by Paul Jenkins
* * *
THOUGH HE was quite good at walking—not to mention an expert at trudging—Wil could not quite decide how to take the next step. He decided to wander aimlessly for a little while, just to see where the mood might take him. And he made sure to let his mind wander in the opposite direction to the flow of traffic nearby.
Wil crossed the street to a little convenience store where Mrs. Chappell habitually bought kitty nuggets for Chalky and the gang. Much to Wil’s surprise, he discovered a large sum of money deposited into his bank account when he used the store’s rattly old ATM machine, just as Mr. Dinsdale had promised. Slightly taken aback by this turn of events, he perused the flu and cold section for a few minutes before setting out against the flow of traffic with the wooden box under his arm and a packet of lemon-flavored headache pills in his pocket, right next to his lucky penny. If he strained his ears, he could hear klongging coming from a long way in the distance. The Swiss clock almost sounded forlorn, as though it missed the chance to ruin Wednesday before it had even started. Somehow, somewhere, the world seemed to be slowly slipping sideways. But as the universe repositioned, Wil was happy to note that things were looking brighter. He had a date with a rather gorgeous girl, and Mr. Dinsdale had put money in his bank account. It was as if someone had replaced the city he knew with a freshly painted movie set.
Wil sat in the town library for the next hour and dutifully paid off a few bills while he tried to think of a concrete plan for what he might say to Mr. Dinsdale when he saw him. He supposed he might just walk into the museum, unannounced, hold up the box he had found inside Lucy’s Magic Locker, and declare loudly, “I’ve found it!” But he knew he stood as much chance of pulling this off as a gazelle might stand of pulling off the nose of the crocodile currently tearing at its vital organs. A concrete plan it may be, but Wil was finding the concrete a bit wet and tricky to navigate.
He leafed through some books on the subject of boxes and museums, and one spectacularly dull book about a museum dedicated to boxes. The librarian—who Wil felt held a passing resemblance to a hunchbacked gnome—offered no help whatsoever. The little woman threw him a couple of funny looks when he asked her about Albert Einstein’s writings on the subject of levity and suggested he go home and research it on his computer since the library’s machines were all down for maintenance.
All of this research and bewilderment had Wil feeling a lot like a fisherman standing outside a shark tank: he knew at some point he was going to have to jump in and experience a few bites, but he wasn’t sure what kind of bites they were going to be. There was only one thing for it, he decided. If Wednesday was going to make any kind of sense, then he was going to have to do something drastic.
Going by the assumption that he was going to text Lucy, Wil was going to have to buy himself a cell phone.
* * *
NEAR THE library was an electronics store that had been given the moniker Jibber Jabber for reasons that Wil could only guess at. He had always ignored the neon-spattered monstrosity because (a) judging by the random numbers on display in the front window, it was far too expensive for him, and (b) all of the clerks reminded him of teenagers who had graduated from Mug O’ Joe’s and had come here to annoy a more affluent class of customer. To Wil, cell phones and tablets were a little like mobsters and Eskimos: they didn’t seem real until they were either fitting you with cement shoes or handing you a freshly caught salmon. Today, however, was the day that Wil Morgan would finally catch up to the other inhabitants of this century.
After spending a minute or two browsing the storefront window display pretending he was going to buy something, he headed inside with the firm intention of doing just that.
At the counter, an indifferent young man regarded him with mild disinterest. “Can I help you?” asked the clerk in such a way as to make it clear he thought Wil was beyond help.
“Yes,” said Wil. “I’d like to buy a cell phone, please.”
“Any particular plan in mind?”
“Well, I was going to text someone, then call my dad, and then probably just use it to keep in touch with people if they needed me—”
“What kind of calling plan?”
“Oh.”
