After Melissa, my Lyft passenger, closed the door, i tapped the “Drop Melissa” button on my iPhone, tapped the far right star, and then tapped the “Tell us what you enjoyed” button. I pasted in my standard, “Delightful!” with the smiley face and tapped “Submit”.
It’s mid afternoon, my bladder is feeling a bit full, and a Peet’s Coffee is just a block away. I tap the “ONLINE” button, waited for it to change to “GO ONLINE.” Predictably, the need to pee immediately became urgent, underscoring the interplay between mind and body. I troll for a parking spot, and get lucky. After feeding the parking thing with my check card, i put the receipt on the dash, free my phone from its holder, and head for Peet’s. As i approach the corner to cross Shattuck, someone ahead is making a lot of noise. It’s an unkempt wild-eyed street person wearing layers of ill-fitting filthy clothes and yelling at empty space in front of him.
“Fuck off, fuckers! Jingle hells! Jingle hells! You think you’re dead? Guess what – you are. [laughs] Shut up! Just fucking shut the hell up. I’m here! Here where it’s not raining. Why is it raining? I’m not wet.”
He spots me watching him.
“Who the hell are you looking at, asshole.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re not fucking sorry, dickhead. You’re dead. Dead – dead – dead and you don’t even know it. [laughs]. Hey don’t look away from me, shit head. You’re dead.”
“I’m just waiting for the light to cross the street.”
In a mocking sing-song voice, “I’m just waiting to cross the street.” Then in his prior tone, “You can’t cross nothing. You’re dead. Car creamed your ass. [laughs] Fucking smashed into your stupid ass and stupid bike. No brakes and too fucking big for little old you. Smeared your guts all along the asphalt, shit head! Shut up! Jingle hells, jingle hells, jingle all the way. Go away, fuckers!”
The light changed and i set out into the crosswalk. I couldn’t get away from the loony street person any too soon. But some of my discomfort lingered like a smear of bay mud. Another smelly loony toon. A mental case who would be taken care of in a proper setting rather than neglected if it hadn’t been for Governor Reagan’s budget cuts.
I reached the far curb, stepped up onto the sidewalk, and turned in spite of myself to glance back at the deranged fellow. He was now accosting another person, shouting, “You’re dead, asshole.”
I turned and continued on for the coffee shop, acutely aware that i needed to relieve myself and soon. Hopefully the shop had a readily available restroom. If i can, I’ll order a chai latte before ducking into the loo. I don’t want to appear to be using the coffee shop just to pee, as true as that urgently is the case. The door opens easily with a jingle. A customer who sat facing the door glanced up from his laptop for a moment. I approached the counter while eyeing the messy menu in several colors of chalk that hung on the wall behind an exceptionally pretty girl standing near the cash register. Her name tag said Emma.
“Hi. How can i help you?”
“I’ll have a small whole-milk chai latte.”
“Hot?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else?”
I glanced at the yummy-looking scones and a blueberry bran muffin. Sitting on my butt all day means that i ought to refrain from the extra calories. “Not this time.”
I handed her my check card, declined a receipt, dropped a couple of quarters in the tip jar, and made a beeline for the restroom.
As i sat at a window seat sipping my latte from a black ceramic mug, my thoughts drifted back to a summer’s day.
I was seven, maybe eight and i was bored and full of energy. I decided to bike over to Richard Holland’s house. My sister, Linda, wouldn’t let me ride her blue girl’s bike. If Mom and Dad were home, I’d protest to them and probably they’d tell her to let me take her bike. They usually let me ride it and, after all, it was my size. Instead i got my brother’s big black bike with the floppy kickstand out of the carport and walked it down to the street. Patricia Lane was pretty much empty during weekdays so i set about trying to ride it. The bike was way too big for me to sit up on the seat but i badly wanted to get away and go riding. My first two attempts to mount this heavy monster ended with the bike tipping to the asphalt and me getting more scrapes on my beat-up knees.
