A Cut and Paste Existence- The Conclusion

( Important author's notes: In this segment I express my opinion about religion and the possible absence of God. These are my views and I mean absolutely no insult to anyone of faith. As always excuse the typos and I would really appreciate comments!)

While the possibility remained that I was just mentally disturbed after reading that old and tattered world history book, I became convinced that I was a lone witness to human history being altered. The crazy thing though, the temporal alterations seemed to be a piecemeal affair with the end result pretty much what I remembered. Almost as if some near omnipotent entity would cut some event or person from reality on a whim, then paste over it with another just to see what, if anything, changes. Being a computer programmer it reminded me of the lazy but universally accepted habit of changing small sections of code to adapt an existing program for another use or client.

That being said, I had to view my awareness of the changes as some sort of glitch or bug in the overall program. I found some dark, ironic humor in the fact that I had become the very thing people in my profession hate most of all, an irritating mistake in computer coding that in many ways was akin to poetry.

Of course, the question as to who or what was altering history couldn't be avoided. I had never been a religious person, mainly because from my observations the basic tenets of all faiths that compassion and forgiveness should oversee human affairs were next to impossible for the adherents to follow. While there were plenty of individual exceptions, the vast majority of those calling themselves “the faithful” seemed to follow the idea that they could be as cruel and destructive as they wanted and all it took to wash away their transgression was some quickly whispered prayer to an unseen God to make everything right again. Countless tyrants and other assorted human monsters went to their graves believing they had been cleared of all the blood they had spilled during their lives because of a prayer.

Another equally troublesome behavior I noticed about overly religious types was that God had a strange habit of agreeing with their ideas on how people should live their lives and ultimately, who was worthy to walk through the Pearly Gates into paradise. Throughout my life I had personally known individuals from all faiths that were good, honest people, who while not saints, went above and beyond in an attempt to make the world a better place. To think God would condemn a person to hell because they failed to adhere to one approved organized religion and its arcane rituals seemed ridiculous.

This always lead me to the conclusion that if God did care about the human race, as all the organized faiths assured their flocks, he, or she, seemed to be limiting their interaction with humans to appearances on grilled cheese sandwiches and toasted corn chips. All the while millions of truly innocent people around the world suffered from diseases, famine, war, and the often calamitous whims of nature. If it was some Supreme Being playing with human history I saw no pattern or purpose to the way he was altering events because the general result was always the same.

The first major difference I noticed from reading the history book was learning that in this current reality President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated in Ford's Theater by some radical Southern actor a short time after the end of the Civil War. I remember being taught in elementary school that while his place of death was the same, he instead died of a sudden heart attack. Other differences included a short-lived German landing on Britain during the Second World War. The last two good emperors of the ancient Roman Empire being erased from history. The murder of the Russian royal family instead of them being exiled to France. And the resignation of Richard Nixon instead of him being kicked out of office then sent to prison for his crimes.

Despite those changes in the history everything pretty much ended up the same way, Lincoln still died in office, Churchill still lead the Brits to victory, the western Roman Empire collapsed about the same time, the reign of the Russian czars was over, and President Ford still pardoned Nixon. Absolutely nothing to suggest that whatever entity was controlling the fate of the human race was doing anything to curb our overall barbaric behavior.

Then again, this assumed that there was some intelligent guiding force controlling everything. I couldn't shake the idea that maybe there was some inherent flaw in the makeup of the universe that periodically caused it to hiccup and change some random aspect of reality. Another possibility that gave me cold chills was something I remember reading about in one of my programming journals dealing with trendy video games, that maybe the universe I inhabit is literally a computer simulation. Did my knowledge of how events and people have changed make me a puppet on a string being controlled by an extra-dimensional being playing its version of X-Box, or was I the inadvertent bug in the system I first surmised. If I wasn't already suffering from some massive delusion like my family and doctors thought, pondering all the mind blowing implications of what I was experiencing could in fact drive me insane.

There was one aspect of all these alterations to history I did my best to ignore. It was my own past, since being committed, I had refrained from asking my family any questions as to the reasons Beth Hampton and I broke off our engagement. I didn't even ask anything about the nature of the attacks that took place on September 11^th, 2001 since I had heard enough already to surmise they were significantly different than what I remember.

In the history I remembered of that day, Al-Qaeda terrorists hacked into the avionics of a dozen jetliners in mid-flight causing them all to crash above major American cities. My Beth and my young son, Luke, were on a flight leaving out of Boston that morning on the way to San Francisco. Their plane lost power above Manhattan and crashed close to the Twin Towers. All told, over six-thousand people were killed that day along the east coast. Adding another heaping insult to my mental injuries, in this new reality the bankers and investment brokers that brought about the crash of 2008 and ruined the software company I and others were working so hard to build in the process were never prosecuted. Originally, the public outrage was so bad several of the bankers began demanding protection after irate mobs surrounded some of their properties and burned them down.

All this was water under the temporally dislocated bridge. While the mental facility where I was being treated was a comfortable place, it was still a prison and I wanted nothing more than to be set free. That meant a combination of things but namely trying to convince my doctors that I now realized I was suffering from a delusion and that I wanted to get better. That precluded me asking the one question I now wanted answered above everything else, why and how did my relationship with Beth Hampton end.

So I buried all my feelings and questions and worked hard at being normal. Surprisingly it's much harder than it seems once you have been classified as “disturbed.”

It took eighteen long months but eventually both my doctors and family thought I was well enough to return home to Watertown. Unfortunately, the people in my hometown didn't really welcome me back. Word had gotten out about my troubles and while I was only slightly avoided upon my original return, this time there were several instances when I was downtown that people actually crossed the street to steer clear of me. It didn't take long for me to realize that the best thing for both my family and me was to leave Watertown and restart my life somewhere else. At least the question as to where I should go wasn't a hard one.

While my wife and child had been altered or erased from history my friendships hadn't, when word got out that I wanted to actively participate in my career again several colleagues almost began fighting over me. I settled on a firm in Silicon Valley region of California. I had always loved San Francisco and it was the perfect place to rebuild my life. It was only as I packed up my few belongs scattered about the cottage that I summoned the courage to ask my sister a certain question.

“Melinda, I've been a good boy, obeyed the restraining order Beth and her husband demanded before I was released, and pretty much proved my sanity to everyone except to all the closed-minded individuals in our hometown. So, please tell me why Beth and I broke up in college, because I have no memory of it.” I said careful to phrase my statement in a way as to not cast doubts on my newly certified sanity.

Melinda just sat in one of the cottage's kitchen chairs and said nothing for several moments. “Beth and I are still friends and when you had your breakdown I went and asked her what happened between you two. The thing about it Peter there's no real story, supposedly Beth and you were going to slip away from campus one weekend to elope. There was some chapel up in the Smokey Mountains you guys found on the internet and were going to use it to get hitched. One the way up there you guys had some sort of fight, words were said, and you mutually decided to call it off. After that you two drifted away from each other and after graduation you moved up to Boston and she came home to Watertown until she married Jacob.”

