Schrodingers gat, p.1
Schrodinger's Gat, page 1
Schrödinger’s Gat
A Novel by Robert Kroese
Copyright ©2013 by Robert Kroese
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or other – except for brief quotations in reviews, without the prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.
Published by St. Culain Press.
For Josh.
“[T]he present quantum theory … reminds me a little of the system of delusions of an exceedingly intelligent paranoiac, concocted of incoherent elements of thought.”
— Albert Einstein, from a letter to D. M. Lipkin, July 5, 1952
“It is often stated that of all the theories proposed in this century, the silliest is quantum theory. In fact, some say that the only thing that quantum theory has going for it is that it is unquestionably correct.”
— Michio Kaku
“When I hear about Schrödinger’s cat, I reach for my gun.”
— Stephen Hawking
Part One: Hamlet of the San Leandro BART Station
Everything happens for a reason. What a horrifying thought. I’d never believed it until the day I tried to kill myself, and frankly I wish I could go on not believing it.
You can probably guess the reasons for my suicide attempt. Tolstoy said that every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, which I suppose is true, but in my experience suicidal people are all pretty much alike. God knows I’ve met enough of them. There are probably a million different recipes for suicide, with varying amounts of congenital depression, parental disappointment, personal failure and loneliness, but they all add up to the same lousy cake. That’s a metaphor, and a shitty one at that. I use shitty metaphors sometimes because I’m a shitty writer.
Anyway, I’m only starting with the suicide attempt because that seems like the logical place to start. I’m telling you this so that you won’t think this is one of those books about an anxiety-ridden writer trying to find Meaning in a cold, unfeeling Universe. Well, maybe it is, partly. But mostly it’s about two women. One is the girl of my dreams. The other is a nightmare. And we’re three fucking paragraphs in, so I guess I should get started.
OK, so there I am, standing at the San Leandro BART station, waiting for the train to arrive. But as you can probably deduce by my earlier remarks, I’m not planning on being on the train; I’m planning on being under it. The chief ingredient in my personal recipe for suicide is my father. The standard feelings of inadequacy plus the suspicion that I’m not-so-gradually turning into him. My father blew his head off with a shotgun at fifty-five. I’m only thirty-six at the time of the BART incident, which I figure makes me precocious.
Predictably, I start to have second thoughts about the whole thing. I’m indecisive; I get that from my dad too. Dithering like fucking Hamlet of the San Leandro BART station. Hands in my pockets, I realize I’m clutching the 50p coin my dad gave me when I was ten. At the time he gave it to me I thought it was the coolest thing ever, like some kind of ancient artifact from Atlantis. I’d never been to the UK, so I had no idea there were millions of those coins in circulation. To me it was precious, especially since my dad never paid much attention to me. I thought he had found this fantastic treasure and entrusted it to me. Later I realized he had been cleaning out his pockets after a trip to London. But some of the magic of that coin stuck; even after traveling to the UK in college I could never quite convince myself that there wasn’t something special about my coin, so I held onto it. I didn’t carry it everywhere I went or anything ridiculous like that, but I kept it in my desk and occasionally pulled it out and flipped it over my knuckles when I was thinking about something or grading papers or whatever. Sometimes I would slip it into my pocket without thinking and then find it there later. This was one of those times.
So I think, OK, Hamlet, to be or not to be. You can’t seem to make up your own fucking mind, so let’s let Fate decide. I flip the coin: heads, I live; tails, I die. It comes up tails.
Oh, but there’s something else I should tell you; something I forgot to mention because like I said, I’m a shitty writer. There’s this girl watching me. I say girl, but she was probably twenty-five. Pretty brunette wearing a black wool coat and a red hat. It’s February, so she’s bundled up against the cold. Or what passes for cold in the East Bay anyway. Just standing back by a pillar, watching me out of the corner of her eye. Now I’m a decent looking guy, but there’s no reason for a girl like that to fixate on me. And no, I’m not acting all crazy or anything. For all she knows, I’m just waiting for the train like everybody else.
