www.facebook.com/bodacious.dudeSeismic Activity
That’s the latest theme of the reading/writing series Bang Out. Bang Out is 97% less dirty than it sounds, unfortunately. Basically they pick a theme, you write something (poem, fiction, non-fiction) 1000 words or less, if its ok, they let you read it. Out loud. To people. Why am I describing it to you? Here is a website. So yes, the current theme is “Seismic Activity” because the authors of the works selected will read their work at this year’s Litquake.
Did I “Bang” something out? I did.
Did I interpret the theme incredibly literally? You bet.
Am I jinxing any longshot hope of getting selected for Litquake by posting my short story here? I would imagine so!
Everything Old is New Again
Douglas Slater waited anxiously as his students filed out into the hall. As the last student passed his desk, Slater jumped up and followed him out. I swear, he thought to himself, these kids are even dumber than the last bunch. He smiled as he hurried down the stairway of Thornton Hall, since when did I start thinking of them as kids? Slater unconsciously ran a hand through his thinning hair, hell I wont even turn thirty until December.
Slater exited the stairwell and headed toward the physics labs. He waved at the lab tech as he entered.
“Hey Tim, how’s it going?”
“Hey Doug, not too bad,” the lab tech replied. Timothy Kei stood, revealing a purple San Francisco State sweatshirt.
“In fact, I’m just about to head out of here. I’m gonna go meet Stacy and Fairuz to watch the game at some bar near Union Square, you wanna come?”
Slater had already moved past Kei and was booting up a computer terminal. “Game?” he replied absentmindedly, his attention focused on the screen.
“Uh yeah, man, Giants, A’s?” Kei rolled his eyes. “Well hey, I’m going to head home first, if you decide you want to come with, just give me a call over there, alright?”
Slater didn’t turn around, but answered Kei with a wave of his hand. As his fellow grad student left, Slater began scrolling through data on the monitor in front of him. The first several data sets were the standard parameters he’d programmed in months ago, and he skimmed through these quickly. When he arrived at the actual results of his early morning experiments, he stopped. For a long moment Slater simply stared at the light green numbers on the screen. He felt like his stomach had dropped away. This is it, he thought. This. Is. It. After a long moment, he entered the print command, grabbed the print-out, and strode out of the lab toward the hallway pay phone.
Slater fished in his pockets for a quarter, while flipping through his ever-present notebook for a number. Finding it, he tucked the notebook and print-out under his arm, and made the call.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line sounded distracted.
“Professor Gregorovich? Hi, this is Doug Slater.”
“Douglas!” The elder physicist boomed, “I’ve not heard from you in awhile, how is everything?”
“Fine Professor,” Slater replied hurriedly. “In fact, everything is more than fine, it’s … remember how I told you a few months ago that I felt I was on the verge of something really groundbreaking?”
There was a pause, in which Slater pictured the professor running thick fingers through a grey beard, a gesture Slater witnessed hundreds of times as an undergraduate at Berkeley.
“Yes,” Professor Gregorovich finally replied, “something about tachyon information transmission, yes?”
“Exactly,” Slater replied, his tone betraying his rising excitement. “My hypothesis was … well, a long-shot, but I devised a set of experiments, and … well, I’m holding the first results in my hand right now, and I’d really like you to take a look at them.”
“Me?” Gregorovich growled. “I’m flattered, I suppose, but I don’t understand why …” Gregorovich trailed off. “Ah. Professor Trainor.”
Slater glanced up and down the empty hallway at the mention of his supervisor. He licked his lips and replied, in what he hoped was a diplomatic tone, “yeah, uh, I’m reluctant to present my findings to him just yet.”
“Hmmph. Yes, I see. Did you know Jim Trainor was a student of mine, in the Sixties? He took credit for the work of others even then.” Another pause. “Alright, I’ll see your mysterious test results. Are you free for dinner this evening, say 5:30?”
“Yes sir! Looking forward to it, Professor.” Slater hung up the phone and pumped his fist, dropping his papers as he did so. As he gathered them up, a troubling thought crossed his mind, these data sets are still saved on the hard drive.
Slater returned to the computer lab and the station he had left on in his initial excitement. He took a deep breath, then entered a command to erase both the test results, and the parameters of the test itself. I have the parameters written out in my notebook, he thought, and I know the test is easily repeatable and verifiable. Hell, these data sets alone represent the results of thousands of tests, run over the course of several hours. When he finished, Slater shut the station down and left the building.
Once outside he checked his watch. After four, I should probably just head over now. Slater walked over to his beat-up AMC Gremlin. He got in, tossed his notebook on the passenger seat, and, after a little effort, got the car started. As he slowly eased his way onto 19th Avenue, his mind began racing with the implications of his discovery. Not just information transmission … faster than light, detectable tachyon transmissions! These first tests were simple, binary, yes-no, on-off … and they only traveled back a split second … but … I can send messages back through time!
As Slater merged on to the Bay Bridge, he turned on the radio to try and calm himself, but he couldn’t help thinking about the consequences of his discovery. I could warn JFK, MLK … Hell, he thought, with a glance at the image of San Francisco, retreating in his rear-view mirror, I could warn everyone about the 1906 earthquake. The radio finally penetrated his reverie.
“Good evening! And welcome to pre-game coverage of Game Three of the Battle of the Bay World Series, live from Candlestick Park!” Slater dimly recalled Kei’s earlier invitation. As he entered the I-880 Cypress Street Viaduct, headed north toward Professor Gregorovich’s home, Slater checked his watch. 5:04 p.m. Excellent, he thought, I’ve got just enough time…
