an excerpt from

Probability Angels

by Joseph Devon

The patterned wallpaper, the waist high molding, the chandeliers every ten feet, the glass covered wooden tables with overly ornate vases stuffed with flowers, everything in sight screamed out that this was a place designed to look nice with no thought given to whether or not someone would want to live there. Matthew walked along as quickly as he could in his tuxedo, wondering why hotels always had to look like this.

Matthew was a short man but not so short that people noticed that about him, his thinning hair made him look in his thirties while the glint in his blue eyes put him closer to twenty. A pair of thin rimmed glasses sat on his face like a statement of health. His tuxedo was well cut and lacked the rumpled shininess of a rental.

He passed an intersection of hallways, glancing to his right and seeing the elevator bank he continued on. Then he passed the vending machines. Then he made it to the bathroom.

Entering the bathroom he slowed down, the door eased shut on its spring behind him and Matthew stood there listening. He could hear him, softly, somewhere past the row of sinks. As Matthew trod through the bathroom, which itself was an orgy of overly ornate decorating, he glanced in the corner at the gold mesh wastebasket. There was something there that shouldn’t be, or at least he saw something there that shouldn’t be, and for the first time since he had walked out of the grand ballroom Matthew broke stride, his casual cool bounce faltering as he closed his eyes hard and shook his head. When he opened them again the wastebasket was empty.

He turned to face forward and picked up his stride again, turning the corner to where there was a row of stalls with beautifully stained wooden doors. Matthew walked down the row, glaring at the doors one after another. He finally crept around one and looked in to see a man sitting on the toilet with the lid down, the door open, his face in his hands as he sobbed.

“Excuse me?” Matthew said gingerly. The man looked up. “I was just looking for the cigar bar when I got lost and wandered in here and then I heard you from over by the sinks and I…well…I mean what’s wrong, pal?”

The man looked up, all elbows and knees from how he was folded onto the toilet seat. Matthew caught his eyes and smiled. “Come on,” Matthew said, “let’s go over by the sink, you can splash a little water on your face, talk it out, maybe I can help. At the very least,” Matthew looked around and smiled a good-natured smile that oh so delicately pointed out the absurdity of a grown man sitting alone in a toilet stall crying by himself, “I can definitely listen.”

Matthew coaxed the man out, led him to one of the sinks, turned on the tap for him, patiently listened as the man told his story, which Matthew already knew. Matthew nodded, one ear open in case there was anything new he should know, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a cigar, spent time enjoying its aroma while he waited for the man to finish his tale of heartbreak and fear and unrequited love.

Matthew hopped up onto the counter, using only his legs, his hands never getting involved. He landed between sinks in what he somehow made look like a comfortable position. Through the whole leap the only thing he seemed intent on protecting was his cigar, which he held between thumb and forefinger of one hand. As he sat listening to the man’s speech wind down he rolled the freshly cut cigar gently, feeling the moist tobacco leaves giving slightly under the pressure of his fingers.

Matthew glanced over and saw that the man had finished and was looking at him with a face that was still damp from a few splashes of cold water. Matthew knew he was ready.

“Look,” Matthew started, leaning back into a position that should have been ten times more awkward but that he managed to make look ten times more comfortable. “I’m no expert on these things. I’m just here for this wedding as a distant uncle. Just wanted to find the cigar bar is all. But I see a fellow man sobbing himself to pieces in a toilet stall over a girl, and there isn’t any question in my mind as to what I should think. You, my friend,” and Matthew stared hard at the man, “need to go after this girl.”

“But she’s married,” the man said.

Matthew continued to stare, the man’s eyes drawn to his like something deeper was passing between them. “Doesn’t matter,” Matthew said. “A love that can make a man sob in a toilet…that’s a love that you’ve got to at least give a chance to, isn’t it? You said yourself; you knew she was having doubts about her marriage.” Matthew stared.

Finally the man broke eye contact and turned to face himself in the mirror. “Yeah,” he said, “she has doubts.”

“Okay then,” Matthew said, smiling like a high-school football coach after a particularly good pep talk. “Then go get her.”