“So we went out with a whimper instead of a bang.” I said again pondering the vagaries of whatever was changing history.

***

San Francisco was just the medicine I needed for my soul. My friends at the new company all greeted me like a long lost hero and bent over backwards to help me settle in to my new job and apartment. Months slipped by with me actually enjoying my life and even sometimes not thinking about that strange morning when I woke up and knew reality had been altered.

Isabel came into my life about a year after my move, a tender and beautiful lady I sometimes felt she was the universe's attempt to make up for what it had taken. We met at an outdoor concert in Golden Gate Park and quickly became fixtures in each others lives. Our weekends became a routine of brunch at the Baker Street Bistro and them hours prowling around dusty old book and antique stores. That was when the universe decided to surprise me again.

Isabel and I were browsing the bookshelves of a rundown hole in the wall off Mission Street when I spotted the book. At first it didn't resister because I simply didn't except to find it. But there it was on the shelf with his name in faded gold lettering along the spine. I didn't over react or even say anything but my hands were shaking as I reached up and pulled it off the shelf.

“What is it honey?” Isabel said as she put her arm around my shoulder and moved close. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

The book was entitled The Dark of the Night and it was the novel that won Milton Solomon the Nobel Prize for literature in 1957.

“Oh it's nothing,” I said trying to sound casual. “Just an old book I thought didn't exist anymore.”

The person running the store that morning was a college kid who obviously didn't know anything about books but did tell me that the owner would be back Monday morning. I bought the book and that night read it in bed as Isabel lay next me. It was exactly as I remembered but I didn't obsess over why it existed. It was during my stay in the treatment center that I came to the realization that my memories were a physical construct of living brain cells and a soup of exotic chemicals. I had to figure that if I was indeed a glitch in some sort of program there had to be other glitches of either people or physical items that evaded the resulting change.

I called in sick to work Monday morning and was across the street when I spotted what had to be the owner approaching the old bookstore. Almost a character from central casting he was a dignified old man wearing an impeccability tailored suit whose only fault was that it twenty to thirty years out of fashion. He even sported a faded and worn fedora that hinted at an adventurous past back when the world was more open and raw.

I allowed the man to open his store before I charged in with the unexpected discovery I bought the previous weekend. My first close-up sight of him after closing the door suggested he was a man possessing a keen intellect and would not harbor any insane talk of the past being randomly altered much less the notion that I had found a novel in his store written by a man who didn't exist.

“Hello sir,” he said with a smile. “You're the earliest customer I've had in a long time.”

“Well actually I playing hokey this morning.” I said trying to act normal. “I just dropped by to ask you about the book I found here Saturday. It was incredible but I've never heard of the author, I can't believe someone of this talent wasn't better known.” I then handed him the book actually worried it might somehow suddenly vanish.

“Milton Solomon?” The old man said reading the name off the spine. “I must admit I've never heard of this author and I've owned this store since the late 1960's. We probably got this book from some estate sale with one of my employees putting on the shelf to sell. But believe it or not I do remember someone asking about this Solomon fellow in the mid-1980's, was strangely adamant about in fact, to the point I almost called the police worried he might be dangerous. Only left after I promised to give his phone number to anyone else who might show up asking about this Milton Solomon.”

I laugh nervously,” You wouldn't happen to still have that phone number would you? Might be nice to assure this person someone else loves this guy's work.”

The owner shrugs and bends down to pull out an ancient looking ledger from underneath the counter. “I don't like computers,” he says while flipping through the pages.

“Believe it or not,” I say, “I'm a programmer and I'm not crazy about them either.” The owner looks up and smiles then returns to the ledger.

“Here it is,” he says then grabs a small notepad and pen to write it down.

I thank the man and quickly leave. I hold off calling until I'm sitting inside my car. Emotions swirl inside me with great deal of satisfaction to the idea that it has been confirmed that I was never crazy. I dial the number and listen to the rings wondering what I'm going to say.

Just when I think no one will answer there is a click and I hear the word, “Hello?”

Part Three -- A Cut and Paste Existence

 Jump here to part one

 Jump here to part two

“So what is it,” I ask my sister as she studies the x-rays of my head, “tumor, aneurysm, early dementia, or some other ailment I don't know.” After driving down from Watertown I had spent over ten hours in her office as she ran tests and called in numerous favors to have the results expedited.

Melinda briefly turns away from the ghost-like picture of my skull on her oversized computer screen and gives me one of her stern looks of disapproval. I can't help but think how much she has changed from the idealistic young girl who left home to start medical school. She suffered through every indignity and stressor her education and training could throw at her and came out like a champ. It wasn't until she volunteered to work in the emergency department of a poor urban hospital that her ideals about making the world better began to slip.

She spent two years battling both patients, who many times didn't care whether they lived or died, and amoral hospital bureaucrats whose soul had long since disappeared and only saw statistics when they looked out into a packed waiting room. What she thought of the insurance companies and politicians lacking any real idea how many people died because of their moronic adherence to ideological crap in the face of crushing societal inequalities was even worse. So when the opportunity arose to join the Peace Corp and work overseas she gladly jumped at the chance. She arrived in east Africa about the same time as the first major Ebola outbreak. It again forced her to deal with incompetent politicians and apathy. The end result was that far too many people died that she knew could have been saved if only the world had lived up to their religious beliefs and truly given a damn. When she returned from Africa she still wanted to help people, but her goals were far less grand.

“Peter,” she said pulling me away from my thoughts, “everything looks fine, I see nothing in the way of abnormalities on the x-rays. As for the blood tests, the ones that have returned show the usual for someone of your age but nothing out of the ordinary. Although, there are several others tests that I won't have results for a couple of days. But I'd say from everything I've seen so far, and my observations of how you acted around my staff, I'd hazard a guess and say you're fine physically.”

“So how did I come up with this apparently fictional Milton Solomon so suddenly and know pretty big details about his parents who aren't exactly household names these days?” I ask not so gracefully ignoring how she didn't say anything about my mental health.

“That I can't explain, but I'm not a psychologist. But from the look on your face I'm guessing you have a theory.” Melinda said while organizing the paperwork on her desk.

“Nothing I'd mention to you since you would surely have me committed the minute I uttered the words.”

“In that case, especially since I have spent so much time here after hours, lets go get something to eat. And big brother, you're buying, you won't play the injured bird with me since I know how much money you're pulling in doing freelance programming.”

We take her car and as Melinda drives us both to her favorite Mexican restaurant across the bridge to Mount Pleasant we talked about our youngest sibling, Jack, who lives down in the Patagonia region of southern Argentina. He was one of the managers of an Eco-resort down there and does nothing but send us pictures of the area he lives with his emails saying we should abandon everything and move down there with him. Something I seriously considered several times since coming home.

