Double Take
Part I: Transmogrification
Chapter 1
“I was afraid, for all of my life, right up until I knew it was ending.”
—Ernest Cline, Ready Player One
LOOK, there was nothing wrong with my life. Except it was coming to an end. I knew it. The doctors knew it. My kids knew it. My wife knew it, but she was preoccupied with the fact of her own demise nearing. I was eighty years old and the only thing I could think of that would be better than my life would be eighty more years of it. Except I’d rather not be old, sick, and crippled.
That was the whole problem with living. You died. And the human body just isn’t made to stand up to the wear and tear of life as we know it. Not for more than eighty or ninety years. I’d met people who were a hundred but none of them had the body or the stamina they wished for. They were old. People get old. People die. That’s life.
And, like I said, I was satisfied with mine. I just didn’t want to die.
Big—a name my friend got in his teens sixty-some years ago—had a different opinion.
“Just don’t resuscitate me. I’ve had enough of this life and it will be a blessing to put it behind me. Just let me go and Lord, make it soon. The only thing I have to look forward to in this life is beating you at pinochle Wednesday night and it isn’t that big a thrill. The food’s nothing to look forward to. They won’t let me drink. I haven’t had a smoke in over a year. And sex is a distant memory. Jesus, just let me die.”
I offered to put him out of my misery a couple of times.
“I don’t want you to kill me! Just let me die.”
“Well, would you get on with it then? I’m tired of listening to you bellyache about it.”
Doctors estimate that Renie (Lorene) and I have about four months left to live. I believe that is based on their investigation of our finances and savings. Once we hit four more months, we’ll be broke. That’s Big’s problem. He’s got enough money in his accounts to last him years, so they’ll keep him around until it’s gone. None of us will last twenty-four hours past our VISA credit limit.
Honestly, I don’t think Renie will make the four months. She’s just not here most of the time—I mean in her head. Mentally, she’s already gone. I figure one morning soon they’ll come in and zip her into a bag to wheel her out of here. I’ll have a devil of a time keeping them from zipping me up, too. They never listen to you, even if you’re telling them you’re not dead.
I went outside today. It’s a pretty day. About seventy-two degrees, sunny, not much wind. Kind of day I love. Took my Kindle with me and found a spot shady enough that I could read. The nurse tried to park me in the sun. Stupid. Too much glare on the screen and I don’t want to go blind. They want us out of the room so they can change the beds. Of course, they have to make Renie’s up with her in it but they kick me out. Tried to make me ride in a chair. Fuck that. The walker is bad enough. Of course, I know why they want to wheel me out. It’s faster. Me shuffling along with my walker takes twice as long as having a nurse just wheel me out and leave me.
I sit under the canopy and look out across the lawn. There isn’t much there. I try to imagine those nursing home lawns I’ve seen in movies with a park and acres of lawn and a pond. Maybe tennis courts where those who are still mobile can get some exercise. It’s not like that.
We have a patio, half of which is under a canvas canopy for those of us who prefer shade. There’s a tree at one end. An expanse of lawn about fifteen feet wide is in front of the patio so if you want to touch grass, you can. Then there’s the wall. The wall is for our safety, they say. Several folks here can get lost in ten feet and would never make it back if they stumbled off the grounds. And since we are in an urban environment, they don’t want unauthorized intruders wandering into the facility. You are only supposed to enter through the main doors. That protects us from theft and assault. Well, the staff has already taken most everything of value that we brought with us. It took a while, but things get misplaced during cleaning.
“Mr. Hopkins, are you sure you had that in your room? I don’t remember ever seeing it here. Don’t you think that was something you had in your home before you moved here?”
Yeah. I had it in my home and then in my room. It was on my bedside table right up until the staff came in to make the beds this morning. I wonder where it could have gone.
I take my Kindle with me whenever I leave the room and I sleep with it under my pillow. They don’t like that because the charger cord could get wrapped around my neck and strangle me in the night. Then they wouldn’t get the next four months of income for my room.
