Энди Вейр: Short Story Collection

“In time, I earned a name for myself. I became a commodity. People would call me and offer me jobs, instead of me asking them. I started charging more and more, and people were willing to pay. I would do private parties, large groups, even invite premiere clients and their friends over for a custom meal in my own home. After all, the business they got for me was well worth giving up an evening for.”

“And during this time,” the doctor said, “you never visited your father?”

“No,” Doris said. “I guess I still resented him,” she said. “Irrational, I know. But there you have it. Emotions aren’t always rational.”

“So how did you end up at your father’s house the day of the explosion?”

“Well, I decided it was time to drop by,” Doris explained. “I figured I couldn’t hold a grudge forever. It had been 20 years. Maybe things didn’t go well for us back in the old days, but I was an adult now. And I figured I at least owed him a visit or two. He did raise me, after all.”

“And how’d that go?”

“Well, like I said, the first thing he wanted was for me to cook him a meal. I’ll be honest, it kind of made me angry. After 20 years, he hadn’t changed. Not at all. Not one little bit. I was pretty disappointed.”

“So what did you do?”

“I went to the kitchen,” Doris said. “What else could I do? He followed me in there. We chatted for a bit while I got ready to cook him something. It was a gas stove, and I must have inadvertently turned on the gas while talking to my father, then forgotten that I did so. Then I turned on another burner and tried to light it. That’s pretty much the last thing I remember.”

Doctor Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “Doris, can I ask you a question that may seem completely out of the blue?”

Doris shrugged, “Whatever you like, doctor.”

He took a deep breath, then let it out uneasily. Looking her in the eyes, he asked “What’s the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon?”

“What?” Doris said, taken by surprise.

“A teaspoon and a tablespoon? What’s the difference?”

“A teaspoon is a spoon used to stir tea,” Doris explained, “while a tablespoon is used for other eating uses, such as soups, custards, and desserts.”

Doctor Mitchell rubbed his brow. “No, Doris. Teaspoon and tablespoon are both units of measurement used by chefs all over the world. Any professional chef would know that. Even ordinary people who cook at home know that. You’re not a chef, Doris. You never have been.”

Doris snorted. “Well that’s just ridiculous. Of course I am. I’ve been doing it my whole life!”

“No you haven’t,” Doctor Mitchell said. “I have your criminal record. You’ve been arrested for prostitution seven times over the last 20 years.”

“ Prosti—?” Doris stammered, incredulous. “That’s utterly absurd! You’ve obviously mixed up my file with someone else’s. What kind of hospital is this!?”

“It’s a mental hospital, Doris. You killed your father in that explosion, and you were trying to kill yourself, too.”

“No!” Doris yelled, struggling at her restraints. “That’s not true! I’m a chef!”

“You transposed sex with cooking. Ever since you were eleven. It was a defensive mechanism. It was the only way you were able to survive.”

“NO!” Doris screamed.

“But you were strong,” Doctor Mitchell said. “Stronger than he thought. Strong enough to run away, strong enough to survive by selling yourself, and strong enough to come back and get revenge for what he’d done to you.”

“NNNG!” Doris groaned.

“He’s dead,” Doctor Mitchell said, “He can’t ever hurt you again. He’s dead and you killed him. You got revenge. You won.”

Doris howled a primal scream so loud Doctor Mitchell worried she would permanently damage her vocal chords. He quickly pulled out a needle and injected her.

As she slipped in to unconsciousness, he made a note in his case log.

“We’ll get you through this,” Doctor Mitchell said to her unconscious form. “You survived things that would break normal people, and I’ll get you through the rest of the way. I promise.”

He checked his notes. Two days ago, she didn’t remember the explosion at all. Yesterday, she remembered the explosion, but not that it was at her father’s house. Tomorrow, she’d remember more. He was sure of it.

“I promise,” he said again as he left her room and locked the door.

Author’s Note: Now read it again.

Daniel Stoltz sat comfortably in the back of his Limousine as it conveyed him through town. He held a phone to his ear, its spiral cord leading to the center console next to him. It was the pinnacle of modern fast-track life: a phone in the car. Enviable technology, and Daniel had taken to it instantly despite the exorbitant costs.

“Hello? Daniel Stoltz here.”

“Mr. Stoltz,” came the voice from the other end. “This is Maria Towne of the San Francisco Chronicle. Do you have a moment to chat?”

“Sure, why not? I’m out on an errand right now but we can talk for a minute if you like.”

“Thank you for taking the time,” said Maria. “First question: What is the secret to your success? You have a large personal stake in companies such as Microsoft and Macintosh.”

“Actually, Macintosh is the name of a product,” he said. “The manufacturer’s name is ‘Apple’.”

“All right, I’ll note that down. Anyway, your investments have proven to be perfect. Everything you fund turns a huge profit. Some say you have the Midas touch. What do you say to that?”

“I don’t see how I could,” he said. “I don’t do anything. I just let them get on with their business and don’t interfere.”

“How do you choose what companies to invest in?”

He switched the phone to his other ear. “Oh I’m just like any other investor. I look at business plans and come to an informed decision.”

“Let’s turn the clock back a bit,” she said. “In college, you were a theoretical physics major working on your Ph.D. But you quit grad school and invested your then-modest savings into various high-risk ventures. Why the sudden change of lifestyle?”

“Oh you know how it is. I was twenty-four years old and I decided to change my life. Happens all the time.”

“Several experts in the field say you had innovative ideas. Ideas that could have revealed genuine understanding about the nature of time itself. They even talk about time manipulation.”

Daniel sighed. “I did one equation about the curvature of space and people got all worked up about time travel. I guess it makes for good press, but it’s just theoretical masturbation.”

“But you wrote some detailed papers on it,” she pressed. “In one paper you state it could be possible to ‘rewind’ time, sending your current consciousness back to a younger version of yourself.”

“I was smoking a lot of marijuana back then,” he said. “I never understood why people take that paper seriously.”

“You patented your experimental equipment, then never allowed anyone to reproduce it under threat of lawsuit. It completely stymied any further research on that line. Why did you do that?”

“I’m a businessman,” he said. “The lensing apparatus I invented could have real value in the marketplace. It was a step on the road to extremely accurate timekeeping. Of course I patented it; it might be worth millions someday.”

She shuffled some papers on her end, then continued. “On a lighter note, let me ask this: If you could rewind time like that, would you?”

“Well,” he said. “There would be some serious downsides.”