At the restaurant the hostess seated us in a booth close to the entrance and made a point of chatting with me even after our waiter took our drink orders and left to bring us the usual chips and salsa. She was a brunette about the same age as me and if a lot of things were different I would have welcomed her attention. Eventually she gets the message I'm not really interested and walks off to seat other people.

“What in the hell is wrong with you Pete?” My sister said while looking at me like I was crazy, something I really didn't appreciate at that moment. “That lady just about raped you with her eyes, not that it would matter in the least but I know you're not gay, why didn't you at least get her phone number? When is the last time you had a real relationship with a woman? Hell, when is the last time you just had sex?”

Despite the fact that I understood my sister had dropped everything to run tests on me everyone in my family understood the death of my wife and son during the attacks on 9/11 was an extremely sore point for me. That included any talk of getting involved with another woman.

“Melinda,” I said calmly, “I really don't want to talk about this, you know Beth and Luke's deaths still give me nightmares. There's no way I could get involved with anyone else.”

“Whose deaths?” Melinda said looking at me clearly not having a clue as to who I was talking about.

“Don't play this type of game with me, Melinda. I'm not in the mood.” I said getting angry.

“Okay Pete, I want you to remain calm but I absolutely have no idea whom you are talking about. The only Beth I know you had anything to do with was Beth Hampton, you guys dated in high school and for a short time while in college. You two became engaged during your senior years at Clemson but broke it off, she's now married to Jacob Fisher and lives not far from here.” My sister said in a casual, matter-of-fact manner.

In hindsight discovering Milton Solomon had somehow vanished from reality was nothing compared to the words coming out of my sister's mouth. My wife and child were everything to me and their deaths about destroyed my soul. It was only when I totally thew myself into the software company did I recover. Since I had already gone through the surreal experience of dealing with Solomon's disappearance I didn't get angry. Somehow knowing it had already happened bypassed the confusion and disbelief that comes with such a revelation but it didn't soften the overall blow that once again reality had shifted on me.

“Peter...talk to me,” my sister said as she grabbed my hand.

“Melinda, give me your car keys,” I said in a voice that deep down scared me.

“That's not a good idea Peter, how about you let me take you to the hospital.”

“Melinda give me the goddamn car keys or I'll take them from you and find Beth's house on my own. You have no idea how I am feeling right now.”

Melinda is just a younger version of our mother in that she looks like Jane Goodall must have appeared in her early thirties. But where as our mother is a saint with all the patience and compassion you expect, Melinda's experiences has hardened her to the point she doesn't scare easily or take a lot of shit off anyone.

“Peter let me tell you two things,” she again said calmly. “First, you are in a public place and the last damn thing you want to do is give me a reason to have you locked up and pumped full of tranquilizers. Second, I am not telling you where Beth lives, much less taking you there. The only option you have is to come with me to the hospital where I can see you get the care you need.”

We were at an impasse, so I did the only thing I could possibly do considering the circumstances. I grabbed Melinda's purse and ran straight out the door before she could react. On the way out I did hear Melinda scream something about the police needing to be called but I didn't care.

After running for several minutes I stopped long enough to pull out Melinda's cell phone. While my sister is one of the most intelligent people I have ever known, she is a creature of habit and has kept the same password for everything for years. It only takes me a second to gain access to her address book and find the listing for the woman who my memories told me was once my wife. Sure enough, it is close by and I begin running again knowing that the cops have already been called.

Ten minutes later I am running down a dark street using the address numbers on the fancy mailboxes to guide me. In the background I hear sirens growing closer and figure I have five minutes at best before I am tased and hauled off to the nearest psychiatric ward.

Because panic is about to overwhelm me I literally trip over Beth's mailbox. But I see the walkway and race up the to the front door. The lights are on in the house so I have a strong idea someone is home. I try my best to knock like a sane person and less than a minute later the woman I knew as my wife opens the door.

We stand there looking at each other for what seems like hours. In my memories the last time I saw her was the day she boarded a flight with our son to go see her sister in California. Somehow I expected her to be different, but she is the same blonde, green eyed woman my memories tell me I had known since we were in middle school. Then the realization hits me like a nuclear weapon, Beth is different because she is looking at me as if I am a stranger, which to her I am, and a terrifying one at that.

“Peter,” she says while leaning on the edge of the door, “you need to leave now. I don't know what has happened to you but the police are on the way.”

“I don't know what has happened to me either,” I answer honestly. “I just wanted to see your face, to make sure you're alive.”

“I'm sorry Peter but you need to leave. I have children, and you're scaring me.” Her words are like a knife to my heart. I watch her close the door without saying anything else. At that moment six police cars show up and I turn around with my arms raised. After that I just shut down and didn't say or do anything else.

***

In the movies they often keep mentally disturbed people in padded rooms while wearing straight jackets. Luckily for me techniques and practices have advanced since those primitive days. My room, while spartan and missing anything that might be used to harm myself, is comfortable and has a window facing a beautiful flower garden similar to my mother's. Another plus is that I get to wear pajamas all day and watch all the television I want in the dayroom as long as its something pleasant and comforting that doesn't rile up the inmates. The staff is rather formal with the others like me, but courteous and watchful so that no one hurts themselves or others. The food really sucks but all things considered I could have ended up in a much worse place.

As for the night I was taken into custody, the police being who they are roughed me up a little when they put the cuffs on and threw me into a squad car. At least I didn't have to worry about killing choke holds or being shot on sight since I was a white guy. Over the next couple of days I went from a holding cell at the county jail and from there to the psychiatric ward of the hospital where my sister works. After a formal hearing a week later I am finally taken to a private treatment center catering to the mental health needs of people with either decent health insurance or lots of money. My doctors are good people but totally without a clue as to how I have created such an elaborate delusion.

During my first night at the treatment center I realized how stupid my actions were after discovering Milton Solomon had vanished from reality. I made the assumption that he and those around him were the only ones altered by whatever force had erased him from history. Since I didn't have any direct connection with him and never in a million years would I have thought that my own history had somehow been changed. My urge to see Beth after hearing my sister say she was still alive was instinctive but ultimately self-defeating.

One morning after breakfast I take a seat in the dayroom and catch up on the latest adventures of SpongeBob when I notice a bookcase filled with old and ragged books. One of them is a fairly recent world history book and since the ever watchful staff is always alert for any issue that might disturb the peace I calmly pull the book out and take a seat to read despite the fact I am so excited I can barely contain myself.

Since this all began I have always felt that the most likely explanation of my confused state would lie with me. That I was suffering from some physical or mental condition that caused me to lose touch with the real world. People being erased from history or brought back to life is something reserved for science fiction movies and books. However, while I never had a strong interest in history I sat in the dayroom for hours reading that book and coming to the realization that all of human history was the plaything for some force I could not even begin to fathom.