Anyway, it comes up tails, and I’m like, OK, that’s it, and I take a step forward. I’m right on the edge of the platform now, and the train is maybe a hundred yards away and coming my way fast. I’m near the beginning of the platform, so it will still be going a good thirty miles an hour by the time it hits me. Fast enough. I’m about to step off when I hear someone shout, “No!”
Somehow I know it’s the girl, and I know she’s talking to me. It rattles me enough that I forget to take the step and before I know it, the train is passing. Frankly, it pisses me off. Do you know how hard it is to psych yourself up to actually step in front of a moving train?
I turn and see the girl running down the steps, off the platform. At this point, I’m thinking, what the hell? How can you interrupt a suicide attempt and then not follow through with at least some kind of pep talk? Tell me life is worth living or give me a suicide prevention hotline number, something. You can’t just yell “No!” and then run off.
So I go after her. Partly I’m mad and partly I’m curious. How the hell did she know what I was going to do? Because she pretty clearly had her eye on me before I made my move. And I suppose some small part of me thought, maybe this girl has the answer. Maybe she knows something I don’t know. About, you know, life or whatever.
So I’m chasing her down the steps, yelling, “Hey! Stop! I just want to talk to you!” But she won’t stop. She’s running at top speed down the street now in her black leather boots and I can see she’s headed for a cab parked about fifty feet away. I’m faster, and I get there just as she’s closing the door. I hold the door open and slide in next to her, slamming the door behind me.
“Embarcadero,” she says to the driver. “Get me there in fifteen minutes and I’ll give you …” She’s going through her purse. “Four hundred eighty dollars.” She doesn’t even glance my way.
“Embarcadero?” asks the driver, confused. “In the city?” The city in this case being San Francisco.
I’m about to say something but I hold off because I want to see what the guy does. The driver’s a good looking young guy, probably Indian or Pakistani. I can see what he’s thinking: there is no way in hell I can make it to Embarcadero in fifteen minutes. The only way to get there is to cross the Bay Bridge, and at mid-morning just crossing the bridge takes ten minutes – and we’re ten miles from the bridge. But he looks at the wad of cash the girl is holding, looks at her face and sees she’s dead serious. One more look at the cash convinces him. For $480, he’s willing to break not just every state law on the books but the laws of physics as well. He throws the car in gear and slams the pedal down. The car, a ballsy old Crown Vic, lurches forward like a charging rhino, scattering Hyundais and Nissans like hyenas on the prairie. That’s another shitty metaphor. Whatever.
I keep wanting to ask this girl who she is, where she’s going, how she knew what I was doing back there, why she stopped me … but every time I’m about to open my mouth I find myself biting my lower lip in an effort to keep from screaming. I’ve had some crazy cab drivers, but this guy – I think his name was Hussein (and don’t get offended; I don’t think that all Middle-Easterners are named Hussein, but I’m pretty sure I’m remembering correctly that this guy was, so take it up with his fucking parents) – is hopping curbs and cutting off old ladies and nearly running down pedestrians in crosswalks. Whatever public transportation karma this girl had earned by saving my life she more than canceled out by waving a wad of cash under Hussein’s nose. I’m not ashamed to admit I was terrified. Well, maybe a little ashamed. But holy shit is this guy driving crazy. And yeah, I get the irony of being scared of a car crash only a few minutes after I’d almost killed myself, thanks.
Soon we are flying down Interstate 880. I don’t dare look at the speedometer but judging by the way we’re passing cars – on the left, on the right, on the shoulder, between lanes – we must be doing a buck twenty at least.
“Slow down!” I finally yell. “You’re going to kill us!”
“You got big plans for today?” the girl asks me. Cute. She turns back to the driver. “Don’t listen to him. Keep going.”
“What’s the rush?” I ask her.
She’s pulled a phone from her coat. She’s brushing her thumb across the screen and frowning. “I’ve got an appointment at Embarcadero and Beach in thirteen minutes.”
“What kind of appointment? What could possibly be this important?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Look, if you’re going to risk my life getting me there, you can at least tell me …”
“I didn’t ask you to come along.”
