Parallelities (8 page)

“Yes, I suppose so.” She was absently rubbing her chin with the forefinger of her left hand. “After what just happened, I just don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” She looked
at him wide-eyed. Ginger could be a little strange. Also, she was from Arkansas. “Do you think they were evil?”

“What?” he mumbled absently, his attention still held by the few remaining birds perched on the telephone line. “No, I don’t think they were evil, Ginger. Some things in this world are just hard to explain, that’s all.”

And you wouldn’t understand the explanation if I took a day to lay it all out for you
, he thought.
Even if it does make more sense than claiming that they were Satan’s canaries.

What next? he wondered as he stumbled back to his apartment. Around him, the most ordinary everyday objects began to take on ominous overtones. Was he to be overwhelmed in his sleep by a thousand para pillows? Dare he check his pantry for something to eat without expecting to encounter a million para roaches?

Back inside his living room all was calm, serene, and blessedly normal. If he could not relax, at least the chilling panic was beginning to leave him.

He attempted work, but without success. Every time he tried to outline a story, or fix on something appealing from his file of tips and proposals, he found himself blocked by visions of his para selves on a million parallel worlds sitting in the same room bending over the same laptop computer, struggling fruitlessly to conjure the same empty words. From his encounter with the Omaha sisters he knew that slight differences were likely to prevail among his innumerable para selves.
The morose mood into which he had fallen notwithstanding, he found himself smiling at the thought that perhaps one or two of the uncountable horde of Max Parkers might be having better luck than he was.

He prided himself on enjoying his free time to the fullest, but even after he quit trying to get any work done, the rest of the day turned out to be a waste. He managed to cook and consume a fitful supper, wondering what his para selves might be eating and how many might be suffering from indigestion due to variations in his frequently uninspired para cooking.

After the sun had set and darkness had enveloped the shore, he donned shorts and a sweatshirt and made his way down to the beach. A cool breeze was blowing in off the Pacific and he encountered only one homeless person (was it that long ago that people used to call them winos? he mused) as he trudged across the deep sand toward the water.

Ignoring the KEEP OFF sign fastened to one leg of the lifeguard tower, he ascended the weathered wooden ramp and sat down, folding his legs beneath him as he rested his back against the door of the locked cubicle. Perched twenty feet above the sand, he gazed at the string of lights that ran south toward the bump of the Palos Verde peninsula and north toward the affluent curving coast of Malibu. Barrington Boles’s house was located farther north, around the point. He found that he was glad he could not see it.

The intermittent but rejuvenating breeze had already
swept any lingering smog inland, dumping the pollutants of greater Los Angeles on the unlucky inhabitants of the San Gabriel and San Bernardino valleys. Overhead lay a black sky in which the most prominent stars competed for attention with the pulsating night lights of the great city.

Tilting his head back against the wind-worn, sand-blasted, faded green plywood, he stared upward. Billions of galaxies, the astronomers claimed, within which could be found trillions of planets. Did each and every one of them boast their own infinitude of parallel worlds? Did the concept of universal parallelity espoused by Barry Boles allow for an infinity of worlds multiplied by infinity?

In school he’d had difficulty with any group of numbers that extended beyond three places. Algebra had absolutely defeated him, and trigonometry he had always imagined to be more difficult to learn than Sanskrit. Therefore, the actual numbers he was contemplating presently had less than no meaning and he could barely imagine them in the abstract. It was enough to know that the universe was Big, and if Barrington Boles was right, it could now be multiplied by the figure Bigger Still.

And at the moment it seemed to him as if it was all, all of it, centered on him.

It was too much to think about. His brain was not equipped for the contemplation of such concepts. Such notions acquired life and substance only in the minds of mathematicians and
theoretical physicists. To Max, a quantum state was one where gambling was licensed, and Schrödinger’s cat lived somewhere on Laurel Avenue.

He lowered his gaze and watched the white rims of waves roll in and splinter into hissing, dissipating foam. There was nothing he could do but wait it out, wait for the field to vanish of its own accord. At least until Tuesday, he reminded himself. Boles had told him that if the effect persisted, to come back Tuesday. He had an idea, the inventor had claimed.

It better be more than an idea, Max thought tensely as he looked down at the fingers of his right hand. They did not glow, did not flicker with reality-distorting energy. Whatever else the Boles field was, it was not visible.

