Paradox twins, p.1
Paradox Twins, page 1
part #1 of Heat and Light Series
PaRADOX TWINS
A small matter of perspective
Prequel to Heat and light
Marc Neuffer
Paradox Twins is a work of fiction. Names characters, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Marc Neuffer
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America
Contact the Author
MarcNeuffer@Gmail.com
Dedicated to my dogs, Girly and Argo
I’ve dedicated books to my wife and to my children. The next best life forms I have ever known have been my dogs.
Dogs do their chores, only expecting a small treat, or a belly rub, and a soft safe place to sleep as their fair due. Unconditional love is heaped on us by them every day.
Some people think you shouldn’t treat your dogs as if they were human. I agree we should treat them much better.
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Book 2 On Amazon
Contents
Title Page
Other Books
1 Journal
2 Arrival
3 Quiz
4 Muscle
5 Meeting
6 Rings
7 Foundation
8 Lists
9 Saratoga
10 October
11 Tibet
12 Escape
13 Staff
14 Geography
15 Time
16 Rescue
17 Training
18 Lightspeed
19 Glyphs
20 Death
21 Communication
22 Issues
23 Elsewhere
24 Void
25 Wells
26 Spin
27 Space
28 Spaceship
29 Tour
30 Flight
31 Russia
32 Interrogation
33 Mars
34 Forward
35 Leaving
Other Books
1 Journal
19 May, 2165
Patient file: Riley Patterson
Reporting: Scott Freelin, PhD.
I saw a very unusual young woman in my office today. She is a resident here at the Henderson Foundation. While she is not legally required to stay here, she has made no request or attempt to leave. Her physicians and psychiatrist tell me she has no harmful psychosis and is not a danger to herself or to others.
The patient reported her name as Riley Patterson. She appears to be in her late twenties, intelligent, educated, and well-spoken. When she’s impatient, or irritated her dialog becomes a bit rough at the edges. She has some interesting anachronistic patterns in her speech and word selection.
Her psychiatrist says she’s not schizophrenic. She has been diagnosed as having an asymmetrical delusion syndrome. Her condition doesn’t fit in any of the recognized categories. She does not have hallucinations, erotomaniac views, a grandiose self-image, or persecution complex.
There was a woman, with the name Riley Patterson, associated with the Foundation back in 2019. Those records simply indicate she was employed. Of course, she isn’t the same woman. Before she is discharged, I have been asked to conduct and record a thorough interview.
2 Arrival
19 May, 2165
I’m conducting an interview with Ms. Riley Patterson, age; in-determinate. Her apparent age is mid-to-late twenties. She seems in good health. She’s alert and responsive.
Ms. Riley, are you currently taking any medications? No? Do you know the purpose of this interview? Very good; perhaps we can begin.
No, Riley, I’m not a medical doctor, I have a PhD in Historical Aboriginal Socialization. Yes, it is a mouthful, and, yes, my mother is quite proud. Riley, you need to face the transcriber. Please, don’t tap it; it’s very sensitive.
Okay, Okay. Get your machine running, [tap-tap-tap] and I’ll tell you the story as it happened. You’ll get a first-hand account of the events leading up to the Great Shift of ’28. That’s 2028 to you. Yeah, I know it was a hundred and twenty-seven years ago. I was thirty-four at the time, by the calendar.
I was born in Plattsville, New York, on June 10th 1994, so I should be a hundred and seventy years old next month. I skipped quite a few years coming here.
It started as a normal day; a workday for me. But one of me shouldn't have been there. Let me start from the beginning, or at least what the beginning was for us.
After we finish, ask the doctors how soon I will be released. Can this thing figure out the proper tense as I talk? I’ll be throwing some future-perfect-past tense at it. Make sure it keeps up, book boy.
✽Riley✽
August 30, 2019, was the start of the Labor Day weekend. I’m a working girl and I like my job. I like where it’s going to take me. But I also like the break in my routine a three-day brings. Who doesn't? Well maybe the folks who don't get one or the workaholics who get all twitchy if they're away from it for too long.
At twenty-five, I’m doing pretty good. Got through college in the normal five years. It was a four-year curriculum; nobody finishes a bachelor's degree in four years except the over-achievers. I saw plenty of those at school. I see them now at work, rushing, flaming, bright-light burnouts before they're thirty-five. Always trying to get five steps ahead of themselves, running like a dog whose ass is trying to pass its front end.
I’m not implying I was a slouch in college. I was in the top ten of my class at a good, not Ivy League, school. Threw my mortarboard in the air, the whole bit. Looking back, I guess I was an eighty-twenty student. Eighty percent applying myself and twenty percent, well, not always partying, just enjoying things other than books, research, writing, and 2 a.m. glazed stares at a computer screen, blah, blah, blah.
I had a few semi-serious relationships in college. None of them were a high enough caliber to bring home to Daddy. Besides, I wasn’t at school for an Mrs. degree. According to Mom, boys don't get their real brains, or turn into men, until they’re thirty. She married Dad when he was twenty-four. She never acknowledged the contradiction. Different times, I suppose.