Part Two -- A Cut and Paste Existence

 (Author's Note: Excuse the typos, doing this in a hurry. Also, I'm consciously keeping the parts short.)

No one reacts favorably to real evidence that their sanity has finally cracked, so while my mother was still upstairs I quickly and quietly slipped out of the main house and returned to the cottage. I needed some space to try and figure out just what in the hell has gone wrong with me. I knew the only logical assumption was that the problem was me, but deep down I knew Milton Solomon had lived and written some of the most important books of the twentieth century. My father's passion for his works had carried over to me and while I hadn't memorized his novels and short stories verbatim I could clearly see some of his most famous passages in my mind.

Once inside the cottage I locked all the doors, closed the curtains, and collapsed on the couch and tried to make myself believe this was all some crazy dream. Laying there I felt the frustration of all the years of my life wasted learning to deal with the tragedies that had hit me. Over the last several months my emotional injuries had begun to fade enough to allow me to dream of becoming a functioning adult again with a chance at happiness. Now to have my mind stolen by some delusion seemed far too cruel a fate than anyone should be forced to face. As I laid on the couch I could almost see sections of Milton Solomon's works floating around my head almost taunting me to prove they were real. I was forced to consider the even worse idea that if I had indeed lost my marbles the delusion I had constructed was quite elaborate.

Given how my mother viewed my mental health before I started spouting off about what was to her a phantom writer she was sure to come to the cottage to check on me once she realized I had left the main house. I simply didn't want to deal with her concern and worry, so I jumped up and slipped on my running shorts and sneakers. After leaving a note taped to the door telling her I had gone running, I made my way to the main road with the hope that the exercise would allow me to get a handle on my thoughts.

After decades of development, the lonely country road my parents had built their house next to now had dozens of suburban developments sprouting off from both sides. Since returning home I had despaired that the solitude I had enjoyed walking the lonely road as a kid was destroyed by the closely packed McMansions and their frantic inhabitants. But given my current problem, I was able to ignore them and just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other while hoping I could somehow just sweat away this new threat to my well being.

I had several miles behind me when I realized something important, as a high school senior I had written a biography on Milton Solomon for my literature class detailing his parents and family, his activities, and his writing career. The paper itself was long gone, probably thrown away by mother when I left for college but I still remembered many of the facts about the man. While in all likelihood Solomon was indeed a construction of my deranged mind I could at least look up what I thought were the facts about his parents lives.

Buoyed by a concrete plan, I almost sprinted the entire way back to the cottage. Once inside I went straight to the computer and pulled up what I remembered about the Solomon family. Milton's dad, Amos, was a longtime associate of Theodore Roosevelt and in fact was a New York state senator when the big Rough Rider was governor. Milton's mom, Edith, was a leading activist for the women's suffrage movement and later an early pioneer in civil rights for African-Americans, both individuals of enough renown for them to leave a mark in history.

I knew this was a gamble, that if I couldn't find either of them it would be crystal clear I had serious issues with my mental health. A part of me also realized that even if they existed I still wasn't out of the woods but at least I would have something solid to base my possibly imaginary memories of Martin Solomon.

I looked up Amos first and as my fingers danced across the keyboard I actually felt fear creeping up my spine like ice water in my veins. It only took a fraction of a second for Google to come up with a Wikipedia page that confirmed my belief that Amos Solomon had indeed existed as I remembered him. Several paragraphs later the article also confirmed that Amos married an Edith Keeler in July of 1890. When I jumped over to the brief entry for Edith it listed her as an important member of the women's suffrage movement and that both her and her young baby boy were killed in a hospital fire in May of 1900 just days after giving birth.

Sitting at my computer I was elated with the news that Edith had given birth at the same time I knew Milton Solomon was supposed to have been born. However, another part of my mind was worried because if Milton Solomon never existed how did I know anything about two individuals from the ninetieth century who had largely been lost in the mists of time. Rationally, I guessed it might have been possible that while in a fugue state I somehow researched obscure people from the past and then constructed an elaborate history for their dead child, even going to the extreme of having him become one of the most important American authors of the twentieth century.

It was then that despite the utter insanity of the idea, I had an inkling that there might be something far stranger going on, some surreal fault with the nature of reality itself. But based on my computer search for Milton Solomon back at the main house after talking with my mother it didn't make any sense that out of all the people in the world I would be the only one who noticed his absence from everything. That seemed to put me back at square one. With nothing else to go on that seemed to suggest that maybe I had some sort of brain tumor or another medical condition that would cause me to create a person out of whole clothe. Luckily I had someone who I could talk with that would almost certainly help me without calling the proverbial guys with the oversized butterfly nets.

My sister, Melinda Singer, had followed my dad's footsteps to become a doctor of internal medicine. While she lived and practiced medicine down in Charleston, if I used my family card I felt sure she would see me today.

“Hey Sis,” I said several minutes later after dialing her personal cell phone.

“What do you want Peter,” she said clearly agitated, “I'm busy today.”

“Yeah, sorry about this but I have an emergency. I'm experiencing something today that quite frankly is scaring the hell out of me.”

“What's wrong Pete?” Melinda asked with clear concern in her voice.

I then explained everything that happened from asking my mother where the Milton Solomon books went to searching for him on the computer and finding nothing. After hesitating for a few moments I even explained how I was so convinced of his existence that I looked up what I knew about Milton's mom and dad and finding that they at least had lived.

“Okay Pete,” she said after asking if I was well enough to drive, “get down here here immediately and I'll get some x-rays and run some tests. You can sleep at my place tonight if I don't have you admitted.”

Relief flooded my mind, with any luck little sister would find some simple but probably gross reason I had lost my marbles as well as explaining how I knew anything about Amos and Edith Solomon. Unfortunately, calling my sister would open up another can of worms in the form of further revelations that would definitely challenge my sanity.

A Cut and Paste Existence

One of my doctors called it the first tangible sign of my break with reality but I literally woke up one morning knowing something was fundamentally different with the world. That morning I opened my eyes and while the morning sun was shining through the curtains and birds outside were singing, everything seemed odd. Some part of my mind felt as if everything around me had been replaced with exact copies but whose locations were slightly off from the originals. A more rational explanation that I chose to embrace would have described my unease more akin to that of a person who stayed out too late drinking when they normally would have been in bed.

Not that I would have any idea how a normal function adult lived. When things changed I was living in a little cottage tucked away in my parents' backyard. I had taken refuge there after the economy crashed in 2008 causing the upstart software company I worked for to implode.

