Multiversal

One warm, sunny Monday morning, Bob Jones sat down in front of his breakfast cereal and took a sip of coffee.

He had a lot to do today. The deadline for the submission of his budget proposal was 5 p.m. that afternoon. On top of that he also had a meeting with the General Manager at 10 in the morning about the falling share price situation, as well as a lunch meeting with Herman Gruel from whom he was hoping to secure a new ship hull reinforcement system contract.

He poured milk over his cereal and picked up the science magazine he'd bought at the weekend. Holding the magazine in his left hand, he spooned the cereal into his mouth with his right, doing an admirable job of not dropping any flakes back into the bowl or dribbling milk down his chin. In his line of work it was as important to keep up with scientific progress as it was to not have milk stains on your shirt. You never knew what was...

Bob's spoon hand came to a steady halt inches from his mouth. He was frowning. His eyes were screwed up as his attention focused to a pinpoint.

The article. The sentences in the article. The meaning that they meant. Could it possibly be -?

He placed the spoon back in the bowl and opened the magazine up with both hands, leaning over the table and unconsciously holding his breath as he tried to take in what it was that it was that the article was trying to say.

Suddenly he let go of the pages and sat back in his chair with a sigh.

“Gordon Bennett,” he said to the empty kitchen.

He looked out the window opposite at the blue sky and wispy clouds drifting dreamily by. Then he looked at his briefcase sitting on the table next to him, open and almost full of documents, files and folders. Then he looked at his watch. Then his cereal. Then he picked up the magazine again.

“Amazing,” he said with a laugh of disbelief, once again placing the magazine down.

“Gordon H. Alexander Gertrude Honeywell Bennett the Third,” he said, and his gaze once again fixed on the blue sky outside the window.

“I'm going to the beach.”

Bob stood up, grabbed his jacket and, leaving his kitchen table with cereal uneaten and briefcase open and full of pressing business matters, he left his apartment.



The gentle crashing of waves on the sand, the salty sea breeze pushing his hair back from his face, the various shades of blue and yellow stretched panoramically across his field of view, the soft grinding of sand particles beneath his butt cheeks – ahh it was good to be alive!

Bob Jones took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly.

Suddenly his mobile began to vibrate in the pocket of his jacket, lying folded on the sand nearby. He pulled it out, flipped it open and held it to his ear.

“Hello?” he said.

“Jones, where the hell are you!?”

It was Mr. Strychnine, the General Manager of his company. He didn't sound too happy.

“I'm at the beach.”

“You're where!? We've postponed the meeting waiting for you to show up with your presentation! Now what on earth do you think you're playing at!? I want you here at the office in thirty minutes or you can say goodbye to your new cubicle! Well!? Explain yourself!”

“Well, Mr. Strychnine, I read an article today in a science magazine, and it's official. The multiple universe theory is no longer just a theory, it's reality.”

“What the hell are you talking about!?”

“This morning I chose not to come to work. I chose instead to come to the beach. But other me's in other universes did go to work this morning, a whole lot of them. So I figured if they're all going to work, I might as well take the day off.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone line.

“Really!?”

“That's what it said. A whole lot of scientists in a whole lot of important universities have agreed.”

More silence. Then :

“Gordon Bennett!”

Once his boss had hung up, Bob closed his mobile phone. He gave it one last look, and then threw it as far as he could into the sea.



At the office, Mr. Strychnine walked slowly into the conference room in front of thirty waiting employees. He stood at the front next to an overhead projector and shook his head to himself, seeming unaware of all the people sitting watching him expectantly.

He chuckled, scratched his head and walked over to the window to look down at the street below.

“Er, Mr. Strychnine?” said one of the employees. “Is everything all right, sir?”

He seemed not to notice. Then he turned and said, “What? Oh, yes Bryson, everything's fine, just ... fine.” He returned to the front of the room and addressed the expectant faces.

“I'm afraid Jones isn't going to be joining us this morning.” Mr. Strychnine picked thoughtfully at the corner of a sticker on the side of the OHP. “He ... he's gone to the beach.”

Exclamations of surprise arose from the meeting room. “The beach?”

“Yes, well, the reason being you see ...” he looked suddenly at Bryson. “Bryson? Could you do me a favour?”

“Yes sir, what is it?”

“Get someone to go down to the nearest off licence and buy a load of booze, will you? Charge it to the company account. Anything you like. And caterers. Contact some local caterers and get some food over here. Good stuff. Steak, caviar, duck, that sort of thing.”

“Sir?”

“Go ahead. I think we're going to have a kind of staff party.”

“Are we celebrating something, sir?”

“In a manner of speaking. I'll explain to this lot while you're busy with the refreshments.” He called out to the rest of the room. “Any objection to a little company-paid impromptu soiree?”

Calls of, “No, not at all,” came back positively from the meeting members as they shared smiling glances of surprised gratitude.

“Excellent,” said Mr. Strychnine rubbing his hands. “So off you go, Bryson.”

Bryson, with a quizzical but excited expression, left the room.

“Now,” Mr. Strychnine said to quieten the buzzing room. “You see the thing is, it's official. The multiple universe theory is no longer just a theory. It's reality. I have chosen not to have this meeting, but in innumerable other universes we are having this meeting. In fact in countless other universes we are all working as hard as possible for the good of this company. So I see no reason why we, in this universe right here, can't have a little fun.” He passed his gaze around the faces in the conference room. “Do you?”

