by MK Alexander
“Wait, I thought it was a chess game…”
“You must tell no one, you must say nothing to anyone from this point on.”
The shackles on my back rose when he spoke these words. Doubt, fear and paranoia overwhelmed me. I hated hearing this. Was Fynn voicing an agenda now? Was his delusion finally turning ugly?
***
We decided not to wait for Durbin’s crew and pedaled back to my apartment. Along the way, we ran across my bass-playing buddy from Fish City. Oddly, he wasn’t on his bike but pushing it, walking rather slowly along the side of the path. I thought he had a flat tire at first, or his chain had broken.
“Hey Eddie, what’s up? What brings you out here?”
“Oh, just the nice day…”
“You know Inspector Fynn, right?”
Eddie nodded.
“What, did you lose something?” I asked.
“Nah, why do you say that?”
“It just kind of seems like you’re looking for something…”
“Not really... well see you later, Jardel… Open mic next Thursday— don’t forget.” Eddie climbed back on his bike and took off.
Moments later, Partners regular Bad Billy came cruising by on his longboard, a beer can poking out of a brown paper bag. I was really hoping he wouldn’t slow down, or maybe not even recognize me, but he did. I felt obliged to stop for a moment.
“Some guy just gave me a hundred bucks to look for something.”
“What?” I asked. “A hat?”
“No, a— hey, I’m not supposed to say anything… that was part of the deal.”
“Something dangerous, or illegal?”
“Nope, nothing like that.” Bad Billy nervously rolled on the wheels of his skateboard. Evasiveness was barely in his skill set. He took a long gulp from his beer can. “He’s gonna give me a thousand bucks if I find it.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you.“
“Well, who then?”
“Who, what?”
“Who asked you?”
“I dunno. Some guy in a suit. Never seen him before...”
“What’s he looking for? A hundred bucks... must be valuable,” I persisted.
Billy gave me a grim look. “I promised not to tell.”
“Okay, sorry.” I knew when to back off.
The morning fog had completely lifted and it was turning into a gorgeous day. I ran upstairs and printed out the photos I had just taken. Fynn went off in search of a sandwich and a cup of coffee for us both. He didn’t have far to go. We met downstairs under the eaves and ate a quick lunch with hardly a word between us. The bike rental shop was now open so we walked over. I took out the clearest photo I had and showed it to Brian, the current owner of Pedal Power.
“Ever seen a bike like this?”
“Hey Garett, come here a second.” Brian showed the photo to his expert.
He looked at it for a whole three seconds and handed it back. “A nineteen seventy-seven Schwinn Collegiate, five-speed, chrome bumpers. Looks to be in mint condition. You’d probably get about twelve hundred bucks for it on e-bay.”
“But have you seen anyone riding it around?”
“Around here? No. The salt air would eat right through it. We’re talking chrome and steel, not aluminum and carbon fiber.”
“What about Hector? He used to have a bike like that,” Brian commented.
“Who, Diaz? What the fuck, that was like forty years ago...”
“Yeah well, he’s always talking about it like it was yesterday.”
“He’s just a crazy old coot.”
chapter 20
apparent arrest
It was Wednesday night. I got home pretty early and made a quick supper of fish sticks smothered in blue cheese dressing. Zachary my cat seemed to enjoy them more than me. I poured myself a root beer and walked the few steps into the big room. I immediately realized fish sticks, blue cheese and root beer were a nasty combination. My mouth protested. Maybe a glass of water would have been better. Tonight, I had to rehearse… I had now promised Murray, Eddie, Suzy and maybe Alyson, that I was going up to open mic. I was always rusty, so I always had to practice beforehand. Probably sounds dumb… rehearsing for an open mic? Dumb or not, that was the only way I could get myself up on the stage. I was not the greatest performer and suffered from what could only be called stage fright, no matter the venue. To do this I had to practice my playlist, it had to be second nature. If I had to think about it, I’d screw up for sure. A musician friend taught me what to do:
“Set up exactly like you’re on stage. Plug in your guitar and your mic. Run through your tunes. Start the song and go all the way through.”
Sounds simple and direct, but it’s not. There was one condition my friend made: “If you mess up in the middle of the song, you have to start again.”
“From the beginning?”
“From the beginning,” he told me.
It was harder than it seemed, but it worked. Once you could make it through that song without a mistake it was on its way to being second nature. That’s the mystery of music. At least for me. It was so temporal, so much in the moment, the flux of now, Fynn would say. And the contradiction lay there. Despite the fact that it had to be second nature, every time you played it live, it was slightly different. Only that second nature thing, that ability to play it without thinking, made it work. Only then could I pour my heart and soul into it. Second nature was the vessel that held all those immediate feelings. Music is such a weird art form...