I love living in the city; no attachments, no anchors. There’s one possible candidate for a serious relationship. Haven’t introduced him to Dad yet; a threat I keep holstered ready for action. Lots of guys flinch when you mention your father. He’s the specter I’ve used to slow down more than a few male acquaintances in my orbit. The ones who shy away at the mention of a girl’s daddy are the same who love to talk about their Mommas. Never date a Momma’s boy; you can’t measure up, to him, or to her.
I was lucky to get a good job, right out of the chute, with the publishing company I'd interned with between my junior and senior years. I’m the assistant to the assistant editor, children’s book division. The early years stuff. Big letters, thick pages, short words, pastel-colored full bleeds, no villains.
Some days, when I have to look at page after page of sad, fluffy cartoon bunnies, my thoughts take me out the window. In my mind, gravity does the rest to end my suffering. I work on the third floor, so it would be a short trip. I might survive. If you see me on the ledge, you can always bring me back with the promise of a raspberry jelly doughnut.
My ticket punch to the sidewalk is going to be a more dramatic scene when I'm a senior fiction editor. If those guys at the top jumped, I swear they'd have time to cash in their 401k before the splat. I have big goals, keeping my eye on the ball. Let someone else put their shoulder to the wheel; those people can get me coffee in a few more years.
I’m not disappointed at being in the children's book division. The technical side, management hustle, and environment is made from the same cloth as the big-boy divisions. I'm learning the soup-to-nuts processes, workarounds, and hard-nose personal tools I’ll need to carry me upward. Editing kid's books is not just color matching and making sure the bunnies don't scare the crap out of the toddlers. That last sentence has more words than some of the books I've edited.
Part of my job is taking care of authors, and trust me, even children’s book authors have big egos and small tolerances for constructive criticism. I've been lucky so far. My senior editor hasn't snatched me up, screaming in my face, “Attention to detail, for God’s sake.” I’ve seen him pound on my co-workers that way, red-faced and blustering. God doesn’t give one damn fart about the details of children’s books. You need a thick skin, stones, and heavy hands to succeed in this business. I'm working on my stones — pebbles now, stones later.
I live on the third floor of a seven-story walk-up. The stair climb helps me burn off my daily doughnut addiction. Nice enough, just not quite nice enough to have an elevator, which helps keep the rent relatively low. You can't find good low-rent apartments in this city unless you live in the hoods, ghettos, or the bergs way out of town. I could live out there and take the train on a two-way every day, but the day and night action is here. Besides, Momma didn’t raise no strap-hangers, no, sir.
My apartment is in the south end of Washington Heights, twelve of the long blocks north of Mid-Town where I work. It's buses and subways, lions and tigers and bears. Taxis are too expensive and too slow. Buses have their own lane in this part of town so they scoot along fairly fast, even during the morning and evening commutes.
I study my fellow travelers to scoop up material for my Great American Novel. I give them names and t
People who read fiction prefer another person’s sadness to their own, so I collect their broken shards and dreams in my net and I hang them on my wall like scalps. None are too small to throw back; sadness is a sticky thing. My fellow travelers are eddies and currents in the flesh-river of the city. Stack ‘em high, sell ‘em cheap. Life does that to the anonymous passives in the city. All of the reactive, none of the proactive.
In the publishing business, everybody under thirty-five is writing a novel, mostly in their heads. Even the copy boys have grand ideas they share with you when you’re trapped for more than thirty seconds in an elevator ride with them.
I’ve seen hundreds of ideas, scribbled on napkins, or on ugly-colored pastel post-it notes. The same muted or overly bright colors I see in page layouts every day. The older ones have given up. Too many distracting personal life commitments, walls, and comfortable ditches. When does your life’s path become a ditch? I bet most don’t recognize it until they’re so far down their eyeballs are level with the grass. Grass that needs to be mowed.
I avoid the subways and elevated trains unless I'm going to Yonkers, Brooklyn, or Queens for a social thing. Too many bus transfers to get to the other boroughs. I only go when I can wrangle some protection. I'm not afraid. I just don't want to be bothered by the hustlers, schemers, creeps, and crazies. Any hired gun will do in a pinch. The closest subway entrance to my apartment is Williams Park Square. There’s no park, no square, and nobody knows who Williams was. I always wonder if it’s plural or possessive. Urban signs aren’t known for correct punctuation. Nobody gives a crap, as long as they know where they are.
When he can make it, my potential serious guy is my escort. He keeps me semi-happy by going where he’d rather not. If he can't go, I dig out my black-book app and run down the list of my man options. I call them my subway-guns. Hired for a smile and a hint of possibilities.
Speaking of my boyfriend, Richard, he’s got a pretty sweet job at one of the top advertising firms. We met at a conference in town. We were both doing the networking two-step. He's a bit of a workaholic so our meet-ups are always on the weekends.