Before the financial houses of cards fell I was a respected and successful programmer leading a team of equally bright men and women creating software that was scaring the hell out of the established players in our field. During that time I immersed myself in my work. It allowed me to think of something other than the loss of my wife and child during the 2001 attacks. It all came to a sudden end when the practices of the self-described financial Masters of the Universe sent the economy into the abyss. Being a start-up company our operations were still dependent on the capital provided by our investors, when that disappeared all the hard work and good intentions of my coworkers and I became collateral damage in the great free enterprise con game.

So like any good loser I packed up the few items I held dear and went home to live with my parents. The cottage I moved into had originally been built as a guesthouse by my father to accommodate my maternal grandmother. Their mutual animosity being so great that my father spared no expensive in making sure the cottage was as made as comfortable and self-sufficient as humanly possible.

Against the wishes and advice of my parents, I became a bit of a recluse earning a living by writing code as an independent contractor. They wanted me to seek counseling and even try to rebuild my life but I was happy just existing from day to day.

With nothing urgent hanging over my head I laid in bed for a good while trying to isolate what was bothering me. Eventually even the most heinous slacker must stumble out of bed and so I walked over to my bathroom and looked out the small window while I did my morning business. From that spot I could see my mother, the ever early riser, puttering around her flower garden.

“Hey Peter,” she called out after noticing me staring from the window, “I made muffins this morning, get dressed and go have some before your father eats them all.”

I waved back without saying anything. Minutes later I have showered and brushed my teeth then fished out some clothes that at least felt clean. My parents, Kyle and Samantha Singer have both long since retired but never seem to sit still. Dad was one of the doctors of my little home town of Watertown, South Carolina while my mom taught elementary school. Out of their three children I was the only one who could even be considered the failure, although everyone assures me that my only fault was some incredibly bad luck. Still though, when people perceive you as having a dark menacing cloud always hanging directly over your head even dear old friends tend to drift away.

I step outside onto the small porch attached to the cottage and take in a deep breath of mid-morning air. Despite being springtime there is a chill to the air that the sun hadn't yet subdued. As I look around the backyard still struggling with the feeling of wrongness everything looks normal. The main house is still the two-story structure Cap Cod-style I grew up in and my mother's garden is still just as elaborate and well maintained as ever. I shake off the feeling and walk towards the main house to snag a couple of those muffins.

It wasn't until the youngest of my siblings, Jack, left home for college that my parents thought about having nice furniture and even making an effort at keeping the house truly clean. For my entire childhood it was a chaotic mess with only the barest of efforts made to keep it clean beyond what was needed to stay livable. To look around now and see how my mom and dad have made it a showplace both inspired me with their foresight and depressed me with the idea that at the age of thirty-seven I was again living with them a broken man.

Without trying to think anymore, which would ruin my day, I grab a plate and four of mom's blueberry muffins and a large glass of milk. Going against the new house rules I walk into the den and take a seat at the antique card table where she plays bridge with her friends. The muffins as expected are perfect and I eat in silence.

One of my dad's lifelong obsessions is his book collection. Sitting at the small table I look at all the books sitting on the shelves of the specially made bookcases lining the walls. All the masters of the written word are there and as I casually look at the names I remember the nights my dad would pick a book and read to my siblings and me. Somehow I eventually see one author's books are missing. My father was never anal enough to alphabetize his collection but through sheer familiarity I know one collection is missing.

It takes me several minutes but I eventually realize it is the Milton Solomon collection that is missing. All first editions with a few signed by the great man himself. My father loved his work and would never in a million years part with them. Knowing my father's daily routine he had long since left to work at the local free clinic down in Charleston so I hang around in the main house until my mother returns.

I hear the squeak of the back door opening then its soft impact as it closes. I then go find her in the kitchen preparing to arrange some flowers she picked from her garden. “Mom,” I say putting my plate and glass on the counter, “what did dad do with his Milton Solomon collection?”

My mom, looking like a Southern version of the great primatologist Jane Goodall, calmly looks over at me. “Whose Milton Solomon, honey? I've never heard of that author.”

For several seconds I am dumbfounded by my mother's comment, in fact the words simply didn't register. Next I think she is just playing with me, but the look of puzzlement on her face is equal to mine. “Martin Solomon,” I say again suddenly hoping my mom's advancing age is not catching up with her. “He won the Noble prize for literature in 1957, author of twelve other books and short story collections, friends with the likes of Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, and others like John Kennedy and Martin Luther King. He even was married to Kathrine Hepburn for ten years before she dumped him for Spencer Tracy.”

The look of puzzlement on my mother's face starts to mix with some form of concern for me, she puts down her flowers and walks over and instinctively puts her right hand on my forehead checking to see if I have a fever. “Sweetie,” she says, “I have no idea who you're talking about, are you sure you have the right name.”

“Of course,” I say, “he's one of dad's favorite authors.”

“I don't know Pete, I guess you'll have to ask your father when he comes home.” My mother says clearly hoping to end this line of conversation. Since the death of my wife, Beth, and our child, Luke, then the collapse of the software company I helped to establish, my mother has worried about my sanity. The fact that I have refused to reengage with the world has only made her fears worse, so I drop the subject. We continue to chat while I eat another two muffins. She then drifts off to her bedroom to get cleaned up while I race back to the den to look up details on dementia on the computer while trying to figure out a way to tell my father that the love of his life is in deep trouble.

I spend several minutes surfing through medical websites and come away with the feeling that my mother is fine. The analytical part of my brain then suggest that the only alternative is that I have somehow become confused. So, I pull Google back up and search for information on Milton Solomon and find absolutely nothing on the author, it's as if his existence has been erased. I quickly surf over to Amazon and look up the titles of all his works and find nothing.

A strange form of desperation begins to creep into my mind, a person of Solomon's stature cannot be erased this easily. I then look up the biographies of some of his friends and ex-wives and find that they to are missing any reference to Solomon. In fact, the lives of everyone of them are considerably different then what I had learned.

What was the initial worry over my mother's mental health has now given way to the seemly obvious fact that my own sanity is now highly questionable to say the least. As fear begins to choke off what is left of my rational mind I remember the strange feeling I woke up to earlier, that something was wrong with the world.

End of Part One

(Author's note: This was not suppose to be a story multi-part story. I got distracted yesterday, namely by a long and much needed nap and couldn't finish. With it now being Sunday, I've got to start getting ready for the work week.) 

A Death in Hollywood v2.0

(Author's note: This is a massive rewrite of a flash fiction story I wrote a couple of years ago. It's far more detailed than the original. No, I'm not picking on a certain former Disney child star. If anything I sort of pictured this as being an alternate universe version of the character of Penny from The Big Bang Theory.)

The text message came in the middle of an office meeting. All it said was, “Come save me” with the name Emma and an address on the other side of Los Angeles right below it. Naturally, at first I thought it was a joke from one of my coworkers, they know my past even though I avoid all attempts to discuss the subject. The only problem though was that I didn't recognize the phone number and I doubted anyone would go to the trouble of getting a new cell phone just to play a trick. Whatever the case it had been years since I heard from her, but it didn't really matter, short of one of my kids getting hurt there was no way my boss would excuse me from his boring lecture.

