Random Acts Part 15

Turning back to the audience, I say it. "What is reality, anyway?"

There's a big laugh at this, and cheers. Evidently they're all familiar with this routine and want to hear it.

It's a shame I don't know the rest.

"Reality is too complicated for us to perceive, our brains are much to primitive. We only see a very small part of it at a time. You see, there are an infinite number of dimensions, and we all extend far into them, but we can only see three of these dimensions at a time."

The audience has grown silent again. Gloria has her face covered by her hands.

"We humans are a lot larger creatures than you realize. What we all see are merely segments of each other, like segments of a worm. What we don't see is that we're all huge multi-dimensional worms, stretching through countless levels of the universe."

There's some fringe laughter, but for the most part I've totally lost them and they're silent and confused. Even worse, they're starting to become disappointed.

"I told you I'm from another dimension," I say. It doesn't help.

Someone from the audience yells out, "Einstein!" I peer out, beginning to see shadows of heads. I'm starting to see the audience, and it's horrible. "Does anyone know any good Einstein jokes?" I ask.

There's a couple whistles and a few claps, then silence.

Looking toward the side stage, I suddenly blurt out, "I'm sorry. I have to go to the bathroom." There's a low rumble of chuckles as I rush off stage. I shoulder past Gloria and Tad, past dozens of people staring at me with various degrees of concern. Gloria is following after me, calling my name. I run for the back stage door, burst through it to find it almost totally deserted. I head straight for the limousine, but find it empty --- the driver must be inside, watching the show. I try to open the driver's door, but it's locked. Security guards come toward me but stop when they see who I am. I turn away from them, jogging, running away. Behind me I hear Gloria calling my name, but it fades.

8. AMERICA WORLD.

Like before, I find my way home by giving the address on my driver's license to a cab driver. I hope like h.e.l.l that I've s.h.i.+fted dimensions, but the cab takes me to the same house. Once inside I find Pris has been there and removed all her possessions while I was at the amphitheater. I missed her, and she got away. I feel like death. I feel like all I have to do is lie down and stop breathing.

There's a black dial telephone on the bed stand beside my bed, sitting on top of a black and green phone book. I look through the book for 'Priscilla Nunez' but she's not listed, so in desperation I look for Tom Harrison. To my amazement, and with a small sigh of relief, I find it. I dial the number and a woman answers.

"h.e.l.lo?" she says. The voice is familiar.

"h.e.l.lo, Heather?"

"Yes?"

"Is Tom there?"

"Who's this calling?"

I tell her my name. When she says, "Who?" I say it again, and then, hesitantly, add, ". . . you know, the comedian?"

"Are you serious?!" she says with excitement. My heart sinks because, obviously, she doesn't know me personally. This means Tom probably doesn't know me either.

Tom comes on the line, sounding skeptical at first. The skepticism goes away after a few seconds, as it seems he recognizes my voice. "I'm sorry, I don't remember ever having met you," he says. "I mean, I think I would have remembered. Heather and I are big fans of yours."

"We met a while ago," I tell him, feeling despondent. "Unless, of course, I have the wrong Tom Harrison."

"That must be it," Tom says. "I can't be the only Tom Harrison."

This strikes me as ironic. If he only knew! "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"That's no problem at all!"

I open my mouth to say something, but there's no words. I can't tell him anything, he'd think I'm crazy. "Well, uh, good-bye."

"Bye."

I put the heavy black receiver on the cradle and collapse into the big bed. The pillows, I realize, smell like Pris. Hopeless tears start leaking out my eyes as I lie there staring at the ceiling.

Then I think: The h.e.l.l with this! I'm not stuck here, I can go somewhere else. My subconscious must have brought me here, searching for a world where Pris and I are together; obviously there has to be another world where this is true. I lie there trying to will myself to s.h.i.+ft dimensions, to slip somewhere off into another reality. I remember the dream I had, the dream where I rose up through the ceiling and into other rooms, other realities. Try as I might, however, nothing happens.