I’m the lucky one. I can get out of bed to use the bathroom if I plan ahead. They come in and change Renie’s diapers twice a day and shovel some tasteless glop into her mouth for nourishment. I get the same tasteless glop in the dining room when I go down for meals, but it’s formed into patties and covered with gravy. Who do they think they’re fooling?
What they really don’t like is that I don’t sleep. Not right away. Hell, I don’t do anything all day. What do I have to rest from? Lights go out and I read. They want to give me drugs so I’ll go to sleep. I have my own method. I load up some story about teens having sex for the first time and stroke myself up. It takes a while these days. It helps if it’s a really good story. Most of the time, I still manage to make it to orgasm, but my comes are pretty weak. Half the time, nothing comes out. After I wipe myself up, I head for the bathroom and try to piss. That usually feels as good as a come.
Then I can get to sleep for a couple of hours.
The penis is the principal source of pleasure for the human male. It feels good when it’s rubbed. It feels good when it comes. It feels good when it pisses. Nothing makes a man feel good like his penis.
I laugh when I read Memes on Twitter that say, “I’m fresh out of fucks to give.” Imbeciles. I have plenty of fucks and no one to give them to.
I miss Renie.
It was a Wednesday night. I went to play pinochle with Big and a couple others. They have an automatic card shuffler because so many of us can scarcely hold the cards, let alone shuffle them. Big and I rolled our newspapers.
Yeah. They won’t let us smoke in here. We grab yesterday’s newspaper and tear it into six-inch strips, then roll it as tight as we can. Then we can grip the roll in our teeth and play cards as if we had cigars. Sounds juvenile. It’s just hard to talk at a card table without something gripped between your teeth. It gets soggy pretty quick and we ditch them by the second hand but it’s the thought that counts, they say.
I got back to my room about eight-thirty. They were making up Renie’s bed. She wasn’t there.
“Where’s Renie?” I asked.
“Oh, Mr. Hopkins. I’m so sorry. Lorene passed away while you were out. We got her moved out of the room before you got back so you wouldn’t have to see. I am sorry, Mr. Hopkins.”
So that was it. I kissed her forehead before I went to play cards and when I got back she was gone. I’d have liked to say goodbye. Even to be there when she passed. Touch her one last time. Fuckers.
I went to my bedside to plug in my Kindle.
“Where’s my charger?”
“What charger, Mr. Hopkins?”
“The one I plug my Kindle into at night.”
“Are you sure you don’t have it?”
“It never gets unplugged. It’s always here.”
“I’m sure you just moved it. We’ll look in the morning.”
“Look! Someone has taken my charger from my bedside table. I want it back, now!”
“I know you’re distressed, Mr. Hopkins. This must have come as a real shock to you. I’ll call the nurse and see if she can give you a sedative.”
“I don’t need a sedative! I need my charger!”
“I’m sure you just misplaced it. We’ll find it.”
Fuckers!
I have half a notion to live another six months just to pay them back for taking my charger. They can’t force me to leave when my credit runs out. There’s laws.
But Renie isn’t here anymore. My Kindle is dead. I haven’t been able to get a hard-on since they screwed everything up. There isn’t really any reason to hang around.
Fuckers.
“Nothing wrong with your life, so you say.”
“Who are you?”
“Just an interested party.”
“Well, let’s get the party started then. Got a cigar?”
“You became quite a smartass in your later years.”
“There was no one around who could flunk me or fire me.”
“Or mess up your meds?”
“That was a professional job. I outlived my money.”
“Those last days…”
“…sucked. But still, when I looked around me, I had nothing to complain about.”
“What now?”
“I thought you were supposed to tell me that. Frankly, I didn’t expect to see anyone after… Well, I figured dead is dead. I didn’t expect anything.”
“Well, you didn’t actually quite die—yet.”
“Um…?”
“After your reaction to the drug mess-up, you went into a coma. You have a do not resuscitate note in your file, so you aren’t connected to anything. They are quite puzzled about why you are still alive.”
“Why am I?”