When the meeting finally ended, I left the office and sat in my car for thirty minutes staring at the little screen on my cell phone wondering if I should head over to the address she sent. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I drove across LA just to satisfy my curiosity. The address turned out to be an old warehouse whose interior had been turned into apartments. From the information on the faded billboard mounted on the roof, I imagined the developers had intended it to be upscale residences for hip, young professionals but shifting neighborhood lines had claimed the area making it more than slightly dangerous.

Walking inside, the lobby was empty except for the smell of piss and the faintest hint that someone had recently smoked a couple of joints before going out to meet the world. As expected, the elevator was out of order but I was impressed with the fact that what passed as building maintenance had a new sign stating it was broken duct taped to the door. For a moment I stood in the eerily vacant lobby wondered if I should turn around and go home, its not like she would have ever gone this far for me.

It was simple morbid curiosity that made me walk up the four flights of stairs and then down the seedy hallway that reminded me more of a scene from a zombie movie than I wanted to admit. When I reached what supposed to be her apartment I knocked causing the door to drift open.

“Emma,” I called out while pushing the door a little further open. “I got your text message, are you okay?” I asked with no response.

Maybe I should have stopped there, plowing through LA traffic and exploring a building on the short list to become an oversized crack house is one thing but walking uninvited into a dark apartment is another entirely. It was me catching a fleeting glimpse of one of her movie posters in an expensive frame hanging on the wall that I finally knew I was in the right place. No one but Emma would have spent so much to frame something now representative of failed expectations.

“Emma,” I cried out, “it's me, Mikey...Mike Stanton; I got your text message. Are you okay?” Still nothing, but with my confidence building I pushed the door open all the way and stepped inside. It was a one bedroom studio apartment with the kitchen, and living area occupying one large room. With the curtains pulled blocking most of the afternoon sun the two windows in the living area only allowed a tiny amount of light inside. Combined with a small bulb mounted above the stove, the available illumination allowed me to navigate the apartment but it left huge shadows big enough to hide a person.

The living area of the apartment was orderly but rather spartan, the movie poster being the one genuine item of decoration I could find. The other pictures and even the furniture itself were all generic that suggested cheap motel surplus. For a moment I began to think that maybe Emma might be okay, that she probably had left the apartment but failed to close the door. But as soon as I stepped into the small kitchen area I was hit with the stench of liquor and death coming from the bedroom.

Standing in the doorway looking into the pitch black room I reached inside and instinctively felt for a light switch and flipped it up. I was instantly rewarded with the sight of the once famous Emma Carter now dead, lying naked on her bed. On the nightstand by her bed was a decorative box containing a collection of multicolored pills and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor. It didn't take much of an imagination to figure out the combination of the two was how she took her life. 

Our history together was long but lacked any real bond of friendship. It began over twenty years before when we were both cast to star in one of those sickly sweet television sitcoms. The story line had us as brother and sister orphans from the country going to live their rich but cantankerous grandfather. She was going to be the energetic and mischievous older sibling out to convert all the jaded city dwellers to honest country ways and values. I was the shy but intelligent younger brother who more often than not had to brainstorm a way to save his sister from some funny but precarious predicament. Every episode ended with the city folks coming to appreciate the moral life lesson Emma's character wanted to impart even though she created nothing but a chaos storm in the process.

For reasons I can't explain even now the show was a hit and lasted six years. When the series ended whatever fame I had evaporated overnight thrusting me back into the real world. The combined effects of severe teenage acne and a disastrous transition into puberty robbed me of my boyish innocence. I knew the deal even then, in simple numbers there were thousands of better looking boys my age all desperate to have a chance in show business. So I was less than a statistic to those wearing the thousand dollar suits and making the decisions as to who to promote or kick to the side. I reached out to Emma and her agent several times in hope they would put in a good word for me with someone, but I never heard anything back from them.

I didn't have far to fall being from LA, once the decision came down in the space of a month I went from having my every whim being met to learning the complex social rules in a crowded public school full of hormone-ravaged teenagers. I was a small injured fish in an ocean filled with angry sharks. Making matters worse, a less than ethical agent and my parents brutal divorce battle consumed whatever money I earned during the series.

Things went very differently for Emma, the producers loved the fact that she was from Nebraska and every bit the country girl she portrayed. So eager were the producers to keep her in the public consciousness our now canceled series was still in summer reruns when her first CD was released. It only took a month for her to become brightest new star in pop music. Two years later she wins a reoccurring part in an established television drama and stays with the show until it ends. That was about the time entertainment journalists started floating rumors that with Emma's ethereal beauty and devastating acting ability she could be the next Elizabeth Taylor.

Sitting at home nursing a bruised ego and a growing envy of her never ending success I watched the massive promotional campaign on the eve of her first movie hit the media like a tsunami. You would have thought the world had come together and unanimously declared her the empress of all creation. Just six weeks later I actually cringed hearing the same media folks who once praised her awesome talent now talk about how awful her performance was in that same movie.

Three more major flops later and her once golden career is reduced to singing in shopping mall food courts and struggling to win a spot on some reality show. That was her life until seven years ago, it was then I got a call from her new agent that interest was building in a reunion of all the cast members of our sitcom.

“What interest?” I exclaimed to the voice on the other end of the phone. “I haven't seen a rerun of our old show in years. It's been forgotten.”

“That may well be the case Mr. Stanton but you will be paid ten-thousand dollars to attend the reunion event.” The voice then said completely changing my opinion on the matter.

The day of the cast reunion I walked into the rented banquet hall to find only a hand full of disinterested paparazzi hanging around the bar. I didn't care, I was there for the money and didn't mind when I walked right past them without any of them recognizing me as one of the main characters. Even though it was billed as a happy reunion of cast members who thought of each other as family only a fool would have believe it was anything other than a last desperate attempt to revive Emma's comatose career.

The last to arrive was of course Emma. Dressed in a designer western-style shirt and jeans tucked into boots that went up to her calves she stormed into the banquet hall that day acting like the energetic young girl from the series. For a few brief minutes whatever magic her personality possessed back then returned, the scattering of diehard fans that somehow knew about the event started singing the theme song with Emma dancing around shaking hands and giving hugs. Once Emma was on the podium the speeches began, all glorifying her and how wonderful she was, and the energy quickly died.

Of course everyone in the cast posed for pictures in front of an ever dwindling number of bored reporters that for some reason stayed through all the speeches. But even those few stranglers soon started drifting out the door with Emma literally running after them at one point. The whole affair became a total disaster when Emma's agent suddenly left without saying a word becoming the epitome of the rat abandoning a hopelessly sinking ship.

