Parallelities (21 page)

Bending, he tried to read through the scarred and battered plastic cases. Sure enough, there was a slightly blurred color photo of himself, darker and slightly more hirsute but otherwise quite recognizable, loudly promoting his eminence as the murderous conquering warlord of some small, unfortunate African country Max could not place geographically. Below
this story was another showing a slim him being led off to jail after being convicting of multiple counts of child molestation. On another rack, in another paper, he saw a short, stocky, undeniably belligerent redaction of himself on the stand in a local court accused of embezzling more than a million dollars from an outraged west-side charity.

On the front page of the
Sporting News
it was revealed that he had also scored three touchdowns in last week’s pro game, only to be arrested later that same week on charges of conspiracy to distribute a quantity of banned substances. In the next vending case he was near the bottom of the page, grinning from ear to earring as he resigned his position as shock jock for a Chicago talk-radio station, only to announce that he was accepting a new position in Atlanta at a considerably higher salary. Socially diminished agents and much gratuitous profanity seemed to be involved.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder. Turning, he found himself looking back into his face: lined, grubby with the filth of the habitually unwashed, fragrant with ancillary aromas dubious in origin, and blank of eye.

“’Scuse me, mistah. Spare some change so’s I can get something to eat?”

Digging blindly into his pocket, Max fumbled with his wallet until he found a bill. Without even bothering to check the denomination he thrust it at the looming panhandler, a distorted, disturbing vision of himself at his least appealing.

“Here, take this.”

Smacking his lips in a manner suggesting that the meal he now saw looming before him like a vision of the grail itself was to be of the liquid rather than the solid variety, the bum (an archaic but still efficacious term, Max thought abstractedly) shambled off clutching the bill before his eyes. He did not offer so much as a thank-you in return.

The absence of common courtesy did not matter to Max, who by this time had had just about enough of himself.

“That’s it! I resign from myself! I concede, I give up!” He shouted it at the sky, drawing some uncertain stares from passing himselves. They quickened their pace when he dropped his gaze to glare at them—even though it was a familiar glare.

All the good that was in the world, he was responsible for, he knew. Also all the evil, and all the mediocrity, and every level of mendacity and moronity and goodness in between. Over all this he had no control. Only the knowledge that in his own, absent world he was the one and true Max Parker kept him from going mad.

But how did he
know
that he was the true Max, he found himself wondering? Why should it not be one of his friends waiting for him in the restaurant, or someone still back at the office, or one of the dozens of motivating Maxes hurrying to and fro along the sidewalks? Did they not have equal assurance of their own reality, of their own individual uniqueness? Perhaps he was after all no more than a para Max deluding himself into thinking that he was the true Max, and the real Max was out there on the streets somewhere, or at this very
moment up at Trancas conversing with Barrington Boles. Could the real Max be subject to para delusions? Or were his paras the same ones and the original Max delusional?

Einstein was right, he decided. God did not play dice with the universe. Instead, it was set up as a kind of cosmic Las Vegas, where anything was possible and, if you hit the right combination of numbers, or ideas, or concepts, even probable. Yahweh not only played dice with the universe, but also roulette, baccarat, keno, and for all Max knew, reservation bingo.

As for he, him, himself, Max, he had crapped out.

About many things he was ignorant, and others self-deluded, but he knew with certainty that he did not have the type of mind required to deal rationally and sensibly with abstractions of such breadth and scope. All he knew for sure was that he was tired, and bored, and worn out from trying to make sense of the insensible. All he could do was what he had done when cast into previous para worlds: try and ride it out.

At least, he thought, this time he would not be forced to do so in the company of strangers. Though by now he would have found a real stranger, anyone patently different from himself, preferable to yet another insufferable version of Maxwell Parker.

With a sigh that seemed to encompass not merely a single breath but entire worlds, he headed back inside the restaurant to rejoin himself.

H
e made it through the rest of lunch by saying as little as possible and leaving it to the other multiples of himself to carry the conversation. Being him, this they had no trouble in doing. Instead of entertaining or enlightening him, the conversation only made him inescapably aware of what a puerile and self-centered conversationalist he often was.

He was relieved when the dishes were removed and it was time to pay the check. Naturally, every version of himself tried to stick every other version of himself with it. He ended up paying it himself. And why not? Wasn’t he paying for himself, several times over?

He allowed the others to walk on ahead, keeping to a deliberately slow pace so as to be able to avoid participating in their conversation. Back at the
Investigator
building, morose
and unhappy, he found a message on his voice mail requesting that he report to his boss.

Might as well, he told himself. Anything that hinted of non-Maxness was a welcome diversion from the lukewarm pit of himness in which he found himself inextricably trapped.

Hoping against hope to find his old boss waiting for him, he was once again disappointed. The man who sat behind the desk in what should have been Kryzewski’s office possessed the same physical and vocal characteristics as the curmudgeonly old editor with whom Max had worked for over a year, but the face that looked up over the pile of printouts was just another distorted replication of Max Parker. Defeated and discouraged by the twin demons of Uncaring Fate and Barrington Boles, Max took an indifferent seat in the chair opposite this latest, puffy-faced, gruff version of himself.