The man looked at himself in the mirror for a few more seconds; doing something to his face that Matthew could only assume was some form of courage gathering. Then he said, “Thanks,” and turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Matthew continued sitting on the counter, his legs dangling like a little child’s, kicking happily back and forth. There was a beep and he reached into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone. Flipping it open he glanced over a text message, surprise registering on his face. All thoughts of the man and the conversation were gone as he pondered the text message, gone until he looked down at the counter and saw a neat stack of twenty dollar bills sitting there. “Hm,” he said, “quick work.”

Hopping off the counter he grabbed the bills and placed them in his pocket then popped the cigar into his mouth. He looked at himself in the mirror, hands in his pockets, the cigar clenched between his teeth off to the side of his mouth, and took a pull, only sucking air through the unlit end. He looked disappointed and concentrated harder. His cheeks formed small hollows in his face as he took a more determined draw, the unlit cigar bobbing between his teeth, once, twice, three times until, during the fourth pull, the end suddenly burst into bright red flames, catching the cigar alit before residing and leaving only a perfectly glowing red ember. Matthew smiled at himself, taking his hands out of his pocket he smoothed down his jacket as he took a few puffs, then he turned and walked out of the bathroom.

—–

Matthew walked down 72nd street underneath the modern-gothic windows of the looming apartment building on the corner. He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, taking a pull at his cigar, now mostly gone, enjoying the warm summer midnight. It had rained earlier and the streets were damp. He waited on the light, then crossed over Central Park West and followed the double-wide 72nd street into the park. He turned off the street about twenty yards in and followed a path up a gentle rise, a canopy of trees closing in around him.

Matthew walked further and further into the park, following path after path, cursing more than a few times as branches he hadn’t noticed swatted at his face. Then, through the darkness, he saw a thin band of yellow hovering in the air. As he drew closer his eyes recognized it as a strip of tape, like the kind used to mark off crime scenes, only different, strung across the path. Matthew paused and looked around, looked at the darkness that was behind him, then looked at how the light on the other side of the tape was different somehow. He smiled, a little laugh coming out of his mouth, then with a touch of nervousness he ducked his torso and stepped onto the other side of the tape.

The first difference was as immediate as it was obvious. All noise ceased. As Matthew straightened himself up there was no more wind in the trees, no more muffled sounds of traffic from Central Park West, there was only silence. He continued walking down the path, the second change slowly sinking in as he realized he was no longer walking through a post-midnight darkness. The air was now mellower, lighter, like it was only a little past dusk. Then he stopped short and walked a slow circle around a single point of light, smiling as he recognized a firefly, its bottom flashing electric green, frozen in time, hovering in the air. He reached a finger up and slowly pointed it towards the glowing beetle, was about to tap it to see what would happen when a voice spoke up behind him.

“Please don’t.”

Matthew jumped and turned, then smiled and shook his head. “Jesus, Epp, you scared the hell out of me.”

Epp walked over, his face lit by the firefly’s light. His skin was sable black, the color of an exotic hardwood, and he was a good head taller than Matthew, although due to a complete lack of anything but muscle on his body, he probably weighed the same.

“What happens if I touch it?” Matthew asked, looking back to the firefly.

“Just more work for me,” Epp answered, the calm undertone of his voice making Matthew’s easy confidence seem like a bad case of nerves. Epp looked Matthew up and down. “Nice tuxedo,” he said.

There was honest appreciation for good tailoring in Epp’s voice, but Matthew found himself unable to accept it as a straight compliment considering that Epp was wearing a suit that seemed more like a symphony composed of charcoal threads than mere clothing.

“I was working some adultery at a wedding,” Matthew said to explain his clothes.

“Adultery?” Epp asked turning and walking away. Matthew started walking with him, the idea of not following never crossing his mind. “At a wedding? With your skill? Seems a little beneath you, Matthew. You might as well tailgate at the political conventions with the rest of the newbies.”

“Well,” Matthew said, not letting himself get rankled, “the woman in question was the bride.”

