Interference

by David

There is only one pushcart.  I’m sure you’ve noticed that around meal times the service slows down.  I don’t mean the line gets long, although it does.  I mean that when you are at the front of the line and you ask Jimmy or whatever the name is for a chili foot-long or cheese fries he takes a while to respond.  There is hesitation, there may be blank stares, there may be lapses of memory.  All of these are indications of lack of bandwidth. This never happens if you want a double cheeseburger with all the trimmings at 8:26 p.m. That’s a slack time.

I see you don’t believe me. Take this paper.  Don’t look at it! Give it to any pushcart operator: he won’t be able to look away. See, this is important. The pushcart…  Okay, _pushcarts_.  I believe the “pushcarts” represent the vanguard of an invasion force.  I don’t know whether their role is surveillance, sleeper cell, or what. But why would they hide if they didn’t mean us harm?

What?

Maybe so, but if we are experimental subjects and the pushcart represents some intergalactic psychology department, yes, I do object.  I want them out of my brain and off my planet.

So here’s the plan.  Tomorrow, hand this to any pushcart operator.  Then see what happens.  You’ll know if it works.

*

Go ahead, give it to her.  You want me to do it?  Alright, alright, give it here.  Howdy Ma’am, I want to buy a hot dog.  But first, would you take a look at this please?  Thank you.

[Whispers] yes, I know she’s reading it.  She’s still reading. No, maybe you’re right.  She is just standing there, immobile. That’s what I told you would happen.

So the pushcart has flickered out.  Probably all of them have disappeared, except for the single real one. No, I don’t see anything else that’s changed.  Well, except that all the buildings have disappeared.  And the trees, the pavement, and the sky.

Don’t be such a baby.  You still have me, and this regular hexagonal grid on the floor.  And the face. Look up.  Big eyes, enlarged cranium, it’s the standard tabloid alien.  Who knew they were real? It doesn’t do any good to panic. I was wrong: the pushcarts weren’t the only fakes.  So sue me. Hey, at least we still have each other.

End

In the Elevator with Albert Einstein

by Luc Reid

I shouldn’t have been up on that roof in the first place, but I kept thinking I could save a lot of money if I fixed it myself. Then I tripped over my own hammer.

The roof tumbled by in a blur as I tried like hell to separate my up from my down. My cheek scraped against the eaves, I went into freefall, and …crack: skull meets driveway. My eight-year-old, Jenna, was playing in the front yard and saw the whole thing. She was probably traumatized for life. Jesus.

And then I was in an elevator with some guy. A familiar-looking guy. “Are you … Albert Einstein?” I said.

“No, no,” he said. There was a silence while he studied the elevator buttons, dozens of them, in an intricate layout. “I used to be,” he said conversationally, “but you see, I died. Where does this elevator go?”

“I don’t know. Up?”

“Up,” he said, springing up and down on the floor a little. “It seems possible. Are you dead?”

“I think so,” I said. I thought of that last, flickering moment of seeing bits of bloody brain splattered across my driveway. “I hope so.”

The elevator pinged, and Einstein’s attention leapt to the door. It opened on a … I wasn’t sure. There were tables, with people sitting at them and talking animatedly … cups of coffee … something that might have been macaroons …

“It’s a café,” said Einstein. “Very encouraging: I’ll get off here. And you?”

I didn’t know. Einstein stepped out, waving for me to follow.

It was much larger than it had looked. There were no walls, just wooden floors stretching into the distance, and far off, a night sky blazing with stars. From many tables away an old woman was running toward me, an old woman who looked like Jenna, and it seemed to me that everyone might arrive at the café at about the same time.

Before she reached me, there was a collective “Aaah!” and everyone looked up. I looked for Einstein, but he had moved away. Jenna took my hand just as the stars began to fall, streaking through the sky with all the inappropriate iridescence of gasoline in a mud puddle.

“You really freaked me out that day you died,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

Then we watched the sky fall for a while.