INCOGNOLIO Page 14

  “That’s how I came upon my method for universe-hopping. You could call it high-risk, I suppose. But unlike all the online courses, this technique actually works.

  “The idea is to find out everything you possibly can about your target universe until you can clearly visualize it. Then, while you are concentrating with all your might on your universe of choice, arrange to be violently killed.”

  Muttering and sighs of dismay arise from the students, who think Deedle’s gone bonkers. But she’s prepared for such a reaction.

  “I know I’m offering a radical technique, and I wouldn’t expect anyone to try it without concrete evidence that it works.” At this point, Deedle walks over to a door that leads to the next classroom, opens the door, and gestures to someone inside the adjoining room. It’s a tall, ruggedly handsome young man who enters the classroom and waves to everyone, smiling, and Deedle says, “I’d like to introduce you all to Dunkin.”

  Everyone gasps, and I am truly impressed.

  Following a hushed silence, Deedle explains that we’re all living in the alternate universe in which the cruise ship’s tennis pro cancelled Dunkin’s lesson and Dunkin wasn’t killed by a ball to the nuts. Deedle threw herself in front of an oncoming subway car while visualizing this universe, and successfully accomplished the hop.

  Now doubt creeps in, and I ask, “How do we know that you didn’t make up the whole story about Dunkin being killed?”

  Deedle is prepared for this objection as well.

  “On the day that I made the hop, I purposely brought along a memento of my home universe.”

  Deedle grins as she retrieves a folded page of newsprint from her pocket, unfolds it, and holds up for all to see the front page of The Informer from November 9th of the previous year, whose headline reveals that Rod Shaft—not Peter Pecker, as in my universe—won the presidential election. This is nothing less than remarkable, and everyone is on their feet giving Deedle a standing ovation.

  When the class breaks up, I’m walking down the hall thinking up ways to violently kill myself. As I arrive at the elevator, the bell rings and the doors slide open to reveal Laszlo straddling Misha, holding a Schmenken’s plastic bag tightly over his head. “What the fuck?” I exclaim.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  FULL OF SHIT

  Having been unable to settle on an alternate universe into which I’d transport Misha and Laszlo, I left it up to my subconscious mind, which apparently landed them smack dab in my own universe, literally right under my nose.

  This development is bound to complicate matters—as if the manuscript weren’t already convoluted enough—but I can’t just stand there watching as my father is murdered by my uncle, so I set out to rescue Misha. I push the elevator’s emergency-stop button, throw Laszlo off of Misha, and—just in the nick of time—remove the Schmenken’s bag from my father’s head.

  Laszlo attacks, forcing me to deliver a swift, vicious kick to his groin so he’ll stay down. Misha responds to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and after a brief coughing fit, the first thing he does is comment excitedly that the carpeting in the hallway is green.

  “I’m free of that bastard!” he shouts, no doubt referring to Mazazel.

  “Relax, Misha,” I say. “No one will harm you now. Mazazel and Laszlo—as well as you yourself—are all characters in the novel I’m writing, titled Incognolio. And I don’t plan on extending your section of the story, seeing as it’s pretty much played out.”

  This little speech of mine elicits derisive laughter from both Misha, who maintains that he is writing Incognolio, and Laszlo, who insists that this is actually a scene from his novel, Mazazel.

  “I still fully intend to kill Misha,” Laszlo adds, gingerly adjusting his rod and tackle, “after which Mazazel will be free to torment him throughout the endless reaches of eternity.”

  This is all very confusing, and I propose that the three of us go out for a drink, to which they agree. We take the elevator down to the lobby and head across the street to my favorite watering hole, Hrabal’s Tavern.

  “Good to see you, Muldoon,” says Hrabal. He seats our small group at a table and serves each of us a Jack Daniels on the rocks.

  “Look, you guys,” I say. “You’re no longer in Misha’s home universe, where you are both authors and Laszlo is set on murdering his twin brother. So why not get with the program and accept that in this particular universe, you are merely characters in my novel.”