A slow exhalation of breath through Epp’s nose was all Matthew got, but he knew enough to know that this was as close to laughter as he was likely to get. “I suppose that does contain a certain amount of flair worthy of you, Matthew.”

“Yeah?” Matthew said, a touch of haughtiness in his voice. “The guy involved was the priest.”

A smile spread across Epp’s dark features and as his eyes softened Matthew knew that he had redeemed himself.

“You know, it’s been twenty-two years,” Matthew said, “you think it might be time for you to give me a little credit?”

The smile disappeared from Epp’s face. “Not a chance.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Matthew said, “so why’d you text me?”

“Come,” Epp said, and Matthew followed him off the path into a patch of lawn, more trees popping up between them and the views of the city. Not much farther in, at a secluded area, they came upon a frozen couple. The woman was in the process of saying something with strong emotion to the man. The man was stuck with a panicked look on his face, his body lurching forward as if he was trying to break into a run. There was a large knife in his hands. Matthew bent down and examined the knife, saw the red sheen covering it, the blood frozen in the air spraying off the blade, could imagine the man’s arm moving fast, the knife whipping around as he panicked. Matthew straightened up. The man was running…he turned…he saw a form lying on the grass not far away and gathered easily enough that this was the victim.

Matthew turned back to Epp. “I’m still not used to murders.”

“I don’t know that we ever get used to them.” Epp was looking down at a clipboard.

“Still though,” Matthew walked over to him, “I don’t get it.”

Epp looked up from his clipboard. “It’s an insurance thing.” He pointed to the couple, “These two need a body. Don’t worry about that, it gets complicated.”

“But,” Matthew was looking around at the coverage, more trees than you’d normally get in Manhattan, that was for certain, but it was still awfully thin, “I mean, it’s 2007, who the hell dies in Central Park anymore? And what time is it, actually?” He squinted, trying to read the frozen light level. “It barely looks like the sun has set.”

Epp flipped a page, studying something, flipped another page. “We are here to test their spirits, Matthew. Their intelligence is out of our hands. This isn’t even my work, to tell the truth. Someone else started it. It’s not bad. A little sloppy, definitely not great, but not bad. I just took it over recently.”

“Really? You can do that?”

“These are special circumstances.”

“Well whoever set this up must have been pretty angry when you took over. You’ve got a knife murder, by a couple, in Central Park? How much is this worth?”

“For me? Nothing,” Epp shook his head. “You don’t get to jump in this late and gain any currency. And as for the guy who started this in motion, he’ll be fine. He’ll wind up making double what this is worth. We’re sending him to Hollywood for a week.”

“Yeah,” Matthew said, his tone not fading, “but you’ve probably had a hand in a dozen of these types of headline cases. I’ve never wondered but how much are cases like this worth?”

Epp shrugged, cool eyes never leaving Matthew. “They keep me in Zegna.” Epp extended a hand with the clipboard in it.

Matthew took it and glanced down. “Plus you get to use all the neat toys.” He began flipping through the sheets. “These are probability photographs, aren’t they?”

Matthew turned page after page, each one showing a possible outcome, most of them involving the couple being herded into a jail cell, or a police car or a courtroom. Each photo had a graph in the lower right-hand corner containing simple probability waves of varying heights. Matthew stopped at a photo of the couple sitting happily at home; he glanced at the graph in the corner and saw that the curve was barely more than a straight line. Matthew chuckled. Then he handed the clipboard back.

“I still don’t get it. Why bother with the,” he circled his finger in the air, looking around, “you know, the time tape stuff?”

“Special circumstances,” Epp said, reaching a hand out to take the clipboard back.

“And what might these special circumstances be, Epp? And what am I doing here?”

Epp paused. Matthew was struck by the fact that Epp seemed unsure of how to continue. Epp took a deep breath, his lips pursing in thought. Then he pointed. Matthew turned and looked at the form on the ground. “She’s a jogger. She wound up being their choice for victim. Like I said, it’s complicated. It’s also just awful bad luck.”

“Why?” Matthew asked, taking tentative steps towards the form lying on the ground.