It seemed that they didn't.



Bob Jones, sunburnt and relaxed, pressed the elevator call button in the lobby of his office building. It was 7pm and the sun had already set on the streets outside, but if he was lucky Mary Green would still be at the office doing a bit of overtime.

He decided he might ask her out on a date, was the thing.

Her hair was the colour of golden leaves, her perfume the scent of wild flowers, her eyes deep pools of Greek freshwater ponds, her smile shafts of sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Sitting on the beach that afternoon he suddenly realized that he'd secretly been worshipping her inside all these months but never been able to pluck up the courage to ask her out.

Today was the day! Now was the time! This universe was the one, was what it was!

With a ding! the elevator doors slid open. Bob paused in mid step as he saw there on the floor of the elevator – a crushed party hat?

As the lift ascended Bob realised he could hear music, increasing in volume and clarity until the title, band and year entered his consciousness just as the lift reached his office floor and the doors slid open. ‘You Can't Always Get What You Want,' The Rolling Stones, 1987.

It was being pumped through the ceiling PA system.

The main lights were off, leaving the office to be illuminated instead with desk lamps, candles and in one case a red bicycle light revolving on a record player.

There were sounds of laughter, joyful conversation, things breaking, and shouts of camaraderie.

Bob entered the office wide-eyed and amazed.

Bottles and cans of a variety of different alcohols lined the corridor floor in various degrees of emptiness. Also scattered here and there were plastic cutlery atop paper plates holding the remains of entrees, souflees, quiche, apple pie, fois gras, humus, cheese crackers and mini sausage rolls.

What on earth is going on here? thought Bob. I go to the beach for one day and they hold an office party?

As Mick sang about going down to the demonstration to get his fair share of abuse, Bob strode up to where couples were dancing in the centre of the office in a space made by tables and cubicles pushed against the walls.

“Hey!” he asked a gyrating colleague. “What's going on?”

“Haven't you heard?” the guy shouted in his ear. “It's official! The multiple universe theory is no longer just a theory – it's reality!”

“Yeah, I heard about that. I mean, what happened here?”

“Strychnine decided to splash out some company funds and have a party! If the other us's in a billion other worlds are working our butts off, we might as well kick back a little, right?”

Bob shrugged and nodded. “Sounds good to me!” Smiling, he picked up a bottle of beer from a table and opened it. “Listen, have you seen Mary?”

“Mary who?”

“Mary Green! Works in design!”

While the guy was thinking his dance partner said, “She went into the print room with Ted.” She winked. “But I don't think they want to be disturbed!”

Bob was suddenly fuming. Ted of all people! Ted from Accounts!

“Thanks!” he said, forcing a smile.

He drained the bottle and placed it down on the table before heading off in the direction of the print room.

The doors were closed and a faint light could be seen within. As quietly as he could, Bob eased open one of the doors and looked inside. He could make out some movement over near the fax-copiers, and a faint rhythmical bumping noise, accompanied with the odd gasp.

Bob slipped inside, letting the door swing closed behind him and muting the music in the office. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness he realised he could see a man making rather thrust-like motions towards a woman who was sitting on a fax-copier!

Silently seething, Bob crept up behind the man. Don't want to be disturbed, eh? Well that's too bad.

The woman was letting out the odd sigh, intermingled with the occasional whisper of “Ted! Oh Ted!” while the man had chosen the grunting route, his head down as if he was concentrating solely on the task at hand. A task which had nothing to do with photocopying.

Slowly, silently, Bob approached. Closer and closer until –

“Get away from her, you son of a –“ Bob shouted, leaping out of the darkness and slapping his right hand on the corner of the machine where the “Fax All Branches” button happened to be, his left hand pulling the man round by the shoulder.

The woman screamed, the man shouted, and in the glow of a green scanning light, Bob could make out the face of his opponent.

“Strychnine!” he shouted.

“Jones!” shouted Strychnine.

“Bob!” shrieked Mary, as her nether regions were being scanned.

“Mary!” shouted Bob. “But I thought-“ He looked from one face to the other. “Where's Ted?”

“You're looking at him,” Strychnine shouted into his face. “Theodore Strychnine is my name, and you sir, have a lousy sense of timing!”

The fax-copier bleeped as the screen lit up. “Progress – 49%”

Mary screamed again and jumped off the fax-copier, throwing herself in a fury at Bob, who was in the middle of shouting, “You dirty son of a –“ and about to take a swing at Strychnine, who was in the process of pulling up his trousers.

What with a wrathful woman all hair and nails, and an enraged drunken boss with his trousers around his sock-suspenders, the fight spilled out through the doors of the printing room with a flurry of A4 sheets into the main office, where drinks were knocked over, dancers were shoved, and more people were drawn into the melee. Chairs were thrown, cubicles crumpled, and bottles smashed. Quiches were stepped on, cheesecake was hurled, and fruit punch bowls were upturned on people's heads, in a glorious drunken office brawl the likes of which the seventeenth floor had never seen.



And the funny thing was, very similar situations were taking place in countless other universes, at almost exactly the same time ...