded cell. This was something the creature had done to his mind; he had to figure out how to undo it, if that was possible.

  The other Cooper was carrying on a silent conversation with an unseen companion in the booth across from him, and he seemed to be having a good time. From time to time he laughed as he swirled an invisible coffee cup and ate what Cooper guessed was a piece of carrot cake, based on what he knew of his typical Manny’s ordering habits.

  Cooper’s attention was drawn to the window behind his double, where another Cooper whizzed by, his ass three feet off the ground, his foot working an invisible pedal. Cooper dropped a ten on the table and hurried out.

  He was able to catch a glimpse of this other Cooper just as he made a right onto Habersham, and followed him to McDonough’s Irish Pub. His doubles were having a busy night.

  McDonough’s wasn’t Cooper’s kind of place; it was typically thick with smoke, the floor sticky with beer, and, as Cooper pushed open the big wooden door, he discovered it was especially loud on this night. People were screaming at the top of their lungs and jumping up and down out of synch with the music, hugging each other like they were in the middle of a reunion. Cooper recognized a lot of Moviemail employees, including Shug. Shug had tears drying on his cheeks; his eyes were closed, his head thrown back as he howled like a drunken wolf.

  “Cooper!” Shug noticed him at the door, raced over with his arms out. “We did it. We fucking won!�
� He cackled like a loon.

  “Won what?”

  Shug grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled his face close. “The big one. The lottery. Like two hundred and something million, split seventeen ways.” He threw his hands in the air and hooted again. “I’m rich!”

  Feeling like he was falling from a great height, Cooper tried to smile, to act happy for Shug.

  Shug got serious for a minute. “Sorry you didn’t come in with us, Cooper. I really am, dude.”

  Cooper tried to shrug, tried to say, No problem, but it wouldn’t come. He’d almost reached into his pocket and handed Shug that twenty.

  Shug bounced away, spinning in a hug with Lisa, another Moviemail employee who’d evidently given Shug a twenty, leaving Cooper in an empty pocket of space inside the packed bar.

  Across the bar Cooper spotted his double, mouth cranked open in a silent shout as he leaped to give some phantom person a very high five. He moved around the bar slapping invisible backs, exchanging invisible handshakes, in a state of utter jubilation.

  * * *

  The monster came right to the glass when Cooper walked in, as if asking, Where have you been? There were six identical monsters in the space with him, but none of the other five paid Cooper any attention. Now he understood why. They weren’t actual monsters, they were possible monsters. Maybe one of those other monsters was the track where Cooper’s monster hadn’t given Cooper the gift, or curse, or whatever it was intended to be, of witnessing the consequences of his choices.

  His monster looked at the TV. Longingly, Cooper thought.

  “You meant well, didn’t you?” Cooper asked. Where the thing came from it was probably normal to see all of your possibilities, all the might-have-beens paraded in front of you. “You were paying me back for helping you channel-surf. A big old thank you.” It must have thought, Look at that pathetic guy, never knowing if he made the right move. Let me help him out. Cooper retrieved the remote from his recliner and clicked on the TV. The thing’s sharper edges smoothed as the screen flashed to life. Two and a Half Men. “The thing is, you didn’t do me any favors. Now I get to see all my fuck-ups in three-dimensional living color.” He tossed the remote down and went to bed. He wasn’t afraid of the monster anymore; it would be far more unpleasant to spend the night with Shug and hear about all the things he was going to buy.

  Cooper always thought he would be the one who was special. The major leaguer who rose from humble beginnings. Now he was less than ordinary—a guy who worked a meaningless job in a small town where eighteen people were millionaire lottery winners.

  * * *

  Cooper spotted one of his other selves pulling up to the pump in the Timesaver. He slowed and pulled in after him, parked in one of the spots in front of the store and watched through the side-view mirror. This one was dressed in a Dolce and Gabbana jacket, and he was putting premium gas in his invisible car. Probably a Lamborghini. Cooper always thought if he got the chance to sign one of those lucrative free agent contracts he’d buy a Lamborghini, just because it seemed like the most expensive car you could buy that everyone had heard of.

  When his lottery-winner self finished and pulled out, Cooper followed. It was the height of masochism, but it was addictive, following a dozen story lines, a dozen reality shows where you’re the star.

  His rich self went to Venus de Milo’s, the swanky new bar Shug owned, one of a dozen lavish new businesses that seemed absurdly out of place in their little town. Ten of the seventeen millionaires had remained in Porterville, and they had to spend all that money somehow. What was the point of having eleven million dollars if you didn’t spend some of it?

  In Venus, Shug was dancing with a drop-dead gorgeous girl in a short black skirt. Cooper thought of them as Lottery Girls; they started showing up a few days after the Moviemail gang’s good fortune hit the news. The rich Cooper was at the bar; he looked like he might be chatting with a Lottery Girl as well. Cooper had been following him more than the others, vicariously absorbing some of the good life he’d missed out on when he decided not to pull that twenty out of his wallet. As far as he could tell, Rich Cooper didn’t work. He was often gone, probably traveling to Crete, or Tuscany, or one of the other places Cooper always wanted to go. Chances were he took a Lottery Girl with him.

