Parallelities (18 page)

That’s why he was surprised when the nude older man spoke to him. It was not the smiling senior citizen’s buck-naked corpus that startled him. He was no more nude than Max himself. No, he was disconcerted because the oldster was not only looking directly at him, but also speaking to him. There was no mistaking it. Then he thought about it, his focus seemed to unpuddle, and he saw why, and understood.

The old man was a ghost, too.

“What happened to you, son?” The oldster’s voice was appropriately ethereal and slightly shaky.

“I—I guess I died. I just watched a news report that informed me I was shot in a bungled drug deal.”

The elder ghost shook his head sadly. “Bad business, that drug nonsense.” He gazed wistfully inland. “I remember when this was a pleasant city to live in. Civilized, you know. People were nice to each other, even if everyone didn’t have a house in the suburbs and a pool and two cars. That’s because they expected to, someday.” He returned his attention to the spectral Max.

“Lower expectations invariably lead to higher crime rates.”

“But I wasn’t there,” Max tried to explain. “What I mean is, I wasn’t there in this world. The real me didn’t die.”

The old ghost made clucking sounds with his tongue and shook his head knowingly. “That’s what they all say.”

“It’s true!” Max found that no matter how loudly he strove to shout, the level of his speaking voice never changed. Death, he thought glumly. The ultimate censor. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand even if I took the time to try and explain it to you. I don’t really understand it myself.” He looked up the beach. “I would’ve thought there’d be more of you.” He could not bring himself to say “us.”

The old man sniffed and rubbed his nose. It was bulbous
and slightly warty. Despite the fact that he had clearly reached a ripe old age before passing on, he was in comparatively good shape, especially for one of the deceased.

“You are new to this business, aren’t you, son?”

Max smiled wryly. “I haven’t been dead for very long, if that’s what you mean.”

“Rookie. It shows. This is Limbo, son. The place where ghosts reside.”

“I thought it was Santa Monica,” Max joked. Nervously, he looked around for the ghost of himself that had died in the shoot-out at the club, but did not see him. Perhaps the shade of his shade was walking another section of beach.

The oldster did not crack a smile.

“Only those who die violently or unexpectedly or both, unsettled in mind and spirit, spend time here as ghosts. Those who perish of natural causes or with peace in their hearts pass on to the next level. Whatever that is. No ghost has ever returned to tell about it. But we know it’s there.”

Max was curious in spite of himself. “If no one’s ever come back to elucidate, then how do you know there is a next level?”

The old man let out a sepulchral snort. “For the obvious reason that when ghosts disappear, they have to go somewhere.” Raising a hand, he pointed out to sea. “There’s Charlie. Hey, Charlie! Got a rookie here!” Out among the waves, a middle-aged male shadow body-surfed alongside healthy young board surfers oblivious of his presence.

“That’s Charlie,” the oldster added redundantly. “Got smacked upside the head with a board driven full force by a ten-foot wave. Bad juxtaposition of bone and fiberglass. He’s been body-surfing ever since.”

Max watched the other ghost’s oceanic antics. “Doesn’t sound like such a bad way to spend a piece of eternity to me.”

The old man maintained his solemn expression. “He can’t feel the water. It’s kind of like making love to a shadow. Which you may also have the opportunity to do, depending on the length of your stay here.”

“I’m not staying here.” Max was firmer in his resolve than in his confidence. “I’ll be moving on, to another parallel world. One in which I’ll be alive. You can bet on it.” He turned away. “Not that I much care anymore.”

The senior eyed him speculatively. “Well now, that’s certainly a different take on things. Parallel worlds, eh? And you reckon that in one of these so-called parallel worlds you’re still alive, is that it?”

“In all of them. Or,” Max corrected himself, “in most of them. That’s been the case so far, anyway.”

“Interesting. So tell me: You think that maybe I might still be alive in one or more of these parallel worlds, too?”

“It’s possible,” Max told him, without having a clue as to whether it was really possible or not.

His sage beach companion sighed profoundly. “I’d like to think it so. The attractions of Limbo wear thin in a hurry. It’s temporary temporal immortality without any of the pleasures
of reality. Scientist fella told me that, once. Course, he was dead, too.” The oldster tapped his chest with an open palm. The expected hollow sound was absent. “Something about working with solid fuels. The experiment produced plenty of push. Unfortunately for him, a fair bit of it pushed right into his chest.”

“What about you?” Max thought to ask. “How did you die?”

“It’s not really considered polite to ask, son—but I reckon that since you’re new, I can overlook it this time around. Besides, ghosts don’t have a lot to talk about.” He shrugged. “I got knocked down and mugged near the corner of Bundy and Pico. Right outside Nu-Way Chili Dogs. Not far from here.”

