‘How do women know anything?’ Robbie asked. ‘They just do.’
‘Are you and Josie Quinn an item, Robbie?’
‘We’re going in the right direction. G’night, Wes. I’m gonna sleep in tomorrow – no classes on Friday – but if you drop by Susan and Nan’s for lunch, come on up and knock on my door.’
‘I might do that,’ Wesley said. ‘Good night, Robbie. Thanks for being one of the Three Stooges.’
‘I’d say the pleasure was all mine, but I have to think about that.’ Instead of reading ur-Hemingway when he got back, Wesley stuffed the Kindle in his briefcase. Then he took out the mostly blank bound notebook and ran his hand over its pretty cover. For your book ideas, Ellen had said, and it had to’ve been an expensive present. Too bad it was going to waste.
I could still write a book, he thought. Just because I haven’t in any of the other Urs doesn’t mean I couldn’t here.
It was true. He could be the Sarah Palin of American letters. Because sometimes longshots came in.
Both for good and for ill.
He undressed, brushed his teeth, then called the English Department and left a message for the secretary to cancel his one morning class. ‘Thanks, Marilyn. Sorry to put this on you, but I think I’m coming down with the flu.’ He added an unconvincing cough and hung up.
He thought he would lie sleepless for hours, thinking of all those other worlds, but in the dark they seemed as unreal as actors when you saw them on a movie screen. They were big up there – often beautiful too – but they were still only shadows thrown by light. Maybe the Ur-worlds were like that, too.
What seemed real in this post-midnight hour was the sound of the wind, the beautiful sound of the wind telling tales of Tennessee, where it had been earlier this evening. Lulled by it, Wesley fell asleep, and he slept deeply and long. There were no dreams, and when he woke up, sunshine was flooding his bedroom. For the first time since his own undergraduate days, he had slept until almost eleven in the morning.
V – Ur Local (Under Construction)
He took a long hot shower, shaved, dressed, and decided to go down to Susan and Nan’s for either a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever looked better on the menu. As for Robbie, Wesley decided he’d let the kid sleep. He’d be out practicing with the rest of the hapless football team this afternoon; surely he deserved to sleep late. It occurred to him that, if he took a table by the window, he might see the Athletic Department bus go by as the girls set off for the Bluegrass Invitational, eighty miles away. He’d wave. Ellen mightn’t see him, but he’d do it anyway.
He took his briefcase without even thinking about it.
He ordered Susan’s Sexy Scramble (onions, peppers, mozzarella cheese) with bacon on the side, along with coffee and juice. By the time the young waitress brought his food, he’d taken out the Kindle and was reading Cortland’s Dogs. It was Hemingway, all right, and one terrific story.
‘Kindle, isn’t it?’ the waitress asked. ‘I got one for Christmas, and I love it. I’m reading my way through all of Jodi Picoult’s books.’
‘Oh, probably not all of them,’ Wesley said.
‘Huh?’
‘She’s probably got another one done already. That’s all I meant.’
‘And James Patterson’s probably written one since he got up this morning!’ she said, and went off chortling.
Wesley had pushed the Main Menu button while they were talking, wanting to hide the Ur-Hemingway novel. Because he was feeling guilty about what he was reading? Because the waitress might get a look and start screaming That’s not real Hemingway? Ridiculous. But just owning the pink Kindle made him feel a little bit like a crook. It wasn’t his device, after all, and the stuff he had downloaded wasn’t really his, either, because he wasn’t the one paying for it.
Maybe no one is, he thought, but didn’t believe it. He thought one of the universal truths of life was that, sooner or later, someone always paid.
There was nothing especially sexy about his scramble, but it was good. Instead of going back to Cortland and his winter dog, he accessed the UR menu. The one function he hadn’t peeked into was Ur Local. Which was under construction. What had Robbie said about that last night? Better watch out, traffic fines double. The kid was sharp and might get even sharper, if he didn’t batter his brains out playing senseless Division Three football. Smiling, Wesley highlighted UR LOCAL and pushed the Select button. This message came up:
ACCESS CURRENT UR LOCAL SOURCE? Y N
Wesley selected Y. The Kindle thought some more, then posted a new message:
THE CURRENT UR LOCAL SOURCE IS MOORE ECHO ACCESS? Y N
Wesley considered the question while eating a strip of bacon. The Echo was a rag specializing in yard sales, area sports, and town politics. The residents scanned those things, he supposed, but mostly bought the paper for the obituaries and Police Beat. Everybody liked to know which of their neighbors had died or been jailed. Searching 10.4 million Moore, Kentucky, Urs sounded pretty boring, but why not? Wasn’t he basically marking time, drawing his breakfast out, so he could watch the players’ bus go by?
‘Sad but true,’ he said, and highlighted the Y button. What came up was similar to a message he had seen before: Ur Local is protected by all applicable Paradox Laws. Do you agree? Y N.
Now that was strange. The New York Times archive wasn’t protected by these Paradox Laws, whatever they were, but their pokey local paper was? It made no sense, but seemed harmless. Wesley shrugged and selected Y.
WELCOME TO THE ECHO PRE-ARCHIVE!
YOUR PRICE IS $40.00/4 DOWNLOADS
$350.00/10 DOWNLOADS
$2500.00/100 DOWNLOADS
Wesley put his fork on his plate and sat frowning at the screen. Not only was the local paper Paradox Law-protected, it was a hell of a lot more expensive. Why? And what the hell was a pre-archive? To Wesley, that sounded like a paradox in itself. Or an oxymoron.
‘Well, it’s under construction,’ he said. ‘Traffic fines double and so do download expenses. That’s the explanation. Plus, I’m not paying for it.’
No, but because the idea persisted that he might someday be forced to (someday soon!), he compromised on the middle choice. The next screen was similar to the one for the Times archive, but not quite the same; it just asked him to select a date. To him this suggested nothing but an ordinary newspaper archive, the kind he could find on microfilm at the local library. If so, why the big expense?
He shrugged, typed in July 5, 2008, and pushed Select. The Kindle responded immediately, posting this message:
FUTURE DATES ONLY
THIS IS NOVEMBER 20, 2009
For a moment he didn’t get it. Then he did, and the world suddenly turned itself up to superbright, as if some supernatural being had cranked the rheostat controlling the daylight. And all the noises in the café – the clash of forks, the rattle of plates, the steady babble of conversation – seemed too loud.
‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘No wonder it’s expensive.’
This was too much. Way too much. He moved to turn the Kindle off, then heard cheering and yelling outside. He looked up and saw a yellow bus with MOORE COLLEGE ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT printed on the side. Cheerleaders and players leaned out the open windows, waving and laughing and yelling stuff like ‘Go, Meerkats!’ and ‘We’re number one!’ One of the young women was wagging a big foam Number One finger. The pedestrians on Main Street grinned and waved back.
Wesley lifted his own hand and waved feebly. The bus driver honked his horn. Flapping from the rear of the bus was a piece of sheeting with MEERKATS WILL ROCK THE RUPP spray-painted on it. Wesley became aware that people in the café were applauding. All this seemed to be happening in another world. Another Ur.