The phone rings, and I pick it up, hoping it's Pris. It's not, it's Gloria, and she's screaming at me over the phone. I hang up on her, then leave it off the hook. Lying back in the bed, I listen to the faint sound of the dial tone, wondering if it would start making loud beeping noises. But it doesn't, the phone system here seems primitive and the dial tone continues uninterrupted. It starts to fade as I think about Pris, about the night we made love. It's my most cherished memory. Dimly I'm aware that someone's knocking on the front door but I ignore it, knowing the door is locked. I have no intention of answering. I'm here until I leave, so to speak. Until I s.h.i.+ft dimensions.

The dial tone fades in and out. The knocking goes away. I fall asleep and dream that everything is the way it used to be, with Tom and I living in the Euclid, and me teaching Herpetology and Tom writing about people who see little red lights. Pris is seeing Tom and I'm l.u.s.ting after her in secret, but at least she's friendly to me and I can touch her arms and talk to her. I dream of a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon with Tom, Pris, Aaron and I are listening to familiar music and drinking b.l.o.o.d.y Marys. Then the dream turns weird, and the floor is replaced by a rope net with holes big enough to fall through, and below us another room identical to ours is fully visible, complete with its own versions of us, but in slightly different positions. Below that is another room, and below that another, on and on.

In the dream I stand there on the rope floor, wobbling and trying to keep my balance, and peer far down below to see a place where I'm with Pris. The other versions of me are doing the same, all looking down. Far below, so far that I almost need binoculars to see it, there's a version of me who is not mimicking my actions. It's a version of me who has a woman in his arms, and I think, That's it! In my excitement I forget all about caution and loose my balance. The net wobbles as I swung my arms and teeter back and forth. There's a terrible sensation of falling, and I wake up, nearly leaping out of bed.

It's a bra.s.s bed, queen sized, with a bright yellow and green flowered bedspread. The room is small but bright, with sunlight streaming through open windows. There's clothes piled everywhere, in heaps on the floor, on top of furniture, and from one of the s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s bedposts hangs a bra.s.siere. The cup size of the bra.s.siere looks large enough to hold cantaloupes.

Someone stirs in the bed next to me, and I realize that there's a bare leg draped across one of mine. I also realize that I'm naked. I look over with fascination and see bright blond hair all over a pillow.

It's not Pris. The head turns and reveals a face, and my eyes bulge.

It's definitely not Pris --- it's Heather! Tom's Heather.

I drop my head back onto the pillow and feign sleep as she continues to stir. One of her hands slides across my chest, and her nose nuzzles in my ear. Then I feel something soft, wet, and warm. Her tongue. She sticks it in my ear and I jump, and she giggles. "Wake up,"

she says.

I mumble something, not even words, just word-sounds. So she continues tonguing my ear and then kisses the side of my face, moving downward to my chest. Reaching my left nipple, she rubs her tongue across it and fingers the other one, and while doing this I feel her legs on either side of mine and she's rubbing her v.a.g.i.n.a against my thigh. After about three minutes my thigh is all slimly and my p.e.n.i.s is hard and throbbing. There is no point in continuing to pretend I'm asleep. I stroke her hair and feel my p.e.n.i.s pressing insistently against her stomach.

From the open windows I hear traffic pa.s.sing on a street nearby, the heavy bustle sound of morning rush hour. The rattling and rumblings of motors, the occasional honk of a horn. Odd, sparkling music drifts on the breeze from a neighbor's window, swelling and receding. Heather's breath is loud, and her skin is hot. She smells like woman's sweat, sweet and musky. My mind shuts off, and hormones take over.

I take hold of her arms and pull her up. She moves to my wishes, her face rising to mine. We kiss hard, touching tongues, then she sits up on me and rocks back and forth. Her smile holds a hint of teasing. I stare into her blue eyes, seeing things there I've never seen before, then watch as she looks down to see what she's doing. I feel her hand take my p.e.n.i.s and guide it into herself, then both of us gasp as it slides in. She sits on top and moves slowly, savoring the feeling, her eyes closed and head tilted far back. I stare at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and feel overwhelmed. They're big. The nipples are big. Some ancient urge causes me to raise my head and take one into my mouth, suckling eagerly.

Heather gasps and makes other noises, then begins moving. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swing back and forth, hitting me in the face. I enjoy it, I feel like I'm in a p.o.r.no movie.