“Matthew,” Epp paused again, the rarity of Epp being unsure was making Matthew’s nerves start to sit on edge. “Matthew, she’s yours.”

“Yeah?” Matthew asked, curious. He was creeping around now, moving very low to the ground, the back of the woman’s head the only thing visible. “I don’t remember doing her,” he said puzzled, “but it’s been a long time. I guess she could be one of mine.”

“She wasn’t a case of yours, Matthew.” Epp looked around, as if hoping for some help in saying what he had to say. When no help came he continued speaking. “She was your choice.”

Matthew’s body reacted before he did, his legs giving out as he leaned over the body so that he fell kneeling into the grass. “No,” he said in a whisper. He looked up at Epp, eyes stunned, his face showing nothing but denial. “NO,” he said, his voice rising in a shout. Shaky hands reached out and rolled the body over with a thump, her hair falling off of her face. Matthew sucked in a stuttering breath and looked down at the blood covering her shirt. He ran hands over her body, smoothing out her shirt, trying to wipe away the blood; he looked up at Epp again. “Fix her.”

“Matthew, that’s not how this works. She—”

“Fix her!” Matthew yelled. He stumbled up and began walking towards Epp, who held up his hands, trying to calm Matthew down. “You fix her!” Matthew said, his finger jabbing out behind him at where she lay. “You fix her right now!” Epp lowered his hands as Matthew approached.

“She doesn’t die!” Matthew yelled in Epp’s face. One hand rose up and shoved Epp’s shoulder hard, “that was the deal,” he screamed, his eyes stinging now. “The bullet changed paths and went into me and she gets to live and I die. I die!” Matthew shouted, slapping his own chest. “Me! Not her!” And he pointed another finger back at the body.

“You chose life for her, and she’s had a decent one, as per the deal,” Epp said, calm enveloping him, “but immortality for her was never part of it. Her time has come.”

“Fix her,” Matthew said. Epp remained impassive. “Fuck you!” Matthew screamed, and he stormed off past Epp.

“You go blow off steam, Matthew,” Epp yelled out after him. “You walk this off and I’ll clean up here and I’ll meet you at the usual place.”

Before Matthew disappeared into the dark Epp saw him walk past the firefly and with one angry hand reach up and swat it out of the air.

—–

Matthew fumed down the street. His hands were in his pockets, his bowtie unstrung and dangling from his collar. He wasn’t sure where he was going; he barely recognized his surroundings. He was breathing heavily through his nose, the hot summer air pumping in and out of him like fuel. He spotted a couple walking towards him and he lowered his shoulder and walked into the girl, with a hush like a steam vent he wafted through her, eyebrows angry. “He’s cheating on you,” he thought, and then he was through her, past her, and two steps later he heard her turn and start cursing off the young man with her. A handful of coins appeared in his pocket and he ran his fingers through them.

Another pedestrian came into sight, a lone woman, and he never broke stride, just ducked his head and plowed through, baring his teeth as he went, and he heard the woman burst into sobs behind him and more change appeared in his pocket.

His cheeks were moist and with the flat of his hand he tried to wipe the tears away but they kept coming and he was walking through a group of street dwellers and drug dealers and behind him he heard a fist fight break out and the change in his pocket bulged then flattened into a couple of bills and he thumbed at the corners.

His eyes stung and his nose was running and now he tried the back of his hands but he couldn’t keep his cheeks dry and he heard someone calling his name. He spotted a group of tourists and thrust both hands into his pockets, angling his walk so he’d catch all of them square on. His lip curled up and his teeth were bared and he was only a few steps away from them when an arm caught him across his chest and he was being restrained.

“Matthew!” someone was shouting in his ear and he turned and saw Benjamin with his jowly face and rough beard. Benjamin’s clothes were burly, if not disheveled, and the belt of his trench coat never seemed to hang right. “Matthew, leave some for the rest of us, here,” Benjamin was laughing.

“What do you care about them for?” Matthew was staring at the family of tourists.

“I don’t care about them, I care about you.”

“Lemme do ‘em,” Matthew said, his body practically going limp under Benjamin’s restraining arm, as if he wasn’t even able to hold himself up anymore. “I got a good one for ‘em.”

