CHAPTER II: How Many Birds Are Dead Because of Something You Threw Away?
Pictured: Smoking Room @ The Stache
“There are certain things you shouldn’t think about, is something you should never say.”
I’m not a gambling man, but I’ll bet the number of truths the human mind can believe is incalculable. Counting the religions isn’t even the half of it. Each follower of each system is bound to fit into a sub-category—denomination, dialect, or sub-sect—that has it’s own flavor. Additionally, the individual who is within the sub-category maintains their own infinitesimal tweaks to the doctrine. Then you’ve got what I call the mundane beliefs which need to be taken into account.
Any individual representing a small percentage of a sub-category in a major religion or non-religion—atheism, agnosticism, I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-to-think-ism—has their own personal beliefs that are unrelated to the cosmological.
When they fall asleep they believe they will wake up. When they put their foot on the break pedal, they believe the car will slow down. Mundane Beliefs.
Then there are Projected Beliefs. What I mean by that is thus: Every person you know counts for one character—one projection—you can recall at will. Let’s say you have a friend named Billy, and Billy has long hair. He’s talkative, confident, slightly overboard with his jokes, and he is extremely good at Pinball. When Billy isn’t around, you have within you the ability to construct an image of him based on all the times you’ve crossed paths. The state of this projection is based on the last time you interacted, and therefore isn’t necessarily accurate. Perhaps Billy cut his hair since you saw him last, or he told the wrong joke at the wrong time and is subsequently entering a phase of keeping his mouth shut. The gap between the last interaction and the current moment—whatever that is—is what makes this a belief. You can believe Billy to be a certain way, but maybe he’s not that way any more. People can change on a dime; a moment’s notice. It spirals even further when you consider that Billy may act differently around different people. Is he only talkative, confident, and slightly overboard with his jokes when he’s around you? What about in a group as well as with you? What about a group without you? What about a one-on-one situation without you? Every person that knows Billy, believes Billy to be whatever character in their life they perceive as him.
What I’m trying to say is—
—If 137 people know you personally, and you’ve interacted with 22,000 people throughout your whole life, then including the beliefs you hold about yourself there are 22,138 different versions of you out there existing concurrently. Whether or not these versions of you are only in the mind of others is a matter of no consequence when debating their existence.
—Billy thinks he knows you.
—So does everyone else.
What does this mean for a celebrity who has been seen on television by nearly every human being on the planet? What does this mean for every dog, cat, bird, tree, plant or insect that interacts with you? Do their beliefs go on the list too? I sometimes worry about this. What if everything that interacts with you is automatically casting a vote by believing one thing or another, and the sum total of these votes will determine whether or not you continue to exist as a part of the universe?
Billy thinks you’re a good person.
The man behind you at the liquor store doesn’t.
The dog thinks your kind.
The spider, not so much.
Ten of your teachers approved of your behavior.
Three of them couldn’t stand you.
Auntie so-and-so believes in you no matter what.
Uncle Drunk thinks you’re a loser.
You know what you think you are and what you think you think you are is good.
Place your bets!
The score is 1400 to 66. Congratulations! The universe has decided that you are a productive member of existence. Carry on!
I think about these things. I don’t think about them too much. I think about them just the right amount. Usually it’s preceded by someone who is completely caught off-guard.
—You seem different today.
I find it very irritating when people say this. Of course, I try not to show it. For me the problem is in the tone of voice; surprise. Why? Every second of every minute is a new experience. These new experiences bring fresh nuances, albeit not always in immediately perceptible form.
Still, it should be perfectly obvious that their opinion is only one opinion in the midst of millions, if not billions, held by the other conscious entities in the natural world that have come in contact with me, and I am not required in any way to identify with the version of me they think I am. Unless of course, you believe in the supernatural. That takes the whole game and turns it upside down, backwards, and reflects it upon itself. To say the possibilities are infinite is to do it a disservice. Infinity is merely the number of FINITE forms IN the thing. What about Outfinity?
It’s thoughts like that that keep me drinking. The stupid ones. And boy was I on a train. It wasn’t all bad track though.
Sal and I had returned from OPERATION: STEAL THE RING FROM THE BANK in a timely fashion, and very few people were at The Stache. We had our customary drinks; me an Old Fashioned with Rye, and Sal a Sasarac. A few people came up to say hello. Vera, as always. She looked pleasantly nervous, but I understood. She gave Sal a hug.
