Chapter 2

“Well, this is definitely the place I ate.”
“You said that at the last place.”
“Yes, well…”
“Indeed.”
I was getting very sick of that word.
“No, I’m sure this time. I remember the smell of the buffalo wings.”
“Yes, most distinctive. Now, where were you sitting?”
“Over there, the corner of the bar.”
“OK. Now, did you order even a single drink?”
“Not to the best of my, admittedly sketchy, memory.”
“Good. That means the bartender will remember you.”
“Nice one.”
“Like I said, its all about structure.”
“And about 5 seats down was the old chanting guy.”
“Do you remember what he was chanting?”
“Bits and pieces. It sounded like nonsense, mostly, but it just never got to a full pause. A period.”
“Yes. One continuous sentence.”
“Sort of like…’the car was running and there wasn’t any chance for it to stop so it rounded the corner and came up on the doorway while the driver was still struggling with the wheel and the headlights were getting closer and closer but there was always the potential that they’d just go by so maybe it would work out fine anyways which meant that my day could go on like it started with my plan to get to the library instead of ending in a conversation that was going to go badly for everyone involved and probably end up with someone, possibly me, at the church on my knees begging for absolution that didn’t seem likely to be forthcoming and if that happened I couldn’t be sure mom and dad would ever forgive me and let me come home to see the dogs and my sister especially since she hadn’t spoken in three years and screamed whenever…”
I blinked.
“Wow.”
“What?” I asked.
“You went on for 15 minutes without a stop.”
“15 MINUTES???”
“You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“OK, so we have another clue. Either that or you have some bizarre form of ADD.”
“Goody.”
“No, it’s a good thing. We now know something more than we did 15 minutes ago.”
“Yes. But I’ve lost another 15 minutes of my life. This is starting to rack up here.”
I paused.
“Uh, did I, you know, do anything?”
“No. Just talked excessively.”
“We finally have something in common.”
“Indeed.”
“So now what?”
“Well, we go talk to the bartender. Your friend was probably notable, if not concerning and the staff was probably keeping an eye on him.”
“So we’ll order drink, then.”
“Why not? You need one.”
We sat down at the bar and Andrew pulled out a 100 dollar bill.
“Someone’s been saving for a rainy day.”
“Yes, well it seemed reasonable to expect that help might come with a pricetag.”
“We’ve been watching crime dramas again, haven’t we?”
“They are heavy with structure.”
I let it go at that.
“As it is, courier work can be very lucrative.”
“You don’t even own a bike, much less a car.”
“Not all couriers travel. The important part is holding onto the package.”
Getting served with a subpoena seemed like a continuing possibility.
We sat down where I’d been the previous day.
“What can I get you guys?” the bartender asked.
I ordered my usual, “Shot of vodka, not the bar stuff, and a coke back.”
“A mudslide.”
The bartender and I exchanged age-old smirks that said ‘girly-drink’.
Andrew noticed.
“I need the sugar.”
“Uh-huh.”
We sat in silence for a while and ordered a couple more rounds.
“My friend was in here yesterday. Do you remember him?” Andrew asked the bartender after a few minutes of chit-chat.
“Yeah, maybe. Sure.” Came the non-committal reply.
“Do you also remember an old man, talking to himself? Sitting a few stools down?”
Andrew slipped the bill across the bar.

The dawn light began to stream through the emerald leaves.
It felt good on my skin but the azure grass stayed cool. Grass isn’t azure. Its not grass. Not really. Its something else. History? Everything is history. Is the duck history? And my hat? Or is that really a book? And my secret decoder ring?
Jesus Christ, I can’t get a word in edgewise.
“…and the last thing we wanted was to get the room painted yellow because, as you probably know, the yellow was almost certainly going to interfere with the electrical wiring in the walls that we’d spent so long putting in but I couldn’t convince the decorator of this simple fact and so things went as he wanted even though we’d been pretty explicit with how they SHOULD go that didn’t seem to really matter just like when my brother stole the car to go joy riding and then rammed it into the tension wires and found…”
If this duck doesn’t shut up soon or at least let me ask a question the damn waterfowl is gonna become an appetizer for tonight’s dinner with Julie and Michael who will almost certain be bringing a decent cabernet from that wine cellar they are so proud of and keep bragging about like its some frickin’ temple to lost gods they built down there instead of just a complex series of shelves that aren’t really good for anything except holding those damn bottles that may or may not be expensive because I sure don’t know and its really questionable if they can tell the difference between a 15 dollar bottle and one that costs a month’s salary and oh my fucking god I’m doing…

“Martin.”
“Andrew.”
“This is getting repetitive.”
There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to open my eyes.
“I take it I’m not in bed.”
“Does it feel like you’re in bed?”
“Not so much.”
“Shall we play 20 questions?”
“I’m on the stairs again, aren’t I?”