“Okay, but then we go get a drink at the place, right? Maybe get your head back together?”

Matthew nodded and Benjamin let down his arm and gave him a shove. Matthew teetered on one foot, hopping along, passing through the family of tourists who began pointing at a map and arguing. Matthew looked at Benjamin from over the father’s shoulders. “Arguing over a map?” Benjamin said. “That was your big idea?”

“I don’t…” Matthew stopped talking, looked around confused. “This isn’t helping.”

“Come on,” Benjamin said, and they walked towards the street. “You have a fiver?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.”

Benjamin held up his hand with a five dollar bill in it and Matthew stood next to him doing the same. There was a whir and Matthew felt the wind in his hair as the five dollar bill vanished and then he was standing next to a statue of Ralph Kramden and looking up at steel girders painted aqua-green. Benjamin was over by a row of double glass doors holding one open. Matthew walked through into the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

They walked through the long hallway, mostly empty at this time of night, ugly brown brick walls rising up to the ceiling three stories above them, their feet stepping on tiling that looked like it had been decorated with a can of glue and the contents of a well used three-hole punch. They rode up an escalator and continued towards the back of the building until they reached another set of double glass doors. They walked through into the Port Authority bowling alley. On the right was the arcade, down the hall straight ahead were the lanes, Matthew and Benjamin turned left and walked into the bar.

“What do you think?” Benjamin asked, looking around at the bar half full of college students, bus drivers getting off their shift, bowlers, and anyone else sucked into drinking at the Port Authority. The bar was an island in the center of three walls of booths, most of which were full.

“I don’t know,” Matthew said, running the back of his hand over his forehead like he was testing to see if he had a fever. “You mind clearing a few seats? I think I’m through bumping skin tonight and I certainly don’t feel like going visible.”

“Sure thing, buddy,” Benjamin said and he walked to the farthest corner of the bar where a man was sitting between two empty stools. Benjamin leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear and the guy stood up and stormed out, a half drunk pint glass still sitting on the bar.

“Cheating wife?” Matthew asked, watching the guy leave.

“Thieving brother,” Benjamin said.

“Interesting,” Matthew said, sitting down.

Benjamin was fishing in his pocket as he pulled back the barstool next to Matthew. He put a stack of twenties on the bar as he sat down and with a wave of his hand a couple of cheap rocks glasses appeared filled with flat ice cubes and pale scotch. They sat in silence, sipping their drinks, listening to the bar around them. One drink finished, Matthew threw a twenty on the bar and another round appeared.

“It was 1985,” Matthew said, apropos of nothing. “We had married the year before when everyone said we weren’t ready. We knew we were ready. We thought we were ready, anyway. Who the hell is ever ready for marriage?” Benjamin nodded, sipping his drink, staring straight ahead, listening but not intruding. “Anyway,” Matthew went on, “we were living in Brooklyn in some god-awful apartment complex where the noise of the train was a welcome distraction from the mice in the walls. But, you know, we loved it. And we weren’t going to stay there forever of course. We had big plans.” He took a gulp of scotch, holding it on his tongue before clenching his teeth and swallowing it down.

“We went to a Mets game one night. Neither of us were fans or anything, that was the funny part. It was sort of a, ‘We’ve never done anything like this so why don’t we give it a try,’ kind of thing.” He shook his head. “I mean we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing and we left in the middle of the game and wandered down the wrong street and…well it was New York in the eighties.” His glass came up and a couple of ice cubes went into his mouth, he chewed them awhile.

“Anyway, there he was…I can’t even remember really what he looked like, but the gun I remember. And there were some words, it all gets a little jumbled and then the gun went off,” Matthew mimicked a gun with his thumb and forefinger, his thumb dropping, his mouth making a little “pow” sound. “And all I really remember is this rush of thought chased with pure adrenaline and all that was going through my head, over and over was, ‘Please be me not her, me not her, me not her, me not her…’” He sucked another ice cube into his mouth, got a good hold of it between his back teeth and crunched it down with a laugh.