“How’re you doing, Max?” the seamed, elder mirror of himself inquired.

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
There
, he thought. A
n honest answer.

Parker Boss looked at him uncertainly, but both his personality and position allowed little if any time for in-depth probing of his employees’ state of mind. Since anything by way of reply short of “I just found out I have a terminal disease” or “I need an advance on next month’s salary” qualified as satisfactory, he shrugged off the reporter’s conspicuous lassitude and pressed on.

“Got a live one for you.”

Max perked up. Working on a story, even in a para that was not his, might help keep him from dwelling on his unfortunate situation. He knew it couldn’t be healthy to flinch inwardly every time he encountered a face that looked like his. If he didn’t do something soon, the flinch would take over the rest of him.

“Saucerologists?” The UFOnuts were always good for a line or two, and the photo department loved them. It gave them the opportunity to put together some really inventive mock-ups in the computer. “Bigfoot? A turnip in the shape of Elvis’s head?”

“Better.” Max’s enthusiastic response pleased the Kryzewski substitute. An interested and happy employee was a productive employee. “Here’s the particulars.” He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. Max pocketed it absently. “You ought to be able to get a full page out of this one. Maybe a page and a half.”

“Pictures?”

“It’s not that kind of story. Maybe we’ll be able to get something later, but I doubt it. The guy’s too serious. Don’t worry. Not your responsibility. Photolab will throw something usable together.”

“Yeah, they always seem to.” Max rose and headed for the door.

“Oh, and Parker?”

“Yes, sir?” Max paused, his fingers on the door handle.

“Talk to accounting when you get a chance. If you’ve got
some vacation time coming I think you should take it. You don’t look well. I think some time off would do you good. Recharge the batteries, that sort of thing. Go on a trip, do some traveling. Get out of L.A. for a while.”

Max smiled thinly. “I’ll look into it, sir, but I’m not really in the mood to go touring. Sometimes I think that’s all I do.” Leaving the editor to wonder what he meant by that, Max swung open the door and exited the office.

His mind awhirl, he took a cursory glance at the info sheet he had been handed and marked the address in his memory as he made his way out of the building. Maxes of both genders in various stages of youth or advancing decomposition hailed him as he departed.

He continued to ponder his situation as he pulled out of the underground garage and headed for Pico. That would be the fastest and simplest route to the address he had been given. There was so much on his mind, there were so many things he was trying to deal with simultaneously, that it did not occur to him that the address was that of his own building until he pulled up outside the gated garage.

Frowning uncertainly, he checked the tip sheet. Nineteen hundred Appian Way. Sure enough, that was his address, his building. He let his gaze crawl farther down the paper.

“Interview a Mr. Parker—funny coincidence, ain’t it?—in apartment 3F. Parker claims to have participated in an experiment put together by some rich nitwit up north of Malibu. I
know it sounds like your standard mad-scientist scenario, but I think that if you can put your usual witty spin on it you might be able to do some good storytelling.

“Seems this crazy claims to have built a machine that can access parallel worlds, and this Parker, who insists he’s a stringer for, of all things, the
Investigator
, actually let himself be used as a guinea pig in its first tryout. Now he says he’s being tormented by dreams of other worlds, and he wants to tell his story. The interviewer on the phonebank who took his call asked him why, if he’s a stringer for us, he didn’t write up the story himself, but he says that since yesterday he’s been plagued with visions of himself slipping in and out of reality and until they go away he’s afraid to leave his apartment. As if his apartment’s any more real than the rest of the world. Can you beat that?

“There might be a nice little yarn here. See what you can get out of him. But watch yourself. I got the ol’ gut feeling this one could be violent.”

He wouldn’t be violent, Max knew as he let the paper slip from his limp fingers. He knew the man would not be violent because Maxwell Parker was not a violent man. Ignoring the cars that were forced to slow on the narrow hill street and then go around him, he let his gaze rise to the top floor of the building. His building.

The Kryzewski-Parker had sent him out to interview himself.

Only, this Max Parker did not differ in age, or ethnic
background, or gender. This was a Max Parker who claimed to be a writer for the
Investigator
, who lived in Max Parker’s building, and who was even now waiting for Max Parker in Max Parker’s apartment. Inevitably, he found himself wondering just who was the real Max Parker: himself, or the anguished individual waiting upstairs?

What if it was the one waiting upstairs?

Then I’d just be a para
, he thought with icy calm. And
the Max upstairs is the one who should be going back to the real world.
Trouble was, they were all real worlds.

That way lies madness
, he assured himself. I
know who I am. I’m me, and he’s him, and all these other Maxes are themselves.
But that was not quite the case. None of the other multiple Maxes except Mitch had claimed to be writers for the
Investigator
, he reminded himself, nor did they live in his apartment.

What would happen when he confronted the man upstairs? Would one of them disappear, canceled out by the reality of the other? Or would one of them finally flee to the peaceful land of the insane? Or would they both? Or was he crazy already?

