Decisions, Decisions

Decisions, Decisions

  by

  Michael D. Britton

  * * * *

  Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton

  Vacancy.

  This place oughtta work.

  If I recall correctly, it’s only a short walk up the hill and then down some sand-dusted steps to the driftwood-cluttered beach. Perched on a rotting log near the tan sandstone cliffs etched with graffiti, I can release my beauties, let them do their work.

  If only this soaking rain lets up – they never do well in the rain. But it is best if nobody’s around.

  I’ve been here before – the Saltair Inn, Lincoln City, Oregon – some nine years ago I think it was. The place has changed a lot since then – more useless trinkets scattered around, a huge old boat’s been dragged up onto the lawn, looks kinda like it was picked up and dumped there like Dorothy’s house on the witch.

  Hated that little witch – Dorothy, that is. Spoiled, whiney brat.

  But the place is in many ways the same as ever – eponymous salty air, cool mist floating down through the fir trees, no unwanted questions from the proprietor, and enough space between the bungalow rooms that nobody will hear the squawking sounds that are bound to come from my room.

  Cabin number seven will do nicely – only has neighbors on one side. I can back my Econoline right up to the front door, unload the cages easily and set them up in the main room.

  Riker and Troi should be comfortable enough – we’ll only be here a couple days at most. The smell of the ocean through the open window is already making them antsy – I feed them a couple of handfuls of dried crab bits, stroke their feathers, then cover the cages for the night.

  In the morning, we will hunt.

  #

  It was the summer of ‘92 when they found me. I’d been out of the Navy brig over ten years by then – had plenty of time to think about choices and consequences – but knew I could never go back. Nobody wanted to hire a military criminal, and I didn’t care to work for anyone, so I made my living collecting shells along the coast – from as far south as Fort Bragg, California, up as far as Astoria, Oregon.

  Beautiful, whole shells, a thousand varieties – spiky conches in dozens of shades, spiraled mollusks, striped Nautilus, marbled pearly abalone. I’d clean and shine them all up and sell them out of the trunk of my rust-orange ’77 Corolla, until I could afford a van.

  It was a good deal – my overheads were low: free raw materials, free labor, free lodgings (I slept in the car), no storefront to maintain, no taxes to pay, and no family to support. Free as a bird.

  Life was simple, apart from the ever-present sand – in my shoes, in my clothes, in my hair, in the creases of my body, and in my car. I wore out three DustBusters in the first two years. I finally got sick of the sand in the hair and shaved my head, but I let my beard grow down to my chest – over the years it’s become white and scraggly like an old fisherman, though I’m only fifty.

  Everything was pretty copacetic – then those two seagulls came on the scene.

  I was combing the beach just north of the depressing lumber town of Eureka. It was a cloudy day, and my collection bag was still nearly empty after spending the whole morning tracking back and forth along the water’s edge as the tide receded.

  Along came Riker, majestic and bold, white underbelly and dark brown top feathers, and landed right in front of me with a soft flutter – not six feet ahead. He took a couple steps toward me, his webbed feet slapping the wet sand, stared me down for a few seconds, then coughed up the most beautiful, speckled Nautilus – about three inches across – and placed it at my feet like an offering.

  Before I could recover from my shock, I heard the loud complaining of Troi. She waddled over, beak wide open, yelling at Riker with a repeated awhk-awhk-awhk-awhk!

  They seemed to be having a complex conversation, like an old married couple disagreeing on a finer point of decorum.

  Then Troi flew off in a huff, but returned only a minute later. In the mean time, I’d bent to pick up the Nautilus Riker had given me, and was turning it over in my hands, glancing up now and again to see Riker staring at me with oddly intelligent eyes, as if to say, “Not bad, eh?”

  The sound of the waves crashing to my left seemed to fade as Troi returned, bearing a new gift – this one a remarkably bright pink hunk of hard coral.

  But instead of placing it at my feet, she dropped it on my head with a soft thunk that I could hear and feel at the same time. It bounced off my black flat cap, brushed my shoulder, and amazingly wound up in my left hand.

  She landed next to Riker and awaited my reaction.

  “Uh, thank you, thank you very much. This is very nice stuff. Do you know where there’s more?”

  I felt really dumb standing there talking to a pair of birds, but the beach was empty, I was a little high on Humboldt green, and I felt much less dumb when I heard an answer in my head: Sure. You just have to know where to look. Come back tomorrow at this time and we’ll show you what we can do.

  Uh, excuse me? Did I just converse with a seagull? What was in that weed?

  They flew off, I went back to my car, and took a much needed midday nap.

  Next day, they’d delivered me a pile of shells and sea treasures that made my usual take look like a little bundle of junk.

  I thanked them, and although I was completely sober, I heard Troi say: No problem. Would you like to go into business together?

  And thus, a wonderful arrangement was formed.

  #

  Riker never spoke.

  I mean, he could squawk like any other seagull, but he did not communicate with me the way Troi did. She pretty much spoke for the both of them, which was fine, since one freaky telepathic bird was enough for me.

  But Riker was definitely the better of the two when it came to creative finds, and volume of collectible deliveries. A real workhorse, he could pick up and bring me twice as much as Troi.

  And that’s just what he commenced doing the morning after we showed up in Lincoln City – just up the road from the Inn.

  It was a gray, cold day, not long after dawn, the wind blowing hard as it always does at the beach. I could smell the ocean’s fresh saltiness – even after all these years it struck me vividly and sometimes threw me back to my first days aboard the U.S.S. Iowa. The waves pounded against the wet sand, their force as impressive as ever.

