Doug Allyn - v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

“Like what?”

“Like... anything.” Case closed.

Anyway, that’s how the whole thing started. Every Sunday afternoon (excepting holidays, kids’ birthdays, and visits from in-laws) the four of us — therapist, actor, journalist, and lawyer — met in my game room to scarf down munchies, trade insults, and debate the issues of the day.

This particular afternoon, however, would take a decidedly different turn, one that would change our lives, and the course of the Smart Guys, forever...

The conversation had somehow drifted away from the Middle East, health care reform, and other such rhetorical stalwarts to various tales of unexplained phenomena.

“But that’s just my point,” Fred was saying, pretty exasperated by now. “We know from Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle that the observed is changed by the observer.”

“So—?” Bill said.

“So, that explains unexplained phenomena. We cocreate reality, see? Research indicates that the more you believe in ghosts, for example, the greater the likelihood that you’ll encounter one.”

“Geez, I don’t know.” Mark shrugged. “I believe in intelligent debate, and in all the years I’ve come here I haven’t encountered it yet.”

Fred gave him a look. “The salient factor is that reality, or what we call reality, is codetermined by both observer and observed. Subject and object, if you prefer.”

“Reality is reality, dammit.” Mark folded his arms.

Bill gnawed a fingernail reflectively. “Does this have anything to do with Jung?”

I perked up. “That depends. Why?”

“I have this friend. An actor. I directed him last year at the Taper. George is a real fitness buff, hits the gym every day. And he’s noticed a strange phenomenon, and is making a hobby of compiling other people’s experiences, to see if there’s a pattern at work.”

“Since when do actors care about other people?” Mark said, opening another beer.

“Ignore him,” I said. “What phenomenon?”

Bill went on: “George said he notices that when he goes to his locker in the gym’s locker room, even if it appears totally deserted, the moment another guy shows up, it turns out this other guy’s locker is right next to his.”

“Coincidence,” Mark said.

Bill shook his head. “George has made a study of this. No matter what part of the locker room — I mean, he’ll just pick a locker at random — and four times out of five somebody’s stuff is in the next one. With all these other lockers around.”

“That is strange,” I admitted.

“He’s asked lots of other people, and they’ve had the same experience. It’s like there’s some kind of primal, unconscious need to bond or something.”

I nodded. “That’s why you mentioned Jung... Maybe you’re referring to his concept of synchronicity.”

“Oh, yeah... like when you’re thinking of someone, and the phone rings and it’s that person on the line.”

“Or,” I said, “perhaps the locker-room phenomenon is caused by some mechanism in the collective unconscious toward merging, or community...”

Fred stared at a corn chip as though it held the secrets of the universe. “I’m thinking now in terms of quantum physics. The tendency of subatomic particles, even at vast distances, to resonate at similar vibratory frequencies.” He popped the corn chip into his mouth. “I mean, at that level, everything — you, me, this table — is just a collection of vibratory frequencies, out of which comes form.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That place where Buddhism and physics meet. Emptiness rising into form, manifesting reality.”

Bill’s eyes were glazing over. “I’m sorry I brought it up.” He rose, stretched. “We gettin’ low on onion dip?”

“In the fridge,” I said.

Before Bill could take another step, however, a tub of onion dip came sailing out of the kitchen. He caught it reflexively.

We all whirled, stunned.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” the newcomer said brightly. “Thought I’d save you a trip.”

It was my wife’s Uncle Isaac, his bearlike figure filling out his workman’s overalls. A retired contractor (a jack-of-all-trades, he’d called himself), he was staying with us for a few weeks. I’d almost forgotten about him.

“Uncle Isaac,” I said, “let me introduce you around.” He shook hands vigorously with each of the guys, his pale eyes gleaming. Then he stood back a bit, stroking his thick muttonchop sideburns with a crooked finger.

My wife explained to me once that calling him “Uncle” was a courtesy; there was such a convoluted tangle of branches on her family tree that nobody was really sure how (or even if) Isaac was actually related. It seemed as though he’d just always been... family.

“How long have you been in the kitchen?” I asked. “You shoulda come on in.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt. Pretty deep-dish stuff you boys talk. Like college professors.”

Fred shrugged. “You should’ve been here last week. We mostly sat around debating which Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue had the best cover.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Bill offered, then glanced ruefully at the coffee table. “I think there’s half a sandwich left, and some Cheez Whiz.”

“A tempting offer, but I had a big lunch. I just came back from a constitutional around the neighborhood.” Isaac settled into the corner armchair. A lamp table beside it was stacked with books he’d brought along. Mostly sci-fi paperbacks. Asimov. Heinlein. Silverberg. The classics. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just listen in. Please don’t take offense if I doze off.”

“No problem. Kind of a weekly occurrence around here.” Bill carved a groove in the onion dip with a potato chip. “Now, where were we?”

“We were talking about reality,” Fred said. “Or Jung. Or locker rooms.”

It was then that I first noticed that Mark was sitting somewhat pensively. He hadn’t said a word in some time.

“Hey, you okay?” I asked.

“I was just thinking about something,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “All this stuff about unexplained phenomena... It reminds me of something that happened earlier this week. It’s kind of... strange, that’s all.”

Fred looked up. “C’mon, tell us. Something at the paper?”

“Well, I’ve been doing a series for the Times about street cops, the nightly grind, you know? I’ve been riding the graveyard shift with these cop buddies, Vince and Harry, and a real mess came down a couple nights back, down on Walnut Street.”

“I think I saw that on the news last night,” Bill said. “Some drug dealer got killed — knifed — by a cop.”

Mark nodded. “The cop’s name is Sergeant D’Amato. Your basic Neanderthal. Couple of reprimands for excessive force. Always carries a pearl-handled folding knife in his belt — strictly against department policy — but everybody knows...

“Well, I’ve been riding with Vince and Harry’s unit out of D’Amato’s precinct, and all I hear the past two weeks is about D’Amato’s obsession with Tommy Slick.”

“Who?” Fred asked.

“The victim,” Bill said helpfully. “Street dude right out of NYPD Blue. Your stereotypical snarling, murderous, gang-connected drug dealer. Pacino in Scarface, without the speeches.”

Mark ignored him. “As I was saying, D’Amato’s been trying to bust Tommy for years on a major rap, but Tommy’s been too...” He smiled. “Well, let’s say Tommy’s been too slick for him.”

“Tommy Slick,” Fred muttered. “His real name’s probably Kablonski or something.”

Mark sighed heavily. “Look, guys, if I want sidebars on this story, I’ll write ’em myself. Anyway, D’Amato’s sure got his reasons for hating Tommy. Couple years back, Tommy killed D’Amato’s partner during a police raid—”