“And what was the big clue?”
“Well, its definitely not a standard mattress, so its not my bed. Its not conforming to every curve of my body, so its not that crazy space foam you sleep on. In fact, there’s significant amounts of my body not being supported at all. So either we’ve bought a new and very strange bed, of which I strongly disapprove, or I’m on the stairs again. Oh, and, of course, the blood has all run to my head so its safe to assume that I’m upside-down again.”
“You are surprisingly observant in this particular configuration.”
“No, I’m just getting used to it.”
“Now, the next question is…”
”Was I drunk.”
“Correct.”
“Well, this time I remember starting to drink.”
“And?”
“I’m not sure. We were drinking vodka, no, wait, I was drinking vodka, you were drinking something with a little umbrella.”
“No, I was drinking a mudslide.”
“Metaphorical umbrella.”
“I need the sugar.”
“Yes, so you say.”
“Is this mockery relevant?”
“No, but it’s the first fun I’ve had in a couple days.”
“Let’s keep it moving, shall we?”
“We sat there for a while, and I believe I had a couple more drinks.”
“Indeed.”
“Then you had the bright idea of going another step back and going to the address of the ‘I was dead but now I’m not’ guy. He wasn’t there.”
“And then?”
“Uh, then, then we…uh…”
“Yes. ‘Then we…uh…’”
“You aren’t going to tell me?”
“I don’t think so. I think its better if you figure it out for yourself.”
“Great. You won’t talk and that damn duck wouldn’t shut up.”
“They say that we often create sentences that have never been uttered before. That was most certainly one of those.”
“All I’m saying is that in the past couple days, I’ve been a part of two very one-sided, single-sentence conversations, including one with a mallard, and it seems to be catching.”
“Three.”
“Three?”
“Three.”
“But you aren’t going to tell me.”
“No. Now I’m just taking advantage of the situation.”
“Your meds have taken an interesting turn, haven’t they?”
“I’m experimenting with a new cocktail.”
“Great.”
“Now there’s one more question.”
“Uh-huh?”
“Are you going to open your eyes?”
“Yeah, OK.”
I got up and we moved to more comfortable seating arrangements in the living room.
“Martin, tell me about the duck.”
“If I do, will you tell me about the third conversation?”
“No.”
“Deal.”
“Please proceed.”
“Look, there’s really nothing to tell. I was dreaming and this duck was talking to me in a single, non-stop sentence. Then I started thinking in the same format.”
“And what was the duck saying?”
“It was nonsense.”
“Yes. It was a dream. The land of nonsense. But what did the duck say?”
“I told you it was nothing!”
I paused. My temper surprised me.
“It was talking about…I don’t know. It was going on about some interior decorating. But that’s not what it was saying. Not really. I don’t know how else to explain it, Andrew.”
“Its OK. I understand what you mean. And you? What were you saying?”
“I remember just sort of ranting in my head about a wine cellar or something. No. It wasn’t that. It was more about college. How much I hated being there.”
“That’s quite the leap, from wine cellar to social awkwardness.”
“Yeah, I know. But that’s what it was about. I don’t know why it came out differently.”
I thought about that for a few.
“But you know, Andrew. Don’t you?”
“No. But I’m getting a few ideas.”
“What do I do now, then?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve missed quite a bit of work, haven’t you?”
*
My workspace was a mess. Two, maybe three hundred letters. My job was finding the good ones. The ones that made for good TV and, in turn, made people feel better about themselves. You know, ‘there but for the grace of god’ sort of stuff. That always flies. That’s kind of the whole idea.
I used to write soap operas which is sort of the opposite. Extreme people and situations that you want to be in.
Shift that seven degrees and you have what I do.
Dennis looked up from his email.
“You gonna start going through those?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“These two day work weeks can be a real bitch. Can’t they?”
I started where I always start.
At the beginning.
I just sort of stared at the first one.
I recognized the individual characters, but couldn’t pull them together into words. Or the words into sentences.
“OK, now you’ve been looking at that one for 10 minutes. It must be good.”
“No, no, I’m just massively hung over. I believe I’ve become functionally illiterate.”
“How long do you think that’ll last?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never become retarded before.”
“Perhaps blinking once in a while would help.”
My eyes were very dry. I blinked a few times, hard.
“Yes, that’s helped.”
I could read now, but there was something wrong.
I went to the next letter.
And the next.
Each one had a clear spot. Something I could understand just a little of.
The mother with three sons, all of whom were in prison.
The man who found out his wife was a pre-op trans-sexual that had faked a pregnancy.
The girl who had turned to prostitution to support her ever-growing text-messaging addiction.
The couple that raised feral children to guard their property.
There was something there.
While Dennis watched, I tossed them all onto the floor.
Which was nice. I like making messes.
This one here.
And that one belongs over there.