  “Screw you, buddy,” replies Laszlo. “I’m not merely anything anywhere, and I don’t give two shits about your bogus novel. I’m still composing Mazazel at this very moment. So, unless you’d like to be rubbed out as well, Muldoon, you can go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut.”

  “I’m afraid you’re both mistaken,” says Misha. “I’ve been writing Incognolio ever since I nearly drowned myself. I invented Laszlo, my homicidal twin brother, in order to introduce an element of danger to the story. And you—Muldoon—are my original protagonist, an extrapolation of how my real son might have turned out had he lived.”

  This discussion is not going as well as I’d hoped, and just as I set out to prove that I am indeed the legitimate author of the story, my chair collapses under me and I crash to the floor.

  “Ha!” shouts Laszlo. “And I suppose you pulled this stunt for comic relief?”

  This sounds plausible and I’m about to confirm his hunch when a pigeon flies into the tavern, circles the room, and proceeds to take an enormous dump directly on my head, the white gunk soiling my hair and drizzling down my face.

  Everyone in the bar is having a good laugh at my expense, as Laszlo stands and then bows repeatedly, taking full credit for my plight.

  But Misha is not so easily convinced. When Laszlo sits back down, Misha turns to him and says, “If you were truly writing this story, Laszlo, then you would have strangled me to death on the elevator. But the fact is that I’m in control of the narrative and therefore I had Muldoon rescue me.”

  To prove his point, Misha claps his hands and his brother’s chair collapses. There’s another round of laughter as Laszlo crashes to the floor. Then a labradoodle wanders into the bar, makes a beeline for Laszlo, lifts his leg, and soaks him with urine from head to toe.

  Sputtering with anger and humiliation, Laszlo claps his hands, and Misha plummets to the ground, his chair having gone the way of the others. Before he knows what hit him, a rotund fellow sitting at the next table clutches his belly, turns, and pukes all over Misha, inundating him with a seemingly endless cascade of yellowish chunk-filled vomit.

  Now the three of us are sprawled out on the floor, each one drenched in repulsive excretions. The odor of poop, piss, and puke wafts through the tavern, while the other patrons point and convulse with laughter. I’m about to retreat to my study with my tail between my legs, maybe have a cup of joe and try to figure out how to redeem such a ludicrous scene, when who should appear but Pizza Guy. He pulls me to my feet, proffering a bar towel with which to wipe myself off, and leads me to a booth in the corner, where Hrabal brings a Jack Daniels for me and a White Russian for Pizza Guy.

  “The joke’s on you, Muldoon,” says Pizza Guy, my pal who claims to be completing a degree in philosophy from Imaginary University. “Did you get the message?”

  “Huh? What message?”

  “Each scene carries a message, like in a dream. This last one spoke loud and clear: You’re full of shit.”

  “No kidding,” I say, wiping the pigeon poop from my face and hair. “And why exactly is that?”

  “Because you persist in believing that you’re in control of the narrative.”

  “Let me assure you that I am writing the damn thing, despite what those two clowns say.” I gesture toward Misha and Laszlo, who continue to amuse the crowd with their antics.

  “What proof do we have of that, Muldoon? Because you periodically adjourn to your study, where you sit at your desk and purportedly type this manuscript? But how is that Muldoon any less fictiona
l than the one I’m currently addressing?”

  I’m silent, since this enigma has in fact been bothering me all along.

  “Let’s say Author Muldoon gets hungry, stops typing, and orders a pizza,” says Pizza Guy. “Is the pizza guy who shows up at his door more real than I am, sitting here talking to Protagonist Muldoon?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Then how is Author Muldoon any less fictional than Protagonist Muldoon?”

  “But someone must be doing the writing! It can’t write itself, for Christ’s sake.”

  “But it can!” exclaims Pizza Guy, his eyes ablaze. “Let’s suppose that both of us are characters in a story being written by a novelist whom we’ll call…say, Sussman.”

  “Why Sussman?”

  “First name that popped into my head. Now, the question arises: Is Sussman controlling the narrative?”

  “If he’s the author, then by definition he’s in control.”