“And then things get hazy,” Benjamin said, recognizing the laugh.

“And then things get hazy,” Matthew said with slightly drunken camaraderie and the two raised their glasses and clinked them together.

“Next thing I know,” Matthew went on, “I’m standing at my own funeral and this preposterously well dressed black man is talking to me about things I in no way understand. And he says his name is Epp. And he takes me under his wing.” Matthew breathed out a sad sigh and it came rushing back. He put his glass down on the bar with too much force and liquor splashed over his fingers. “And twenty-two years later she dies anyway.”

“It’s not Epp’s fault you know.”

“I know, I know,” Matthew held his alcohol soaked fingers up and looked around, then settled on wiping them off on his pants. “But you can’t really blame me for my reaction. I never gave this a whole lot of thought, I guess. It’s all sort of jumbled in my head.”

“Of course,” Benjamin said as if Matthew was blaming himself for things that he shouldn’t. “If you don’t think things through, things stay jumbled. That should be our motto.” Benjamin caught sight of a friend on the other side of the bar and he gave a smile and a nod of his head. “Anyway, the deal was never for our choice’s immortality, just that you’d go instead of them, and they’d have a shot at a decent life.”

“Is yours gone yet?”

“Mine? No, forty years later and she’s still puttering on, god bless her.”

“Yeah. Well I still feel like Epp could have filled me in a little better.”

“Ah. You can’t blame him. That’s just how he is, all impassive and what have you. You know why he’s like that don’t you?” Benjamin looked around like he was worried he was being watched. “It’s because he was a slave.”

“No shit? He’s been doing this for more than a hundred years?”

“That’s why he’s got the rank.”

“And we get cheap whisky.”

“Amen,” Benjamin raised his glass and held it towards Matthew who obligingly gave it another clink with his. “Anyway,” Benjamin placed his glass down and looked past Matthew, “oh shit.” There was a change in his demeanor, a straightening of his back and a quickening of his pulse. “He’s here.”

Matthew looked around and saw Epp coming through the bar towards them. “Yeah, he said he might drop by.” They watched Epp walk the bar, those who could see him giving curt nods like they were afraid to display any emotion around him. He was courteous in turn, waving and greeting those who he passed, but there was an aloofness about him that kept him detached.

“Hello, sir,” Benjamin said with a little nod of his large head as Epp came over to them.

“I don’t outrank you, Benjamin,” Epp said as he slid into the barstool on the other side of Matthew. “I keep telling you that.”

“Yes, sir,” Benjamin said. “Let me buy you a drink.” He threw another twenty on the bar and watched as it broke into a ten and some singles and another rocks glass appeared in front of Epp.

Epp picked up the glass slowly, turning it in the light, he swirled it gently under his nose and breathed in. Then he took a sip, letting it slide on his tongue, and then swallowed. He put the glass back down. “I don’t outrank you, Benjamin, but tonight I’m going to insist that you drink what I drink.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crisp stack of bills held together by a paper band. Two of these dropped on the bar and Benjamin stared at them from the corner of his eye, frozen in mid-drink. Matthew looked at Epp, then down at the two stacks of money.

The bands across the packets had “Five Thousand” written on them in orange letters and as Matthew watched they began to shake and shrink, depleting in size as three new crystal rocks glasses appeared on the bar in front of them. The glasses filled up with a new type of scotch. When Matthew looked back at the stacks of bills, there were only a few left.

“Sir, I can’t let you…” Benjamin started, but Epp waved him silent.

“Even for the immortal, Benjamin, life is too short to drink bad scotch.”

Matthew picked up his glass, amazed at how heavy it was and how cool the crystal felt. He smelled the liquor inside and just closed his eyes, enjoying it. Benjamin only stared down at the bar, afraid to go near it. Epp took a sip and smiled, then looked over and saw all of this. “Don’t worry. Next round’s on me as well.” He threw another two stacks of bills onto the bar.