This was going to be a bit more difficult than Wil had foreseen. He had no idea there were actual plans for this sort of thing. But he wasn’t going down without at least the illusion of throwing a punch. “What kind of plan would suit the stuff I just told you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
The clerk also narrowed his eyes and readied himself for a fight he already knew he was going to win. Now, it was just a question of how much money he could persuade Wil to part with, and whether or not Wil was aware that he was about to sign two years of his life away.
Wil followed the clerk to a nearby counter, where he was introduced to a number of flashy-looking “smart” phones, all of which emitted interesting beeps and clacks and whirs, or demonstrated the ability to light up like a Christmas tree in the event of an incoming call.
“This one here,” said the clerk, fondling a phone whose screen was roughly the size of a woman’s purse, “is pretty much the latest in phone technology: you’ve got your touch screen, instant messaging, facial recognition software … and you can get the weather and stock market reports from over three hundred countries.”
Wil eyed the thing suspiciously. Unless he was mistaken, there were not three hundred countries in the entire world. And even if there were, he felt less than compelled to stay informed on the financial maneuverings of the tiny municipality of San Marino.
“Do you have anything less ostentatious?” he asked. “Preferably not something you can see from space.”
“They’re all pretty much the same, sir. Neon underlighting is really in style right now.”
“Yes but it’ll be out of style by the time I get to the end of the street. How about something more functional?”
“What about this one?” The clerk held up a pair of sunglasses that glowed with a bluish tint and seemed to make a faint humming sound. “These are the latest in wearable computing. If you’re into augmented reality apps, these will help you see the world in a different way.“
“I’ve been having a lot of trouble with that lately,” said Wil. “I realize smartphones are all the rage, but I think I’d do better with one that’s just above-average intelligence.”
“I think you’re missing the point.”
“I think I’m not alone in that. Honestly, I’d really like a simple calling plan that doesn’t require a degree in astrophysics.”
“Choosing a plan is up to you, sir,” replied the clerk in a sinister tone. “We’re not allowed to suggest one carrier over the other. Company policy.”
Wil looked at the array of phones and calling plans. They seemed to take up an entire wall of the store. He gulped. Everyday life had become very complicated while he wasn’t looking. Perhaps, he thought, cell phones were not meant for him. But he shook off this momentary feeling of insecurity and dug his heels into Jibber Jabber’s industrial vomit-colored carpet. According to recent reports, at least seventy percent of the world’s population currently owned one of these devices. Wil was adamant that some South Sea tribesman or other was not going to be able to check the weather and traffic reports in Barcelona while he remained clueless. Besides, he had a pretty girl to impress.
“What about this one?” he asked, picking up a solid and compact model that looked more like the kinds of cell phone he had seen on TV.
The clerk sniffed disdainfully. “They’re phasing that model out, sir. That’s a Lemon. You really don’t want that one.”
This was exactly the kind of statement that tended to have the opposite effect on a man like Wil Morgan. “Why, what’s wrong with it?” Wil asked, deciding at that very moment that this was, indeed, the one he wanted.
“It’s the operating system. Lemon went bankrupt. They had a lot of problems with SARA.”
“Who’s Sara?”
Th
e clerk sighed and rolled his eyes in such a way as to make it clear this moment was the lowest point of his career in telephone sales. “SARA is the interface—it stands for Software Assisted Research Application. The manufacturer developed the voice recognition software but it was obsoleted after Lemoncorp went bust so they never fixed all of the bugs. It’s problematic.”
Wil squinted a little to read the fine print on the side of the box, which was emblazoned with the manufacturer’s logo in the shape of a lemon. If he was not mistaken, the phone possessed its own little internal computer named SARA, which Wil had seen on a television ad conspicuously devoid of any connection to Marcus James. The ads had been pretty impressive, and he recalled that SARA would act like a kind of computerized companion who could guide one to the nearest train station or predict the next three days of weather and remind you to take an umbrella with you. And the price—albeit slightly more than he might have liked—was not to be sneezed at. No matter the manufacturer’s unfortunate choice of company logo, this phone was going to be his.