The third try was more successful; i got up enough speed for it to ride stably. As i approached Grape Street i pushed the left pedal down in the backwards direction. That operated the brake, or it should have but the bike continued with only a little slowing. Panicked, i turned right onto Grape so i wouldn’t run the risk of getting hit by traffic. There was no traffic, however, so i rode along the bumpy asphalt and tried the brake again. It actually slowed the bike a little when i put all my weight on the pedal and sort of bounced on it.
I turned it around and headed north on Grape, passed the half-completed boat on the left, and bounced my weight on the left pedal to stop at the intersection of Washington Avenue. When i realized the bike and i were going too fast to stop short of the intersection, i hopped off the still-moving bike on the left side while holding on to the handlebars. That didn’t work so well. The left pedal painfully dug into the back of my right leg, so i let go and the bike toppled over on Washington just short of the speeding traffic. A driver honked at me. Washington was always busy with cars going faster than the speed limit. I pulled the bike back from the passing cars and examined the raw scrape on the back of my leg. It wasn’t much.
When there was a break in the traffic, i walked the bike across the intersection where Grape Street became Sunshine Street.
I walked the bike for a short distance past the intersection since Sunshine rose slightly from Washington. At least i didn’t get anymore scrapes as i took two tries to get the bike going again. Richard Holland’s house was further up the long block and i stopped there with no problem since i started my braking way early.
There were a couple of boys, one blond and freckled and the other one with dark hair, and one of Richard’s sisters, Carol, hanging around in front of the house. The boys said they knew Richard but they were from another school; not Cuyamaca Elementary. Carol told me that Richard wasn’t home so when the boy’s started to leave on their bikes, i asked if i could ride with them. “Yeah. You can come along.” And, “That your bike?”
“No, it’s my brother’s. He’s bigger’n me.”
So we started out and within a few seconds, they were way ahead of me. “Hey, wait up!”
They turned, looked at me, and dawdled while i caught up. “It just takes me longer on this bike to get going but i can go plenty fast.” One of the boys shrugged and we rode along together. I told them that Richard and i were in the same class at Cuyamaca. They wouldn’t say where they knew Richard from. We turned left on Palm Avenue.
One of the boys noticed the blood on the back of my leg. I explained that i got that when i tried stopping the bike to cross Washington. “You don’t have to stop to cross Washington. We don’t.” I took in that bit of information and while i tried to make sense of it, the blond kid said, “Let’s ditch him.”
I had no idea what that meant but they both pedaled hard and speeded away. I was a bit panicked as i gathered speed to keep them in sight. Ditching me sounded like they were going to hurt or kill me and put me in a ditch, but they would have to ambush me to do that. How stupid of me to think they were nice. So long as i could see them, i knew i was safe. If i let them out of my sight, i was a goner. I pedaled hard and was soon going faster than ever before. Up ahead they turned right onto Van Houten. Somehow i knew how to get around that corner going as fast as i was. I aimed wide, leaned the bike over steeply, and carved an arc around the corner that would have gained the admiration of any racing car driver.
Sure enough; i spotted a bike tire disappear behind a house trailer parked in a driveway. I concluded they wanted to ambush me from behind. I put all my weight on the pedal to slow down. I shouted, “I see you!”
As i overshot their hiding place, the two of them got their bikes turned around and sped away back the way we came. They were nearly back on Palm Street by the time i got slow enough to make a u-turn in pursuit. As i turned onto Palm they were turning onto Sunshine toward Washington. I was in tears and terrified. All i could think to do was to keep them in sight. By the time i raced onto Sunshine they were well down the block. Within moments i matched their speed and began to gain on them. They saw me coming and accelerated. They reached Washington well ahead of me and curved out of sight to the right apparently crossing Washington without slowing. If i slowed, they would be able to set up an ambush and leave me to die in a ditch. Because they crossed Washington without stopping, i figured that God allows bikes to safely cross busy streets. He sees to it that we cross in the gaps between cars without getting hit, especially if we cross quick enough. That must be the explanation.
