Jack wasn’t the employee of the year. Hey, at least he was employed. In this lousy pandemic, that’s nothing to sneeze at. Like all of the other exiled office drones, Jack worked from home, slapped on a happy face for the idiotic Zoom meetings, phoned it in, and did as little as possible. In his remaining free time (a shitload of free time) Jack consumed THC-laden edibles like candy, napped, and watched TV.Fox? Shit no. CNN or MSNBC, but only in carefully measured doses. To Jack, the news was like one of those depressing science fiction movies from the 1970s. This just in. Soylent Green is made out of people. The apes took over the world. Donald Trump won the election. Aggh. Just when you think it couldn’t get any worse, it got worse. Now, it was no longer science fiction. It’s the fucking news. A predictable bummer. So, when Jack was on a guilt trip and wanted to punish himself, he watched the news. But most of the time, Jack glued his eyes to that old movie channel. TCM.
Today, they were running a W.C. Fields Marathon.
The marathon started with a montage of Fields’ shorts. Jack overslept, and missed that. The morning ended with a brilliant documentary. He missed that, too.
Jack’s eyes popped open around noon. They’d started running Fields flicks in order. Not the bit parts. The movies where Fields was the star. And usually wrote.
Tillie and Gus. (1933)
You’re Telling Me. (1934)
It’s a Gift. (1934)
The Old Fashioned Way. (1934)
You Can’t Cheat an Honest Man. (1939)
My Little Chickadee. (1940)
The Bank Dick. (1940)
Etcetera, etcetera. Jack knew that list by heart. Knew all the trivia, at a granular level. Years, directors, actors, you name it.
Fields was one of Jack’s role models growing up. He was kind of an expert in W.C. Fields arcana. Hell. Jack was a veritable Doctor of Fieldsology, yes indeed. If they ever put Jack on Jeopardy and “A Flask of Fields” was the category, he’d come home a rich man.
Jack had slept through the early gems. Then woke up in medias res in the second act of You Can’t Cheat an Honest Man.
W.C. Fields was busting a dummy’s balls. A ventriloquist’s dummy of the wooden variety. Charlie McCarthy
“Ah, my diminutive little chum. You must come over to the lumberyard with me and ride piggyback on the buzz saw.”
The doorbell rang.
Jack tried to ignore it.
The doorbell kept ringing.
“Dad!” Muffled voice. His son shouting. “Aggghh! I’m in the bathroom! Get the door!”
Ding.
“Dad! Agggh! It’s Anna! She’s coming over. Remember? I told you?”
Ding.
Jack cursed, muted the TV, and finally got up. Shuffled away from the couch in a mustard-stained bathrobe.
Jack wasn’t the father of the year, either.
Shuffle, shuffle.
Finally opened the door.
Anna. Wearing a mask. Dark raven hair, white mask. Interesting contrast. Speaking merely as a graphic artist, not a dirty old man.
“Hello, Mr. Jones. May I …”
Jack waved her in, made sure his robe was appropriately closed. Anna entered awkwardly. Then looked up at him with this big-eyed, sincere expression. Serious eye contact, agggh. Jack smiled, shuddered and bit his lip.
Anna kind of terrified him. Pretty. Smart. Ridiculously formal and polite. The kid acted like a fugitive from another century. Or another country. Jack had the distinct impression she’d come from someplace else. Columbia? Bulgaria? Fredonia? Anna had told him once. Then twice. Jack was too embarrassed to ask again.
Anna stood there by the dead stereo system.
“Mr. Jones. Before you say anything, I assure you that I was tested for Covid three days ago. The result came in today—and it was negative. I have made no contact since the day of taking the test, sir. Do I have your permission to enter?”
“You already did, Anna.”
She blushed.
“Yes, course. How stupid of me. In that case … do I have your permission to now take off my mask?”
Jack nodded. Anna took the damn thing off.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones.”
Mr. Jones. Goddamnit, that always reminded Jack of that Bob Dylan song about an asshole. Anna was the only person who ever called him that. What the fuck was he supposed to tell her? Don’t call me Mr. Jones. There’s a famous song about a shithead …
Toilet flush. Scott walked out like Mr. Cool. Jack wanted to say, “Did everything come out alright?” But they’d give him dirty looks. Old joke. Old fossil.
Scott gave him a placid look. That look Scott gets when he’s going to say something weird.
Scott ran his fingers through his hair.
“Dad. Uh. I’ve got to tell you something?”
Fields was talking soundlessly. Goddamnit! This scene is really funny! I’m missing it!
“Dad. Dad!”
“What?”
“I said I want to tell you something.”
“OK, Scott. Uh. Tell me?”
“Anna and I are going to be in our room, dad. For the rest of the day, maybe. We won’t be having sex.”
Anna nodded furiously in agreement to this.”
“We won’t be taking drugs.