“And that’s what killed you?”

“Hell, no! I got up and chased the punk. In my day, people didn’t get away with shit like that. Fifty pedestrians would’ve jumped him. But like I’ve been saying, times have changed. It was left up to me.

“So I ran the little prick down, I did. Been running marathons all my life, to keep in shape. Cornered the little bastard behind a furniture repair shop. That’s when I saw he couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Tired and sweaty and scared, he was. So I told him we’d forget it, and let’s talk.”

Max nodded thoughtfully. “How did he respond to that?”

“Shot me four times, the little bugger.” The oldster tapped his torso. “Here and here, here, and here. Don’t remember if I said anything after that. Don’t even remember if I was angry, or sad, or a little bit mad. But I sure was dead.” For the second
time he sighed heavily. “Don’t really matter. I was seventy-eight. Probably could’ve broke ninety, but it don’t really matter. What matters is that poor, sorry-ass, gonna-die-before-he’s-twenty kid, and the fact that I can’t help him now.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching the surfers and the gulls, the joggers and the sunbathers, chatting amiably about the absent inconsequentialities of life and remarking on the shocking indifference with which the living treated it. After a while, two young couples came walking down the beach toward them. They halted, expressions of supreme confusion on their attractive faces. The men were twins and the women likewise.

Seeing double again
, Max thought. Except that he was dead, and the old man he had been talking with was dead, and with the sun and scenery shining through them, both of these unhappy couples were most assuredly dead.

“Maybe you can help us,” one of the youthfully demised inquired hopefully. “We seem to have something of a problem here.”

“I’ll say you do.” Somehow Max was not surprised. But then, at this point there was very little that was capable of surprising him. “When did you die?” he asked the nearest of the two couples.

The pair exchanged a limpid glance. “Nine-twenty this morning,” the young woman replied softly. “I know because I remember checking the watch on the arm of my body as they were loading it into the ambulance.”

Max turned to the other couple. “And you?”

“Nine-twenty-one,” the man replied firmly as he glared at his double.

The reporter turned to the old man, who was looking on curiously. “See? It’s just like I was telling you.” He gestured at the couple on his left. “Sir, madam—meet your paras. Para ghosts, that is.”

Apparently, he told himself resignedly, even ghosts could have paras. They never would have met, of course, if he did not transport the effect of the Boles Field with him wherever he went. The revelation opened up an entirely new field for metaphysical speculation.

One that his overloaded psyche wanted nothing to do with.

“I
don’t understand.” The pale young woman on his right was very pretty, Max decided. She must have made a beautiful corpse.

Teenagers cavorted in paroxysms of aimless delight while adults looked on tolerantly. Gulls swooped and snapped at errant french fries that tumbled like the softened feathers of Icarus from young fingers held too close to the sun. California girls sleek as the blond sea lions of south Australia strutted the boundary between sea, sky, and sand, inviting ogles and comparisons. In the midst of all this life, six ghosts discussed the transitory nature of life and existence.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Max began.

His elderly companion chipped in. “He’s been trying to educate me about it, and it still don’t make a whole lot of sense.”

“In the real world, in my world,” Max told them, “an amateur scientist invented a machine that generates a field that allows whoever is caught within that field to move between parallel worlds. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to turn it off, or negate the effects. This field travels with me, or maybe I travel within it as it moves around. I’m not sure which. All I know is that I’ve been jumping between parallel worlds faster than a politician switches their stance on entitlement cutbacks.

“At first I thought it was going to drive me crazy. Since I’m not crazy yet, I guess that’s not going to happen.” He offered a crooked smile. “I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer it that way.” He indicated the seething, crowded beach scene.

“In this para, I’m dead, and a ghost. So is my friend here. So are you. But in your case, the Boles Field has snapped you into a para with me in which your para selves have also died. That’s why there are two sets of you. One comprised of the real ghosts, the other of para ghosts. That’s not to say that you’re not both real. Or equally unreal. You are. You’re just paras of each other.”

The skeptical young man on the left looked at his diffident companion, then back at Max. “You’re wrong. You are crazy.”

Max smiled tolerantly. “Like I’m really going to accept an opinion on the matter from a ghost. Were you a psychiatrist when you were alive?”

“No.” The youth’s expression fell. “I drove a truck. Delivered snacks and sundries to convenience stores. But I had
hopes. High hopes.” He hugged his downcast companion. “We’d been married three weeks.”

“That’s right,” agreed his male para. “Eighteen-wheeler on the Marina Freeway had a double blowout right in front of our car. It rolled, and we piled right into it.”