The intersection is blind to the right but i trusted God to keep me safe. I pedaled hard into the intersection and into the path of car speeding at me from the right. It was a tan-grey car with rounded fenders with a narrow-faced man with black hair behind the wheel. Car tires shrieked as they skidded. I closed my eyes at the moment of the collision.
No collision. My eyes opened as the bike careened into the shallow drainage ditch on the far side of Washington Avenue, upended, and smashed into the wire fence surrounding the home with the half-completed boat. I was battered, gouged, and bruised from dirt, rocks, and the bike’s handlebars and frame. Everything hurt so bad that i no longer felt anything. I gathered myself up and pushed myself up into a sitting position beside the too-big black bike. There was no sign of the tan-grey car.
The two boys approached on their bikes. “Man, we thought that car hit you! You okay?”
The blond boy helped me get to my feet while the other one righted the bike. Through tears and with a crying voice i half-shouted, “You said you were gonna ditch me! I don’t know what that means.”
“Hey, we just wanted to get away so we wouldn’t have to ride with you.”
The dark-haired boy said, “Help me with this fender?” The two of them pushed and pulled on the front fender until it no longer scraped on the tire.
“Jeez, why’d you ride into the street like that?”
I said while sniffling, “You said you didn’t stop to cross Washington.”
“Yeah but we ride along the edge of the street beside the cars until it’s safe to cross. You’re stupid. Do you live near here? Do you need help getting home?”
“I live just a block away. I’m okay.”
I took ahold of the too-big bike and they helped me turn it back toward Grape Street, wheeling it around the corner, and over the drainage ditch. As i walked the bike down Grape, they went back around the corner. I never saw them again.
I parked the too-big bike in the carport and went inside. Linda saw me and asked how i got scraped up. I told her i fell off the bike. She helped me wash the scrapes and cover them with salve and band-aids.
I finished the chai latte feeling stunned reliving that incident all over again more than sixty years later. And didn’t that loony-tune say i was hit by a car without brakes riding a too-big bike? Did i hear him right? Or did he say it was the bike without brakes? Did he really say that? The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Creepy. Still, i reassured myself, his rant could have merely been a coincidence. Hell, maybe he tells everybody the same thing. Afterall, he told the next person that he, too, was dead.
I got up, dropped the paper coffee cup in the tall cylindrical trash can, and visited the bathroom again. That would buy me a bit more time driving for Lyft until i had to take another break.
I finished relieving myself, exited the restroom, and headed for the glass door entrance. Before i pushed it open i looked across Shattuck for the mental case but he was nowhere in sight. On a hunch, i waited for Emma to finish with another customer and then approached her. “There was a wacko across Shattuck when i came in. See him often around here?”
“This is Berkeley. We see a constant parade of them here.”
“He was telling people they were dead.”
“Oh, you mean the Grim Creeper. Yeah, he’s a regular. He creeps everyone out.”
“You too?”
“Uh, i try to avoid him. Yeah.”
“I mean, did he ever seem to know some details about you?”
Emma stood pensively. “Look, i’m sorry to brush you off but i’ve got work to do. I’ve seen him camping behind Staples. Now excuse me.” She looked past me and said to her next customer, “Sorry to keep you waiting, what could i help you with?”
A couple of minutes later i pulled into the nearly empty Staples parking lot, slipped into a slot, and punched the button to shut down the Prius. There was a spot blocked by the trash bin that seemed likely to harbour a homeless person. I approached quietly until i could see legs, toes up, on multicolored blankets. I stood still, unsure what to do next.
“Don’t just stand there man. What the fuck do you want?” He drew up to a sitting position and faced me. I stepped forward. There was no way to tell his natural skin coloration since dark grime had worked into his pores.
“You told me some minutes ago that i was hit by a car while riding a bike.”
