Ten Sigmas & Other Unlikelihoods (27 page)

“You can’t, you won’t, not even remotely possible.”

“But —”

“It can’t happen, even if the theory were true.”

“Then the theory is wrong,” John said to himself.

“I told you it was wrong. There are no parallel universes.”

John felt the frustration growing in him. “But I know there are. I’ve seen them.”

“I’d say your observations were manipulated or you saw something that you interpreted incorrectly.”

“Don’t condescend to me again!” John shouted.

Wilson looked at him calmly, then stood.

“Get out of this office, and I suggest you get off this campus right now. I recommend that you seek medical attention immediately,” Wilson said coldly.

John’s frustration turned to rage. Wilson was no different here than in the last universe. He assumed John was wrong because he acted like a hick, a farm boy. He was certain John knew nothing that he didn’t already know.

John flung himself at the man. Wilson’s papers scattered across his chest and onto the floor. John grabbed at his jacket from across the desk and yelled into his face, “I’ll prove it to you, goddamnit! I’ll prove it.”

“Get off me,” Wilson yelled and pushed John away. Wilson lost his balance when John’s grip on his jacket slipped and he fell on the floor against his chair. “You maniac!”

John stood across from the desk from him, his breathing coming hard. He needed proof. His eyes saw the diploma on the wall of Wilson’s office. He grabbed it and ran out of the office. If he couldn’t convince this Wilson, he’d convince the next. He found an alcove beside the building and transferred out.

John stood clutching Wilson’s diploma to his chest, his heart still thumping from the confrontation. Suddenly he felt silly. He’d attacked the man and stolen his diploma to prove to another version of him that he wasn’t a wacko.

He looked across the quad. He watched a boy catch a frisbee, and then saw juxtaposed the images of him tripping and not catching it, just missing it to the left, to the right, a million permutations. Everything in the quad was suddenly a blur.

He shook his head, then lifted the diploma so that he could read it. He’d try again, and this time he’d try the direct approach.

John climbed the steps to Wilson’s office and knocked.

“Come on in.”

“I have a problem.”

Wilson nodded and asked, “How can I help?”

“I’ve visited you three times. Twice before you wouldn’t believe me,” John said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” he said. “You’re not one of my students, are you?”

“No, I’m not. We’ve never met, but I’ve met versions of you.”

“Really.”

John yelled, “Don’t patronize me! You do that every fucking time, and I’ve had enough.” His arms were shaking. “I don’t belong in this universe. I belong in another. Do you understand?”

Wilson’s face was emotionless, still. “No, please explain.”

“I was tricked into using a device. I was tricked by another version of myself because he wanted my life. He told me I could get back, but the device either doesn’t work right or only goes in one direction. I want to get back to my universe, and I need help.”

Wilson nodded. “Why don’t you sit down?”

John nodded, tears welling in his eyes. He’d finally gotten through to Wilson.

“So you’ve tried talking with me — other versions of me — in other universes, and I won’t help. Why not?”

“We start by discussing parallel universes or quantum cosmology or Multi-Worlds Theory, and you end up shooting it all down with Occam’s Razor.”

“Sounds like something I’d say,” Wilson said nodding. “So you have a device.”

“Yeah. It’s here.” John pointed to his chest, then unbuttoned his shirt.

Wilson looked at the device gravely. “What’s that in your hand?”

John glanced down at the diploma. “It’s . . . your diploma from the last universe. I sorta took it for proof.”

Wilson held out his hand, and John handed it over. There was an identical one on the wall. The professor glanced from one to the other. “Uh huh,” he said, then after a moment, “I see.”

He put the diploma down and said, “My middle name is Lawrence.”

John saw that the script of the diploma he’d stolen said “Frank B. Wilson” while the one on the wall said “Frank L. Wilson.”

“I guess it’s just a difference–”

“Who put you up to this? Was it Greene? This is just the sort of thing he’d put together.”

Anguish washed over John. “No! This is all real.”

“That device strapped to your chest. Now that’s classic. And the diploma. Nice touch.”

“Really. This is no hoax.”

