Phase Shift (30 page)

Here I sit, right next to The
Great Josef Schliemann, right next to the most popular
Pseudo-scientist on the planet. I'd expected to feel humbled, to
bask in his greatness, to be showered in his wisdom, but instead,
all I feel is disappointment, defeat, and exhaustion.

"You know what?" I gather my purse and stand
nearly knocking my chair over in the process. "It doesn't matter."
My eyes burn. If I don't clear out soon, the tears will come. I
don't want Schleimann to see me cry.

Fraud!
I want to say, loud enough so everyone can hear.
The DJ will stop the music; the wait-staff will stop serving
drinks; everyone on the dance floor will turn to look.
You, Josef Schliemann, are a Fraud!
Instead, I say, "Spencer Prescott. Look him up on
the Internet. You'll see." I yank my sweater from the back of my
chair. "And when you do? Have an extra helping of crow on
me."

As I make my exit I pass behind Palmer and
whisper, "I'll meet you in the car," to him before continuing out
of the bar and into the parking lot.

In the car I
turn on the engine and crank up the heat. Before long, the silvery
wisps that are my breath fade to nothing. I tune into an easy rock
radio station, turn the music up, relax into the seat, and hug
myself for warmth. What a disappointment tonight has been. I
expected to leave the bar exhilarated, having had an in-depth
discussion of the existence of another world (
Another world!
) with one of the only
men on the planet who would be up for such a conversation (besides
Palmer, of course), and instead, I had left before the discussion
barely had a chance to get started. My eyes begin to burn again.
This time I let the tears flow. Damn Josef Schliemann, anyway. Who
the hell does he think he is? And where is Palmer? What could the
two of them possibly be talking about?

I hope Palmer comes soon. Tomorrow
will be a busy day. I need to do some research--it's time to change
the textbook for my course.

"Was it something I said?" Schliemann
asked.

"Way to go Joey," Palmer told him.

Schliemann downed the last of his beer and
then motioned to the waitress to bring another. "She's a spitfire
that one. Ah youth; she must really be a hellion between the
sheets, eh?" Palmer’s blood set to boil. He stifled an impulse to
lunge across the table and squeeze the life out of him. Instead, he
took a quick sip of his drink. The waitress appeared with
Schliemann's refill and Palmer told her he’d like to settle his
tab.

"Gaia is real," he said in his best 'I told
you so' voice.

"Come on, Paulie, what does she want with
me? I mean, really want with me. No doubt she's already published a
few articles here and there. If she wants to get this published,
she's quite capable of doing it herself, I'm sure."

"It's not about that," Palmer said. He
needed to make sure Schliemann understood Molly’s purpose in
orchestrating this meeting.

The waitress came back and Palmer searched
through his wallet for a credit card. "Molly thinks you're the guru
of pseudo-science."

"Me? A guru?" Schliemann feigned. If there
was one thing to say about Schliemann, it was that he hadn't
changed much in the fifteen or so years since Palmer had last seen
him. If anything, Schliemann has become more Schliemann-like over
the years, if that made any sense: arrogant, vain, and interested
in nothing more than turning a quick buck.

"Misguided, I know. But try as I might, I
can't seem to convince her otherwise." And boy how he’d tried. "She
just wanted to talk. For Molly, it's not about getting published,
it's not about fame and glory. That's not what Molly's all
about."

"Then what is it about, eh?"

"It's about talking to someone who has the
same academic background as you. Someone besides your husband who's
vowed to support you until death do you part, someone with whom you
can discuss phenomenal things. It's about like-minded people
getting together to discuss something that matters. It's about
having someone who has a mind open enough to believe rather than
scoff.

"You blew it Joey. You scoffed."

Schliemann seemed to think about this for a
moment.

The waitress returned with the credit slip
and Palmer signed the receipt.

"And what about you, Paulie?" Schliemann
asked. "Where do you fit into all this?"

"Me?" he smiled, trying to look engaged.
"I'm just along for the ride." He got up and wriggled into his
jacket. "Spencer Prescott, Joey. Look him up. And when you finally
come to terms with what you've found, give me a call." He threw his
card on the table and left to find his wife.