—This is the night it starts happening.
Charley came down from the Second Floor in a huff. I gathered his session with Silverton hadn’t gone terribly well, from his perspective that is. He sat with me for a bit while Sal delivered the twice stolen ring to Z’s office.
If I’m being honest, there was no real reason for me to tag along. Sal’s better at that stuff. The formalities. Besides, as curious as I was about the ring, Z has never been one to answer questions like a normal person. Usually the answer is wrapped in so many metaphors you forget the original question, which is exactly why I was so glad to see Charley. He’s young, so he still trusts himself implicitly. He’s also the self-appointed Cosmic-Historian of The Red Rainbow. If anything I figured he’d tell me more than I needed to know. I took a large napkin from behind the bar and wrote on it:
—Are you familiar with Irish folklore?
He spoke his replies.
—More than the next guy.
—As in me?
—Yes.
—Can you tell me about the ring we took from the safety deposit box this afternoon?
—Do you have it with you?
—Sal took it upstairs already.
—Who’s box was it again?
—Someone named McGillicuddy.
—A notable fellow this McGillicuddy?
—Completely civilian as far as I can tell.
—McGillicuddy is a particularly Irish surname though.
—That so?
—Oh yeah, anything about the ring strike you?
—Markings stamped around the exterior. One long vertical line crossed with several smaller lines.
—Sounds like Ogham.
—Are you able to read it?
—I’d have to see the ring.
—I can recall the markings exactly.
I drew them on the napkin.
—Translation?
—Off the top of my head, I believe it just says McGillicuddy. But I’d have to check to make sure.
—Nothing we don’t already know. Well maybe I’ll stop by your office later.
—I’m down.
Charley wasn’t drinking, but he found an empty glass and tapped it against my all too empty Old Fashioned. The best part about having androids as bartenders is their immaculate attention to detail.
—Excuse me Norman sir, when Charley clinked the empty glass against your glass just now it sounded a smidgen void. Would you like another round Norman sir?
If I was a talking man I woulda said, Sure thing Jack. By the way, don’t you have eyes? Why couldn’t you just look and see that I was ready for another.
The Stupid Ones. That’s what keeps me drinkin’.
—Excuse me Norman sir, I’ve just received a thought that was directed towards myself. The reason I respond to the clink of the glass is simple. Customers often react with a high sense of awe when I do so. This higher sense they experience is good for business.
—....
I forgot I was still wearing the drop. That’s what we call the black opal I mentioned earlier. It can do more than just make you hear music when you’re at the top of Cerro San Cristobal waiting to be kidnapped by gangsters but instead an inter-phase being shows up and transports you to another corner of the universe that just-so-damn-happens to look exactly like the one you were already in. It can also read your mind. I’m not a scientist, but I know that it has something to do with the invisible waves all around you. I try to take it off when I’m in the building. Otherwise, things can get hectic. Until you’ve been on the WaV you have no idea how many thoughts you have that are intentionally aimed at people. I remember the first time I walked into the lobby wearing one. I turned pale as a sheet because I didn’t know it could do that. Much less did I know how to block the thoughts of others. I was standing twenty feet from where I am now looking like Dougie fuckin‘ Jones. The bartender called over:
—Are you quite alright Mr. Norman sir?
I thought to myself, Lighten up on the accent Buster.
—Yes sir, Sorry sir.
I thought to myself, are you reading my mind?
—No sir. You are sending your thoughts my way on purpose.
I thought to myself...
No I’m not.
—I can assure you, you are.
Explain it to me like I’m an idiot.
—You are wearing the opal correct?
Yes.
—The question was rhetorical.
Okay, explain it to me like I’m slightly smarter than an idiot.
—The drop, which is a slang title for that particular device, is connected to the WaV. The WaV is a software maintained within this building which records the thought forms of any individuals wearing the drop. If this individual thinks a thought that is intentionally aimed at another, the intended recipient will be presented with it.
Seems invasive.
—It only works if both individuals are wearing one Mr. Norman sir. The consent is in the accessory. Furthermore, it is entirely possible to limit what you hear.
How?
—There are many ways of accomplishing this Mr. Norman sir.
Which way is best, in your opinion?
—I find the heart based algorithms to be of the highest order. Simply think to yourself, ‘When my heart is closed, so be the gate. When the gate is open, I will listen.’
And thinking that sentence does what exactly?
