Parallelities (13 page)

From the passenger seat Mitch looked across at his companion. “Seems fitting. I wonder what para cod tastes like?”

“Better than para noid, I hope.” Max gunned the engine. “Because that’s the way I’m starting to feel. Every minute, I
fear slipping without warning into a different parallel world, or having part of it fall into the one I happen to be inhabiting at the moment.” Backing up a couple of car lengths, he waited for a passing truck to clear the curve before pulling back out onto the highway.

“It’s funny.” Mitch relaxed in his seat, content to let Max do the driving. “Many’s the time I worried about being an unstable personality, when all along I was the stable one and it was the universe that was unstable.”

“Why don’t I find that a comforting notion?” Max responded sardonically.

The warm light from inside the little eat-in, take-out restaurant spilled welcomingly through the picture windows and out into the parking lot. Only a couple of other cars marred the Kabuki pattern of white stripes on black asphalt. Max regarded himself, seated comfortably in the other seat.

“Want to eat inside or in the car?”

Mitch grinned and shrugged slightly. “You know the answer to that. You should know the answer to everything, at least where you and I are concerned.”

“Then I don’t have to ask you what you want. Dinner plate with fries, ketchup unless Thousand Island dressing is available, malt vinegar for the fish, and plenty of napkins because we’re both indifferent diners.”

“Actually, I kind of wanted a steak.” Gratified by the look of uncertainty that slipped over Max’s face, Mitch hastened to
reassure him. “Just kidding. Cod and fries sounds great. You’re paying, of course.”

Max grinned back as he slid out of the car. “Of course we are. Be right back.”

The pleasant matron behind the counter took his order quietly and efficiently, waiting on him with the same courtesy she would have accorded any of the movie stars who lived in the immediate vicinity. While he was waiting for the deep fryer to perform its task of inserting cholesterol and fat into otherwise healthy fish, Max examined his surroundings. Two couples munched their way through their own beer-battered suppers, as oblivious of his presence as of the fact that he wore chaos like a diadem. It wasn’t visible, which was fortunate for his health. He was quite aware that he could be lynched as readily in this para as in his own.

Perhaps lulled by the warm evening and the onset of night, the world chose to remain stable in his eyes. No grotesque aliens sauntered in the door to place an order, no octopi jetted brazenly through the pungent air of the dining room, no condors roosted outside awaiting the next victim of arteriosclerosis-induced stroke. Everything looked, sounded, and smelled normal. The thick, odoriferous aroma of fish frying was as myrrh in his nostrils.

It was not long at all before the matron returned with his double order. He paid with a credit card. Cradling the garishly decorated, steaming cardboard boxes of fish and fries, he used
his right foot to push open the door that led to the parking lot. He was more than a little gratified to see that the Aurora was right where he had left it.

A figure was seated behind the wheel. Well, if Mitch was bored and wanted to drive the rest of the way home, that was fine with Max. He was flat worn out.

Sliding into the vacated passenger’s seat, he juggled one dinner box in his companion’s direction. “Here you go: malt vinegar and Thousand Island for the fries, just like we like ’em.”

“Just like who likes them?” a voice that was manifestly not Mitch’s demanded to know. “And how did you know that I like malt vinegar with my fish and Thousand Island with my fries?”

Max gaped at the individual seated behind the wheel. The individual stared back. It was not Mitch, but it was still him, still Max. Or rather, another Max para. There was no mistaking the similarities: in the eyes, the forehead, the hair, the mouth. But there were distinctive differences—some subtle, some less so. For one thing, he had never seen himself in full makeup before. Either he had slipped into a new para, or part of that para had slipped into him.

This time, he was a she.

I hope you slipped home safely
, he thought to the vanished Mitch.
Back to where you belong. I hope at least one of us is happy again.

“Who are you?” the young woman demanded to know. “And what the hell do you think you’re doing in my car? I was just going in to get something to eat.”

For the second time a resigned Max shoved the spare box of fish and chips in the driver’s direction. “This was for somebody else, but since you’ve taken his place I guess they’re for you. You know you’d rather eat in the car anyway.”