“Enough already. I’m on to you. Is Greene in the hall?” Wilson called through the door. “You can come out now, Charles. I’m on to you.”

“There is no Charles. There is no Greene,” John said quietly.

“And you must be from the drama department, because you are good. Two more copies of me! As if the universe can handle one.”

John stood up and walked out of the office, his body suddenly too heavy.

“Don’t forget the shingle,” Wilson called, holding up the diploma. John shrugged and continued walking down the hall.

He sat on a bench next to the quad for a long time. The sun set and the warm summer day vanished along with the kids playing frisbee with their shirts tied around their waists.

Finally he stood and walked toward the Student Union. He needed food. He’d skipped lunch at some point; his stomach was growling at him. He didn’t feel hungry but his body was demanding food. He just felt tired.

There was a pizza franchise in the Student Union called Papa Bob’s. He ordered a small pizza and a Coke, ate it mechanically. It tasted like cardboard, chewy cardboard.

The Union was desolate as well, all the students driving home or heading to the dorms for studying and TV. John spotted a pay phone as he sat pondering what he would do next, whether he should confront Wilson again. John realized that he should have taken a picture of the man or demanded he write himself a note. But he would have told John that it was computer generated or forged.

He walked over to the phone and dialed his number. The phone demanded 75 cents. He inserted the coins and the phone began to ring.

“Hello?” his mother answered.

“Hello,” he replied.

“Johnny?” she asked, surprised.

“No, could I talk to John please?”

She laughed. “You sound just like him. Gave me a fright, hearing that, but he’s standing right here. Here he is.”

“Hello?” It was his voice.

“Hi, this is Karl Smith from your English class,” John said making up a name and a class.

“Yeah?”

“I missed class today, and I was wondering if we had an assignment.”

“Yeah we did. We had an essay on the poem we read, Tennyson’s ’Maud.’ Identify the poetic components, like the last one.”

“Oh, yeah,” John said. The poem was in the same unit as the Hopkins one. He remembered seeing it. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone.

This universe seemed just like his own. He could fit right in here. The thought startled him, and then he asked himself what was stopping him.

He walked to the bus station and bought a ticket back to Findlay.

*

John helped his father around the farm the next day. He took it as penance for upsetting his parents. They still thought he was Johnny Farmboy, and so he had to act the part, at least until his projects started churning.

As they replaced some of the older wood in the fence, John said, “Dad, I’m going to need to borrow the truck on Saturday night.”

His father paused, a big smile on his face. “Got a big date, do you?” He said it in such a way that John realized he didn’t think his son really had a date.

“Yes. I’m taking Casey Nicholson out.”

“Casey?” His father held the plank as John hammered a nail into it. “Nice girl.”

“Yeah, I’m taking her to a movie at the Bijou.”

“The Bijou?”

“I mean the Strand,” John said, silently yelling at himself for sharing details that could catch him up. The movie theatre was always called the Palace, Bijou, or Strand.

“Uh-huh.”

John took the shovel and began shoring up the next post.

“What movie you gonna see?”

Before he could stop himself, he answered, “Does it matter?”

His father paused, then laughed heartily. “Not if you’re in the balcony, it doesn’t.” John was surprised, then he laughed too.

“Don’t tell your mother I told you, but we used to go to the Strand all the time. I don’t think we watched a single movie.”

“Dad!” John said. “You guys were . . . make-out artists?”

“Only place we could go to do it,” he said with a grin. “Couldn’t use this place; your grampa would have beat the tar out of me. Couldn’t use her place; your other grampa would have shot me.” He eyed John and nodded. “You’re lucky we live in more liberal times.”

John laughed, recalling the universe where the free love expressions of the 60s had never ended, where AIDS had killed a quarter of the population and syphilis and gonorrhea had been contracted by 90 percent of the population by 1980. There, dating involved elaborate chaperone systems and blood tests.

“I know I’m lucky.”

*

In the early hours of the morning, John slipped across Gurney, through the Walder’s field and found a place to watch the farm from the copse of maple trees. He knelt on the soft ground, wondering if this was where John Prime had waited for him.

