he didnât show up for work one day. I had to cover his classes for a couple of weeks until they found a new physics teacher. A jerk. Didnât want to work on alsoverse theory with me. So I moved onto other things. But Iâd learned enough from Jack to know where the lost things go. They drop into the alsoverse.â
âSo itâs not my fault when I canât find stuff,â I said. âI like that.â
âMe too.â Jack rolled another cigarette. It was a beautiful evening, the old highway like a river of stars. âAlthough it is a problem to be losing my bluegene pill every night. Itâs not like losing a contact lens or a wedding ring, something unessential.â
âScents?â said a familiar voice behind us. âSensual essences? Karing Kate carries them all.â
It was Darly, tapping her sample case. Amara was with her. They were sharing a popsicle. You got a pint of bourbon and seven popsicles in your weekly food pack. Jack and I had eaten our popsicles some days ago, or lost them, or let them melt. But Amara knew how to ration stuff.
Kentucky gentlemen that we were, Jack and I offered up our rockers and flopped into a pair of metal lawn chairs that Iâd bagged from one of the burnt-out condos that pocked the London Earl estates.
âJack dropped his bluegene pill on the floor and now itâs gone,â I told Darly. âThat makes two nights in a row. Or four.â
âGone, gone, gone,â she said sympathetically. âNo point in looking.â
âStuff just disappears,â agreed Amara. Hard to believe sheâd been a singer. By now she had a thin, papery voice. âI know about that from when I toured with Waddy Peytona. Did you ever wonder why he talked so much between songs?â
âTell us, honey,â said Jack, rolling a pair of cigarettes for the women. It was like we were high-schoolers again. Being bad in the dark.
âWaddy talked so much because he kept dropping his guitar picks,â said Amara. âHe would have me on hands and knees looking for them while he ran his mouth. Never ever found one of course. I always had extras in my pocket so I could slip him one. But I took my time. I liked hearing his riffs. He was at his best when he had no idea what he was talking about.â
âShould have been a professor,â I said.
Jack pretended not to hear. His voice took on a Socratic tone. âDid you ever wonder where lost things go?â
âWhen my grandmother lost something, sheâd say that it flew up to the Moon,â Darly said. âI never believed that, though.â
âThings have to go somewhere,â said Amara thoughtfully.
âExactly,â said Jack. He held up his finger, in full philosopher mode. âI was just explaining it to Bart here. Lost items pass through to an alsoverse, a parallel world thatâs next to our own.â
âWow,â said Amara, polishing off her popsicle. âDonât you love listening to Jack?â
âNot particularly,â said Darly. âHeâs a scientist. Wonder bunnies, I call them.â
âIâll take that as a compliment,â said Jack, expertly licking and sealing another tiny cigarette.
âIf you know where all this stuff is, letâs go get us some,â said Amara. âIâll bet that old alsoworld is full of fucking flatpicks. Plus, I could use an adventure. This London Earl life is dragging my ass.â
âYou could afford to fill out a bit,â said Darly. âKaring Kate has a product thatâ¦â Amara glared at her. Darly changed her tack. âIâm tired of being cooped up, too. Plus, Iâm missing an earring. A nice dangly one with little sticks of gold.â
âIâm missing my new hearing aid,â I said. âHad the little bastard for about ten minutes, and then it snuck off. And I donât qualify for a replacement for another
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