New Story Posted Here: Parallel Universes
A few days ago I promised a story about parallel universes (see immediately prior post), with a speculation on the moral and eschatological implications. Here it is; the thing about parallel universes is that they are identical until they are not– the word of the day seems to be that they “fork” in time. Here goes; meet a working class lug named Morty LaRoche:
The Infinite Lives of Morty LaRoche
- Morty at the Bar
Morty had the kind of day you want to forget. His night did not look promising either. Best way to avoid dwelling on the details is to be distracted, always a problem for Morty. Morty was not what one might call an imaginative fellow.
But he did imagine one distracting undertaking, and it was called “Jim.”
No, not a person; Jim Beam comes in a bottle.
“Where ya goin’?” asked Biddy.
“Noneaya effin’ business,” growled Morty.
Morty decided to be gentle with his wife—why make things worse?
“Go screw yerself,” said Morty and the door did indeed actually hit him in his ass on the way out.
O’Hara was not behind the bar that night which was good because O’Hara knew not to give Morty any more on the tab. O’Hara’s nephew was a good kid, and part of that was not being a smart kid.
“Jim Beam neat. Make it a double.”
The kid hesitated. Morty looked up. “WHAA,” he said.
The kid looked down, and as he was convinced with Morty’s presentation of the situation he poured the drink and put it down on the bar.
Casually and avoiding eye contact, Morty’s arm swept toward the glass, his lips puckered and he felt the slight burn running down through his stomach to his toes.
“Hit me again,” he said.
The kid reached for the bottle. Morty smiled inside; it was going to be a good night for forgetting that thing earlier. In fact, he already felt it sliding out of his mind…..
- Morty at the Bar
Morty had the kind of day you want to forget. His night did not look promising either. Best way to avoid dwelling on the details is to be distracted, always a problem for Morty. Morty was not what one might call an imaginative fellow.
But he did imagine one distracting undertaking, and it was called “Jim.”
No, not a person; Jim Beam comes in a bottle.
“Where ya goin’?” asked Biddy.
“Noneaya effin’ business,” growled Morty.
Morty decided to be gentle with his wife—why make things worse?
“Go screw yerself,” said Morty and the door didindeed actually hit him in his ass on the way out.
O’Hara was not behind the bar that night which was good because O’Hara knew not to give Morty any more on the tab. O’Hara’s nephew was a good kid, and part of that was not being a smart kid.
“Jim Beam neat. Make it a double.”
The kid hesitated. Morty looked up. “WHAA,” he said.
The kid looked down, and as he was convinced with Morty’s presentation of the situation he poured the drink and put it down on the bar.
Casually and avoiding eye contact, Morty’s arm swept toward the glass, his lips puckered and just as his hand was about to reach his mouth the glass flew from his hand, shattering on the wooden floor, whiskey spraying Morty’s work shirt and trousers.
“What the f—-” was about as far as Morty got when O’Hara grabbed him by his neck and pulled him off the stool.
“So ya know ya ain’t got no credit here and everyone knows the same thing except my sister’s kid, and so I walk in and I see the idiot kid poured ya a double. Well, you just had it and it’s goin ‘ on yer tab and don’t set foot in here until ya carrying the full back bill and then—” O’Hara allowed a thin smile—“then ya on cash and carry ‘cause you ain’t never gonna get a running tab again.”
- Morty at the Bar
Morty had the kind of day you want to forget. His night did not look promising either. Best way to avoid dwelling on the details is to be distracted, always a problem for Morty. Morty was not what one might call an imaginative fellow.
But he did imagine one distracting undertaking, and it was called “Jim.”
No, not a person; Jim Beam comes in a bottle.
“Where ya goin’?” asked Biddy.
“Noneaya effin’ business,” growled Morty.
Morty decided to be gentle with his wife—why make things worse?
“Go screw yerself,” said Morty and door did indeed actually hit him in his ass on the way out.
O’Hara was not behind the bar that night which was good because O’Hara knew not to give Morty any more on the tab. O’Hara’s nephew was a good kid, and part of that was not being a smart kid.
“Jim Beam neat. Make it a double.”
The kid hesitated. Morty looked up. “WHAA,” he said.
The kid looked down, and as he was convinced with Morty’s presentation of the situation he poured the drink and put it down on the bar casually and avoiding eye contact, Morty’s arm swept toward the glass, his lips puckered and just as his hand was about to reach his mouth the glass flew from his hand, shattering on the wooden floor, whiskey spraying Morty’s work shirt and trousers.
“What the f—-” was about as far as Morty got when O’Hara grabbed him by his neck and pulled him off the stool.