“As a matter of fact, I would, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with your intrusion. Now how about you move your ass out of here before I start screaming at the top of my lungs?” Her tone softened as she stared more closely at him, as if struggling to recognize a long-lost relation. “Do I know you?”

“Better than you think, lady. Better than you think.”

Her name was, unsurprisingly, Maxine, and she did not faint as he commenced his explanation—in between mouthfuls of hot cod and crispy fries. What mollified her initially was his seemingly uncanny ability to anticipate every one of her objections and questions. Besides, she was hungry too, and a free meal was a free meal. He considered asking her about the aliens but thought better of it. If, as in his own, no aliens had made contact with mankind in her reality, then any allusions to them would hardly inspire confidence in the rest of his story.

“And that’s what’s happened. Or rather, what’s happening,” he told her, concluding his tale of worlds slip-sliding and melding unpredictably.

“I never heard anything so ridiculous!” She waved a hand at him, semaphoring with a french fry. “Superficial similarities are one thing, but you can’t be me!”

“Believe me,” he sighed, “I know how confusing this must look, not to mention how utterly impossible it must sound. Me, I’m getting used to explaining the situation to other mes.” He scratched delicately behind his left ear.

She stared. “Does that spot always bother you?” He nodded. “Me, too.” Reaching out with her free hand, she let the fingers trail along the lines of his face. His reaction to her touch was—confusing.

Like her voice, her features were far softer than his, more delicate. Not that his face would ever have been mistaken for, say, that of Jack Palance.
She’s not you
, he reminded himself.
You share the same genes but the blueprint is different. Concentrate on the matter at hand. Focus.

It was difficult to do so. Dealing with Mitch had been straightforward enough. But this version of himself was really stacked.

He looked away. Though still highly dubious, she was beginning to relax a little, his presence no longer making her nervous. When he turned back to her he recognized the look in her eyes. He’d seen it in the bathroom mirror often enough, though not framed by mascara and eye shadow.

“I still think you’re crazy,” she told him, “but I also think I could get to like you.”

“Of course you like me,” he replied uneasily. “I’m you. You have to like yourself.”

“Not necessarily,” she corrected him. “I know plenty of people who don’t like themselves. Who’d punch themselves out if given the chance.”

Difficult though it was, he met her gaze. “And do you want to punch me out?”

“No. In spite of your story, I think you’re okay.” She leaned toward him slightly. “Go ahead: Convince me. Tell me more about us.”

By the time he finished reciting intimate details from their mutual childhood that no one else, not even their parents, could possibly have known, she was persuaded in spite of herself.

“Parallel worlds. Multiple realities.” She shook her head and her shoulder-length hair rustled. He’d always wondered what he’d look like with long hair. “It’s an awful lot to ask someone to accept over a take-out meal of fish and chips.”

“I’ve had to accept it. Mitch accepted it.” Reaching out the open window, he tossed his empty dinner container into a nearby trash barrel. “You might as well get used to the idea too.”

“How long does the effect last?”

“With me, I can’t say. As for the paras around me, they’ve been changing constantly. Sometimes the slips are small, like with the burglars or the bighorn sheep. Sometimes they’re major,
like with the aliens.” He eyed her appraisingly. “The para we decided to call Mitch and I found ourselves thrown together for a couple of days. Now he’s gone, and you’re here. I have to say that I wouldn’t mind being stuck with you for a while. You’re a lot prettier than Mitch.”

She did not blush or look away. Why should she?
He
never had. “You realize what you’re saying.”

“What? That I’m giving myself a compliment? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Climbing out of the car, she disposed of her own after-dinner trash, giving him the opportunity to admire the full gracefulness of her form. It was like looking at himself in a fun-house mirror.

“I thought the reality of the aliens was weird,” he told her when she returned. “This is weirder.” He checked the dashboard clock. “Don’t you think it’s about time we got home?”

She made a face. “What makes you think I’m taking you home with me?”

He gave her the address of their building, unhesitatingly describing everything from the location of bad oil stains in the parking garage to the cracked plaster in the hallway to the interior of their apartment itself. His impossibly intimate knowledge of their living arrangements overcame her hesitation, if not her lingering discomfiture at the situation.