  Another Cooper arrived with his arm around an invisible someone that Cooper knew was Julie, because he’d followed this Cooper to Julie’s house a number of times. This Cooper was in jeans and the inevitable Polo, and he had dark rings under his eyes like the real Cooper, from nights spent thinking “if only I’d ponied up that twenty” thoughts. But there was something in his face that suggested this Cooper had made more peace with his missed millions, maybe because he didn’t have the same reminder in the form of Rich Cooper whizzing around in his invisible Lamborghini.

  Cooper-with-Julie sat at a table in the raised area near the pool tables. Cooper-who-had-quit-his-job-at-Moviemail was probably over at The Tavern drinking buck-a-beers, sporting three days of stubble and wondering what he was going to do when his last drips of bonus money were played out. They were all over the board, his possible selves, though he had to say, while he wouldn’t necessarily want their lives, most were more interesting than his.

  Rich Cooper left early, beaming, his forearm held at an angle that suggested a Lottery Girl was hanging from it. Cooper left a few minutes later, after a final glance toward Cooper-with-Julie.

  Berkshire Road rolled by with nothing but cyclone fences and nondescript industrial businesses on either side. Cooper took the turns hard. He’d never felt so untethered to the world. His future, which had always been so clear and easy to imagine, was now nothing but a gray haze. He knew he needed a plan. He still hadn’t contacted Kenny Stone, the lawyer, because the extra Coopers had complicated things. Maybe the monster could turn off the alternate selves if Cooper figured out how to ask, but that would not be possible if he sold it.

  He was fairly sure he wanted the other selves gone. It wasn’t all bad having them around, especially with so little else going on in his life, but it made him feel unbalanced to see them when no one else could. All in all it would probably be good if they disappeared.

  But regardless of the apparitions, what was he going to do? It was hard to think about starting college at twenty-six, living in dorms with eighteen year-olds fresh out of high school. The thought of working at Moviemail for the next thirty years was intolerable.

  Passing a boarded-up furniture factory, Cooper slowed, cursed softly. The rich Cooper was lying twisted on the side of the road. Cooper pulled onto the shoulder and got out.

  Rich Cooper was upside-down, his head at an alarming angle, his back bent into a U that bordered on a V. He was suspended two feet off the ground. Another two feet separated him from the bough of a white birch. Cooper was certain the space between his double’s lifeless body and the birch was occupied by crumpled Lamborghini. For all he knew he was standing on Lottery Girl.

  It was a sobering sight. There wasn’t much blood (likely because of air bags), but even now, just a few minutes after the accident, the left side of Rich Cooper’s face was swollen and purple. Cooper squatted on his haunches and pondered that face.

  Was this for sure how we would have ended up if he’d been in on the lottery? It was impossible to know; the creature in his house wasn’t going to tell him. Maybe these possible selves were filtered through his own subconscious, images of how he imagined things would unfold.

  The rich Cooper rose higher into the air, or more likely was lifted. He straightened out somewhat, then drifted away flat on his lifeless back. Cooper watched as he was loaded into an invisible ambulance and sped away, shrinking, shrinking, until he winked out of sight over a rise.

  Cooper slid into his BMW and headed home, twenty miles per hour slower than he’d been driving, because he was drunk, and he should fucking know better than to fly around turns at sixty-five in a forty-five zone after five beers. As he drove, he thought about Rich Coope
r. Somehow he felt certain what he’d seen was a true glimpse into the might-have-been, not something he simply imagined. His dark mood lifted. It kept on lifting until he was grinning, then chuckling, then laughing deep down in his belly. Yeah, if only he’d pulled out that twenty. He wished he could tell Cooper-with-Julie what that twenty had really bought.

  Another Cooper passed him going the other way, and Cooper nearly ran his car into a ditch despite his slow speed.

  The white pinstripes and bright red sleeves this other Cooper was wearing were unmistakable. It was a Cincinnati Reds uniform.

  Cooper had no doubt about when this other Cooper came to be. He was from the night Cooper decided to call it quits, the night he stopped in that crackerbox motel in Pennsylvania. This Cooper had originated from before Cooper ever laid eyes on the monster. Another piece of the puzzle dropped into place: the monster hadn’t created these doubles; it had only made it possible for Cooper to see them.

  Cooper stopped the BMW again and stared over his shoulder down the empty street where the Cooper in the Reds uniform had gone. He must have recently been called up, had made a stopover in the old neighborhood before going on to Cincinnati. Cooper put his car in drive, meaning to follow this Cooper. Then, realizing there was no need, he settled back in the seat, his turn signal flashing. Cooper knew where the other Cooper was going.

  If Cooper went to the Reds game the next night he was sure he would see himself in the bullpen, perched on the end of the bench spitting invisible sunflower seeds into the dirt. If he went to enough games he’d eventually see himself on the mound, nervous as hell, throwing major league pitches with an invisible ball as the real game carried on around him.

  The thought filled Cooper with such longing, such deep regret that it made his lottery regret seem trivial. He’d quit too soon. When he’d quit, it had seemed like he was quitting way too late. He’d stuck around six years, and never stood out, never got tagged as a prospect to watch.