Palmer could hear the stereo bass almost
from the moment he exited the bar. Molly was running the motor,
probably for heat. Molly sniffled as he opened the car door. She
continued to stare straight ahead as if he wasn’t there.

"He'll call," he told her. If Schliemann
cared to Google Prescott there'll be no keeping him away.

"I don't care," she said.

"I told you he was a jerk."

"The last thing I need right now is an
I-told-you-so."

"Sorry," Palmer said.

Molly sniffled and wiped her cheek with the
heel of her palm. "How could I have been so stupid?" she asked.

Josef Schliemann squinted against the
blinding glare of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the beat
up, horizontal blinds. It took a moment, but once the floodgate was
open, last night rushed in: beer bombs at the club to impress the
hot barmaid for foreplay, then back to this room for the main
attraction. The red and green lighted marquis near his window cast
a soft hue into his room, reminiscent of childhood Christmas
evenings when he had snuck downstairs after his parents and
siblings had fallen asleep to see if Santa had yet to arrive. And
he always had, the cookie platter always held crumbs, never
cookies; the glass always half drunk.

Schliemann heard a sigh and turned his head:
the barmaid. God, but she was lovely. Her finger and toenails were
perfectly manicured, painted a delicate hue of coral. Traces of
liner remained on her lips. Leftover mascara formed sooty halos
beneath her lids. Her cheeks channeled the essence of white-fleshed
peaches, luscious, creamy, and sweet to the taste.

Schliemann cleared his throat and rubbed his
hand over his scalp. He supposed he had enjoyed the lovely who
shared his bed last night, though the memory of their love-making
was shadowy and vague, a word suspended on the tip of his mind's
tongue which resisted being spoken. The achromatic linen bed sheet
pooled at the small of her back, hiding most of the blue-black
butterfly tattoo there, yet revealing skin which was pale, mottled
and blemished toward the shoulders. It hiked up around the supple
curve of her thigh. He considered leaving her as is, a testament to
her beauty, but modesty won out. He pulled the linen sheet over her
hips, the small of her back, her right arm, and shoulder, masking
the swell of her breast, flattened against the mattress.

Slowly so as not to disturb, he rose from
the bed and padded on bare feet to the bathroom. He craved his
morning coffee, the burn at the back of his throat of the morning's
first cigarette. As he relieved himself, his mind traveled back to
the girl. She was the latest lovely in a string of lovelies, a
different girl in each city, never the same once twice. He sighed.
He'd considered settling down once, but it hadn't worked out for
him. Paulie had gotten it right, lucky bastard—marry someone half
your age that worshipped the socks off you, and never have to troll
the bars for someone, anyone, so you don't have to spend the night
alone.

He jumped at the sound of the toilet
flushing, and poked his head into the room to ensure he hadn't
woken the girl. Schliemann washed his hands with a trickle of
water. He needed a shave, wanted a shower, but was afraid of waking
the lovely in his bed. He brushed his teeth using his finger
instead of a brush and splashed his face with cool water.

He found his clothes strewn about the room:
shirt crumpled behind the front doorway, sweater between the
bedside table and bed frame, pants on the faux-leather chair near
the window, underwear caught on the corner of the television set,
and socks, one beneath the bed, the other cooling on the
room-control console. He dressed with haste and minimal movement so
as not to disturb the air in the room. As he buttoned his
shirt-sleeves, the girl snorted, pulled the sheet over her head and
straightened her leg. Schliemann held his breath as he tucked his
balled up sweater under his arm. Taking shallow breaths, he pulled
a fifty from his wallet and left it on his pillow. A gift, he told
himself. Had he more time and courage, he would take the fifty and
spend it at an all night deli. Bring back bagels and cream cheese
and fresh, full-pulp orange juice, and if they had it, a tin of
caviar. He would return to the hotel where they would feed each
other breakfast in bed, crumbs be damned.

But this time it was different. This time,
Schliemann had somewhere else to be, there was no time for
prolonged, apologetic goodbyes, no time for promises broken the
instant they were spoken. Perhaps she would find the money an
insult, the girl, read it as something other than a gratuity, a
peace offering so she would remember him with fondness rather than
regret. He considered penning her a note, a sweet memo of
sentiment, to explain the gift, but then thought otherwise. Better
to make a clean getaway than rub salt in the wound, to give her
something over which to pine.