“We thought we’d try to find a new place for you.”
“A new place?”
“Do you really want to know all the details about the quantum universe and multiple realities? Let’s just say that the life you lived is one reality. You exist in several others. We could, shall we say, swap you out.”
“You mean send me back to my younger self? Uh… that sounds like some story I read on SOL. Do I get Wikipedic knowledge of everything that has happened in the past 80 years so I can become fabulously wealthy by betting on some sports team I’ve never heard of, investing in Microsoft and Apple, and beating the Koch Brothers out on cornering silver? Have a harem of all the fourteen-year-olds I couldn’t get to date me the first time around? Solve the world’s problems by changing events that turned out badly?”
“Have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t work that way?”
“Hmm. You’ll remember everything you remember. You’ll be surprised what that is. But uh… it was the Hunt brothers who tried to corner the silver market. The Koch brothers tried to corner the government.”
“Shit.”
“No billions for you.”
“Really?”
“Not unless you can parlay what you do know into a successful life.”
“How old would I be?”
“We have a fourteen-year-old you available.”
“That’s good. It gives me a couple of years of structure that I can use to get my life sorted out before things get serious.”
“Not going to try to have all those fourteen-year-old girls in your bed the first week?”
“I’d have to forget that I’m really eighty. I figure that will take a couple of years. Hey! What about the me that is currently there? I mean you’re going to plant me in my fourteen-year-old body. What happens to the fourteen-year-old me that’s already there? I don’t want to grab at a new life by snatching away another me’s.”
“In another timeline and reality, there is a fourteen-year-old you that is also lying in a coma. That’s the only reason we could intervene.”
“Can’t you bring him out of it?”
“Let me be frank with you. The fourteen-year-old you in a coma was suicidal. He has done nothing but scream at us to let him die since we suspended you. I’m afraid he was a bit of a wreck as a kid. You’ll have your work cut out for you. First, there will be physical healing. He stepped in front of a bus. It looked like an accident. But there will be mental healing, as well. You’ll have to adapt to the life the other you was leading. And no matter what you might think now, there will be the process of integrating your old self with your new self. You might even have some self-loathing inspired by what your other self has done. You have to remember that this self’s life is not the same as the one you led in your own timeline. You’ll have to deal with what he’s done, who he’s loved, and who he’s alienated. And probably a suicide watch. His parents know it wasn’t an accident.”
“Crap! So, what you’re saying is that I have a chance to live my life over, so to speak, but the price of doing it is that I need to redeem his.”
“That is succinct. Or, of course, I can pull the metaphysical plug on both of you.”
“There was nothing wrong with my life. It just wasn’t long enough. This puts me back into a healthy teenage body—I mean it is healthy aside from reparable damage from the bus, right?”
“There is a prognosis of no lingering effects other than an occasional ache and pain after recovery.”
“Yeah. All right. So, a healthy teenage body with a long life ahead of me. I’d get a long life, right?”
“I don’t know. You’ll be in a different timeline and reality. You could actually be in an accident again tomorrow and all our work would be for naught.”
“It’s up to me to keep that body going if I want a long life. I see. Anything else I should know?”
“Memory resides in two places. There are paths in the brain that give you access to what you know. You may be able to read some of your new self’s memories, but I wouldn’t count on how reliable that availability is. Self-absorbed fourteen-year-olds don’t remember much. Your eighty-year-old memories will overwrite a portion of that. The second place is in neural pathways outside the brain. We call that muscle memory, though that isn’t really it. Everything originates in the brain, but some of the pathways that control muscle movement are more ingrained than the memories of events. It’s what you’ve trained your body to do.”
“For example?”
“He slouches.”
“Doesn’t sound too hard to overcome. I’ll start standing up straighter.”
“Good luck.”
“Yeah. That sums it up, doesn’t it? I’ve already decided to go back, or over, or whatever you call it. Now I’ll just need good luck.”
“Yes. Well, it’s time to pull the plug, so to speak. You’re sure?”
“Make it so, Number One.”
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