—It tells the Intelligence overseeing the WaV to only deliver thoughts that you need, are open to, or intuitively desire. It keeps the rest at bay.
Holy shit Batman. This little gemstone does all that?
—Well, no Mr. Norman sir, there are many machines involved in this process. There are sensors within the stone first of all. If a slight disturbance in the electromagnetic field surrounding your heart is detected, this disturbance is compared to previously recorded instances of the very same. The Intelligence determines the emotional response you are having by cross referencing the time of this instance with the thoughts being sent. From there the Intelligence gathers information on the individuals sending these thoughts via your history of interactions with them, and the interactions they’ve had with you. Furthermore, your feelings toward these individuals are analyzed in tandem with the...
That’s enough of that.
—Fair enough Mr. Norman sir.
Drop the Mr.
—Sir, it’s been Dropped. Excuse the pun.
Not excused. How long does it take the computer..er..The Intelligence to do all of this?
—Over twice as fast as a hundredth of the time it takes to blink your eye Norman sir. And it isn’t precisely a computer which is doing it, rather...
I don’t need to understand it if I know how to use it.
—Would you like a tasty cold beverage Norman sir?
Well gosh darn-it I think I might.
That’s within throwing distance of how it went. It’s been over a year since then, I think. I haven’t gone very far have I? I’m still here, sitting by the bar asking for another and another and another. People are filtering in. I hear the mighty mumble and the pitter patter and the Megaphone Man is screaming some ridiculous thing. All I can do is pretend to read my newspaper while pondering this question: Who am I right now?
* * *
Back in 2020 it was Alexandre Dumas. I was living on the Cote d’Azur—the southern coast of France—near Cannes, and it was one of the happiest periods of my life. Very few people picked up on the fact that I was using the same name as the guy who wrote The Count of Monte Cristo, which doesn’t surprise me. The story is buried so deep in the dusty shelves of classic literature that no one actually reads it anymore. Even those who did recognize the name were simply amused by the connection. Zero suspicion. I also had a great con going. Nothing extravagant, but it was air-tight as far as I could tell. I’d set up a website for a specialty chef named Renée Martin. He custom made a plethora of dishes that complimented one specific wine. It wasn’t a particularly expensive wine, nor was it a good wine, but that was the point. It eliminated any and all native citizens. No self-respecting local would go near that wine if you paid them to do it, therefore miscellaneous tourists were the only remaining customer base. This made it easier to hide the fact that there was no specialty chef, but rather the dishes were standard issue at the random restaurant next to my house. I would hand deliver the meals via cart after purchasing them and pour the customer’s first glass of wine with a certain joie de vivre. Usually I’d be dressed as a mime. They were left with the satisfaction of having experienced something they perceived to be particularly French, and I’d be left with cash monies. Sure, I was capitalizing on stereotypes, but you know what? It worked. The domain for the website was Eat-Like-A-French-Person.com. I chose that name for the express purpose of optimizing search engine visibility. I figured at least 6 out of 10 American tourists would search that exact phrase as soon as they got into town, and I was correct in that assumption. Before I knew it, there were more orders being placed than I could handle in a day. Hiring a runner to assist in delivering the meals would've made sense, but I took it a different direction. I opted to double the price of everything. I lost some business of course, but I was making the same amount of money so it was of no consequence in my opinion. Half the fun was dressing up like a chef and creating the video updates whenever there was a fictional change to the menu.
The whole schtick was going tremendously well. I’d even befriended a man who waited tables at La Chambre Bleu; the restaurant I was buying the meals from. He had a deep seeded distaste for foreigners, so he found the whole operation to be hysterical. For this I gave him the nickname François Fairview. Once we were in cahoots, I no longer had to conceal my identity when I went in to purchase a meal; which happened 10-15 times a day. I’d call in the order with a text to his personal phone, and he’d meet me at the same table every time. This particular table wasn’t visible to the real chefs, so for all they knew the orders were being placed by normal customers. There were some complexities, such as dealing with the plates and the silverware. Obviously the owner of the restaurant would’ve noticed they were hemorrhaging china like none other. The solution was simple, but I’m not going to tell you what it was.
This scheme went on for a good year and a half without a single hiccup. I had no complaints. My days were spent traversing the ever living cinema-scape of the riviera, and my nights were capped with Cognac by the sea listening to François spread poetry over the warm pastel wind. I was blissfully detached; a character in someone else’s dream—until Sal showed up.
