This is available on Amazon but, even better, also on Audible. I say even better because the reading is done by professional voice actors Em and Tim Carlson who breathe life into it both perfectly recreating the author’s vision and improving upon it. Listeners have expressed delight at the duo’s talent. Even better for you, it appears Amazon offers it free with their 30-day standard trial.
“Do I know you?”
I look up from the book I am reading, absorbed so completely by the narrative that I’ve forgotten where I am. Resentment. With a sigh, I peel my eyes from the page.
But like clouds burned away by the sun, my antisocial demeanour dissolves at the sight of her. Brown almond eyes capture me in their riptide and threaten to draw me into her unfathomable depths. Bracketed by dimples that play at the corners of her upturned lips, her mouth suggests an attitude of perpetual amusement.
A subtle auburn corona highlights the sable wave of her shoulder-length hair. Her complexion, bone structure, and symmetry, backlit by her sanguine spirit, she requires no makeup, but she is wearing makeup anyhow. A hint of eyeshadow, a dusting of rouge, a gloss to her lips. Cosmetics applied not to conceal imperfections but to accentuate flawlessness.
Though I know nothing of fashion, I can tell her cream knit sweater did not come off the shelf of any big-box retail outlet. Not a single loose strand or pilling fibre to be seen. If you told me it cost a thousand dollars, I would not be surprised.
The nails of her hands are artfully painted. Not just red, but vermillion. Vermillion with yellow spiral patterns upon each. Except the third finger of her left hand and second finger of her right hand, which are painted in silver glitter.
Her impeccable composition makes me wonder at the effort women put into presenting themselves. One can understand their resentment of the opposite sex. I’d done what? Taken care to pick out socks without holes in them. Made sure I shaved at least twice a week. Okay, to be honest, at least once a week. Twice on a good week.
Do I know you? She’d asked.
No. Though I want to.
I shake my head, “I don’t think so.”
“No, I do know you,” she insists, rewarding me with an assured smile as she sits uninvited but more than welcome in the seat opposite mine. “Weren’t you in my Practical Ontology class?”
Is that a pickup line? One look at her and I think not. Angels don’t just descend out of the heavens London Fog Latte in hand. Do they? I glance around the coffee shop, wondering if they are short available seats, if someone is having me on, or if everyone else is so hopelessly unattractive that I am her best and only bet on a slow day.
But no, the two-seater next to mine is unoccupied and there is a good looking, well-groomed guy seated by himself three tables away dressed in a grey cashmere sweater and reading a Russian novel rather than a trashy sci-fi paperback like the one in my hand.
My heart hammers, “Practical Ontology?” I wonder aloud.
“With Professor Kline.”
I shake my head again, “Sorry, I don’t think so.”
Not like I could forget attending a class titled Practical Ontology. And I certainly could not have forgotten her. She is a vision that would haunt your dreams forevermore. Struck dumb in her presence, my brain races to formulate something to say that will entice her to linger.
Forgiving my inarticulate start, she continues. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Maybe you’re more of a nominalist. Personally, I fall into the spectrum of Platonic Realism.”
“Pardon me?” I stammer.
“I lean more towards materialism,” she says as if we’ve arrived at a mutually agreeable topic of conversation, “while I guess you have always possessed a more dualistic bent.”
“Have I?” Bewildering opening notwithstanding, I am charmed by her dimple-punctuated smile into playing along.
“Yes, and I see that you are still obsessed with your pursuit of phenomenology.”
I arch an inquisitive eyebrow. Somewhere within me, I discover the courage to match her grin with one of my own. One that communicates my willingness to engage her in this playful banter, though I fear I am over-matched.
In fact, it occurs to me that this beautiful young lady may be having an episode. Has she missed her meds? Can someone so gorgeous and well put together on the outside be afflicted? Every fibre of my being protests the notion. It can’t be so, can it?
“My understanding is drawn directly from my lived experience,” I rally, hoping my superficial recollection of phenomenology will suffice.
“Well then,” she replies, settling in and taking her hands off her cup, signalling her intent to stay, “Let’s have a little Gedankenexperiment, shall we?”