Three para burglars he could cope with. Four beautiful para sisters he could handle. A hundred emigrating para canaries made for a shocking but not dangerous sight. Thus far his encounters with intruders from parallel worlds had been relatively benign, but what if the next one was not? What if, in pursuing a story in the Hollywood hills, he found himself confronted by a hundred para rattlesnakes? What could a doctor do if someone with a cold sneezed in his face and instead of finding himself conventionally infected, his body suddenly bulged with a billion para germs? Tuesday began to look more and more like a day of salvation.

Meanwhile he would just have to be patient and cope. Act normally, Boles had advised him. Easy to say, when you were not the one looking sideways at every person, every living
thing, every object, expecting it at any moment suddenly to multiply and reproduce.

His tormented wave-caressed solitude was interrupted by the hacking sound of a lonely vagabond retching a little ways up the beach.

Much to his surprise, upon finally returning to his apartment and falling into bed, Max enjoyed a restful and sound sleep. All the angst and excitement of the previous day had exhausted his body as well as his mind.

Rising early, he took a long shower. Following this with fresh coffee and a schmeared bagel left him feeling better than expected. Work would keep his mind occupied and off his unfortunate condition, and the hectic atmosphere at the office would help to pass the time. Tuesday no longer seemed so far away, or unreachable.

He even enjoyed battling the traffic on the way to work. The bad driving habits and worse manners displayed by his fellow commuters were another refreshing sign of normalcy in a world that had recently suffered from an excess of abnormality. Even though he was a little late arriving, no one had parked in his space. By the time he headed up in the elevator he was convinced he could get through the worst of whatever the Boles Field could throw at him.

In the hall he ran into Serra from subscriptions. The other man eyed him oddly, to the point that Max was moved to comment. “Something wrong, Carlos?” He checked his fly, which was circumspect.

“Uh, I guess not.” Serra glanced back the way he had come. “Man, I knew you were a go-getter, but I didn’t know that you
ran
from meeting to meeting.”

Max blinked. “Say again?”

“Never mind.” Serra pushed past him. “Got to go, man. The BHL are waiting on me.” He winked. “Feeding time at the local post office.”

Max felt that the tabloid-hungry blue-haired ladies who actually subscribed to the
Investigator
, as opposed to buying it at the checkout stand of their local supermarket, could wait until he had received a more detailed explanation of Serra’s comment, but the other man was already at the elevator. Some kind of fluke, he told himself, or else the assistant subscription manager was having a little fun at his baffled coworker’s expense.

As it developed, he apparently wasn’t the only one.

“Whoa!” Turning a corner, he nearly ran over Heather Cerkas. Barely five feet tall, blond, pretty, and petite as a Parisian chanteuse, she was a bundle of inexhaustible energy who always seemed to be a dozen places at once around the office. The unforced analogy was one that made him suddenly uneasy.

“Sorry.” As he tried to go around her she reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Wait a minute. How did you …?” She broke off, looked behind her, then slowly released her grip.

“How did I what?” He grinned gamely. “Whatever it is I’m
not guilty, unless it’s something good, in which case I readily confess.”

“I’m not sure confession is called for.” She was eyeing him most peculiarly. Not unlike Serra, in fact.

“Look, what’s going on here?” Mounting exasperation threatened to ruin his good mood. “What’s the gag?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” she replied elliptically. “When you figure it out, be sure and let me in on it.” She pushed past him.

“Hey, wait a minute!” But Cerkas showed no more inclination to linger than had Serra.

Maybe I should go out, go back to the car, and start over again
, he told himself. What was with everybody this morning? But it wasn’t everybody, he told himself. He’d passed plenty of people he knew and had swapped hellos or good-mornings with them without any incomprehensible ancillary commentary whatsoever. So two of his dozens of colleagues and acquaintances had decided that today was going to be “Let’s weird out Max” day. Two out of dozens. Well, screw ’em. He had better things to do than wonder at their sick motivation.

His assigned modular cubicle had high walls of smooth gray fiberboard. These were decorated with favorite clippings of his own stories as well as those of colleagues and competitors he admired. Scattered among them like incisive confetti were Max-anointed political cartoons, gags, photos, and personal memorabilia. Notes for stories, memos from management and coworkers, current relevant newspaper and magazine
clippings, all bunched up around the computer on his faux wood desk like so much proprietary dandruff. There were also two multibuttoned phones, a compact fax-copier, a miniature Christmas tree decorated entirely with tiny pigs, and the current centerfold from a particularly notorious magazine on which female coworkers had scribbled insulting comments.