“What did you expect me to do? What was that about, back there?”
A cloud passes over her face. “I’m sorry about that,” she said.
I sort of s nort-laugh at that. “You’re sorry you saved my life? What the fuck kind of thing is that to say?”
“I’m sorry I interfered,” she says, finally looking up from her phone. “Not sorry I saved your life.”
“What’s the fucking difference?” I say.
“You swear a lot,” she says offhandedly, looking back at her phone. She’s right, I do.
“Look,” I say. “I’m trying really hard to be civil. But don’t you think you owe me some kind of explanation?”
“Yeah, probably,” she says distractedly, with a hint of agitation. “When this is done, OK? After my appointment, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Sound good? I’ll buy you coffee. But right now you need to let me concentrate.”
“Fine,” I say. Truth is, I’m kind of glad we’re done talking, because I’m getting nauseous from Hussein’s driving. I’m taking deep breaths and trying to keep my eyes fixed on a point in the distance. You’d think you could see mountains from the East Bay, but you can’t. Just warehouses and gas stations and shit. My left hand is clutching the door handle and my right hand is braced against the seat in front of me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to puke. I roll the window down and lean my head out. At one point Hussein swerves and I get a bloody lip from the edge of the window, which of course doesn’t roll down all the way. We take the Fast Pass lane at the toll gate and get on the bridge. Hussein continues to drive like a fucking maniac. I can’t believe we aren’t pulled over.
We cross the bridge and exit at Folsom. Miraculously I haven’t puked yet. I spare a glance over at the girl, who is looking at her phone and chewing her cheek. Occasionally she glances out the window as if looking for something. I check my own phone: it’s 10:35, and I’m guessing we got in the cab around 10:25. Laws of physics be damned, Hussein is going to make it.
He gets us to Embarcadero. “Stop here!” yells the girl, and Hussein slams on the brakes. She shoves the wad of cash through the slot, gets out and starts running. She crosses in front of the car and darts into the street. I follow. We’re on Embarcadero just before Beach, a touristy part of town. She’s still staring at her phone, barely looking up in time to avoid getting hit. Fortunately the light is red so the cars are slowing to a stop. They honk recreationally as we cross.
And then she just stops. It’s a good thing I’m still feeling kind of sick and lagging behind or I’d have run right into her. She’s just standing in the middle of the sidewalk, holding up her phone like it’s a tricorder gathering data on an alien planet.
“What are you …” I start.
She shushes me. I follow her eyes and see that she’s watching a man and a woman standing on a corner having a conversation. The woman is tall and blond, wearing a fancy designer suit. He’s shorter and Hispanic looking, built like a weightlifter. Also wearing a suit, but clearly off the rack. They’re an odd couple, but they are a couple – or at least an aspiring one. They stand close and look each other in the eye; they talk so quietly that I can only grab a few words.
They seem to be discussing where to go for lunch. The guy wants to go to a Mexican place nearby (again, don’t blame me, I’m just the guy telling the story) and the girl keeps motioning toward Pier 39 across the street. He keeps saying the word “tourists,” and I empathize. Nobody goes to Pier 39 but tourists. It’s crowded and the restaurants are mediocre and overpriced. The couple obviously aren’t tourists; I get the impression they’re meeting on their lunch break. I hear her say “Maggiano’s,” which is an Italian joint on the pier. I’d been there once. Not bad, but nothing special.
The guy pulls a coin from his pocket. He says something I don’t catch and she rolls her eyes but nods. Coin goes up, comes down on his hand. The guy scowls and the woman laughs. He shrugs and takes her hand. They move to the crosswalk to wait for the light to change.
The girl standing next to me slips her phone back into her coat. She’s trembling, and I think she might faint. I try to put my arm around her, but she brushes me off.
“I’m OK,” she says, obviously relieved. “It worked. I did it.”
“Did what?” I ask. “Do you work on commission for Maggiano’s?” Dumb joke, my specialty.
“Come on,” she says, and starts off after the couple as the “Walk” signal comes on. “I’ll show you.”
