Aug 14 2012

Alternate Universe – Friday Fiction

contemplation of the multiverse begins over a cup of coffee. I opt to add a bit
of milk which I carefully pour from a crystal creamer I inherited from my
great-grandmother. Odd, I went to school for a short while with a girl named
Crystal Creamer. She moved frequently, so almost no one but me got to know her.

            I glance
over to my spouse who is sketching something. I recall that I dated from a wide
variety of choices in the singles pool in my day.  No “type” for me it would seem. And
while none of them had much in common beyond having dated me, here my spouse
sits, embodying the finest quality of each of them. The artist, the rational
one, the one wiz in the kitchen, the passionate seducer, … all the qualities
that I liked rolled into one delicious body that is equally devoid of the
traits which I was bothered by enough to cause a string of past relationships.

            I flick on
some music. An album comes on that I’ve had for several years. I recall
attending a concert in a meadow where ten bands came out to jam one day.
Admission was free because no one had heard of any of these unsigned musicians
who played on a makeshift stage that was three pallets high. I had bought a
demo CD off of the one band that I liked. They’re playing a concert in Vegas
this weekend. The cost of a ticket would take someone on minimum wage seventeen
hours to earn, before taxes of course. The other bands which did not hold my
interest have all slipped into an abyss of obscurity so deep that even Goggle
has no record of them.

            Having used
the last of the milk for my coffee, I make a quick run to the store. It’s only
a few blocks. It should be uneventful. It isn’t. I pass a colorful character on
a bicycle. The light turns red, and he passes me. As I think about how
distracting his outfit is, a three car pile up happens just ahead of me. It’s
bad. Someone was trying to snap a picture of the bicyclist while they were
driving. The news would later report that the person died. The focus of the
story is that mobile phones are the root of all evil. I wonder why cars do not
yet come with options like a 360 camera and voice-to-text. There’s a colorful
graph which shows the amount of accidents and fatalities where a phone is in
the car today compared with how many happened thirty years ago. It’s concrete
evidence that there were significantly fewer accidents with phones in cars
thirty years ago. I draw my own graph that proves there were significantly less
automobile accidents three hundred years ago. No one around me gets the
correlation or appreciates the humor.

            Yet I feel
like someone out there has. I feel like none of these things have simply
happened. There must be a reason that my life is not dull. Some justification
must exist for the way life has unfolded so neatly, even with the curveballs I
have been thrown at every almost-easy or nearly-humdrum turn.

            The answer
is obvious. I am not the writer of this universe. I am the puppet on the
string. I am the character of this story. Heath is writing me. It’s payback for
all that I’ve done to him in my universe where he exists only at the bottom of
my inkwell. Touché. 

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