She moves faster, gaining some sort of rhythmic momentum, and I feel my climax building like a light bulb that's about to flash and burn out. I try to hold it back but my control is gone. I feel every muscle in my body clench and then everything stops. Time stops. It's like G.o.d reaches down with a glowing golden staff and taps me on the head. Pow.

Wham. Time starts up again, and I feel like I'm buzzing with electricity. Heather is gasping and making jerking movements, crying out; apparently my o.r.g.a.s.m triggered her's. I smile, thinking that I've achieved s.e.x without guilt. Me with Heather Clarke, I would never have believed such a thing. And here I see her in this intimate moment, where her mouth is open and eyes are closed, looking very child-like, and I begin to see what Tom likes about her.

Heather collapses on top of me and I hold her. She feels like she's s.h.i.+vering, her back and arms giving occasional twitches. Perhaps her o.r.g.a.s.m is still going. I hold tight, feeling it with her. When she's finally still, and I feel like drifting back to sleep, she pulls back, gives me a quick kiss, then crawls off the bed and disappears. I hear a shower start. A few moments later I hear her singing.

I sit up in bed and look around the room again. Where am I? The clothes piled about here and there are all definitely her's. On the floor beside the bed is one single, small pile of male clothes. They must be mine. Before I can gather the energy to get out of the bed and try them on, Heather is done with her shower and comes walking in wearing a robe and a towel wrapped around her head. "Are you going to stop by later?" she asks.

"Sure."

"You will?" She smiles, pleased.

"Yes."

She retains her smile, drying off and then dressing. Watching her dress is like watching a strip-tease in reverse. She's putting on a little show for me, throwing me glances and more smiles, enjoying my attention. Of course, she's an actress. If she didn't want the attention, she'd be something else. But as I watch her dress, I realize she is something else --- she's putting on a waitress's uniform. There's even a little gold tag with her name on it.

Strutting over to the bed, she gives me a coy look then leans over to kiss me. "Got to run," she says. "Bye Tom." Walking over to the doorway, she stops and poses, blows me a kiss, then says, "Love you."

Then she's gone. I sit there and listen as she moves through the rest of the house and then out the front door. A moment after that I hear a car start up and then drive away.

I sit there in a daze for a long while. Why in the h.e.l.l did she call me "Tom?" After a while I begin to doubt she'd said that, that maybe I'd misheard her.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, I reach down and pick up the pair of black jeans. There's a wallet in the back pocket, so I pull it out and open it up. It's stuffed with green bills and credit cards with unfamiliar brand names. The names on the credit cards, and the name on the driver's license, are all "Tom Harrison." The driver's license has my picture on it, though. The address is in Pacifica.

I climb out of bed and walk naked through the house to find the bathroom. The face in the mirror, thank G.o.d, is still mine. My hair is a lot shorter than I usually keep it, though.

I take a long, hot shower, then cut my face up with one of Heather's dull razors. Then I wander once again through the small, messy house, seeing pictures of myself and her on a wall, then head back into the bedroom and dress. The jet-black s.h.i.+rt is badly wrinkled, and has the slippery s.h.i.+ny look and feel of 100% polyester. But it's not, the tag says it's silk. Either this is my best s.h.i.+rt, or I'm filthy rich. Or maybe it was a present from Heather.

Once dressed, I poke around in the tiny, dingy kitchen and find some leftover Chinese food that looks edible. There is no microwave oven, so I eat it cold. It seems so odd that I'd find Heather like this; the Heather I'd known would be horrified to see herself in such a state.

I still couldn't believe that I'd just made love with her. She'd always looked at me like I was a bug. If only it were Pris instead of Heather.

This would qualify as a bona fide Heaven if it were Pris.

Sitting at the small kitchen table and feeling heart sickness coming on, I force myself to stand up and shake it off. Of all the weird places I've found myself, this is the most intriguing. I clean the kitchen up as best I can, pull a set of keys out of my pocket, then walk outside to see what kind of car I own.