“I guess you’re right. It is your apartment as much as it is mine.” She started the engine. Or at least, she appeared to. The car hardly made a sound as she backed it out of the
parking lot and pulled back out onto the highway. That’s when he noticed the peculiar arrangement of the instruments in the dash.

“This looks like my car,” he told her, “but the gauges are all different, and half of them are missing.” Though they were speeding along at a sedate fifty-five, the Aurora hardly made a sound. “What does it run on?”

“Run on?” She barely glanced in his direction, keeping her eyes on the dark road ahead. “It’s fully charged, if that’s what you mean.”

“Charged? It’s an electric?” The comparative silence of the speeding vehicle was uncanny.

She gave him a funny look. “All personal vehicles have been electrically powered for the last twenty-two years. Don’t tell me that in your reality you’re still using those horrible internal-combustion engines that make everyone deaf and pollute the atmosphere?”

“I’m afraid so.” He went quiet, wondering what other technological advances might define this para from his own. He found that while he did not miss the smell of gasoline, the absence of the satisfying, deep-throated rumble beneath the hood distressed a certain primitive part of him.

Night-cloaked Malibu and Santa Monica looked as familiar as always. To further vitiate his identity he took to describing every street scene and corner before they reached their building, up to and including the code that was programmed into the remote garage-door opener. It was not necessary. In
spite of herself, she was convinced. As they parked and exited the car he found himself wondering if she had a certain mole in a certain place that in her case did not exist.

While they rode up in the elevator, after both tried to push the same floor button at the same time, he slipped his arm around her waist. She jerked away, her expression a reflecttion of repulsion and curiosity.

“That’s sick!”

He did not look away. “What’s sick, Maxine?”

“Hitting on yourself.” She shook her head. “This is just too bizarre.”

“You think
you’re
having a problem with this? I’m the first para you’ve ever encountered. I’ve already had to deal with a male para of myself—an exact physical duplicate, plus aliens,
para
aliens, strange wildlife, a para Barrington Boles who doesn’t even understand what’s happened to me, para burglars, potential para dates …”

“What did the dates look like?” A look of sudden horror came over her face. “No, I didn’t say that. I’m straight.”

“Of course we are. Only, under present circumstances, what constitutes straight and what constitutes bent?”

The elevator opened and they headed up the hall. While she was by now completely persuaded, it did not hurt that his key opened the door to the apartment. It looked exactly like his, except that certain masculine appurtenances had been replaced by feminine ones.

“Coffee?” He smiled reassuringly at her. “Don’t worry. I know where everything is.”

“Coffee—yeah, sure.” She slumped down on the couch, and he could not help but notice that they had great legs. Her, not the couch. “I suppose you might as well spend the night.” She gestured resignedly. “If everything you’ve been telling me is the truth, then this is your place as much as it is mine.”

“That’s right.” The coffeemaker, he noted with relief, was right where he had left it. Unlike the Aurora, it exhibited no unfamiliar technological traits.

When the brew (his favorite Goroka-Kenya blend) was ready, he presented her with a prepared cup. Sipping delicately, she favored him with a slightly twisted smile. “One cream, two sugars. It’s perfect.”

“Of course it is.” He sipped from his own mug. “Did you think I wouldn’t know how we like it?”

She sighed heavily. “You’re on your way home from a relaxing drive up the coast and your whole world turns upside down in the parking lot of a fish-and-chips place.” She edged closer to him. He did not draw away.

“At least you’re still in your world,” he told her. “To me, this is just a para of mine, and I don’t know how to get home. Maybe you’re confused, but I’m the one that’s lost. Lost in place.” He grinned crookedly. “Where’s Doctor Smith when you need him?”

She allowed him to put his arm around her. He knew
exactly how to do it, where to let the fingers fall. When she snuggled closer she knew precisely how to do that, as well.

This is Maxine, he told himself. Another human being. Another individual, another person. It was not him, but someone else entirely. Well, maybe not entirely.