In short, everything was normal and as it should be save for one notable exception: his computer was on. And not only was it open, but it was open to one of his private files. Open-mouthed, he stared at it. First off, people who worked at the
Investigator
did not mess with one another’s machines. It was an unforgivable breach of office protocol, not to mention accepted professional courtesy. Second, his personal encoding system was supposed to be unbreachable by anyone of lesser skill than a CIA encryption specialist.

Furious, he looked around to see who might be watching for his reaction, but no joker was staring over a partition at him or standing in one of the passageways giggling. Still fuming silently, he closed down the file, debated whether to take a seat and try to start work, and ended up stomping off tight-lipped and frustrated in the direction of the men’s bathroom.

Outrage dominating his thoughts, he angrily banged open the door and stomped over to the first sink. A couple of sharp twists brought both faucets on full flow. Allowing the hot and cold to mix, he splashed some on his face and fumbled for the roll of paper towels. As he turned away from the basin to dry his face, he heard a reverberant flushing sound and saw himself
come out of a cubicle. At approximately the same time the himself who was buckling his belt saw himself holding a handful of absorptive recycled brown paper to his own face and halted. Identical jaws dropped simultaneously.

“Holy shit!” Max mumbled.

Equally flabbergasted, himself stared back. “Who the hell are you?”

For an instant Max was really not sure. As the once strong sensation of self began to flee madly, he hastened to rein it in. “Max—Maxwell Parker.”

The other’s expression twisted sardonically.
Do I look like that when I’m about to get sarcastic?
Max found himself wondering. I guess I do, because I am.

“What a hysterically funny coincidence,” the other declaimed, not smiling at all.

Max’s reply was as controlled as it was emotionless. “No it isn’t.”

“W
hat are you,” the emerging Max inquired, “some kind of clone?” His gaze traveled the length of the figure standing at the sink. “What are you doing in my clothes? And when did you start parting your hair on the right?”

“I’m not a clone, these are my clothes, and I’ve always parted my hair on the right.” The alternate hair parting was the only visible difference in his other self. It was just like looking into a mirror, only in this case the mirror talked back. With an edge in its voice.

Max turned. At any moment their transient privacy might be lost, leading to questions he did not want to have to try and answer. “Listen, I’ll explain it all as best I can, but not here. We need to find someplace quiet away from people who know us.”

His counterpart hesitated only briefly before replying with a suggestion. “How about El Cortez?”

Max nodded agreeably. It was the same place he would have picked. Naturally. The Mexican restaurant was a personal favorite. The booths were dark, the service discreet, and at this hour no one from the office would be there. “I was just about to suggest that myself.”

“Of course you were,” murmured his twin. “This is insane.”

“No, it’s science. It’s been my experience that science is never insane, just maddeningly complex.” He walked to the door, paused a moment before stepping through. “Unlike people. Since I don’t like to think I’m going insane, and also to keep things on as even a keel as possible, how about if I call you Mitch?”

“Wait a minute.” The other man objected as quickly as Max would have himself. “How come I have to be Mitch? Why can’t you be Mitch? Or Murphy, or Marty, or whatever the hell you like?”

Max stared stolidly at himself staring back at him. “Do you have a clue as to what’s going on?”

“Well, no,” his other self admitted.

“That’s why.” Max put a hand on the door. “Wait five minutes. By that time I’ll be clear of the building.” He smiled thinly. “No point in inviting questions neither of us can answer. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

“Back corner booth?” said Mitch.

“Where else?” Max headed toward the elevators.

No one intercepted him as he left. For a moment he considered waiting for his double. If he took the Aurora, Mitch would have to walk. But it wasn’t far and besides, the Aurora was
his
car. Of course, Mitch would doubtless think of it the same way.

This early in the morning the restaurant was virtually deserted except for the habitual barflies. Mitch arrived fifteen minutes later, miffed and winded in equal measure.

“I thought somebody stole my car,” he explained as he slipped into the other side of the booth. “Then I realized that you probably took it.”

“I considered leaving it for you. But you know how it is: first Max come, first Max served.”

“You’re handling this a lot better than I am.” Munching on corn chips and salsa, Mitch looked distinctly unhappy.