When we go out, we always wind up at his place at the end of the night. If we stay in, same thing. His apartment is much better than mine. It has a real view and more than one room; five if you're counting. He uses his second bedroom as a home office; keeps all his trophies on display in there. No photos of me on the wall. I don’t mind. I don’t want to be anyone’s trophy anyway. Not until I’m over thirty-five, and the guy will have to be old, feeble, rich, and ready to kick off with me at the top of his will.
His building has an elevator and a doorman, Tom, as I recall. Richard keeps his leased car stabled in the underground garage. He brings it to the street only when he’s squiring company clients from out of town. Tan leather seats and real wood grain accents. I've been in it once. I haven't met his father yet. I think his family is loaded. One more check mark in the pro-column for Richard.
Before I go home, I often stop at the bodega for some unimportant stuff like food and toilet paper. The bodega I use is on the ground floor of the building down from mine. It's about the size of my studio apartment, and my apartment isn't known for its square-footage. The guy who runs it is a pleasant guy, looks about fifty or so, I'd say.
Like most operators, he's a first-generation immigrant, a legal one, I'm sure. Sometimes there's a woman there who stocks the shelves and works the counter when he's not around. She doesn't speak much. I speak to Saba when I go in and out. It’s the name on his shirt. It means island; I looked it up.
Apartment living for lower-rung young professionals means you're a two-bagger; the number of bags you can walk home with and not have cans, dropping like urban hand grenades. Nobody ever stops to help, unless they're a total newbie. I don’t stop.
I could get one of those fold-up, two-wheeled carts the older women use. I bet they have elevators in their buildings. Besides, if I had a cart, I'd have to go up to get it. I usually stop at Saba’s on my way home. I like Saba, he always double-bags me.
Crap, I forgot my list. I’ll have to go by memory to get the stuff I need: eggs, yogurt, TP, and a six of whatever Saba has cold. No, a four-pack, its lighter.
The chicken-wired glass door to Saba’s is grubby, pasted with stickers, some worn, some new, advertising the brands he carries and the credit cards he takes. I carry a Tee-shirt scrap in my tote to open doors like this. I could shoulder my way in, but dry cleaning is expensive. Like a lot of doors in the city, it's kind of skuzzy from hands pushing and pulling them, all day, all week, all month. I wonder when Saba cleaned it last.
His store front has one of those steel roll-up doors he closes at night. Nice quality neighborhood. The local street punks here aren’t too bad. I even know a few of their names. Name dropping is a handy when another one tries to give you a hassle or shakedown.
Saba looks up at me from the soccer game he's watching, the volume is low. The language is definitely not English. He gives me a strange look. I don't have time to chat, my big sister is calling me at six-thirty and I don't want to be on my cell, on the street, not in this part of town. Quickly throwing what I need in the red basket, I get it to the counter. He rings me up, I pay, he bags, giving me another weird look. I'm out the door. I’m Alice’s White Rabbit. I’m late. I hate rabbits, especially bunny rabbits.
I step on the dished-out concrete landing that leads to the door of my building. I wonder how many foot plants and shuffles it’s taken to wear them down, and how many of those were mine. Sam, our building Super, keeps the door clean and shiny. I like that attention to detail, my affliction likes it too. I do the key card swipe and then push the door open when it clicks. My card’s been in my hand since I left Saba’s. In this neighborhood you don’t linger at your door step, digging for keys and whatnot.
As the door closes, I'm greeted by silence, no street noise. You never know how loud it is on the street until you get inside. It's not the same as entering my work building. The lobby is full of echoes, heel clicks, coughs, people talking while they sip their favorite brand of to-go coffee. No small, no large, only mediums with the recycled brown cardboard sleeves. These upwards don’t want to look poor, or too uppity. Stay in the Goldilocks zone, stay safe.
I swear everybody in this town has a chronic, low cough, the unintended consequence of air-conditioned living. Can't be because they smoke, the city ordinances make that practically impossible. No smoking outside within a hundred feet of any door, or in parks or other public places. The pipe-puffers have their own private clubs. You can’t even smoke in your own apartment. They claim second hand smoke seeps through the walls. Yeah, while you can’t smoke, you sure as hell can cook cabbage and fish.
I should get an urban backpack for shopping. It would be better than those wheelie carts, since I have to navigate stairways to my place. I step on the bottom stair plank. I'm already getting too old, even at twenty-five, to hump two grocery bags and my tote that’s bulging with laptop, work shoes, and purse. I start my assent. I need a Sherpa. Maybe I’ll lighten my purse tonight. All sorts of stuff find its way in there. Ounces are pounds and pounds are pain. A pearl of wisdom from one of my backpacking friends. I don’t go backpacking.
If I get the raise I expect, I can use the boys Saba has hanging around for deliveries. They work for tips. Having carry-boys would be uptown living, or at least it would look like it from my current perch on the third floor. I'll check my mailbox this weekend. I’m not going to make two trips up and down tonight. Besides, paper mail never has anything important. Everything I need, good or bad, comes through in digital bits and bytes.
I'm wasted, today was a non-stop go here, go there, check this, correcting dozens of other people’s mistakes. I even had to make a trip to the printer’s way out in the commercial district to straighten out a book cover problem. Purple is not a color, it’s an opinion.