“A Gedanken -?” I fumble, wondering what I’m getting myself into.
“A thought experiment,” she explains, “you remember.”
Of course I don’t. How can I? I never took a class in Practical Ontology, and certainly not with this mercurial beauty.
“What kind of experiment?”
“Let’s say, for example,” she begins, “that one day you find yourself in a coffee shop ordering a flat white, intent upon reading your Larry Niven novel, when you spot a former classmate seated nearby. Let’s call her Cindy,” she suggests.
“Cindy?” I ask. “And I’m–.”
“Let’s say you’re Maxwell.”
My mouth gapes open. I am Maxwell. Though my friends call me Max.
“Maxwell… Arthur Stevens,” she continues, and I’m glad I’ve set my flat white down, otherwise I surely would have dropped it.
“How?” I splutter.
“Shhh,” she hushes me, painted finger to her glossy red lips, “It’s a thought experiment, remember?”
No, I don’t. But she seems to. How is it that she remembers me, but I have no recollection of her?
She takes a sip of her London Fog latte and looks at me with those inscrutable chestnut eyes. They reach across the space between us, connecting us as if, even though we’re just meeting for the first time–my first time at least–we have always been connected. Satisfied that I am still following, she returns her cup to the table and continues, “Let’s say in this scenario Maxwell recognizes Cindy right away, sees her seated there reading Jean-Paul Sartre. Cindy glances up but does not recognize Max.”
She meets my eyes again. Her small, perpetual smile widens almost imperceptibly. But I perceive it. Her presence has captivated my complete attention, and I am attuned to her every perfectly composed feature to the total exclusion of the world around us. Coffee orders are taken and delivered. Patrons find vacant seats or rise to vacate seats. Friends meet. Jokes are exchanged. Quiet, whispered arguments. All the sights and sounds and smells of a busy coffee shop situated on a heavily trafficked city corner. The kind of place where someone might plausibly bump into a person they knew from long ago. Or a complete stranger. All this possibility swirls around us, but I am absorbed completely by her. I nod to indicate I am listening.
“Max has spotted Cindy, whom he recognizes, but she does not recognize him,” Cindy repeats. “In this situation, what does Max do?”
“I -,” I catch myself, remembering the rules of the game. This is a thought experiment, a hypothetical Max, not me. “Max picks up his flat white and approaches her table,” I answer.
“Cindy looks up from her book,” Cindy says. “‘I saw you looking at me from over at the pickup counter. Can I help you?”
I say, “Cindy? It’s Max, do you remember me?”
Cindy laughs aloud, her dimples dancing, their irresistible charm fluttering my heart.
“Is that a pickup line?” Cindy asks.
Ha! I think. I’d wondered the same thing. So, was it? Is this all a weirdly elaborate pickup game Cindy plays with strangers? But if so, how did she know my name? Not just Max, which the barista would have called out earlier when my flat white was ready, but my full name.
“Max shakes his head,” I answer, “and says, ‘We had a class together.’”
“Why are you blushing? Cindy asks Max.”
Is she talking about me or hypothetical Max? I’m already feeling lost in our thought experiment. Her delicious lips and absorbing eyes are not helping. The perfumed smell of her is clouding my capacity for rational thought. Drugged by her proximity, I feel myself drowning in the depths of her.
“Max is embarrassed,” I say. “He tells her it’s because he forgot how strikingly beautiful she is.”
Again her dimples dance with laughter, “Cindy says: Now that is a line! What class did you say we were in together, and how is it possible you forgot how beautiful I am?”
“It was in Theoretical Thanatology, Max answers.”
“How morbid. With Doctor Rodriguez?”
“Wait, what?” I sit up straighter. “How do you know that?”
“I thought we were using hypotheticals,” Cindy scolds.
She couldn’t have been in my Theoretical Thanatology class. There is no way I would have forgotten.
“How do you know about Dr. Rodriguez?” I repeat.
Cindy shrugs, “I don’t. Remember, this is a thought experiment. Obviously, hypothetical Cindy does.”
“You know that makes no sense, don’t you?”