She nodded to that too.
“We’ll be doing stuff in the computer, dad. That’s it.”
“I believe you, Scott.”
Yeah, he did. No sex. No drugs. Very little rock and roll. Fuck. Sometimes Jack wished they would get high and screw. What’s wrong with these kids?
“I’ll tell you want we’re doing.”
“Don’t explain, Scott. You don’t have to …”
“Thanks, dad.”
Scott nodded, started walking to his room. Whew. Now the little bastards will finally disappear and do their thing. And Jack can finally get back to W.C. Fields. This is a very funny scene.
But Anna put her little hand on Scott’s arm and stopped him.
Goddamnit.
“No, Scott. I want to explain.”
“It’s OK, Anna. I trust you kids. You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I know, Mr. Jones. But I will feel better if I give it.”
Godfuckingdamnit.
Jack shrugged. Anna lauched into the explanation. Fields continued to flap his gums like a mute.
“Are you familiar with the multiverse theory, Mr. Jones?”
Jack nodded.
“Yeah. I read all about it in Spiderman.”
Scott rolled his eyes. Anna pretended to laugh.
“That’s funny, sir. Of course the scientists thought of it first.”
“Yeah, of course. Right. Sure.”
“Well, sir. There’s another theory. Different scientists believe the universe is a quantum information system. A quantum computer.”
“Wow. That’s news to me.”
Scott looked at him.
“Dad! There was an article in Wired—the James Gleick interview. I gave it to you, remember? Did you read it?”
Jack shook his head no. Felt awkward. Cracked a joke.
“‘Wired’ is an anagram for ‘weird.’”
“That’s funny, sir.”
Anna didn’t pretend to laugh this time.
“It’s a very good article, Mr. Jones. To paraphrase …. according to the principles of quantum mechanics, every electron has a spin. There are only two values. The spin is either up or down. Like binary code: On, off. But it isn’t ‘like’ code. It is code.”
“For what?”
Scott cut in.
“For the universe itself, Dad! According to this model, the universe is a big quantum computer. It’s not a metaphor.”
Jeff started hopping up and down.
“It’s the operating system! It’s the user interface! It’s both!”
“You say so, Scott.”
“Well, lots of physicists say so. It’s their theory. But they forgot something.”
Jeff giggled.
“What happens if you combine the cosmic computer model with the multiverse model? There’s only one conclusion. Anna thought of it first. Tell him Anna.”
Jeff did a drum roll. Then she spoke.
“Well, Mr. Jones. We only exist in this particular universe because computational values have assigned us this hard drive address. That’s our theory.”
Jeff flashed her a look. Keep it simple, Anna. Dad doesn’t know the difference between a hard drive address and Hard Rock Café. But Jack nodded like Stephen Hawking playing chess with God.
“Wicked cool idea, kids. I get it, OK? So that’s what you’ll be doing in the computer, right? You’ll be writing about it?”
Anna wrinkled her nose, shook her head.
“No, sir. We’ll be testing the theory.”
“On the computer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On a Mac? Scott’s birthday present? From 2016?”
Anna blushed.
“Oh, Mr. Jones. I know it sounds stupid …”
That pissed Jeff off.
“Don’t say that, Anna! It’s not stupid. Data is data. There’s just one information system. My shitty computer is part of it.”
“I’ll take Scott’s word for it.”
And that would’ve been all she wrote. But, like a fucking idiot, Jack just had to ask.
“So how are you going to test this theory?”
Goddamnit! Jack wanted to bite his tongue off.
Anna didn’t notice. She just smiled.
“Well, Mr. Jones. We think that it is possible to create a feedback loop — that’s how we will change the hard drive address. The mind’s eye is how we write to the big computer.”
“It’s how we hack it, get it?” said Scott. “Right, dad?”
Jack still didn’t get it. But he nodded like he did. Stephen Hawking saying “check” to God.
Anna gave Scott an angry look.
“Of course Mr. Jones gets it! He’s not an idiot! Each bit is a wave or particle, depending on observer interaction. That is also a binary system. Duh! Your father sees!”
“Well, Anna saw it first.”
She made a shy smile.
“But it’s just the beginning. Right, Anna?”
Oh no. Goddamnit! Jack could see where this was going. Scott is handing the ball to Anna. And Anna’s going to take it. There’s more! This is going to keep going!
Fields was saying something hilarious. But Jack couldn’t read lips. He’s going to miss the whole movie.
Goddamnit!
Anna picked up the ball. Again the shy smile.
“Well, Mr. Jones. According to Dirac, there is a sea of …”
Jack fell asleep for most of Anna’s explanation. But he seemed wide awake. A trick he’d learned in college. Jack could sleep with his eyes open. Blink and nod occasionally. At the exact right moment the boring speech was over, his consciousness would return. Some kind of instinct.
When he woke up this time …
Scott was talking.