To spare my few neighbors, and at this time of year, there were very few, that is to say none, I donned a set of headphones and started playing. Not long afterwards, my microphone picked up an odd sound… I recognized it but thought it was part of the song or maybe some feedback. It was after all, the very musical sound of my wrought iron staircase echoing as someone came trudging up. I wasn’t expecting visitors. Then I heard something tapping on the sliders. Something metallic maybe… I shut down the amp, took off my headphones and walked over. Behind the door was Inspector Finn. He was grinning broadly and holding up a bottle of something. I let him in with some reluctance. I regretted that he now knew where I lived.
“I am not disturbing, I hope?” he asked in the friendliest of tones.
“No, not really. Come on in.”
“Thank you. I’ve brought you a present.” He held up the bottle. “It’s a decent twelve year old.” He grinned again and glanced around the apartment.
“I don’t usually drink scotch… but hey, what the hell.”
“Good, good, we’ll go easy on it.” Fynn popped his head into the living room and took a quick look around. “I find it odd that you have no television, Patrick… certainly a pillar of our civilization.” He returned to the kitchen. “And I have no cell phone… another pillar of the modern era…. and yet, things still stand for us both.” He smiled. “Do you have glasses?”
I rummaged through the cabinets searching in vain for matching ones. I found two old jelly jars with The Flintstones etched on them. I was pretty sure they were meant to drink from. “How did you get here?”
“Detective Durbin gave me a ride. We have a very important matter to discuss.”
“What?” I asked as we sat at the kitchen table.
“Why Roxy of course.” Fynn poured out a small measure in each jar and started to sip. “What’s to become of him?”
“Are you kidding?”
Apparently he wasn’t. We had something of an argument about who should take Roxy, as in, adopt him.
“Me? I am staying at a hotel,” the inspector dismissed the idea outright.
“They take dogs in the off season.”
“No, he should be your responsibility.”
“My responsibility? Why is that?”
“He is in your timeline now.”
“Wait… in my apartment? What about my cat?”
“What cat?”
“Zachary.”
“I don�
��t recall you having a cat, much less one named Zachary.”
“He’s around someplace… Listen Fynn, you brought the dog here. Can’t you take him back or something?”
“Impossible. What happens in the past changes the future.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
He smiled. “Yes, and this is the real reason I’ve come tonight.”
“What’s that?” I asked warily and took a sip. The alcohol burned its way down my throat but left a sort of pleasant aftertaste.
“Well, timelines as you call them.”
“As I call them?”
“It is a terrible word, timeline. It is in reality a twisted, torturous path that winds about and zigzags from here to there relentlessly. To call it a line, hardly does it justice.”
“What then?”
“Any word I use is inadequate: parallel lives, alternate realities, quantum exclusions… they are merely a descriptive convenience, not a full measure of reality. This is something you need to understand at this point.”
“Heady stuff and strong drink. I’m not so sure that’s a good combination. I’ll probably forget everything you’re going to say by tomorrow.”
Fynn laughed. “Perhaps, but this has been on my mind since we ate the broccoli chicken.”
“Since when?”
“That day in the restaurant. You began to wonder why should any of this matter… and rightly so. If one timeline is as equally valid as any other, nothing I do should matter. I should not be bothered that my wife has been murdered and my daughter Anika is gone… not if they are alive and well in a parallel world.”
“Well yeah, I sort of remember that. No big deal…”
“Ah, but it is. I need to clear up this misconception of yours.” He paused as if waiting for a response, but I had nothing to say. I took another sip. “Tonight I must tell you there is only one timeline. This is important.” Fynn smiled and belted back the rest of his drink. “My fourth rule of travel: There is only one timeline, the one you experience.”
I thought for a moment. “One timeline? I can remember two. One with two murders, and one without. That makes two.”
“Yes, it would seem so, but this is an illusion. What you recall are the differences between these realities… and I hasten to add, this in itself is quite extraordinary.” He poured another glass. “Yet there is only one timeline to remember, because only one timeline exists. It is always the one you live through.”
“I’m confused already.”
Fynn laughed again. “The very word timeline is just for the sake of utility. This is a convenience of words, a way to keep track of awareness… Quite simply, while you can be aware of many timelines, remember them even, you can only live through one. This is the only valid timeline. The others are only illusions.”
“It sure feels like two timelines to me.”
“In reality, you are aware of the first two murders and of me fixing them, yes?”
“I guess…”
“This is one timeline. Both these events occurred, these two unfortunate deaths and the restoration of their lives. Both these things happened and hence, it is a single timeline. Surely you cannot say you haven’t experienced both these events?”
“Well, that’s still a little hard for me to say.” I considered further. “From the perspective of Clara or Debbie, either they are dead or they are not.”
“I agree with that. But again, they are only aware of one state of being, not both.” Fynn took a sip of scotch. “Like Schrödinger’s Cat.”
“Whose cat?”
“Surely you know of Schrödinger’s Cat?”
“Can’t say I do.” I took another sip as well. “But you and I are aware of all three of these murders.”
“Yes. This is the single timeline which we both experienced.”
“Wait, is this like a tree falling in a forest that makes no sound?”
“Well, it is about awareness.” Fynn paused. I didn’t guess that he was going to change the subject. “And how is your current life faring?”