“That’s because I know what’s going on.”

“Yeah.” His other leaned forward. “Mind filling me in?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

Mitch made a face. “I don’t like it already.”

Over drinks, chips, guacamole, and salsa, Max explained as best he could. He did not have to repeat anything, since Mitch understood intuitively. Talking to yourself, Max reflected, had certain advantages.

When he had finished the story, Mitch leaned back in his chair. His expression was akin to that of the man who had just seen the proverbial purple horse prance past. It looked like a
horse, neighed like a horse, and smelled like a horse—but the suspicion remained that there was something seriously unequine about it.

“So what you’re trying to tell me is that I’m one of these things you call a para?”

“Not me,” Max reminded him. “That’s Barry Boles’s term.”

Mitch straightened and took a deep breath. “If what you’re telling me is true, I expect we’d both like to strangle the bastard.”

“Of course we would. But that’s not going to solve your problem or make mine go away. Fortunately, we’re not encumbered by any close personal relationships at the moment, so nobody will miss you for a while.”

“If I only show up for work in this world and not in mine, I’ll get fired,” Mitch reminded himself.

Max tried to reassure his other self. “Don’t panic. You know how often we go off on assignment. Kryzewski will think MacKenzie assigned you, and MacKenzie will think it was Kryzewski. That state of affairs won’t last indefinitely, but everything should be resolved and back to normal within a couple of days. Tuesday, to be exact.”

Mitch swirled his drink unhappily. “
If
this Boles can fix things.” Max had no ready reply to that. “This sucks. I want back to my own world.”

“Nobody wants that more than I do,” Max told him feelingly. “Of course, nobody would. I mean, if you can’t get
sympathy from yourself, where can you? But for now it looks like you’re stuck.”

“So what do we do?”

“We?” Max frowned. “Why ‘we’?”

Mitch looked up sharply. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of turning your own self out on the street?”

“To tell you the truth, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. But I guess you’re right.” Max brightened. “How about we explain you as my visiting twin brother from back East, whom I haven’t seen in years?”

“I guess that’s okay.” His duplicate sounded less than enthusiastic. “I still don’t see why I can’t be Max and you be Mitch.”

Max held his ground. “I’ve already explained; you’re my para.”

“Is that a fact? What makes you think that you’re not
my
para?”

Max struggled to contain his exasperation—not to mention his increasing confusion. “Look, if we start fighting about individual nomenclature we’re both going to wind up in the loony bin. Just indulge me, will you?” He smiled encouragingly. “After all, you’ll be indulging yourself.”

“I don’t feel very indulged,” his other muttered. “But what you say about drawing unwanted attention makes sense.”

A relieved Max smiled. “How could it be otherwise? You said it—more or less.”

“Okay, fine. So now I’m ‘Mitch.’ But only for the duration.”
The exasperated para downed the rest of his drink. “This is a great place, except they never put enough salt on their margarita glasses.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Max replied promptly.

“I know,” said the para.

Max did his best to put a positive spin on their unprecedented situation. “This
could
be interesting, if we don’t let it get us down.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbled Mitch. “You’re not the one missing a world.”

They left separately, Max letting Mitch pick up the tab after first checking to insure that their credit card numbers were identical. They matched perfectly, except that Mitch’s photo ID showed his hair parted on the wrong side. Needless to say, the bored cashier did not pick up on the subtle and almost invisible difference.

Having paid, Mitch wanted to drive. Out of curiosity, Max let him, and sat back in silent astonishment as his para negotiated exactly the same route back to the beach that Max himself would have chosen.

If not for the eerie overtones that made it feel as if he was talking to himself (but wasn’t he?) he might have enjoyed the situation. It was like having the world’s best valet. Mitch drove, Mitch opened the garage, Mitch parked the car. Too bad, he found himself thinking wryly, that neither one of them could cook.

As much as he had come to accept the situation, it was
still something of a shock when Mitch pulled a set of keys from his pocket and opened the door to the apartment.

“Home,” his para murmured as they stepped inside. “My home, your home, our home.” He looked over at himself and smiled. “I’m glad all the bills are paid on our other place. My place. Everything will be all right for a while until this Boles person can restore me to my reality. Meanwhile,” he said as he headed for the kitchen, “all that sitting around in El Cortez has made me hungry.”

“Not me.” Max trailed him. “We may be alike, but it looks like we’re not locked in a do-everything-together two-step.”