“… random. Uh-uh. Not at all. It’s more like an actor doing another take on a scene. Like, when he blew his lines the first time. Now he gets to do it right.”
Anna looked at Jack sadly. Those big eyes again.
“I think we are doing a bad job explaining to Mister Jones. Does this make any sense to you at all?”
“Oh yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Perfect sense. Go for it, you crazy kids. What could possibly go wrong?”
Rhetorical question. But it made them nervous as hell.
Scott bit his lip, then spit it out.
“That’s just it, dad. What we’re doing … It probably won’t work. But …”
“But?”
“The house might feel …”
“If it works …”
“Which is highly unlikely.”
“I know. We’re just stupid kids. But if it works …”
“You might feel a bump.”
“A bump?”
“Yeah, dad. Like a car running over a log in the road.”
Scott ran his fingers through his hair.
“But it’s like … like the car is the house.”
Jack waved his hand.
“Don’t worry about it, kids. We’re insured, OK? Knock yourselves out.”
Anna looked at him sadly.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones.”
Jack shrugged.
Then Jeff and Anna ran off. And disappeared behind the bedroom door.
Finally.
Jack unmuted the TV again.
The Bank Dick.
Fields was busting a chump’s balls. In this case, a chump of the flesh-and-blood human variety.
“Don’t be a luddy-duddy! Don’t be a mooncalf! Don’t be a jabbernowl! You’re not those, are you?”
Jack fell asleep halfway through the car chase. Then (in an odd bit of serendipitous, synchronicitous continuity) the whole house shook. Like a car running over a log in the road ...
Jack woke up.
The TV was playing a scene from another movie. W.C. Fields, definitely. But Jack couldn’t place the movie, and that was weird. Jack knew all of them. But he didn’t know this one.
Exterior shot, black-and-white. Not really outside. Studio, obviously. Shitty horse-drawn wagon, shabby dude in a top hat sitting in front of a campfire. W.C. Fields, big as life. A girl approaches, hesitant. Seen her before. Familiar, you know?
A girl in a farm dress. A girl who looks exactly like Judy Garland.
Fields looks up and sees her. Starts talking to her.
“Ah, hello, my dear. Pull up a log, make yourself at home. No need for introductions. Allow me to consult the etheric frequencies for particulars.”
Fields touches his head with his forefinger. Twirls his finger. Like he’s tuning in a radio. Then adjusts what he’s saying, depending on her reaction.
“Ah, yes. You’re traveling in disguise … as yourself. Because. You’re on a visit. Sorry, lot of static today. You’re running away.”
“How’d you guess?”
“Professor Marvel never guesses — he knows! I guess. Now, why are you running away?”
Jesus H. Christ.
Yeah. Come to think of it …
Jack actually did know this movie.
It’s …
There was a humpback bridge in Jack’s hometown. And Jack wasn’t always the lump of lethargy he became in his fat 40s. No sir.
In Jack’s hellraising days as a Gen-X teenager, he’d race up to that bridge in his 1970 Chevy Nova, then punch it. Up to 90, 95 once. He’d roar over that hump and fucking fly. Slip the bonds of earth. A moment of Zero-G. Jack’s stomach would drop. I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. Scared shitless. But Jack never felt so alive. Paradox, huh?
Falling. Flying. That’s how it felt then.
Jack felt exactly the same way now.
This movie. It’s …
The Wizard of Oz.
Fields was originally supposed to play the Wizard. Hell, they wrote the goddamn part for Fields. As a qualified Doctor of Fieldsology, Jack sure as shit knew that. Just like he surely knew Frank Morgan got the part. But that sure as hell wasn’t Frank Morgan. This is Fields. Big as life on TV. The movie is definitely The Wizard of Oz — but it’s not the same movie. They didn’t just paste Fields head on Morgan’s body. It’s not one of those deep-fake things. No. Fields is ad libbing. Not even sticking to the script. When Fields didn’t write the dialog, that’s what he did, if the director let him get away with it. And it’s what Fields would do in The Wizard of. What he’d do if. What he’s doing.
Jack started hyperventilating.
The scene ended before he passed out.
They cut to commercial.
Hillary Clinton’s face filled the tube like Big Brother’s ugly mug in 1984. Nasty, unflattering photo. Pores, wrinkles. Ominous music. Then Trump started speaking on voice-over.
“Four more years of Hillary Clinton? Uggh. Horrible woman. Horrible. I don’t think I could stand. It. America can’t either. Can you? I don’t think so. Tell Hillary Clinton, ‘You’re fired.’ Then hire me. I’ll do the job right, America. I’m Donald Trump, and I approve this message.”
From back in the bedroom, he heard Scott and Anna laughing and shouting. Then Anna’s voice cut through.
“It worked!”
Copyright 2020, Marty Fugate. All rights reserved.
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