John’s arms tingled as he anticipated his course of action. He was owed a life, he figured. His had been stolen and he was owed another. He’d wanted his own back, and he’d tried to get it. He’d researched and questioned and figured, but he couldn’t see any way back.

So he was ready to settle for second best.

He’d trick the John Rayburn here, just like he’d been tricked. Tease him with the possibilities. Tickle his curiosity. And if he wasn’t interested, he’d forced him. Knock him out and strap the device on his chest and send him on.

Let him figure it out like John had. Let him find another universe to be a part of. John deserved his life back. He’d played by the rules all his life. He’d been a good kid; he’d loved his parents. He’d gone to church every Sunday.

He’d been pushed around for too long. John Prime had pushed him around, Professor Wilson, the cat-dogs. He’d been running and running and with no purpose. And enough of that. It was time to take back what had been stolen from him.

Dawn cast a slow red upon the woods. His mother opened the back door and stepped out into the yard with a basket. He watched her open the hen house and collect eggs. She was far away, but he recognized her as his mother instantly. Logically, he knew she wasn’t his mother, but to his eyes, she was. That was all that mattered.

His father pecked her lightly on the cheek as he headed for the barn. He wore heavy boots, thick ones, coveralls, and a John Deere cap. He entered the barn, started the tractor and drove toward the fields. He’d be back for breakfast in an hour, John knew. Bacon, eggs, toast, and, of course, coffee.

They were his parents. It was his farm. Everything was as he remembered it. And that was enough for him.

The light in John’s room turned on. John Rayburn was awake. He’d be coming out soon to do his chores. John waited until this John went into the barn, then he dashed across the empty pumpkin field for the barn’s rear door. The rear door was locked, but if you jiggled it, John knew, it came loose.

John grabbed the handle, listening for sounds from within the barn, then shook it once for a few seconds. The door held. He paused, then shook it again and it came open suddenly, loudly. He slipped into the barn and hid between two rows of stacked bales.

“Hey, Stan-Man. How are you this morning?”

The voice came from near the stalls. This John — he started thinking of him as John Subprime — was feeding his horse.

“Here’s an apple. How about some oats?”

John crept along the row of bales, then stopped when he could see the side of John Subprime’s face from across the barn. John was safe in the shadows, but he needed to get closer to him.

Stan nickered and nuzzled John Subprime’s head, drawing his tongue across his forehead.

“Stop that,” he said, with a smile.

John Subprime turned his attention to the sheep, and when he did so, John slipped around the bales and behind the corn picker.

He realized something as he sat in the woods, and his plan had changed accordingly. John wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t a smooth talker. He couldn’t do what John Prime had done to him, that is, talk him into using the device. John would have to do it some other way. And the only way he could think to do it was the hard way.

John lifted a shovel off a pole next to the corn picker. It was a short shovel with a flat blade. He figured one blow to the head and John Subprime would be out cold. Then he’d strap the device to his chest, toggle the universe counter up one, and then hit the lever with the end of the shovel. It’d take half the shovel with him, but that was okay. Then John would finish feeding the animals and go in for breakfast. No one would ever know.

John ignored the queasy feeling in his stomach. Gripping the shovel in two hands, he advanced on John Subprime.

John’s faint shadow must have alerted him.

“Dad?” John Subprime said, then turned. “My God!” He shrank away from the raised shovel, his eyes passing from it to John’s face. His expression changed from shock to fear.

John’s body strained, the shovel raised above his head.

John Subprime leaned against the sheep pen, one arm raised, the other . . .

He had only one arm.

Nausea washed through John’s body and he dropped the shovel. It clattered on the wood floor of the barn, settled at John Subprime’s feet.

“What am I doing?” he cried. His stomach heaved, but nothing came up but a yellow bile that he spat on the floor. He heaved again at the smell of it.

He was no better than John Prime. He didn’t deserve a life.

John staggered to the back door of the barn.

“Wait!”

He ran across the field. Something grabbed at his feet and he fell. He pulled his foot free and ran into the woods.