“So ya know ya ain’t got no credit here and everyone knows the same thing except my sister’s kid, and so I walk in and I see the idiot kid poured ya a double.” Well, you just had it and it’s goin ‘ on yer tab and…”
“Whoa, whoa,” roared Morty, “ whatcha doin, O’Hara? I didn’t hear ya comin’ in but looks like—” Morty paused and gulped, tears welling in his eyes— “my Biddy, she—she- she was walking to the market and this car it just came out of no where and….” Morty buried his head on the bar and did not move.
O’Hara took a step back, speechless for the moment, then turned to his nephew. “Jesus,” he cried. “Just don’t stand there drooling, give my buddy Morty a fuckin’ drink…..”
1,332,165 Universes later: Morty at the Bar
Morty had the kind of day you want to forget. His night did not look promising either. Best way to avoid dwelling on the details is to be distracted, always a problem for Morty. Morty was not what one might call an imaginative fellow.
But he did imagine one distracting undertaking, and it was called “Jim.”
No, not a person; Jim Beam comes in a bottle.
“Where ya goin’?” asked Biddy.
“Noneaya effin’ business,” growled Morty.
Morty decided to be gentle with his wife—why make things worse?
“Go screw yerself,” said Morty and door did indeed actually hit him in his ass on the way out.
O’Hara was not behind the bar that night which was good because O’Hara knew not to give Morty any more on the tab. O’Hara’s nephew was a good kid, and part of that was not being a smart kid.
“Jim Beam neat. Make it a double.”
The kid hesitated. Morty looked up. “WHAA,” he said.
The kid looked down, and as he was convinced with Morty’s presentation of the situation he poured the drink and put it down on the bar, casually and avoiding eye contact, Morty’s arm swept toward the glass, his lips puckered and just as his hand was about to reach his mouth the glass flew from his hand, shattering on the wooden floor, whiskey spraying Morty’s work shirt and trousers.
“What the f—-” was about as far as Morty got when O’Hara grabbed him by his neck and pulled him off the stool.
“So ya know ya ain’t got no credit here and everyone knows the same thing except my sister’s kid, and so I walk in and I see the idiot kid poured ya a double.” Well, you just had it and it’s goin ‘ on yer tab and…”
“Whoa, whoa,” roared Morty, “ whatcha doin, O’Hara? I didn’t hear ya comin’ in but looks like—” Morty paused and gulped, tears welling in his eyes— “my Biddy, she—she- she was walking to the market and this car it just came out of nowhere and….” Morty buried his head on the bar and did not move.
O’Hara took a step back and fixed Morty with a steely gaze. “
“Ya lyin’ sack a shit, I just seen Biddy on the corner on the way over here and I’ve had it with you and your fucking lies.”
The bullet from O’Hara’s 22 went clean through Morty’s head. Morty’s head stayed buried on the bar.
Same Universe later that day:
St. Peter: “Morton LaRoche, you seriously think you should be admitted to heaven?”
Morty: “Fa Godzake, Pete, whaddaya think? All I done was try to cadge a Jim Beam on the rocks and that stupid sonofabitch shot me in the head. I didn’t do nuthin!”
St. Peter: “Mr. LaRoche, that is not your whole story. Just look at these entries on your scroll.” St Peter tenders a long roll of parchment towards Morty.
Morty turns away without looking at the scroll.
St. Peter: “Uh, Mister LaRoche are you not even going to look at the scroll so we can discuss your entry petition?”
Morty (over his shoulder): “Nah.”
St. Peter (with concerned tone): “But we should talk. Is not heaven important to you? We are always willing to discuss, to listen with empathy, to turn our other cheek.”
Morty (stopping and turning toward St Peter): “Not interested. Not worth my time. I’m just going to try a couple of other St Peters in more relaxed universes. Shopping for salvation is not a heavy lift now that we know we have millions of options. But I am goin’ ta mention that you, this particular St. Pete, he’s a hard-ass. Betcha your business falls off a bit, ya know?”
Morty turns and dissolves into the ether.
About The Author
Stephen Honig
Stephen Honig has been writing fiction and poetry all his life. The sources of his writings are of course his life experiences: growing up in ethnic New York City; attendance at two alleged bastions of Ivy League erudition; a long career in the law with its attendant exposures to people, business and technology; reading everything eclectic along with alleged classics of the Western canon; wide travel including a gig in the USSR in the ‘70s to bring legal briefs to refuseniks; teaching at three colleges and at a law school in Russia; raising two families in very different generations. Now, Honig has completed his first novel, Event, a thriller combining the international espionage style of John Le Carre with the gripping pace of novels by James Patterson. If you’d like to sign up to automatically receive my blog posts, please go to the Contact page and submit the form. Thank you!