The suns.h.i.+ne is bright, and it makes me squint. The air has a clean, misty quality to it, with thin low clouds drifting on a gentle breeze. Heather's neighborhood is very clean, made up of small houses on very straight streets. On the horizon are familiar hills; familiar in shape and position, but not in appearance. It's still San Francisco, though another version.

The car in the driveway looks like a 1960's version of what a 1984 car should look like. Curved feminine lines; a huge, oval scoop in front; foot-high tail fins and a bubble roof. With some hesitation I try the keys in the lock, finding one that fits, then step back as the gla.s.s bubble tilts up and a door swings open. Weird. Climbing in, I shut the door and wait as the bubble closes over me. It feels like I'm in a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p.

There's seventeen dials in front of me on the dash, and almost as many push-b.u.t.tons. It takes me a minute to find a place to put the ignition key. Inserting it and turning it makes all the b.u.t.tons light up, but the engine doesn't start. Searching around again, I find one of the b.u.t.tons, a red one to be exact, reads "IGNITION." I push it and there's this tremendous whine, then a low thrumming sound, then a building whir --- like a gyro coming up to speed. I experimentally press down on the accelerator pedal and the engine screams. It doesn't sound like any other car I've ever heard in my life. It sounds like a jet airplane.

I carefully release the emergency brake, and slip the automatic transmission into drive. The car rolls onto the street and up the hill with no effort at all, even though I'm not pus.h.i.+ng on the accelerator.

Tom would definitely love this car. It feels like it could explode at any moment.

Wandering aimlessly, I explore this odd version of San Francisco.

There is a downtown section here with it's large skysc.r.a.pers, but they're not quite as big as I'm used too. There are freeways everywhere.

There are houses everywhere, too, and most of them are as small as Heather's --- little one or two bedroom places with neat little yards and many complete with picket fence. The American Dream. Up on one of the highways I see a sign pointing the way to Pacifica, so I brave the on-ramp and actually put some pressure on the accelerator pedal. The car smoothly rolls up onto the freeway as if it were rolling down a hill.

The traffic in the other 12 lanes pa.s.s by me like I'm stuck in the mud, so I speed up, matching their pace. I pa.s.s a sign that reads "SPEED LIMIT: 90 MPH." Looking at the dash, I notice my car's speedometer goes up to 320. Jesus.

The city thins and the freeway straightens out; the speed limit goes up to 150 MPH. Holding onto the steering wheel with an abstract sense of terror, I push down on the pedal and watch as the needle goes up to the speed limit. The road pa.s.ses under me like I'm in an airplane going down a runway for takeoff. Despite my velocity, there are still cars pa.s.sing me like I was an old lady in a Model T Ford. One of the cars that goes past is just a blur of black and white, looking like some sort of ground-hugging missile. It's big, too, a good 25 feet long.

Brilliant colors flash from the top of it, and it pulls another car over to the shoulder. I remain in the slow lane, doing a mere 150 and playing it safe.

There are five warning signs to ensure I slow down enough to make the Pacifica off-ramp. I wander around for a while until I stumble upon the road where I supposedly live; it takes me out into the country. I find a mailbox with my address in front of a yard so large it looks like a ranch. Across the street is the ocean.

The driveway is more like a private road. I keep thinking to myself, G.o.d, please, let this place actually belong to me. The front is all constructed of white brick and large angled timbers. The windows are large and made of multiple panes. Maybe, I think to myself --- maybe Pris is inside. I pull in front and park, then sit there watching for signs of life. Nothing human stirs from within, though I do notice a lizard sitting on a brick wall to the side, watching me warily and bobbing its head.

I get out of the car and walk up to the door, giving it a hard, solid knock. No one responds. I try the k.n.o.b and find its locked. One of my keys fit, and it swings open. Inside I see a large free-standing fire place surrounded by a sunken living room, the two levels of floor separated by a black iron railing. "h.e.l.lo?" I call out, but no one answers. I walk into the living room and look around. A large portrait of myself and Heather hangs on the wall.

I tour the house in a constant state of amazement, its so large and the rooms are so big. In a bedroom that I guess is mine, I find black cowboy boots, black dress shoes, black tennis shoes, black socks, and black dress ties. There's black silk s.h.i.+rts and at least three dozen pairs of black denim jeans. There's a black leather jacket for every day of the week. It seems the only articles of clothing I own that aren't black are my underwear, which are standard-looking white briefs.