And this one will work much better in purple.
And turn this one to a jaunty angle.
And stack these three together, with the top one backwards.
“Martin, have we begun regressing, or are we venturing into performance art? I mean, I’m all for some kind of installation piece, but I’d prefer it not in our office.”
“I’m looking for something.”
“By covering the entire floor in letters from people so far on the fringe that they need to use extra postage? Won’t that make finding something difficult?”
“No. There’s something here. Something in the letters. There’s a…a bigger letter.”
“Yes. And today’s episode was brought to you by the letter ‘M’. If you don’t feel like working, just say so. You’ve been at this for over an hour. I respect your persistence.”
“I know, it makes zero sense. Wait. An hour? Its been 5…”
I checked the wall clock. Not 5 minutes. An hour.
“Dennis, I’m losing time as well as my mind.”
“Good things come in threes. Go talk with Megan. Get your blood going.”
“I can hardly argue with such a command.”
Though I wondered what number three would be.
And if I’d remember it this time.

Her hair was up and perfect, her slender neck to the back of the active webcam. The plan was that, eventually, ‘Premium’ members would be able to control what camera they watched her from. She was VERY good.

I looked over her shoulder at her workstation. There was a very complicated spreadsheet she was fiddling with.
“Meg, what are you doing?”
“Work,” she said without turning around. “And yourself?”
“Well, mostly I’m wondering why my receptionist-slash-webcam-queen is working on a cryptic spreadsheet with column titles like ‘Intercontinental Shipping System Failures’ and ‘Mid-range Intermodal Delivery Methods’. But, y’know, that’s just my thing.”
“Oh, that’s for a client.”
“Yes. Indeed. Many of our clients are very interested in such things as ‘Modular Container Insurance’.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I already am.”
“OK, whats sexier than watching a secretary who, pardon my ego, looks like me?”
I thought about that. A view thing came to mind, but not many.
She groaned.
“HAVING a secretary who, pardon my ego again, looks like me. So I’ve started offering a new service. They send me some work their secretary would be doing, and I do it on camera.”
“Shouldn’t you be doing the work I hired you for?”
“Did I mention the rather large subscription fee that this entails? And, lets face it, I make tons more for you online than I do typing up the occaisional letter or making appointments. Its not like there’s tons of that anyhow.”
“HEY!”
“C’mon, in 3 years, you’ve averaged 9.83 interviews per week. That’s plenty to get your clients happy.”
“Hm. I guess you are right. There’s really not a whole lot for you to do.”
“I became quite the master of computer solitaire.”
“No doubt.”
“And this works for these clients?”
“It would appear so. I mean, sure, its an illusion, but if you just sit back and let go of, well, reality, you can lose yourself in this sort of thing. Its even better than TV since you get to exert a certain amount of control.”
I thought about that, too. Letting go, falling into a fiction, seeing what you want to see.
“Wait a sec. You talking to me like this, won’t that get a little boring for the audience?”
“I tracked down that guy you told me about who made the ‘furry’ overlay. I got him to take some video of me for about 5 hours. Now, whenever I need to get out from under such watchful eyes, I can switch over to this stored video. Its broken down into some insanely small bits, and can figure out normal, natural body movements, and improvise with them. Basically, it can simulate me. At least for a while.”
“So it simulates you being someone’s secretary? I mean, its already a simulation.”
“Yes, dear. It’s a simulation of a simulation. But no one knows. We’re already designing version 2.0. You’ll love it.”
“Oh…see…now I’m just scared.”
“That’s OK. You are also making a ton of cash. And you have a new VP of Interactive Media.”
“Uh.”
“Yes. But its OK. That reminds me. Can you hit me, hard, maybe on the jaw or stomach?”
“No. You’ll beat me up.”
I’d played this game in Junior High.
“Fine. I’ll have to get those fake bruises like the Japanese women get.”
“I seriously, no kidding, don’t want to know.”
“No, you don’t. And I’m thinking about hiring a couple other girls so I can work on the important stuff. I’ll submit the appropriate budget requests.”
“Who will you submit them to?”
“Probably me. But I like to keep you in the loop.”
“Thanks. That’s sweet. OK, I have no idea why I’m here anymore so I’m going back in there.”
“Sure. Nice talking with you.”
I turned back to the office.
And almost slammed into Dennis.
“C’mon. Its lunch time.”
“Who am I to argue?”
*
“I’ll have the Grande Burrito Supreme.”
“And I’ll have the Taco Nacho Salad Bowl with extra pork.”
Mothers were trying to keep their little kids quiet. Stockbrokers exchanged fake tips.
“You want to tell me what was up with that thing with the letters?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. It just felt like they were all a part of a single letter. Like the pages had just gotten out of order.”