He took an unhurried drag on his cigarette, met my eyes with his, and exhaled before answering. “Yeah. So what?”
“Well, that almost happened. I was a kid on a bike that was too big for me and the brakes didn’t work so well.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Well, did you know about that incident? Were you one of the other boys that day?”
“Too late. Just took my meds. No more voices, noises, and shit. Now i’m just another homeless nutcase. A dull one, at that.”
“May i sit and talk with you a minute.”
“You think i’m used to privacy?”
He scooted to the far end of the blankets and motioned for me to sit on the near end. There were paper cups, a couple of doggy boxes stained with food, a partly open green bag with some clothes, and cigarette butts lying everywhere. He stank badly but i ignored that as best i could.
“Thank you. I’m David.”
“I’m the Grim Creeper.”
I chuckled and said, “Yeah. Emma at Peet’s told me that. You have a real name?”
“Call me Bob. I’ll be asleep In a coupla minutes from these fucking pills so it’ll be a short talk. What do you want.”
“Did you know about my near-accident?”
“Look, David, i don’t even know if i’ve seen you before. I see thousands of people fucking around and talking and dying every second around me and some not dying and they’re not even here. Hell, i’m not even here. Shit, zillions of them every second. There’s no way i can remember any one of them. I’m fucking flooded with ‘em.”
I sat there flummoxed and trying to think what to say next.
“Look, David. Maybe i fucking did see your ‘near-accident’ and probably saw you really fucking dead. That goes down with most of the zillions of things i see and hear and they are all happening at fucking once. They never stop until i take these fucking pills, man.” He paused and took another drag on his cigarette. “It’s draining; crazy bad.”
“But Bob, you were only talking to me for a few moments.”
“That’s what you think. You don’t understand. Nobody fucking understands what i see. They just nod their fucking heads and prescribe me some heavy meds.” He yawned. “Don’t get me wrong. Those meds take me where there’s just one of me dealing with a manageable number of knuckleheads. I told you, there are zillions of me with zillions of shit-heads.” Bob paused, looking exasperated. His voice crescendoed to a shout. “And with every single one of those shit-heads, i see every fucking moment of their pathetic fucking lives. And everything happens differently at every moment.”
Bob stopped talking and angrily glared at me, scaring me badly. Then he yawned again, stretched his arms out, and lay down on the filthy blankets. Slowly and drowsily he said, “Every motherfucker dies young and every motherfucker lives until he rots of old age. Put that in your fucking pipe and smoke it. Now kindly fuck off and let me be.”
Bob closed his eyes and appeared to quickly fall asleep. For a minute i sat there unsure of what to do next; that is until Bob’s flatulence joined the other foul smells. I returned to the Prius, pulled out my notebook and wrote, “Everybody dies young and everybody lives to a ripe old age.” I put the notebook back into the compartment between the front seats, launched the Lyft app, and waited for the next ride request.
A week or two went by along with dozens of passengers when i picked up a rider named Reyson in West Oakland. I started up my usual tactics to get people to tell about themselves. After getting him to reveal where he was born (near Philadelphia) i asked what he did for work. He was wearing facial tattoos, a scruffy beard, and disheveled clothes so i was surprised when he said he was a materials scientist developing polymers using quantum chemistry. He worked at the Lawrence Berkeley Lab.
“Oh,” i said, “i’ve been trying to get my head around quantum nonlocality. What is quantum chemistry about?”
Reyson gave me a brief overview of quantum considerations in chemistry, nearly all going over my head. He finished with, “In brief, we’re finding ways to use quantum tunneling and superposition in creating polymers. We’re not involved with nonlocality. Nonlocality just is. There are various schools of thought about it. I’d recommend you get a copy of George Musser’s book “Spooky Action at a Distance.”
“Oh yeah. That’s a phrase Einstein said. That book you’re recommending, could you write it down for me. By the time i finish Lyfting today, i’ll have forgotten the author. Here’s a notebook you can use.” I pulled the notebook from the console cubby and passed it to Reyson.