We tail the couple across the street and down the pier. I’m sort of laughing to myself, because I thought I’d be smeared along train tracks by now and instead I’m taking a nice walk on Pier 39 with a pretty girl. I have no idea who she is or why we’re following some random couple down the pier, but still, nice.
She holds her hand up to indicate we’re stopping. She’s looking at her phone again. I can’t see the screen very well, but it looks like a GPS app.
“They’re getting away,” I say. Maggiano’s is about a hundred feet down the pier on the left.
“Can’t get any closer. Too dangerous.”
Sure, that makes sense.
The couple is about to walk into Maggiano’s when the guy stops abruptly, holding the door open. The woman continues into the restaurant, not realizing he isn’t following. He seems to be watching something, and I follow his gaze: a man, tall and heavy-set, wearing a trench coat, has just pulled a ski mask over his head.
“Oh, shit,” I mumble. There’s no skiing on Pier 39.
The man in the trench coat and ski mask is standing in the middle of the pier, surrounded by hundreds of tourists. The Hispanic guy has let the door go and his right hand is in his jacket. He’s maybe fifty feet from Ski Mask. I found out later that the Hispanic guy’s name was Dave, so that’s what I’m going to call him, even though I didn’t know that was his name at the time, because I’m sick of calling him Hispanic guy. Whatever.
Ski Mask reaches into his coat and pulls out a sawed-off shotgun. Before anyone can react, he’s firing into the crowd, seemingly at random. An elderly man and a teenage girl fall before Dave blindsides Ski Mask, tackling him to the ground. Ski Mask must have fifty pounds on Dave, but Dave doesn’t give him a chance to use his weight. He’s grinding his left knee into Ski Mask’s right hand, making it impossible for him to fire the shotgun or even lift it off the wooden planks that make up the pier. With his right hand, Dave is pistol-whipping the guy. Ski Mask is wriggling around like crazy, so it takes Dave seven or eight tries to subdue him. Finally Ski Mask lies still and Dave pulls off the mask. For some reason I kind of expect to recognize the guy, like at the end of a movie where they pull off the bad guy’s mask and it turns out that it was the prosecuting attorney all along. But of course I don’t. He’s just some random asshole with a shotgun. In any case, I don’t think his own mother would recognize him in his present condition: his face is pretty fucked up after what Dave did to it. Good for Dave.
I lean over and finally puke. Moon Over My Hammy from Denny’s – what was supposed to be my last meal. It had been trying to get out ever since I got on Hussein’s Wild Ride, and the sight of Ski Mask’s crumpled-in face pretty much did me in. By the time I straighten up, a crowd has gathered, cutting off my view.
“Let’s go,” says the brunette.
“Shouldn’t we stick around? Those people might need our help.” I hear sirens in the distance. “And we’re witnesses.”
“They don’t need us,” says the girl authoritatively. “What’s going to happen is going to happen.” Ordinarily I hate that sort of bullshit platitude, but the way she says it gives me chills, like this whole thing is just a scene in a movie she’s already seen. She turns and walks back the way we came. And to be honest, I have no desire to stick around and contemplate my breakfast any more. I go after her. As we reach the start of the pier, a team of paramedics runs past us the other way.
She’d offered me coffee, but we both need something a little stronger by this point. I’m feeling better, having emptied my stomach, but now I’m weak and shaky. She doesn’t look much better. She’s been on edge since I first saw her at the BART station, and I can see she badly needs to sit down and decompress. We find a bar a couple blocks from the pier. I go to the bathroom to clean up. My bottom lip is swelling up pretty bad, but there isn’t much I can do about it. I splash some water on my face, rinse my mouth out and head back into the bar. I flag down the bartender and ask him for some ice for my lip. He gives me a glass full. I see the brunette sitting at a table near the window and I go sit down across from her. Before I can say anything to her, a waitress comes by and asks us what we want. Thankfully, it’s now just after noon, so we can order drinks. Gin and tonic for me; whiskey for the girl. She orders a sandwich too. I’m not hungry. That out of the way, I finally get around to asking the girl her name.