Cindy heaves a sigh, “Does theoretical Max get as bogged down in the details as the real one?”
Bogged down by details? My head is spinning. How can she know about Dr. Rodriquez? Why does she believe I was in her Practical Ontology class? How is it that our conversation is getting crazier and crazier? A rational person would extricate himself from this exchange before it veers any further into the territory of the unhinged. But a glance into Cindy’s enchanting eyes suffices to extinguish any spark of rationality I might still retain. And my intellect is deliciously intrigued by the mystery of her and this whole conversation. Damn me for a deranged fool, but I want this to continue.
“Sorry,” I say.
“That’s fine,” Cindy soothes. “Continue.”
I clear my throat and shake off the spooky feeling. “Max asks: Mind if I join you? Indicating the empty seat across from Cindy.”
“Aha!” Actual Cindy holds up a finger. “Gotcha. There’s an erroneous assumption in your model.”
Puzzled, I shrug, inviting her to elaborate.
“Why do you assume the chair is empty? What makes you think Cindy is seated by herself? Why would a beautiful girl like Cindy be sitting alone in a coffee shop? Is this a thought experiment or some sort of wish fulfilment?”
I’m stumped for a moment, flustered and frustrated. “Well, is she sitting alone?”
I’m blushing again, I know it. But Cindy’s quiet smile has widened. She’s toying with me. For a moment I feel out of my depths perplexed by her charm and her weird game, but again I rally.
“You said Cindy’s reading Jean-Paul Sartre,” I answer. “Would she be reading a philosophy book if she was seated with someone else?”
“Maybe they’re book lovers,” Cindy suggests. “Maybe they are so comfortable in their relationship that they don’t need to engage in idle conversation every moment they’re together. Maybe they like to sit in coffee shops surrounded by strangers, each reading their own book.”
“No,” I shake my head. “Cindy thrives on verbal sparring. She is sharply intelligent and would want to be in the company of someone her intellectual equal. She would want to be with someone who could not resist her presence, not someone who would rather read a book. And whoever she was with better be a lot more engaging that Jean-Paul Sartre!”
She rewards me with a smile. “You’re right,” she accedes, “She is sitting alone.”
“Mind if I join you?” I repeat for thought-experiment-Max.
“It’s a free coffee shop,” Cindy answers for thought experiment Cindy.
“How do you know about Dr. Rodriguez? Max asks.”
“Well, I suppose I must have been in your Theoretical Thanatology class.”
“So, you don’t remember if you were in Theoretical Thanatology?”
“No, but you seem to recognize me, so it must be true, unless, of course, that was a pickup line.”
“If you don’t remember attending Theoretical Thanatology, how do you remember the professor’s name?”
“It just came to me when you mentioned the class. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”
“Max shakes his head, unable to recall anything that strange occurring.”
“Really?”
Then I do. Real me, not hypothetical, thought-experiment-Max. I remember something like that happening to me once, so I plant it in hypothetical Max’s memory.
“Okay, maybe once, Max admits.”
“See, now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me what happened.”
“Well, I was in Safeway in the checkout line behind a nondescript, middle-aged Texan. I knew he was from Texas because I recognized that Texan twang when he was chatting with the cashier. I wasn’t really paying attention, you know, glancing at the lurid tabloid headlines awaiting my turn as they spoke about the weather and work. Then the cashier asks, ‘Where are you shooting?’. I didn’t even hear his answer because in that moment, my subconscious blurts his name into my conscious mind: Brian Dennehy, the actor!
Brian Dennehy? My conscious mind wondered: how do I even know that name? What have I even seen him in? I mean, sure, he’s been around. Long career and all, but it’s not like he plays a lot of leading roles. Mostly a strong supporting actor, the cop investigating a case, or a politician, or the father of the protagonist. A respectable career, but not exactly a household name. It had never even occurred to me while I was standing there in line that he looked remotely familiar. But somehow, there it was, coughed up into my forebrain unexpectedly: Brian Goddamn Dennehy!
“See, you get it. Professor Rodriguez and that goddamn Thanatology class that I didn’t remember taking until you mentioned it just now. Cindy takes a sip of her coffee.”