He chanced a final glance at the young thing
with which he had enjoyed the night before. Then, he collected his
shoes from behind the front door, entered the dim hallway and
closed the door behind him, coaxing it gently shut until he heard
the click of the latch and knew he was safe.

Schliemann finished dressing in the
corridor. He ached for a cigarette and a tall cup of extra hot,
super caffeinated, designer coffee. Or maybe a beer. Hair of the
dog and all that. Schliemann winced at every floorboard creak as he
skulked down the mildewed hallway. At the front desk, he settled
his tab with the clerk and noted to the concierge that the young
lady in his suite, such as it was, would need a wake-up call an
hour before check-out.

As luck would have it, there was a
pretentious coffee house which doubled as an Internet cafe within
walking distance of the hotel. At this hour, most people were in a
rush to get their day started, and few lingered at the computers.
Schliemann slipped behind the Notebook computer the barista had
assigned him and wiggled the mouse waking the monitor. He took a
gulp of his coffee. The predominant taste was bland milk foam with
a hint of bitter warmth and cinnamon finish. Putting down his
coffee, Schliemann opened a Google session. He sat for a moment
wondering what he should search before he remembered the card
Paulie had given him. He took it from his wallet and read.

On the front was Paulie's personal
information: his name followed by a list of letters, his school
name, department, address, phone and fax numbers and e-mail
address. Schliemann flipped the card over. Written in green ink on
the back was a number with a 416 exchange and a name, 'Spencer
Prescott', in neat caps. 'Look him up,' ol' Paulie had said. 'And
when you come to terms with what you find, give me a call.'

When he came to terms with what he
found?
What the hell did that mean?

Spencer Prescott.

It was as good a starting point as any. He
googled him. Over a million hits. The first site pointed to an
article by Prescott on something written in speech so high it was
way over Schliemann's head. Ditto for the second hit. Third on the
list was a link to Prescott's Wikipedia page. Schliemann began to
read.

Prescott was a scientist specializing in
quantum physics. He studied solar flares and sun spots when it was
still a fledgling science and the term, "global warming", had yet
to be coined. After the war, he moved to Canada, Toronto area, and
started teaching at the university where he developed an interest
in multiple-worlds theory and was branded a laughing stock in his
scientific community when he announced he had visited an alternate
Earth.

Schliemann found cigarettes in his pocket,
tamped one out of the package and brought it to his lips. He patted
his torso in search of a lighter. His eyes hunted for an ashtray.
Finding neither, his eyes drifted to the barista at the front
counter. She stood with crossed arms over plumped breasts, sweet,
ruby lips puckered into a frown, russet locks hovering to and fro
as she shook her head. He smiled wryly at her and chuckled then
plucked the cigarette from between his lips and slid it back into
the package. What was this world coming to when a man couldn't
light up whenever he damn well pleased? No one ever spoke of
smokers'
rights. If he wanted to kill himself slowly, he
should be allowed to do so on his own terms. And he would enjoy it,
too, one butt at a time.

He gulped his cooling latte. Quantum
physics? Multiple-worlds theory? As crazy as it sounded, Paulie's
wife might have been on to something. But it was a huge leap from
the study of quantum physics as a theory to believing it as fact.
No one, least of all Josef Schliemann, was going to admit believing
a farmer in a corn field was blessed with a glimpse into a future
world, but how much more plausible was it he was given a peek into
an alternate reality?

Schliemann googled Paulie's wife. She taught
at the University of Toronto, and had published a smattering of
articles, the usual doldrums of archeological analysis and site
reporting, save for one, an article extolling the virtues of public
and educational archaeology. In that article, she discussed the
advantages of employing students and the general public in the
archaeological process to engage them in the task, and foster
respect for buried resources, with joyful exuberance. Ah, the
enthusiasm of youth. No wonder Paulie was attracted to her.
Schliemann imagined what it must be like for Paulie to arrive home
to that kind of energy every day, to say nothing of the
love-making. He imagined that, for aging, business-by-the-book
Paulie, it must be tiring at times, if not downright annoying.