Wil fixed the clerk with a firm gaze, which he had practiced often during his interactions at Mug O’ Joe’s.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
And abruptly sneezed.
* * *
TEN MINUTES later, Wil emerged from the electronics store under the withering gaze of a very annoyed sales clerk. He was now the proud owner of a pay-as-you-talk cell phone plan, a bright and shiny new Lemon phone named SARA, and absolutely no clue whatsoever how to operate the thing. He’d succeeded in entering his personal information into the phone’s Welcome screen but navigating the Internet on such a tiny device seemed fraught with peril; Wil managed to put the word “levity” into a search engine, only to be given the location of five local comedy clubs and a hairdresser of the same name. Curious name for a hairdresser, he thought. But he’d given the operating manual a quick once-over and this seemed like as good a time as any to try his luck with SARA. He pressed a small button on the side of the phone and called slightly too loudly into the microphone:
“Hello, SARA. Could you tell me the location of the nearest coffee shop, please?”
“There are three coffee shops within walking distance, Wil Morgan,” replied SARA in a slightly mangled, metallic tone. “Would you like me to call one for you?”
“No thank you,” replied Wil politely. “I’d just like walking directions to the nearest one, please.”
“Please proceed north to the first intersection and turn left,” replied SARA efficiently. And to provide Wil with all the help he needed, a little green arrow suddenly appeared on the screen of his phone, pointing the way ahead.
“Why thank you, SARA,” said Wil as he moved cheerily in the direction highlighted by the little green arrow. “This is the first articulate conversation I’ve had all day—”
“In ten yards, turn left.”
“Right. Got it—”
“In five yards, turn left.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time—”
“Turn left. Klonnngg!”
Wil began to sense a potential problem with SARA’s operating system, and he briefly imagined a legion of Lemoncorp’s senior management being led out to the parking lot on the fateful day their stock tanked. In his mind’s eye, thousands of angry Lemon customers—all covered with bruises—brandished demonstration placards at the entrance to Lemon headquarters.
“Proceed fifteen meters west,” demanded SARA, interrupting Wil’s reverie.
Wil obliged and headed in that direction at a slightly elevated pace. For some reason, he found he was becoming unnerved by SARA’s shrill metal instructions. Best not to upset her, he reasoned. At least not until they’d become used to each other’s company.
“At the earliest opportunity make a legal U-turn.”
Wil stopped in his tracks, confused.
“Waitaminnit … which way am I going?”
“Please proceed east along the highlighted route,” replied SARA with a tone that Wil took for an air of robotic sarcasm.
“So what you actually meant to say back there at the intersection was ‘turn right’?” he asked, incredulous.
“I’m sorry, Wil Morgan,” replied SARA, innocently. “Please rephrase the question.”
“Which way am I supposed to go?”
“Would you like me to look up ‘which way am I supposed to go’ on the Internet?”
“No, I’d like you to shut up now.”
“Dialing voice mail,” warbled SARA, blissfully. Wil reached down and switched off the SARA function. He was going to have to find a coffee shop the old-fashioned way: namely, by looking with his eyes.
* * *
ROUGHLY THIRTY minutes later, Wil found himself standing at the counter of Mug O’ Joe’s staring helplessly at the chalkboard and realizing he was already out of ideas. No matter his intention to explore the city and find a better candidate for Mr. Dinsdale’s box of Levity, he’d gone around in a big circle and found himself in exactly the place he always found himself on any given Wednesday. His Lemon phone—much like his day so far—had proven too much for him to handle. Wil felt like a nun at a fashion show: he was clearly out of his comfort zone, and would probably be better off sticking to his usual habits. The wooden box tucked neatly under his arm next to his prized Tesla Kit would have to suffice, at least for a first attempt. Wil desperately needed a reason to get back inside the museum so that he could scratch the mental itch he’d been afflicted with ever since his visit to Lucy’s Magic Locker. He wondered how he might respond to Mr. Dinsdale if the elderly curator pointed out that the cruddy old box he’d found seemed to have originated in Taiwan. But he had to know: was there some kind of bizarre temporal anomaly that connected Lucy to the museum?