“Maybe you need a vacation. Not that I can understand why. You have the worlds easiest job. You read letters from freaks. You pick a few. You read them to me. An interview or two later and we get a check from some backwater local station.”
“Did you hear me complaining? I mean, work is great. It’s the best scam. Plus there’s all the extra cash Meg is bringing in. But something weird is going on. My head’s falling apart. And wait! This all started with that stupid ‘I used to be dead’ letter! And you…YOU made me go find him!”
“Yeah, you never did tell me how that went.”
“Well, obviously, it didn’t. I found the address, no one home. An hour later, and it was the next day and I was unconscious on my stairs.”
“I was under the impression that wasn’t that uncommon for you.”
“While that may be annoyingly true, it generally involves alcohol. This time it didn’t. Something just happened and I came to the next day.”
I could hear someone…talking about something. Different voices.
“That explains your absence from work.”
“I’m unsure which is bothering me more. My tendency for unexplained blackouts or your utter lack of concern for my mental well-being.”
“I’ve never considered you to be a bastion of sanity in the first place.”
“Ha…ha…”
“I figure I’d notice something if it was getting bad. A few blackouts, well, that’s just a little overload, maybe. Start bringing knives to work, that’s a different story.”
What were they saying? I wish they’d shut up. Or speak up. A woman’s voice. Then that grating waiter, just half a word, but its so close.
Going on and on.
But I can’t quite make it out.
“Dennis, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“They’re talking all together.”
“Who?”
“All of them.”
“What are they saying?”
“I don’t know. I can’t quite make it out. Why are they doing that?”
“I’m still not sure what they are doing.”
“It’s a weird sort of synchronized conversation.”
“Martin, what are you going on about?”
“Fucked if I know. I’m just hearing things.”
“Now we have crossed over into concern. But so long as it isn’t, you know, ‘Kill your mother’ or ‘Poison the city water supply’, I don’t know that I care much. Funny, people who here voices are actually sub-vocalizing. So they are really hearing voices. It just happens to be their own.”
I felt my neck.
“That remains uncomforting. If I’m going insane, I’d like the voices to speak up so I can understand what they are saying.”
“Well, that sounds like a personal problem to me.”
“Y’know, its becoming apparent that it may have to become a personal problem for you before you give a rats ass.”
“Hey, easy there killer. What do you want from me? I don’t know anything about this sort of thing. I know trailer park crazy. Not ‘can’t figure out whats going on while I’m blacked out’ crazy or ‘I think there’s messages in the mail for me’ crazy. Actually, isn’t there always a message in the mail? Whatever. All I’m saying is this is way out of my league. This isn’t tinfoil on the head stuff. Although you might want to try that.”
“At this point, that sounds reasonable. Which is just a bad sign.”
“Indeed.”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what.”
“Never mind.”
“Are you OK?”
“Didn’t I just get through telling you I wasn’t OK???”
“You did?”
I kept hearing that damn half-sentence, that almost word.
“We’ve been talking for 15 minutes about it!”
“No, no we haven’t.”
“So what have we been talking about?”
“We haven’t. You’ve been sitting there staring at me, sort of. I just figured you were thinking about something.”
“Fuck. I was just telling you that I’d lost almost more than a day in a blackout and that I’d woken up on the stairs and I’m going crazy!”
Well, first, I was under the impression that the blackout thing wasn’t that uncommon for you and second I’ve never considered you to be a bastion of sanity in the first place.”
“Yes, you said that.”
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’d remember something like that.”
“I’d think so, too. So either you don’t remember, or I somehow forsaw, very accurately, what you were going to say.”
“Neither one seems very likely. Could you be imagining that you remember?”
“Maybe. And now you are going to tell me that ‘Occam’s razor would have us believe the imagination explanation’.”
“Wow. That’s a neat trick!”
“Even neater if I knew how I did it.”
“That combined with the Megcam revenue, well, we’d never need to interview those wackos again. If nothing else, the interviews would become much shorter.”
“Yes. But my interactions with people are going to become very boring. I might have to become a monk.”
“Mostly I think it will be boring for other people. You’ll have had the conversation. They won’t.”
“And I’m already so very popular. My best friend is the subject of three major papers that have appeared in numerous psychology journals, my patner seems to have rather limited concerns regarding my own sanity, and the other people I meet through work are generally viewed as members in the ‘there but for the grace of god go I’ club. The most level headed person I know spends her days as the fantasy material for lonely men all over the world, twisting cutting-edge technology to convince them that she really is their secretary that they want to fuck but wouldn’t give it a try even if she invited them. Yes. I definitely need to keep myself away from the mentally balanced.”
“Good. I see we’ve taken to looking on the dark side of things.”
“I can’t help it. The only amazing thing is that I’m not panicking.”
“Indeed.”
“Stop that.”
I listened for a moment.
“You really don’t hear them talking?”
“Hear who?”
“All of them.”