“Damn good thing, too.” Mitch was examining the contents of the refrigerator, verifying that its contents were identical to his own. “Otherwise we might go crazy.” He was nodding approvingly as he spoke. “Salami, mayo, relish, our favorite brand of tuna—you’ve got all the right stuff.”

Max nodded solemnly. “What else would you expect from yourself? I don’t have to ask if there’s anything in there you’d like to eat. If you’re going to make a sandwich, and I suspect that you are, there’s half a loaf of cracked wheat bread in the pantry. Just go easy on the groceries. It looks like I’m buying for the two of us now.”

While Mitch threw together tuna and bread (about the extent of their combined knowledge of gourmet home cookery, Max reflected), his counterpart opened a beer and took a seat in the den. They subsequently discovered that they liked
the same television programs except that Mitch preferred the local news on channel four instead of two, and he rooted for a different local basketball team. These less-than-earthshaking revelations provided just enough leeway in conversation to separate them as individuals, despite the overwhelming similarities, and allowed each man room enough in which to establish an identity apart from his para.

Ready to retire at the same time, they went through the motions of preparing for bed in exactly the same fashion save that Mitch brushed with an up-and-down motion while Max preferred to stroke from side to side. The king-sized bed was more than adequate for the both of them, and neither man had any compunction about sleeping with himself. Graciously, Max allowed Mitch to have the right side of the bed, which both men favored.

“This doesn’t mean I’m buying lunch again tomorrow,” Mitch pointed out as he climbed between the sheets. “Remember, my bank account’s also in another world.”

Max checked the alarm before turning out the light. “Talk about your convenient excuses …”

Dressing the following morning was no problem. Everything that fit Max fit Mitch, and they took turns at the bathroom sink and mirror. Breakfast was a matter of simply making two of everything.

“Remember now.” Max led the way down to the garage. “You’re my twin brother Mitch from back East, visiting the
West Coast for the first time since I started working for the paper.”

The para indicated that he understood. “I’ll be careful not to say too much or I’m liable to reveal too much knowledge of L.A. for a supposed stranger.”

Max nodded approvingly. “That’s just what I would do.”

“Of course it is. And we’re going to have to stop remarking on that as well.”

They entered the deserted garage. “You’ve got it easy,” Max told him. “I’m the one who still has to work.”

“What makes you think that’s going to be easy?” the para complained. “What am I supposed to do while you’re working? I can’t just sit around and do nothing all day.” At a sudden thought, Mitch brightened. “I know. I’ll help you. We can collaborate. We’re already collaborating on the Boles story.”

Max did not need long to consider the offer. “Sure, why not? I’ll attend the story conference this morning and you can do research.” He followed the suggestion with a lopsided smile. “I know you know the passwords for the computer.”

Mitch looked pleased. “We’ll amaze even those who thought you were a fast worker. Some of them are liable to think there are two of you.” Both men chuckled, as was appropriate. They found the same things equally amusing.

In response to Kryzewski’s queries Max was forced to stall on turning in the final draft of the Boles story by explaining
that he was still working out certain angles and verifying specific details. That did not mean he was completely tied up with that one particular story, however. In response, and reflecting the fact that it was a slow news day, he was directed to work up something on Judy, the renowned painting elephant. The assignment suited Max perfectly, since it meant that he and Mitch could spend the rest of the day out of the office and away from startled stares and prying questions.

“What can we do with an elephant that paints?” Mitch leaned back in the passenger seat as Max accelerated up the on-ramp, heading east toward Griffith Park and the Los Angeles Zoo.

“Beats me. There have been stories on this elephant before, in the daily media. It’s pretty bland stuff.” Max looked at his para. “That’s why Kryzewski assigned me to it. I’m supposed to be good at finding new angles to old news. So don’t just sit there. Think of something inventive.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Mitch replied irritably. “Two heads are only better than one if the first leaves the second alone once in a while.”

“Let’s concentrate on different approaches. I’ll work the elephant angle, and you try to come up with something based on the paintings she does. Something like ‘Noted Freudian Seeks Vindication Through Elephant Art,’ or ‘Ponderous Pachydermal Paintings Pure Pontification, Praises Poet.’”

“Fair enough,” agreed Mitch.

“Of course it is.” Once up to speed on the freeway, his double focused on his driving. “We’re a fair kind of guy.”