  “Ah, but by whose definition?” asks Pizza Guy. “If you’re using the traditional definition—the Romantic notion of the author as solitary creator—then I agree with your conclusion. But what if authorship is a social construct that’s obsolete? What if the meaning of a text lies not in its rendition but in its interpretation by the reader? And what if the very self is a construct, with no inherent reality? Then this Sussman is as much of a phantasm as we are!”

  “Okaaay,” I say. “So you’re saying the narrative basically writes itself?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Pizza Guy replies. “Another is to say that it already resides in Incognolio.”

  “Incognolio?”

  “Yes, the Realm of Imagination. It’s the source of everything that exists, fictional or otherwise.”

  This comes as a revelation. Can it be that Pizza Guy has just bestowed upon me the answer to my quest?

  “You once said that you’re at one with Incognolio,” I remind him. “How exactly did you accomplish that?”

  “Come with me, Muldoon, and I’ll show you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  REALM OF IMAGINATION

  When I get up to leave, Pizza Guy shakes his head and has me sit back down.

  “You only need to close your eyes to cross the threshold,” he says. “Incognolio lies within.”

  Somehow this sounds scarier than traveling to an actual place. I ask him to tell me more about the Realm of Imagination.

  “Unlike the dimension we live in,” he explains, “it’s a timeless realm unbounded by rationality. It’s the creative source of ideas and inventions, as well as the dream world and the artistic imagination. Fairy tales and myths, psychedelic and mystical experiences all derive from this domain. It’s the realm of Psyche or Soul, and of the Archetypes, intersecting with human imagination and yet infinitely more vast, encompassing the Astral Plane, the Land of the Gods, and Cosmic Consciousness.”

  This description doesn’t put me at ease. In fact, it intensifies my anxiety. But when I express reservations about making the trip on my own, Pizza Guy says, “Relax, Muldoon, I’ll be at your side the whole time.”

  I experience yet again that now familiar blend of dread and curiosity. But there’s something so reassuring about the sound of Pizza Guy’s voice, something so heartening about his sweet, guileless disposition, that I feel confident in placing my trust in him.

  Before I can close my eyes, though, I must first ask a question that’s been hounding me.

  “How can I—Protagonist Muldoon—enter Incognolio if that means fully surrendering the notion that I’m in control of the narrative, when I know full well that as Author Muldoon, I’m still typing away at my computer keyboard?”

  “I thought we were past that,” says Pizza Guy. “I thought you agreed that Author Muldoon is no less fictional than Protagonist Muldoon. But I tell you what. If it’ll ease your mind and aid your entry into Incognolio, I suggest that we reunite in Author Muldoon’s world by having him take a break from writing and order a pizza, which I’ll promptly deliver.”

  I feel a little silly making such a request, especially this late in the game, but what the hell. So I stop typing, pick up the phone, and place an order for a large pizza. Since I happen to know that Pizza Guy is vegetarian, I ask for a cheese pizza with spinach on one half and Italian sausage on the other.

  Yiddle had been flying in and out of my study, and as I hang up the phone, she lands on my desk. Looking up at me intently, she squawks, Polly want a cracker! I know she’s being ironic, but I fetch her one anyway.

  After she’s eaten the cracker she asks, Who writes our dialogue when you’re not typing?

  “I suppose it’s this Sussman fellow,” I reply. “But I wouldn’t worry your feathered little head about it, Yiddle. According to Pizza Guy he’s nothing special, since the so-called real world is just as ephemeral as this fictional one. In fact, Pizza Guy—who’s only a couple of credits shy of a doctorate in philosophy, mind you—claims that the physical world appears to have been derived from mathematical equations. So it seems that everything originates from the Realm of Imagination, into which he shall usher me momentarily.”

  When the doorbell rings, Yiddle squawks, Danger! Danger! This takes me by surprise, since I trust Pizza Guy implicitly. I figure perhaps this is one of those rare occasions when Yiddle is actually mistaken. However, when I go downstairs and open the door, it isn’t Pizza Guy—it’s my villainous uncle, Laszlo Skuntch, with his fiendish eyes, pencil-thin mustache, and stupid black beret.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask the jerk, who still reeks of dog piss.