I stayed, not for any sentimental reasons, Emma and I were never close. But I had no where else to go, my wife had kicked me out the house weeks before and my apartment at the time was its own special kind of cheap rat hole. Emma eventually found me at the bar finishing off the last of the liquor.

“Aren't we a pair,” I said as she sat down on the stool next me.

“Where did it all go Mikey,” she asked, “they said I would be a star. That before I was thirty I would have won an Oscar and become one of the legends of Hollywood.”

While I was never that smart, I knew it would be rude to answer a rhetorical question. So we just sat in silence drinking while the staff starting cleaning and clearing everything out. Sitting there next her you couldn't ignore the fact Emma was still a beautiful woman, as long as you avoided the look of haunted disappointment in her eyes. I wanted to tell how utterly ridiculous she was being, that her ride had lasted far longer than mine. But the one thing anyone realized about Emma if they watched her for longer than five minutes was that she was totally self-absorbed. That as far as she was concerned the sun, stars, and every galaxy in the universe revolved around her.

“You were always a good friend to me Mikey.” She suddenly said out of the blue.

Frankly, I was dumbfounded by her statement, but I didn't make an issue of it. Several hours passed with her crying on my shoulder and complaining about how everyone had given up on her. Right before we parted we did the perfunctory but empty promise of getting together which meant exchanging email addresses and phone numbers. As she drove off in her car it went without saying I knew I would never see her again. So it was quite the shock to receive her text begging that I come save her.

While the living area of her apartment was almost devoid of anything personal, her bedroom was filled with mementos of her television and movie career. In fact, I'd have to call it a shrine since the stuff filled a couple of large bookcases and most of the available wall space. Looking at her body I began to wonder why she called me, all I could think of was that she had somehow confused the characters in our series with real life. My character of the younger brother dearly loved his impish and idealistic sister and would do anything for her. Maybe in her last desperate moments that delusion was all she had left after the world had finally tossed her away.

With nothing left to do I called the police and told them what I had happened. They told me head back out towards the entrance of the apartment and wait. For a couple of seconds I almost did just that, then on a whim I pulled out my cell phone and started taking pictures of Emma's body and her bedroom. The tabloids would pay a bundle for the pictures of the fallen child star and I have child support I have to pay.

The cops took my statement and eventually allowed me to leave. It was dark outside by that time and the flashing red and blue lights reminded me of the opening of Emma's first movie. I watched it on television and Emma, wearing a golden gown, walked up the red carpet on top of the world. There was even a crowd outside the converted warehouse not to different from all the adoring fans that threatened to engulf the new Hollywood idol. This time however Emma was exiting under quite different circumstances inside a black body bag covered with a blanket. It was then that part of me wondered if this was all some elaborate prank just to reclaim what she thought was her rightful place in the spotlight.

Stumbling Towards Collapse

Back in 2011, I stumbled upon a chilling dystopian novel called What Came After written by JonClinch but working under the pen name of Sam Winston. Set fifty years in the future the United States of America has fallen and become a impoverished wasteland, but not because of some nuclear war, ravaging zombie hordes or evil alien invaders. No, what happened was that the American Republic was downsized and privatized to death by various corporate elites and the politicians they owned. A better way to describe this is situation is that Grover Norquist's dream came true in that the federal government was reduced in size to the point the Elites drowned it in the proverbial bathtub. While America's demise in the novel lacked the theatrical glamor normally associated with such stories the result was even more apocalyptic in that it had the uncomfortable feel of being based in a reality.

Don't get me wrong, for Ayn Rand, Norquist, and libertarian types What Came After, and its sequel Into The Silent World, is a joyous romp into the future where the “producers” or “job creators” have triumphed over their parasitic oppressors, everyone else. This is not meant to be a book review, I have already done that for both novels, but in short what remains of the American population since the “The Great Dying” lives under what I have come to call a cooperative corporate feudalism. The main players running the show are a monolithic banking corporation, another corporation that covers agriculture and food production, a pharmaceutical corporation, one for transportation, and then there is Black Rose, the ultimate in military contractors charged with the defense of the status quo.

For those who don't belong to the elite one-percent, or what is called the Ownership class in the books, you are either a second-tier caste called management or generics who closely resemble medieval European serfs. The managements types have it a little better than the generics but for everyone except the Ownership class life is brutal and most often extremely short.

The main question that shook me to my core was how in the hell could the United States could go out with such a pathetic whimper. Mr. Clinch gives a general synopsis but naturally does not give a detailed back story. That is where the documentary Park Avenue: Money, Power and the American Dream fills in the missing pieces so well that it could almost be a historical piece made especially for those characters cursed to find themselves living in the universe of Mr. Clinch's books.

The documentary centers itself on the fact that the Upper East side of Manhattan section of Park Avenue is the home to some of the richest people on the planet who have enjoyed an unprecedented amount of prosperity for the last thirty years. In fact these privileged residents are part of the an amazingly tiny group of four-hundred Americans that own more wealth than one-hundred fifty million other people in this country.

At the risk of being called a “class warrior” a concentration of that much wealth in the hands of so few runs totally counter to the basic democratic principles of the United States of America. These mega-wealthy are not content to just enjoy their dozens of mansions spread across planet nor to laze away the days sailing the oceans in yachts so big that they rival cruise ships. No they are rigging the American political system to secure even more wealth and power for themselves and their select group. The question was once raised in a movie, Wall Street I believe starring Charlie Sheen and Michael Douglas, was just how many homes could the rich own and yachts they could water ski behind before being satisfied. It turns out the question was rhetorical, no the uber-wealthy have long since turned their sights on controlling the United States.

For example, during the 2012 presidential race billionaire Foster Friess single-handedly kept former senator Pete Santorum's campaign afloat. Santorum, a religious and socially conservative extremist nutcase, by himself had absolutely no chance to win the Republican nomination in 2012 but a single financial donor provided enough funds to make him a serious contender. More disturbingly Santorum's very presence in the race helped pushed the republican party even further to the extreme right. I admit, none of his fellow contenders during that campaign were paragons of reason and logic but Santorum's continued presence among the field only reinforced the mutually assured craziness of the all. Even worse, his beliefs fed the worst fears of a portion of the American population whose grasp on reality is far from secure.

Another billionaire, this one named Sheldon Adelson, kept the overwhelmingly narcissistic and equally extreme Newt Gringrich in the 2012 presidential campaign far longer than sanity would have allowed. Any rational person should be gravely concerned when a small group, or even one individual, has the financial ability to make their favorite pet a serious contender for the highest office in the United States. Say a Santorum or Gingrich did become president, just who would they owe their allegiance to, the American people or their financial master? What I found darkly humorous was that both Santorum and Gingrich claim to be defenders of old fashioned morals and religious values. Okay, but Santorum's values are that of a radical religious theocracy while Gingrich has abandoned several wives at the drop of a hat.