It wasn’t so much that he arrived on the scene all of a sudden. He owned a four-bedroom cliffside oasis that was secluded without being outside of town, and I was familiar with the location before I knew it belonged to him. Vis-à-vis, I’d delivered food there in the past. But one afternoon I received an order that was slightly out of the ordinary. The customer didn’t want a meal, they didn’t want wine, they wanted bread alone. Additionally, they requested a late delivery; 9:00pm. I thought it was odd, but not enough to raise any flags. Odd is how it is sometimes.
So, I stocked up on freshly baked baguettes from Le Chambre Bleu and went on with my business until the time presented itself. I rode my cart—which was motorized, none of this pedaling crap—out to the location. When I arrived there was a young woman smoking a cigarette by the road. She was sitting on the pseudo-natural stone steps that led up to the main residence. I smelt jasmine and rose floating off her transparent blouse.
—Bonjour mademoiselle, j'ai une commande de pain pour la famille Delevigne?
This the part where you find out I speak nine languages, including French. Hello miss, I’ve brought some bread for the Delevigne family, is what I said.
—That’s us.
—Dois-je l'apporter ou le laisser avec toi?
—My husband is up there, bring it to him.
I glanced toward the hillside. Halfway up the rise was a patio which had been carved out of the earth. It was laid with painted stone and lined with antique lamps. I thanked the moody mademoiselle for her direction, and grabbed the basket of baguettes. I didn’t see Sal at first. He was tucked away in the furthest corner with his eyes glued to a notebook. Over here sport, he said without looking up.
—Leave the goods right there on the stoop, I’ll bring it up to the house later. Join me for a drink won’t you?
—Oh, no no. Je ne pouvais pas.
—Hang up the act sport. We’re both Americans.
I was taken aback by his candid tone.
—How did you…?
—I’m a bright bulb, and you’ve served my guests in the past. I rent this place out when I’m not here. Soon as one of them mentioned a very fantastic service they were provided via Eat-Like-A-Frech-Person.com I knew something was up. I did a little research of my own and found a few signature dishes I recognized from Le Chambre Bleu down the way. You’re clever, I’ll give you that. Takes a keen eye to catch the discrepancy.
—Discrepancy?
—Yeah. I’ve eaten at The Blue Room several times, I know what the food looks like. C’mon, sit down, have a drink.
—You don’t seem upset.
—Oh I’m not upset sport. For one, I actually did want those baguettes. Two, I’ve got money to spare. Finally, I admire a man of self-made means. What’s your name?
—Alexandre Dumas.
—That guy’s deader than a doornail. What’s your real name?
—Nicholas.
I decided to go with the name Nick due to Sal’s excessive use of the term sport. He wasn’t old enough to have picked it up naturally. My guess was that he fancied himself to be a real-life Jay Gatz, sitting there with his brightly colored suit on a patio deep in the heart of the French Riviera.
—Well Nicky, I still don’t believe you, but for now it’ll have to do.
—I met your wife down by the road. A very sweet woman.
—No need to be polite. I know she was short with you. She didn’t take well to the idea of inviting a criminal to the house. The man is a con Sal, a CON-MAN! She said. My name is Sal by the way, pleasure to make your acquaintance.
He said this without making any gesture, only continuing to scribble in his notebook.
—I gather you want something from me other than the baguettes?
—What makes you say that?
—Oh, you placed an order against your wife’s wishes. You’re sitting here cryptically like a gangster who’s new to the charade. And you don’t seem at all interested in reporting me to the proper authorities.
—You really think I’m inexperienced?
—As far as being a gangster goes, yes. Otherwise your wife would be inside. Or not here at all.
—And what instead? Ladies of the night?
—Perhaps.
—I’m a loyal husband.
—I believe you.
—Are you going to stand there and be sarcastic all night or are you going to sit down and hear my proposal?
—Is that Cognac?
I pointed lazily towards a half empty bottle on the garden table beside him.
—Yes it is. I also have a fresh pack of smokes if you’re interested.
Out from his shirt pocket came a sight for sore eyes. Natural American Spirit Cigarettes. He took one for himself and held one my way with inquisition.
—I am interested. Alright, we’re in business. What’ll it be, Mr. Sal?
He looked me dead in the eyes for the first time since my arrival. It was like staring at the sun in the midst of a forest fire. I felt this radiant energy burning the very air, but I knew it was innocent. Simply doing its job. Blissfully detached from what most people call reality.
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