  “Hah!” he replies. “Thought you could get rid of me by leaving your little subplot unresolved?”

  “Where’s Pizza Guy?” I inquire, although I already know the answer.

  “Let’s just say that he’s delivered his last pie.” Laszlo beams triumphantly, and I want to punch him in his fucking face.

  To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this turn of events. On the one hand, I am going to miss Pizza Guy and I’m disappointed because now I’ll probably never figure out how to gain entry to the Realm of Imagination. On the other, it feels good to be relieved of the daunting task of rendering a description of that Realm.

  “I suppose you murdered Misha, too?” I ask.

  “Of course.” Laszlo laughs maniacally. “You see, I’ve decided that by the end of my novel I will have knocked off every damn character in the story.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can.”

  “Killing people gives you a sense of power?” I ask. “Perhaps you need to explore why you feel so impotent.”

  “What are you, my fucking therapist?”

  “For instance, maybe as a child you had an unempathic caretaker and internalized a sense of inadequacy.”

  “Nice try, Muldoon, but I’m afraid you’re attributing to me a depth of character that doesn’t exist. I’m the Evil Twin Brother, the Psychopathic Crime Novelist, case closed.”

  Laszlo’s right. Like so many of my characters, I never really took the time to give him a coherent backstory, so he remains two-dimensional, lacking the complexities associated with real psychological depth.

  Furthermore, although I’m capable of assigning flaws to my good characters, my bad ones—whether it’s Laszlo, ghostwriter Dick Fracken, Micaela’s husband Jack, or Mazazel—are purely evil, devoid of any redeeming characteristics.

  This observation supports what my therapist, Dr. Miranda, has been telling me all along, that I have difficulty integrating good and bad within myself, and tend to project evil onto others.

  Having gained this new insight, I’m determined to humanize Laszlo and demonstrate that he’s capable of compassion, so I invite him upstairs for pizza.

  But as soon as Laszlo enters the apartment, he runs after Yiddle, chasing her from room to room and heaping verbal abuse upon my sweet bird. I try to tackle Laszlo, but he eludes my grasp, and I end up lying on the floor of my study, watching helplessly as
my uncle lunges and captures my pet. Yiddle squawks pathetically as Laszlo grasps her by the neck, lifts her over his head, and swings the poor creature around in a circle until her neck snaps.

  “You fucking asshole!” I cry, getting up off the floor and pouncing on Laszlo. “I’ll kill you, you motherfucker!”

  Enraged by the loss of Pizza Guy, Misha, and now Yiddle, I drag Laszlo to the ground and sit on top of him, pounding away mercilessly at his face with my fists. Just when I think he’s done for, Laszlo lifts his legs, wraps his ankles around my neck, and jerks me backward. Before I know it, he’s sitting on top of me, grinning maliciously, his knees pinning my arms to the floor. With blood streaming down his face from multiple wounds, Laszlo reaches over to my desk and grabs my mouse, and then loops the cord around my neck.

  “Fancy yourself a writer, eh?” he says. “Well, let’s see how you do at describing your own death throes!”

  With my arms pinned, there’s nothing I can do to prevent him from tightening the cord. I try lifting my legs, but I’m not quite agile enough to replicate Laszlo’s move. As my heart pounds and I grow lightheaded, it occurs to me that this is precisely what I want—the opportunity to universe-hop via violent death—so I focus my consciousness on the alternate universe in which I live with Micaela.

  I picture her lovely face, our shared bedroom, Yiddle the German Shepherd, the sofa seemingly made of cheese, the luscious Vernulian food, the bookstore named Title Wave, my Pulitzer Prize-winning novel selling like chowcakes. And then, returning to the image of my beloved, smiling sister, I expire.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE OL’ SWITCHEROO

  The transition to my new universe is quick and painless, and when I open my eyes to the loving gaze of my twin sister, I feel immensely grateful to Deedle for having shared such an extraordinary discovery.

  “Muldoon?” says Micaela. “Are you all right? You fainted.”

  “I’m fine,” I reply, lifting myself up into a sitting position on the sofa that looks like cheese. “Better than fine. I’m elated!”