The old man nodded understandingly. “You’re lucky. You died before you had to see what you looked like at the time of death. There are some stragglers wandering around this city who weren’t so lucky.” He made a face. “They’re convalescent—all ghosts are—but they’re not real pretty to look at. Ambulatory ectoplasm can exist in some mighty strange shapes.”

“We don’t want to be dead.” The young woman on the left eyed her perfect double uncertainly. “We were just starting our lives together. We had everything to look forward to.”

“Sorry,” the oldster informed them. “You have my sympathies, for whatever good the sympathies of the deceased may be. Bad luck.”

Her husband stared at his duplicate. “If we really are more or less the same person, at least we’ll all have someone to talk to while we’re stuck here.”

“That’s right,” his counterpart readily agreed. It’s hard to spin-doctor death, but the young truck driver was trying his best. “I never did double-date while I was alive. It’s strange to think that we’re doing it now that we’re dead.”

Feeling a little better about themselves, the two couples resumed their walk down the beach, chatting animatedly, enjoying
the scenery if not their situation. Occasionally, a child or two would run through them, pause as if encountering a strange smell, and then resume whatever play activity they had been engaged in. Children seemed more sensitive than adults to the presence of the departed, Max noted absently.

“This para provides the basis for some interesting speculation.”

“How so, young fella?” The oldster watched a sand flea dig itself a hole at his feet. Under his right foot, to be exact.

“If ghosts exist, and they self-evidently do, and there are such things as para ghosts spending time in Limbo, does that mean there is a Heaven and a Hell? And if so, are there para Heavens and para Hells that likewise differ slightly from one another? Is there a para God, or just one Supreme Being who rules over not only the Universe, but an infinite number of para Universes? If so, can these hypothetical para Gods communicate with one another? After all, if they’re all-powerful, they ought to be able to regulate a simple thing like the Boles Effect. Or are they unaware of one another’s presence? Is there a higher authority or law governing how even God can exist that prevents him from moving between paras, or even knowing of their multiple existence?”

The oldster looked away to study the sea. “Give it a rest, young fella. My head’s starting to hurt tryin’ to follow you.”

Max moved to stand next to him. Foam-flecked water rushed through their ankles. “How do you think mine feels?
Sometimes I really think it would be better if I just did go mad.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, young fella.” The old man smiled up at him. “You’re already dead, so your situation can’t get any worse.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through so far,” Max told him. “Compared to some of it, being deceased isn’t such a bad deal.” He stared, then nodded up the beach. “Here comes a perfect example of what I’m talking about right now.”

There were three sets of the aliens, all matching precisely, all chattering away in their click-cluck tongue. Three sets, and all of them as insubstantial as the two men who stood conversing on the sand.

“Now that’s a new one on me,” the oldster confessed. “What the devil are they?”

“Aliens,” Max explained.

The senior shook his head slowly as he tracked their approach. “Heard about aliens all my life. Didn’t think they existed. Certainly never expected to see one, much less half a dozen. And a bunch of ’em matching up.”

“It’s the Boles Effect.” Looking down, Max watched fingerlings swim between his toes. Also through his toes. “There are para worlds where the aliens have landed and made contact with us. Not only made contact, but established formal relations. In one para they operate a big spaceport up in the hills above Malibu.”

The oldster let out a derisive snort. “Folks up that way been seeing aliens for years.”

“I know, but this isn’t Hollywood hokum. In at least that one para, and probably others, they’re really here. Pretty decent folks, actually. At least, the ones I met were.”

He nodded at the approaching figures. They wore no elaborate robes of elegant otherworldly design this time. Like himself, the old man, and the forlorn newlyweds, the aliens likewise were stark naked. All three sets of them—one original, and two sets of paras. As always, it was impossible to tell the paras from their progenitors.

Para alien ghosts
, he thought. At that moment he decided that the Cosmos
was
ruled by multiple Gods. There would have to be more than one just to keep it all straight. But then, who said that the Cosmos had to be organized? Even for someone who had gone through what he had already experienced, who had seen everything that he had seen, the concept of parallel Chaos was one he found beyond his ability to deal with. The Universe might be a little insane, but it was organized insanity.

Turning to their right, the aliens headed inland. Looking for a crashed ship, maybe, or whatever had been responsible for their demise.

He kicked absently at the sand. His foot passed repeatedly and effortlessly through the glistening grains, despite his most energetic efforts disturbing not a one. “I don’t know if I can go on like this.”

The old man grinned humorlessly. “What are you going to do about it? Kill yourself?”