“Glad to.”
I continued along Mandela Parkway as Reyson wrote in the notebook.
“OK, it’s there, David. I see a note here, ‘Everybody dies young and everybody lives to a ripe old age.’ Did you get that from Max Tegmark?” He handed the notebook back up to me.
“Who’s Max Tegmark?”
“Oh, he’s a controversial theorist. Got a book out called Our Mathematical Universe where he supports the Many Worlds interpretation.”
I pulled up in front of Best Buy. “Here you go. Been great talking with you. I’ll write down ‘Max Tegmark’ in my notebook before i take another rider. Have a great afternoon.”
“You too. Bye.”
After Reyson closed the door, i tapped the “Drop Reyson” button on my iPhone, tapped the far right star, and then tapped the “Tell us what you enjoyed” button. I pasted in my standard, “Delightful!” with the smiley face and tapped “Submit”. I then opened the notebook and wrote, “Max Tegmark.”
Before embarking on my Lyfting the next morning i stopped at my neighborhood library on Fruitvale. A few seconds on their computer catalog revealed they did not have a copy of Musser’s book at that branch. Then i searched for books by Max Tegmark, found his Mathematical Universe: My Quest for the Ultimate Nature of Reality. There also wasn’t a copy in this library branch so i requested both of them at the Help Desk, went to the Prius, and went online.
On the following Tuesday i received an email from the library that the books were waiting for me. I picked them up on Wednesday morning and started reading Tegmark’s book between rides.
I found the book to be full of ridiculous ideas, such as our universe being infinite so that there are uncountable versions of me reading Tegmark’s book but while perhaps wearing a different shirt or parked a half a block away or the book printed with a slightly different font.
The most outrageous idea he describes is ‘quantum-suicide.’ Here’s a rough description: Imagine an automatic rifle that powerfully fires a huge hollow-point bullet but only when a quantum measurement indicates an ‘up’ spin. Just as likely, the measurement results in a ‘down’ spin. Every two seconds a measurement is made. If the measurement results in a ‘down’ spin, the weapon does not fire, it only makes a click noise. As the experimenter stands to the side, he hears a random sequence of clicks and firings. Then he puts his head in the line of fire. He only hears clicks, never a bang.
This would be the case if Hugh Everett’s idea of Many Worlds is true and Max Tegmark concurs this is how our universe operates. Why only clicks? Because with every quantum measurement, according to the Many Worlds interpretation of quantum physics, a pair of realities exist. In this scenario, for every measurement there is a reality with the ‘up’ result and a separate reality with the ‘down’ result. The experimenter will never experience the weapon firing because his brains will be blown out before he can determine what happened. The only reality he can reflect upon are the ones where the measurement resulted in a ‘down’ spin and the weapon did not fire. Since every measurement gives both results, there is always a reality where the experimenter hears a click and continues to live. Uh, pretty weird that people believe this stuff.
Then Tegmark presents the idea the Reyson commented on: “… can you think of all potentially lethal events in nature as quantum-suicide experiments, so that you should expect subjective immortality? You can answer this question with a simple experiment: wait and see! If one day after a long sequence of seemingly unlikely coincidences, you find yourself to be the oldest living person on Earth, then that pretty much settles it.”
I re-read that passage several times before opening up my notebook. There on the page: “Everybody dies young and everybody lives to a ripe old age.”
Is there a world where the tan-grey car ‘smeared my guts’ along Washington Street as the Grim Creeper claimed?
Was it a “seemingly unlikely coincidence” that one of the only people on the beach strong enough to rescue me at Devil’s Slide was the only one who noticed my predicament? And he almost dismissed my situation as unimportant.
The Lyft app beeped. A Michael wants a ride. He’s 4 minutes away on Campbell Street. I tap to accept the ride, slip the book into the console storage bin, put my foot on the brake, push the START button, twist the headlights on, check the map display, and i’m off to meet Michael.
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