Parallel worlds and Barrington Boles, and a space-time continuum that’s full of holes
, he sang silently to himself. In the midst of them all, why not a world populated by nothing but Maxwell Parkers, ad hominem, ad infinitum? And if you take blueberries and paint them red, they taste more like cranberries than rhubarb does.

He could sit in his car until reality or death overtook
him, or he could keep moving, keep living. He chose to keep moving.

Unsurprisingly, the garage gate yielded to his key-ring remote. Another Aurora was parked in his space and he slid his own into one of the two empty slots reserved for guests of tenants. In spite of everything he had been through, there was something surpassing strange about having to park in the guest space in his own building. Locking the car, he marched grim-faced toward the elevator.

There’s nothing here to fear
, he told himself.
You’re just paying a little visit on you, much as a Max named Mitch once did. Maybe you can even help the poor guy. After all, you’re probably responsible for at least several of his bad dreams.

On second thought, maybe his unexpected appearance would not be so salutary after all. But then, since everyone in this world looked more or less like Max Parker, why should the appearance of yet one more startle another?

Before he could change his mind and back out, he found himself confronting an all-too-familiar door. It was 3F, the entrance to his apartment down to the scratches in the paint near the bottom where Mr. Kraus’s dog had attempted to claw its way in. Thumbing the bell, he waited for a response, half hoping none would be forthcoming.

He heard the security chain rattle in its holder, and the door opened.

The man standing there was him, all right. Not a close copy, this time, or one distorted by a different haircut or
darker complexion or excess avoirdupois, but as exact a duplicate as could be imagined. Only the expression was different. Where he was anxious and resigned, the Maxwell Parker standing in the portal looked harried and apprehensive, as if he had not slept in a long time.

That was understandable, Max thought, if the poor schmuck’s dreams were in any way shape or form mirroring Max’s multiple realities.

The man jumped slightly as soon as he got a good look at his visitor. “Christ, I know that everybody looks more or less like everybody—that’s the natural state of the world—but I’ve never met anyone before who looked so much like me!”

“You don’t know the half of it, bud. Or the multiplicity. Can I come in?” He felt like a prize fool asking for permission to enter his own apartment, except that it was not his apartment. It belonged to
this
Max Parker, and he had no intention of being hauled off to the Lincoln Street jail by blue-clad clones of himself for forcibly violating the privacy of another version of him.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure you can come in.” His other self stepped aside. “You’re from the paper, aren’t you? They called and said they might send someone out. Can I get you a drink? I’ve got…”

“Two six-packs of Hinano, a half-empty liter of diet RC, and a couple of bottles of flavored iced tea. I know.” Pushing past the dumbfounded copy of himself, he headed for the kitchen.

With an expression that was a mixture of astonishment and confusion, his other self trailed behind. “That’s exactly right. I’ll be damned. How’d you know that?” His tone turned suspicious. “The paper have somebody check out my place while I was at work? That’s breaking and entering.”

“Not if the manager lets them in, but don’t sweat it. It never happened. I can assure you that nobody’s been spending time in this apartment except Maxwell Parker.”

Max fumbled in the fridge until he found a chilled tea. Popping the vacuum seal, he sat down at the table and took a long, cold swallow. Then he looked over the tabletop at his troubled but curious self.

“Then how did you know what…?” the local M. Parker started to ask. Gesturing grandly with the tea bottle, Max cut him off.

“Why don’t you tell me a little about these dreams of yours.”

The other Max hesitated, as if trying to make up his mind whether to respond genially to the extraordinary intrusion or call the cops. After a moment or two, he decided to cooperate. Max knew he would. If there was one set of reactions he could predict, it was his own. Helping himself to a beer from the door of the fridge, the other Max sat down in the chair opposite. There he sat and gazed across the table in abiding wonder at the perfect, and perfectly at home, archetype of himself.

“You promise you won’t laugh? I thought the girl I spoke to at the paper was going to laugh.”

“Believe me,” Max told him somberly, “you are looking at the last person in the world who’d laugh at you.”

“Okay, then.” Feeling a little more comfortable in the presence of, what was after all, himself, the Maxwell Parker of this particular para started in. “This is going to sound crazy, and it’s thrice wacko, because I’m usually interviewing the weirdos, not setting myself up as one.”

“I know,” Max told him gently.

His counterpart looked at him uncertainly, but continued. “I keep seeing myself in this other life, or other world, or other someplace. Everything’s normal there. I’m still a writer, still single, still living here at the beach. Only, there’s this wild, wealthy inventor character there named Boles. Barrington Boles.” Max nodded and held out his recorder, numb and unresponsive. Mistaking his glazed expression for a sign of interest, the other Max became more voluble.

“So my editor gives me a tip that this Boles character might be good for a story because he claims to have built something that’s sort of like a gate between parallel worlds. What he calls paras, for short. His idea is that everyplace and everything has lots of paras. So I go out there, and he’s not at all like what I expect.”