Then there was Mitt Romney, to paraphrase what the late Ann Richards said about Bush Senior, this bastard was born on third base and even now still believes he hit a triple in life. Desperate to justify his existence, over the years Mittens has ran for several elected offices and with the exception of one term as governor of Massachusetts, lost everyone. No, what makes Mitt special is his belief that forty-seven percent of Americans are lazy bums looking for nothing but welfare from the government.

The thing that ties Pete “Frothy” Santorum, the ever faithful husband Gingrich, and the poor little rich boy Mitt is their belief that the rich deserve some sort of special status in America, a type of economic aristocracy that sets them apart from the teeming, unwashed masses.

In fact back in 2014 venture capitalist Tony Perkins is quoted as saying only taxpayers should vote, he continued on to remark that if you pay a million dollars in taxes you should get a million votes. This screams of aristocracy and makes me start looking up the history of the French Revolution and how to build a guillotine.

As much as the Taliban-like Christian bible thumpers might not want to believe these rich backers of irrational and extremist candidates have absolutely no interest in morals or old time family values. Santorum, Gringrich, Romney, and the new crop of clowns for the upcoming 2016 race, should any of them get elected, are just puppets that will allow the rich even greater control of government policies and practices.

The problem with the rich and powerful having an inordinate amount of influence over the government can be boiled down to the old saying that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Sure, some of the rich in America are very honorable, from my feeble observations it tends to be those who have actually built something, as opposed to the crowd like Mittens Romney that were born into wealth. But the general idea we started taking seriously in the late ninetieth century and continued to develop up to thirty years ago was that “all men are created equal.” Masculine pronoun not withstanding that had come to mean to many everyone irregardless of their gender, ethnic background, sexual orientation, religion, or more importantly wealth. You simple cannot parade around to the rest of the world cloaked in the finery of democracy and be taken seriously by the oppressed mass when in truth there is an aristocracy controlling the levers of government.

The rich and their sycophant followers have crafted a largely false message that if you work very hard anyone can get ahead in this country. At one time it was largely true, but economic conditions had deteriorated to the point that studies show the social class a child is born in will more than likely be the one he of she stays their entire lives. Back when there were jobs that paid decent wages a family could buy a house, enjoy life, and put their kids through college. While I am not opposed to globalization, or even capitalism for that matter, the United States has been in a race downward since the early 1980's in an effort to satisfy ever whim and whine of the business class. In an effort to entice these delicate orchids to create more jobs state governments have essentially written them blank checks absolving them of all responsibility to help pay for the required infrastructure so their business could operate in the first place. Because of that our schools, roads, bridges, hospitals, airports are crumbling. Throw in “right to work” laws that gut, if not make illegal, any worker effort to organize so they could meet their employers on an even playing field and you have the conditions that have utterly devastated social mobility in the United States.

Running and maintaining a healthy country is a difficult job in the best of times, There are always competing forces that if not monitored could cripple or even destroy the strongest nation. The people of the United States have never been the sharpest knives on the world stage, the combination of a largely untouched wilderness teeming with resources and simple dumb luck allowed us to become the world players we are today. 

That day is over, if we as a nation even want to hope to stay a viable player and stay true to our values we will be forced to turn our energy inward to some degree and rebuild what through apathy and neglect we have allowed decay. That will require a degree of reason and intelligence I simply don't think we have anymore. Of course the alternative is to continue our current path and allow those with power and money to accumulate even more to protect their personal empires at the expense of us all. There is still an illusion of a middle class in this country but give the rich a few more decades of unchecked power and the books of Mr. Jon Clinch could turn out to be mild by comparison.

  

Everything Changes---A book review

Despite being a voracious reader only rarely do I find a book that thoroughly pulls me into another reality. When I do find one returning to the “real world” is often a painful experience because of the characters I have come to admire and love. That is what just happened a couple of days ago after finishing the Jonathan Tropper novel, Everything Changes.

I first became aware of Tropper's works with the release of the movie This is Where I Leave You starring Tina Fey and Justin Bateman. After seeing the movie I purchased the novel and was totally hooked by the author's clean but detailed writing.

Everything Changes was just as enjoyable, if not more so, with its main character of Zachary King who finds himself doing pretty good in life but questioning whether or not he is on the right path. While a fairly recent tragic event took the life of his best friend it is the discovery of blood in his urine that finally sends him off to question the basis of his life. Matters are not helped with the return of his father, Norm, after a twenty year absence who eats Viagra like M&Ms and has the groin bulging evidence to prove it.

While Zac's job as a “professional middle man” managing the relationship between production factories and business owners sucks from the outset, he is engaged to a beautiful, smart, rich, and well connected lady named Hope. Zack and Hope are in love but more and more he finds himself thinking of the widow of his best friend, Tamara and her little girl. Their relationship is platonic but charged with an unspoken attraction that neither wants to admit.

As the story unfolds Zack concern over his health and the clumsy attempts by his father to reconnect only makes the various situations he is trying to safely navigate worse. Zack and his two brothers are suspicious or Norm's efforts but a few ill timed situations actually provide the father with a way to gain some reluctant acceptance by them.

I will not provide any spoilers but I will say that unlike This is Where I Leave You, Tropper does provide a real and satisfactory conclusion to the novel. No, it is not a total happy ending but at least in my opinion it had the hint of real life.

The only real problem I had with this book was that it ended. With the exception of the blue-blood fiancée Hope and the Viagra-dependent father Norm I came to see the characters as real people I liked. In my opinion the character of Hope was never really developed but I have a predisposition not to like such people in real life. Money alone doesn't disconnect a person from their humanity, I know enough soulless working class individuals to provide a multitude of motivated extras to play eager Nazi storm troopers in a movie, but in my experience wealth does tend to isolate many from the world most have to endure.

As for Norm, what can you say about a guy who abandons his kids in such a callous and degrading way. Many parents have been forced to live away from their children because of difficult circumstances. But through it all they still somehow stay connected to their children. Norm's twenty year absence from his three boys damaged them in ways that I personally found criminal. In other words had my own "Norm" showed up at my door the cops and an ambulance would have been called a short time later.

The one character I "fell in love" with was Tamara. There was just something about the widow of Zack's best friend that I found deeply compelling. The only other character I came close to feeling that strongly about was Shyla Fox from Pat Conroy's novel Beach Music.

For Tamara, the death of her husband made her question whether or not she could be a good parent for her toddler daughter. Some might suspect that Zack's continued interest in Tamara after the death of his best friend might be just an attempt to play the knight in shining armor. It isn't, there are enough hints to suggest that their ties go far deeper than just two people desperately clinging to each other after a tragic event.

From my review you might be able to guess that Everything Changes is written from a guy's point of view. Some might not like that, especially since it causes a few innocent characters to come up short in the end. All I can say is that I highly recommend this book. As for me, I'll be reading the rest of Tropper's published works as fast as Amazon can deliver them.