Once again, thoughts of the museum on Upside-Down Street had Wil’s mind going this way and that. He decided to forego his usual argument with today’s teenaged barista, and opted instead for a healthy dose of corporate vernacular and whatever hot drink the teenager chose for him. He was pleasantly surprised to find the drink rather tasty, though he had no idea what it was, nor did he have the inclination to ask. Unless he missed his guess, it was flavored with nutmeg, which brought about warm thoughts of hot apple cider on cold autumn days. Wil shook off the daydream, and drew a massive swig of his caffeinated latte something-or-other. He wished it contained a significant helping of something alcoholic, for he was about to need an awful lot of courage.
Outside the coffee shop, Wil stared for a minute or two at Lucy’s business card, upon which was written her cell phone number in cutesy, girlish handwriting. Lucy had dotted the i in her last name with a little heart. Wil hadn’t the faintest idea how to begin texting—he barely had a clue how to dial the number she had given. What if it was a fake number or—even worse—what if Lucy answered? Wil was struck by the awful notion that Lucy would see him for who he really was: a fraud who investigated fraud for a living. And not much of a living at that. He sighed, knowing he was already in far too deep.
Wil studied the Lemon phone’s screen, completely clueless as to how to bring up the dialing function. For the next three minutes he managed to check the stock reports in Nicaragua, look up “telephones throughout history” on the Internet, and accidentally join two social network sites without actually wanting to. There was no choice, he realized. He was going to have to elicit SARA’s help. He found a quiet place in a nearby alley, held his breath for a moment, and switched on the computer interface.
Silence. Wil waited for SARA to start the conversation. For her part, SARA waited for Wil to make himself look foolish. She didn’t have long to wait.
“Hello?” said Wil, anxiously. “Is anybody there?”
“Hello, Wil Morgan,” replied SARA with a calculated lag designed to unnerve a professional boxer. “You have been absent from this interface for approximately fifty-three minutes. Would you like an updated weather report?”
Judging by the slightly aggressive metallic tone, Wil surmised
SARA was still annoyed with him as a result of their first encounter. “I’d like to dial a number, please,” he stated, flatly. Best to act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Searching address book database,” replied the demonic interface. “You have zero friends.”
“Yes. Thank you for that observation,” replied Wil, slightly aggrieved by the actual truth behind the statement. In his seven years in the city, Wil’s closest friend was currently Mr. Whatley, the Castle Towers superintendent. “As difficult as this may be for a smartphone to accept,” he continued, “I’d like to dial a telephone number. So let’s just get about our business and make a phone call, shall we?”
“Would you like to make a phone call?” asked SARA, innocently.
“Yes, I’d like to make a phone call. I’d like to see the telephone dialing function on my Lemon phone. And please don’t show me the stock reports from Monaco.”
SARA brought up the stock reports from Monaco, just to be a wiseass.
“Look,” said Wil, “I’m not going to play games with you, SARA. I want to make a phone call—”
A computerized game of card solitaire appeared on Wil’s Lemon phone screen. Wil gave his phone a dangerous look. “Now cut it out! Just bring me the dialing function!”
No response. SARA was apparently also in a dangerous frame of mind.
“I want to dial a telephone number!” yelled Wil. At this point, he was beginning to lose reason. And to think he had only been a Lemon owner for less than one hour. He wondered if this was a world record for the shortest amount of time a new telephone owner might possess their phone before wanting to crush it under a steamroller, then decided he was probably a record holder for the Lemon phone owner who’d held out the longest. “Phone call!” he bellowed. “Telephone! TELL-EE-PHONE! I swear I’m going to punch you—”