“Huh?”
“Are you noticing any subtle differences, odd circumstances?”
“Not really,” I said defensively, but gave it a little more thought. I decided not to say anything about Jo-Anne or Lucinda. “There are the library books…”
“Library books?”
“I don’t remember taking them out, but they were overdue.”
“Most curious. Are they here in your apartment?”
“Not that I can find…”
“And have you decided to move to Colorado then?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought you had a job offer? A newspaper in Colorado.”
“Not that I know of.”
Just at that moment the telephone rang. The land line. Fynn looked at me and grabbed my arm before I could get up to answer it. The ringing persisted.
“Remember, Patrick, your present is only determined by the choice you make. You can be aware of many choices but you can only act on one of them,” he said, and it seemed to be a caution.
“Mr Jardel? Hi… my name is Cindy Ramirez from the Boulder Broadsheet… you sent us your résumé a couple of months ago. I apologize it’s taken so long to get back to you… well, I’m calling tonight to tell you we have an opening for a staff editor. Would you still be interested in the position?”
I was taken aback, almost speechless. résumé? Had I sent out my résumé? Really? I tried to remember… Something about Jason putting it online… it all seemed vague to me.
“Sorry, wrong number,” I said. It was the only thing I could think of at the moment.
I sat back down, dumbfounded, and took another sip from my jar. I could feel my reality caving in on either side.
Fynn continued where he’d left off: “I’ll insist that there can only be one timeline. There are not multiple realities— only one, the one you are conscious of, in the immediacy of the now.”
“But you yourself said that you’re conscious of many timelines. All the places you’ve traveled to, traveled from... the past lives, the future.”
“They are all the same timeline, the one I live through. Don’t mistake my ability to recall all these moments of the present with the notion that there is more than one.”
“I’m definitely not getting this.”
“It’s very difficult to explain with words,” Fynn said patiently.
“What about the telephone?” I asked. “On the swamp trail you said, Elisha Gray invented the phone and not Alexander Graham Bell. That’s two timelines, two very different timelines.”
“Not exactly. If I recall, I merely asked you who invented the telephone.”
“Well, it was Bell, not Gray. In your timeline it was Gray. In mine, it’s Bell. There, two timelines.”
He sighed, slightly exasperated it seemed. “This is indeed difficult to explain, I’ll grant you that… Here, give me a pencil and a scrap of paper.”
These things were easy enough to find in my kitchen. Fynn ripped the paper in two, then scribbled something on each scrap. He folded each one neatly and placed them both on the table. “Now, if I am to tell you that on these pieces of paper I wrote the real name of the man who invented the telephone, but you could only pick one, how would you know if you were correct?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go ahead, choose one.”
I did and unfolded the paper. It said Alexander Graham Bell. I felt completely vindicated.
“Alright, let’s do it again.” He refolded the paper and put it back exactly where it was. “Choose again.”
This was obviously some sort of trick. I thought for a moment what to do. Choose the same paper? I knew what was written on it. Or choose the other? He probably wrote Gray’s name on it, or maybe Bell is on both, or maybe he wrote some outrageous name just to be a prankster. My hand hesitated, hovering over each scrap, then it dove to the familiar one. I picked up the piece of paper I had moments ago.
“Unfold it and read it please.”
“Elisha Gray. That’s impossible. What’s this, a magic trick, sleight of hand?”
“Have you an encyclopedia?”
“What?”
“I want to look something up,” Fynn said and smiled slightly.
“There’s Wiki.” I grabbed my laptop and did a quick search for the inventor of the telephone. I clicked on the link and it brought me to a long biographical page on Elisha Gray, inventor of the telephone. I sat back in my chair. I was in utter shock. My world was shattered.
“This may seem like a surprise to you, but it is only because of your own extraordinary memory… We all zig zag between different versions of history, various presents, and yet I will assure you, there is only one timeline.”
“Well which one is it— Gray or Bell?”
“Only the one you are aware of.”
“I seem to be aware of both now.”
“Exactly, you have lived through them both, so this is your one timeline.”
“All that happened way before I was born.”
“As you say.”
“Doesn’t that mean something?”
“If the past were fixed, I would say yes.”
“Fixed? As in repaired?”
“No, as in constant, never changing.”
“It is like that already. The past never changes.”
“I think I’ve shown otherwise… though, I will agree for most people the past seems immutable. Yet, this is completely dependent on memory and awareness.”
“I probably drank too much. Did we just travel in time?”
“Not at all. You merely changed your own awareness for a moment.”
I was pretty much speechless. Finally I mustered a question, “So which timeline am I living in?”
“I will say again, only the one you experience. Your memory may shift, and you might call this a kind of traveling, but it’s more like a sidestep. As you can plainly see, timeline is a woefully inadequate word. It is an unresolvable paradox. It seems clear enough that whoever invented the telephone had no effect on your life personally.”
I tried to take this all in. “Okay, if there’s only one timeline, then maybe there’s more than one me.”
