Barkley Bohner, Celebrity Philosopher

Chapter Eleven

So I hadn't been seeing things. Toast falling up was real. We had a new anomaly in the reality field, a new class of anomaly, a reverse Zen anomaly, where everyone sees the falling tree but no one can believe what they're seeing is real.

But I didn't want to set off a panic. "It may be only a minor fluctuation," I said.

"Minor?" said Moosh. "A floating mooncake – minor?"

Okay, so this was major. On the same order of magnitude as our sun about to go up in a supernova.

Let's see if I could put a more positive spin on it. Maybe the supernova wouldn't happen, not for a few more billion years. Maybe reality would reset to normal. With us still in it.

I took an experimental breath, and scanned the room. Everything looked normal. Then again, how would I know?  "I'm on the case," I let Moosh know, pointing to the carton of books and software he had brought around two days before.

Moosh got out of his chair and made an inspection. The contents were stacked differently than when he last saw them. One volume sat on top at a crazy angle, a software box propped inside, acting as a bookmark.

Moosh picked up the volume and opened it to the bookmarked page. "Exogenous nanoquirk," he said, testing me.

"Something we need to be worried about," I said.

"Like toast falling up."

"That would be an endogenous nanoquirk," I replied. He caught the hesitation in my voice. "But it could also be an exogenous nanoquirk," I acknowledged.

Moosh made a face. "And I suppose you're about to tell me it doesn't make any difference, anyway."

"Not without a map of reality," I acknowledged. "We don't have our bearings. It's like being surrounded by dots, an infinity of dots, only we can't get even two dots to connect."

"And the harder you think about it, I suppose, the less likely you're going to come up with a connection."

"That's the way these things work."

Moosh went back to his chair. "Right, right," he said.

"Right, right," I said.

Moosh popped some gum into his mouth. "The Yankees," he said. "Stupid New York Yankees. Can you believe it?"

I gave Moosh a blank look. Moosh gave me a blank look. "World Cup soccer, then. The Brazilians."

Another blank look.

"I thought intellectuals were supposed to like soccer," Moosh said.

"Only when we listen to it on the radio," I replied.

"Oh," he said.

 "Maybe," I said, "we can talk about the Secret Betsy's."

Moosh worked his jaw. His scar crinkled. "What about women's basketball?" he suggested. "That's a good compromise."

"So you follow women's basketball?"

"No," Moosh acknowledged. "And I take it you don't, either. That's why it's such a good compromise."

"Like watching a movie neither party wants to see."

"Exactly." His gum went off with a loud pop. "Okay," he said. "Tell you what. I'm going to indulge you. Talk about your Secret Betsy's. Anything to get your mind off toast falling up."

"Don't mention toast falling up."

Keeping the conversation focused on the Secret Betsy's was a bit problematic. I'd no sooner get started when Moosh would look back at his mooncake and I would have to start over. Anyway …

It is the year 1120, twenty years into the reign of Henry I, Lion of Justice, legal heir to the throne by right of assassination. Betsy of Miraculous Birth, all of fourteen, is about to embark on a journey to the Holy Land, in the company of her older half-brother, Bark'lly of Questionable Temperament.

Betsy of Miraculous Birth was the daughter of Betsy Virgin Prefect of Bohner and God. None other than Roger the Insufferable, Bishop of Nossex, who personally attended to Betsy's pious devotions, with great humility, declared himself witness to the divine event.

Moosh looked up from his mooncake. "And people just fell for this?" he asked.

"Well, a certain Ceoff the Studious questioned it," I replied, "but in the dead of night a falling rock from the sky smashed his head open. Roger declared the death the work of a righteous and justifiably wrathful God."

"So he should," Moosh said, getting back to his mooncake.

Roger, now known as Roger the Supremely Satisfied, soon after celebrated outdoor mass, offering up thanks to Saint Credocian of Thessalonia.

Moosh looked up from his mooncake. "Sorry to interrupt," he said. "Who is this St Credocian of Thessalonia?"

"Totally irrelevant," I replied.

"Humor me," said Moosh.

"No such person, no such saint."

"Yet you have a Bishop praying to him."

"If you insist," I said. "Patron Saint of Male Structural Readiness."

Moosh swiveled about, mooncake completely forgotten. "Male structural … did I just hear you right?"

"Patron saint of Male Structural Readiness," I confirmed. "The Cathedral to St Credocian of Thessalonia would become the most visited pilgrimage site in all of Christendom."

Moosh was now on his feet, circling the table, as if stalking his mooncake. Where was I?

Right, fourteen years later. Betsy of Miraculous Birth is about to embark upon her journey to the Holy Land, in the company of her older half-brother, Bark'lly of Questionable Temperament. 

On the steps to a modest stone chapel in a clearing, standing beside a potted plant, Roger the Supremely Satisfied offers up prayers for the safe journey of Betsy and Bark'lly. He is struck dead by an actual falling rock from the sky.

In my family, you really have to watch out for meteors and comets.

Betsy Virgin Prefect of Bonheur isn't about to let a mere falling rock from the sky ruin everyone's day. She calmly steps over Roger's corpse and informs the gathering that dropping a heavenly body on the local Bishop is actually a favorable sign from God.

"Wait," said Moosh, not breaking stride. "And people actually believed this?"

"If you say it with authority, no one will question your authority."

True enough, Moosh acknowledged.

Where was I?

Right, Virgin Betsy. She picks up where Roger left off, and starts offering up prayers for the safe journey of Betsy and Bark'lly.

Then Miraculous Betsy notices that her mother isn't holding Roger's prayer book. So she simply rolls the dead Roger to one side, prizes loose the prayer book, and hands it to her mother.

The service continues, but by now everyone is far too preoccupied looking up at the sky.

Moosh stuck his gum on my tablecloth and swooped down on his mooncake and swallowed it in one gulp. "If I were to tell you," he said, "how wildly improbable this all sounds …"

"Then I would tell you how it has to be true."

"That's what I thought you would say."