091517

displacement

Charlie bent down and caught a dollar that was tumbling along the sidewalk. When he picked it up he saw that it was actually a fragment of a note, written on green paper in a precise hand. The note read:

…in certain worlds nearly all details are identical. The surest way to ascertain the degree of modification is to visit your own self…

Charlie tossed the scrap in a nearby trash can; it was time to head back to work.

* * *

Charlie had the oddest feeling. It was like déjà vu in reverse: a feeling of unfamiliarity in a familiar setting. Bridget was not behind the counter. Instead, there was a teenage boy he did not know.

“Can I help you?” the youth asked, as Charlie made to pass through the employees-only door beside the register.

Charlie stared at him blankly. “I work here.”

The clerk stepped in front of the employees’ door. “I’ve never seen you before in my life,” he said, folding his arms.

Charlie thought for a moment he had actually walked into the wrong store. “Look, where’s Bridget?” he asked.

Now the boy looked confused. “Bridget? The only other person here is the owner, and her name is not Bridget. If you want to buy a book, this is the right place. Otherwise….”

Charlie turned away and hurried outside. When he got onto the sidewalk he looked back at the window. It read “Books Again,” just as it always had. He saw the clerk staring at him.

* * *

He stumbled down the street. Everything looked the same, but how often had he really looked at these buildings? “Snak Shop.” Everything was starting to look unfamiliar, but were they really different? He stopped at a paper box and looked at the headlines. “China warns against Taiwan arms sales.” “United pilots threaten walkout.” “Mississippi River crests above flood stage.” None of those seemed surprising, but he hadn’t really been paying much attention to the news.

* * *

With a little practice an experienced world-hopper can learn to recognize the newly displaced. The challenge is to find these people before they run afoul of the law or disappear into the homeless populations of the urban centers.
--Lore Sændзrsun, “Hændbouk fur Niw Wзrldz,” transl. G. Schmidt

* * *

It was getting dark and he was hungry. The park bench was cold. Was his money any good? He’d found a penny on the ground near the duck pond and he couldn’t see anything wrong with it, so that suggested he’d be able to spend his cash. However, he only had about 2 bucks in his pocket, and he doubted that his credit cards were going to be valid here. What had that fragment of writing said? He snapped his fingers and jumped to his feet. Look yourself up! He ran to a pay phone and dragged out the phone book, flipping through it with trembling fingers. Charlie Heaton, Charlie Heaton; he chanted his name silently as if he might forget it. He clamped his lips shut and ran a shaky finger down the page, then back up again. He wasn’t there. He just wasn’t there. He squeezed his eyes shut and made a fist. After a minute he wandered back to the bench. Could he get a job without an I.D? “I’m an illegal immigrant,” he realized, staring blindly out across the park. “I need to look for the kind of job they can get.”

A shadow fell across him. A young woman stood with her hands in her pockets. She wore a navy windbreaker and the wind whipped her dirty blonde hair in her face. Her eyes were a very pale brown flecked with gold. She smiled and stuck out her hand. “New in town?”

Publ. Drowning Atlantis, 2007