“Look, it’s not funny,” the reporter responded more sharply than he intended. After all, the old specter was only trying to help.

“Sorry. A sense of humor is one thing you don’t lose when you die. Well, some seem to, but me, I suspect they never had one when they were alive. You find out fast that those ghosts who don’t appreciate a good laugh aren’t worth hanging out with.” He turned to leave.

Max looked up in surprise. “Hey, where are you going?”

The oldster glanced back over his shoulder. “You think I’ve got nothing better to do than haunt around here all day? Well, actually, that’s pretty much the case. But I like to move around. I keep hoping that I’ll find peace, if not contentment, and that I’ll finally depart Limbo for whatever lies beyond. One thing’s for sure: I’m not getting any peace from you.”

Max called after him. “It’s not my job to supply solace to spooks!”

“I got news for you, young fella. You ain’t got a job no more. You ain’t got a purpose to your existence, because you ain’t got no existence. And there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. So you might as well chill out and lighten up.” His irrepressible grin returned. “Mentally, I mean. Nature’s already taken care of both for you physically.”

The elderly beachcomber was right, of course. Max watched the old man’s figure fade, literally fade, into the mystic golden
light where sea and shore merged. Then he turned away, deep in thought.

The situation was not very encouraging. Even if he could make it up the coast back north to Trancas and find Boles, there was no way he could communicate his condition to the scientist’s para in this world. Not that it was likely to matter. As far as he knew and could figure, the device itself worked only on the living.

The beauty of the day gave no indication of diminishing. Since there was nothing he could do to improve his plight, he decided that he might as well enjoy it. Few pleasures besides sight were left to the deceased, but while he could not feel the water, or taste it, or smell it, he could still ride the waves. The deceased surfer had shown that.

Just gossamer. That’s me
, he thought.
I am less than the breaking spume.
By the same token, he did not have to worry about going over the falls or choking on mouthfuls of brine. Since he was already dead, the biggest waves could not hurt him, nor could sharks, stingrays, broken beer cans, or any of the other less salubrious dwellers of the bay.

Wading out into the deeper water was easy. Instead of holding him back by pushing him toward the beach, the waves exerted only the slightest pressure while passing through him. Being back in the eternal sea buoyed him up and helped to banish any thoughts of trying to walk to China—or anyplace else. He allowed the waves to thrust him gently up
and down, up and down, enjoying the movement even though it was otherwise devoid of any sensory input.

He caught one wave and, like a surf-driven gust of wind, rode it all the way into the beach, shooting right through a young girl paddling in circles on her boogie board. Gliding effortlessly back out, he caught a second breaker, and then a third. When the fourth one presented itself he did not hesitate. Where its size and sharp curl would have frightened him previously, now he lay back and let it lift him up, cloudward, and fling him down hard. He made no effort to avoid its pile-driving force as it slammed him toward the bottom, knowing that he would simply drift up and out through the sand as readily as the roiling waters would pass through him.

He came up coughing, sputtering, and soaking wet in the same clothes he had been wearing prior to finding himself a representative of the walking demised. Fighting for air, salt-stung eyes bulging under the churning pressure of the tumbling wave, he kicked hard and pushed himself forward until he broke the surface. Children ceased their playing momentarily to gape at him. Joggers slowed and stared as he dragged himself, gasping and choking, out of the water and up onto dry sand.

“You all right, mister?” The young, bronzed blond surfer who had just entered the water stopped paddling and turned toward him, rising out of the swells while keeping a firm grip on the wrist strap fastened to the front of his board.

Weighted down by his sodden attire and the several ounces of seawater that were sloshing around in the bottom of his lungs, Max struggled to rise. “I’m fine, I’m okay.” He coughed again, regurgitated brine spilling from his lips, and forced himself to smile. “I’m an actor. I’m just rehearsing a part.”

Not entirely convinced, but willing to accept the explanation, the youth turned and aimed his fiberglass chariot out to sea. It was not a rationale that would have been swallowed in Dubuque, but this was L.A.

“Yeah, right. Method drowning.” He shook his head sadly. “Actors. You’re all crazy.” In seconds he was gone, shooting rocketlike through a breaking wave, intent on spending as much of his waking life as possible engaged in riding a flat slab of painted fiberglass back and forth, back and forth, over a single short stretch of ocean.

Once safely clear of the water, a dazed Max collapsed on the sand. Sitting up, he turned to face the sea so that he would not have to meet the stares of the curious. Salt stung his throat, acrid water clogged his lungs, the sun burned his eyes, his muscles ached, his wet clothes hung heavily from his skin, and he was starting to stink like old laundry. It was divine.