The sheets on the large bed are satin, and deep red.

The furniture throughout the house is rustic and made from large pieces of heavy wood. It's all dark brown; everything is dark brown.

Dark brown, deep red, or black. The walls, thank G.o.d, are white, but the ceiling is varnished wooden beams and the same general color as all the furniture.

In what looks like the study is a pile of several newspapers, all of them The San Francisco Record. The national news is vaguely disturbing, as it seems the United States encompa.s.ses a global empire, 134 states in all, including a large part of Europe and most of what should be the Soviet Union. It looks like the U.S.A. took a big advantage during World War II, continuing on even after Germany and j.a.pan were defeated. General Patton went ahead and took Russia as well, then came back after the war to become President. Patton reigned for several terms, and now the Vice President from his last term was the head of the nation. I gasp and laugh when I read his name: Richard Millhouse Nixon.

There's a large, elaborate electric typewriter sitting on the desk, with paper still in it. The keyboard is arranged differently than I'm used to ---in order to touch-type on this machine I would have to relearn all over again. There's some envelopes on the desk made out to my name --- my real name, not Tom Harrison --- and I look them over, finding large paychecks from The San Francisco Record. It seems I'm a writer. "Tom Harrison" is my pen name. Somehow I'm not surprised.

The paper in the typewriter is something I'm writing, something half-finished, so I search around and find the other pages and sit down at the desk to see what's going on. I'm burning with curiosity, as I can't imagine what I could be writing about. Herpetology? Biology?

Science in general? As I read I find it's about physics, and is a sort of expose about a government program. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I get big chill through my whole body.

I have somehow penetrated a top secret government research project, a project dealing with something I've become all too familiar with: travel through physical dimensions other that the three that we perceive. Their goal is to be able to reach though a "dimensional doorway" and place troops or explosives anywhere on Earth instantaneously. ". . . the physicists and researchers," it reads, "are all under the a.s.sumption that they're sending test objects instantaneously from one place to another in the same world. The truth is, however, much more strange. The dimensional doorway is between worlds, not mere places. These worlds are actual alternate realities, other versions of Earth, the existence of which is giving the researchers a tremendous problem----"

I'm interrupted in my reading by a loud crash from somewhere in the house. Frowning, I stand up and walk to the doorway, ma.n.u.script in hand.

Several men of different shapes and sizes have smashed down the front door and come barging inside, all dressed in business suits made from a odd baby-blue color, with matching hats. They have thin black ties and dark gla.s.ses. As I watch, they take their gla.s.ses off and pull large revolvers out of shoulder holsters. I back away, out of sight, and turn toward the window. I'm fumbling with the latch to get it open when two of them walk into the room and shout "FBI!" so loud I nearly p.i.s.s my pants. My immediate reaction is to freeze. I guess it's because I'd seen it so many times on television.

As I remain absolutely still, one of them approaches and puts the barrel of his gun right against my head. "Going somewhere, Harrison?" he says.

"Nowhere."

"What's this?" He picks up the ma.n.u.script I'd dropped when they'd yelled out "FBI!" "This is interesting," he says, smiling. "Good piece of writing, hack."

Others crowd into the room. "What is it?" asks one.

"Exactly what we were looking for. Right in his sweaty little hands." Still holding his gun against my head, he puts his elongated, sharp-nosed face in mine, stares into my eyes with his narrow, dark-pupil squint, and says, "Treason is a serious crime."

"Who committed treason?" I ask.

He smiles, and pulls the gun away from my head. He brings it back again, hard, against my ear. The blow sends me headlong into the wall, and I crumple to the floor, reeling with the unexpected pain. I hear this click and the guy is standing there with the gun pointed at me like he's going to shoot. One of the others grabs his arm and pushes it up, and the gun goes off with a violent explosion of fire, leaving my ears ringing.

"You idiot!" shouts the man who'd saved my life. "We're supposed to take him down for questioning!"

"Oh," he says, still looking at me with the squinting eyes. "I forgot."

I manage to make it halfway to my feet. "I want to see my lawyer."