“Coffee?” I ask.
“Yes, what did you think hypothetical Cindy would drink?”
“Well, I assumed a London Fog latte.”
Cindy gives me a pointed look. “You realize that we’re conducting a thought experiment here, don’t you? I mean, this is hypothetical Cindy, not actual Cindy. Just because I drink London Fog lattes does not mean that hypothetical Cindy does.”
“Right,” I answer. “Maybe it’s just confusing since we’re using the same names.”
“Well, I didn’t know that your name was Max when I named our hypothetical Max, did I?” Cindy says defensively.
“Didn’t you?”
“How could I?”
“Well, you said you recognized me from your Practical Ontology class, so obviously you knew me already, right?”
“But you said you never took Practical Ontology,” Cindy replies.
“I didn’t.”
“So then I couldn’t have known you,” Cindy concludes.
“What about theoretical thanatology?” I ask.
“What about it?”
“Did you take that class?”
“No, of course not!”
“What about hypothetical Cindy? Do you think she took theoretical thanatology with hypothetical Max?”
“No. I mean, why would she lie about something like that?”
“Well, she knew Dr. Rodriguez’s name.”
“Just like you knew Brian Dennehy’s.”
“Brian Dennehy is famous.”
“You didn’t recognize him.”
“Not right away, but after I recalled his name, I looked it up on IMBD and realized I’ve seen him in at least half a dozen roles over the years.”
“Well, maybe Dr. Rodriguez is a big name in thanatology. Maybe he authored some textbooks or gave a TED Talk.”
“I don’t think so. Not that I know of.”
“Not the real one, silly,” Cindy shakes her head and gives me an exasperated smile, like someone explaining a simple concept to a slow kid for the seventh time. “The hypothetical Dr. Rodriguez.”
“But you knew his name!”
“No, I didn’t,” Cindy insists, “I was speaking for thought-experiment Cindy.”
“But how could you come up with my actual professor’s name? That seems a pretty big coincidence, doesn’t it?”
“Look,” Cindy says, folding her arms across her chest, a flicker of impatience in her eyes, “If it bothers you so much, why did you use your actual Thanatology professor’s name in the thought experiment? I mean, you could name him anything you want and then thought experiment Cindy won’t freak you out by knowing Dr. Rodriguez.”
My head is spinning with the fuzzy of her logic.
“Come on,” Cindy insists, “try it out. Just rewind the experiment a beat and choose a different name for your thought experiment, Thanatology professor.”
Though I’m shaking my head at the idiocy of this whole thing, I remain a very willing captive of Cindy’s charming yet thoroughly deranged magnetic field. I think up a new name for my thought experiment Thanatology prof. This time I select my most memorable professor from my most obscure class.
Then I replay our thought experiment meet-cute: “Weren’t you in my Theoretical Thanatology class? Max asks.”
“The one with Dr. Higgins? No, I don’t think so.”
My jaw drops, and I look blankly at Cindy.
“What?” she asks.
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“How did you know Dr. Higgins?”
“Max, I don’t know Dr. Higgins. Hypothetical Cindy knows Dr. Higgins.”
“But how did she know that Dr. Higgins taught my Theoretical Thanatology?” I insist.
“Oh, I don’t think she knew that. In fact, I’m pretty sure she was mistaken. I think Dr. Higgins specializes in aperiodic deterministic nonlinear systems.”
I sit back and stare at Cindy.
She returns my look. For a long moment neither of us speak but just continue to stare at each other.
“What?” Cindy asks again.
“Dr. Higgins,” I say, “how did you know?”
Cindy shrugs, eyes wide, innocent, “Just a guess.”
“Right,” I say, “Aperiodic deterministic nonlinear systems was a random guess.”
“Well, it sounded right.”
“Not geological stratification analysis or geometric topological constants?”
“Those are pretty big leaps from Thanatology, don’t you think?” Cindy answers.
“The fact that you even know what those subjects are is a pretty big leap, don’t you think?” I counter.
“Well, you know. Do you think you possess some special knowledge inaccessible to others?”