Matthew dared a sip and Benjamin dared to pick his glass up. Much the same as before, the three sat drinking in silence, letting the whisky do the talking. More rounds came, and the conversation started up again, nothing important being said, just words being exchanged over a shared drink or two. After a few more Benjamin pushed his chair out and stood up a little wobbly. “I think I’m done for the night,” he said. “Want to come down to the East Village, Mattie? We’ll fuck with the hipsters and scrounge for change. It’ll be fun.”

Matthew laughed. “No, thanks, I think I’m just going to sit tight for awhile.”

“Suit yourself,” Benjamin said, easing his weight off his barstool. He caught Epp’s eye. “That’s some good scotch,” he said, stifling a burp, “I thank you for that, sir.”

He gave a couple of slaps on the shoulder as he walked past them, then exited out of the bar. Epp watched him go. “That guy will not listen to me when I tell him I don’t outrank him.”

“Don’t you?”

Epp turned to look at Matthew and Matthew instantly regretted what he had said Epp’s look was so disappointed. “Don’t tell me you think like him.”

“Well you do get to do a lot of pretty neat things that we don’t get to do.”

“It isn’t rank, Matthew. I can do those things because I have learned how to do them, not because some sanctioning body allows me to do them. I don’t get to use the tape because someone says I get to, I can use the tape because I’ve come to learn a few things about space-time. The elders meet together not to decide the rules for everyone else but because we like meeting together, we like exchanging ideas and lessons. But the pool of knowledge is open for anyone to drink from. We have no control over that. You should know that by now.”

“I feel like there’s a lot I should know by now.”

“It takes time,” Epp said, his voice soft and understanding after his small tirade. “You’ll get there. But the first thing you should do is stop listening to people like Benjamin. I know, he’s fun to share a drink with and I’ll stand him a round anytime, but he’s got a lot of things backwards. Like most newbies he seems to think that we’re in control here. They make their first choice and they get a taste of this new world and they think the meat bags are somehow below them.” Epp looked around at the regular people drinking in the bar all around.

“We do seem to hold a lot of the cards,” Matthew said, and to illustrate his point he waved a hand through the head of a guy walking past his stool. The guy decided then and there to cheat on his taxes.

“But it’s a lot more give and take than most newbies ever care to realize. They have their fun and then their choice straight-lines and then they’re gone. But we share this world, and we use what the mortals come up with. I mean, take the tape again. Do you realize that when I first learned that trick the tape didn’t even exist yet? I mean I had to pound wooden stakes into the ground, and then spool this spindly twine around them to mark off an area. But then tape comes along and I get to use tape. You know? Or take the money,” Epp dropped another two blocks of cash down on the table. “We use money because a symbol for our currency is damned handy but it’s only a symbol. Most newbies never bother to question that.”

Epp looked over at Matthew, who was watching the cash shaking on the table, slowly depleting itself as his glass filled again with scotch. “Look at you,” Epp said. “I forget sometimes how far along you aren’t. You’re picturing some lady at a desk somewhere tallying up what’s been spent and what’s been earned. You think the elders run the money, don’t you?”

“Well,” Matthew said, clearly thinking something along those lines but also not sure he was so crazy for thinking it.

“It’s just the easiest way for us to visualize what is happening, but there is no bank of accountants somewhere that cuts your paycheck when you do a meat bag, Matthew. It’s just how we come to express the notion of how much you’ve pushed and how much they’ve pushed back. I mean, do you think there’s an exchange rate?”

Matthew’s face was a wrinkle of puzzlement that was part him staring at the money and part scotch. “It doesn’t matter what it looks like, Matthew.” Epp reached a hand out, he flexed his fingers a few times, then made a fist and pounded down on the bar. At first Matthew didn’t notice what was happening, the sound that came out of the bar was so booming, so unnatural, that the sound was all he could focus on, but before Epp’s fist came down again he caught a glimpse of the pile of money and saw that it was now some form of large silver coin he had never seen before. Epp banged the bar again and the coins jumped and Matthew was pretty sure he was looking at Spanish Doubloons. Epp pounded, the coins jumped and Matthew caught sight of something that must have been Chinese, then a coin that looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place, then something he’d never seen before, then back to a stack of crisp $100 bills.

“Neat trick,” Matthew said.