I give Cindy a long appraising look, trying to see past her mind muddling beauty, trying to calculate the probabilities, “How many people in this coffee shop do you imagine could tell you what field of study theoretical thanatology or practical ontology or geological stratification analysis or geometric topological constants are?”
“In here?” Cindy leans back, takes a sip of her London Fog latte which surely must be cold by now and scans the busy coffee shop, “How many people do you think there are?” she asks as if my question is not rhetorical and she is about to run calculations, “Thirty-two or so?”
“Including baristas?” I ask.
“Okay, thirty-five,” Cindy agrees, “including baristas.”
“Out of thirty-five then,” I press, “How many could identify the disciplines we’ve discussed so far.”
“Out of thirty-five?” Cindy answers, “Two. Including us.”
I nod in agreement. “Two out of thirty-five, including baristas,” I say. “And what are the chances that those two individuals possessing matching esoteric knowledge sets happen to bump into one another?”
Cindy shrugs as if the answer is obvious, “One hundred percent.”
“One hundred percent? How do you figure that?”
“We’re talking, aren’t we?” Cindy offers another one of her dimpled smiles.
Cute. She has me there.
“Even in our simulated thought experiment, our subjects found one another,” Cindy continues. “Perhaps it is inevitable.”
“Like fate or destiny?” I ask.
Cindy frowns thoughtfully before shaking her head. “No, more like gravitational fields.”
“Are you proposing gravitational forces drew us to one another?”
Cindy considers it a moment, then nods. Upon reflection, she is now convinced of the idea. “Drawn by the inexorable weight of our respective esoteric fields of interest.”
She can tell I am unconvinced. “Are you a skeptic?”
“Shouldn’t someone with a background in practical ontology also be a bit skeptical?”
“Well, that was what the thought experiment was for,” Cindy replies.
“The one in which Cindy was definitely not in Max’s theoretical thanatology class?”
“And yet they found each other,” Cindy concludes as if citing an inarguable proof.
“And that’s the basis of your theory of attraction?”
“You doubt my theory?” Cindy asks, surprised.
“Well, the evidence is dubious.”
“Really?” Cindy sits back in her chair as if I have just proclaimed the world flat. “Aren’t you attracted to me?”
I splutter into my flat white, “What?”
Cindy leans forward, an enigmatic smile playing upon those glossy red, upturned lips, “Are you attracted to me?”
The thirty-five other patrons of the coffee shop, including baristas, are suddenly light years away as my reality shrinks down to the singular universe of Cindy’s deep brown, almond-shaped eyes. Am I attracted? I am drawn to Cindy like a meteorite captured in Earth’s gravity and plummeting to its fiery disintegration. I nod. My mouth suddenly dry.
“And thought-experiment Max?” Cindy asks. “Isn’t he attracted to thought experiment Cindy?”
Again I nod, struck mute by her confounding logic and its effect upon my hammering heart.
“So,” Cindy concludes, “it’s inevitable that they would meet. They can’t help it. They’re drawn to each other.”
Drawn to each other, she said. Blood rushes to my ears, blocking out all other sounds-the conversations, the ambient music, the traffic outside-like a heavenly choir roaring hallelujah in my ears.
“Given their mutual attraction,” Cindy continues driving home her point with relentless persistence now that my protestations have been so deftly stymied, “And given that they have found one another as fate or destiny or the universal laws of gravity dictate, what does thought experiment Max do?”
Not ‘What does he say?’. No, Cindy has thrust us out into the void beyond words, or reason, or argument. Out to where our feet float untethered in space and the laws of physics as we’ve known them on Earth no longer constrain us. Not what would he say, what would he do?
My lips move independent of my brain, puppets worked by something deeper. My heart? I am barely aware of the words emerging before they have escaped into the breathless vacuum between us. “He’d kiss her.”
Cindy frowns and shakes her head in mute disagreement. “No,” she replies, “not if she kisses him first.”
And with those words, the space between us vanishes, and the forces of inevitable attraction that govern our orbits bring us together, her glossy red lips silencing any doubt and sealing her incontrovertible proof upon my heart.