  The tide was way out, and I released Riker and Troi from right near the bottom of the cliffs, where the biggest logs of driftwood made for a good seat on which to wait for them to do their work. I stomped down some of the reedy grass and took a seat with my back against a log that resembled a faded wooden whale. My bird friends took off in different directions, and I laid my head back with my eyes closed and my hoodie up to fend off the wind, trying to feel the sun’s weak rays on my face through the cloud cover.

  My job was a lot easier these days. All Riker and Troi required from our little deal was food, shelter, protection - and data. They demanded knowledge – they had a voracious appetite for learning – they had me teaching them lessons in any subject I could get information about, from geography to history to politics and even math. I avoided the subject of economics, just in case they got wise and realized this business deal was slanted in my favor.

  Their first round of collection at a new locale usually kept them out for at least twenty minutes while they soared on up-drafts and scoped out the area and did whatever it was they did to locate the most beautiful shells available.

  But this time, Troi was back within ten minutes, squawking her head off.

  “What, what is it? Speak English!”

  It took her a few seconds to settle down enough to communicate.


  It’s Riker – he’s missing. He found something he said you’d flip over. He wanted to go back to where he found it and search for more, so he passed it off to me. Here.

  She spat out a perfect sphere, about an inch and a half in diameter. It seemed to have a soft yellow glow, but only when my eyes were not looking directly at it. I picked it up, and it felt cold like metal, about the weight of glass, and seemed to bear a gentle electrical charge. The moment I touched it, I felt the hair on my arms lift.

  When I was flying back here, I heard Riker cry out. You know he never does that. I headed back toward him, and he was dropping toward the water. He disappeared behind a swell, and when I reached where he had been, he was gone.

  I was worried about Riker, but the power that emanated from the ball was distracting. I felt twenty years younger, stronger, and perfectly at ease with the situation.

  “Don’t worry – we’ll find him,” I said.

  How? What is your plan, exactly?

  “I’ll go up on the cliffs with my binoculars; you fly back out and keep scouring the area where you last saw him. Go!”

  Troi let out a distressed squawk and flapped her wings hard to take off, kicking a little sand toward me.

  Before turning to go up the steps to the top of the cliffs, I looked back down at the curious ball cupped in my hand.

  Why did it make me feel so light, so empowered? Just holding this ball and staring at it infused me with adrenaline.

  I placed it in my vest pocket - close to my heart – picked up my collection bag and trudged up the steps to the top of the cliffs.

  I was concerned about Riker - in all these years, he’d never just disappeared like this. I reached the top and leaned against the concrete wall at the top and scanned up and down the beach with my binoculars, then started sweeping out into the water.

  Nothing.

  I honed in on Troi – she was executing a grid-based search pattern – something she’d learned in her studies over the years. Her perimeter got larger and larger. While she continued her search for nearly an hour, I sat on the bench at the top of the steps and kept my eyes peeled, occasionally taking the ball out of my pocket to examine it again. Troi finally returned to me, exhausted and distraught.

  He’s nowhere – nowhere!

  “Did he indicate where he had found the ball?” I asked. “Anything about where he was headed back to?”

  No. He was too excited. He just wanted to get back to the place.

  A few large rain drops hit my head, shoulders, and the ground around us. Within a minute it was coming down thick and hard.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ll go back to the Inn and wait for this to blow over, then come back out and look again.”

  Troi squawked about it, but she knew I was right – there wasn’t much we could do in this heavy rain, especially as it was greatly limiting the visibility.

  We returned to the room and sat in silence. I continued to look the ball over, trying to figure out what made it so powerful to me, why it seemed to enliven my senses and clear my mind from the jumble of thoughts that usually bounced around my head.

  By nine o’clock, it was dark and the storm was still raging, hammering the parking lot outside and causing torrents to drip off the eaves in steady streams. The window was cracked open a few inches for the fresh air, and the room was filled with the smell of rain.

  “It’s no use,” I said, “we’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”

  Crack of dawn we are back at the beach.

  I hated it when Troi got bossy – she was just a bird, after all – but her life partner was missing, so I cut her some slack.

  “Crack of dawn, of course,” I said. Then added, “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  Strangely, I was sure.

  #

  Troi was up before the sun, insisting that I get moving so we could be at the beach by the time there was enough light to see by.

  The storm had finally dissolved, or moved on, and the ground was wet but the sky was already clearing by the time we got back to the cliffs. Before I could even pull out my binoculars, Riker came fluttering wildly over the concrete wall that bordered the top of the steps and perched on the bench beside me.

  Troi squawked once, loudly, and quickly lighted next to Riker, nuzzling his neck excitedly. Then she started in on him.

  Awhk-awhk-awhk-awhk! Awhk-awhk-awhk-awhk! Awhk-awhk-awhk-awhk! Awhk-awhk-awhk-awhk!

  Riker just stood there and stared at her unflinchingly. When she was finally done, he looked at me.

  And spoke to me.

  The same way Troi always did – directly to my mind.

  Richard, he said, I presume you still have the ball.

  “Uh, yes, of course I do,” I said, pulling it out of my vest pocket and holding it firmly. “How is it that you’re talking to me?”

  Yes, asked Troi, how is that?

  Yesterday I met a most extraordinary being. He showed me how to do this. He is the owner of the ball, and he has an important message for you.

  I couldn’t believe it. I had become accustomed to having two hyper-intelligent seagulls, including one that talks telepathically. But it felt very strange to be communicating this way with Riker. I’d never, in all these years, heard his “voice” before. He sounded, in my mind, far more intelligent than I had given him credit for previously.

  I have discovered a place that is not a place. It exists somewhere between the quantum states, and is accessed through an ever moving, ever changing portal that is mostly located just offshore. It is there that Conthu resides.

  “Conthu?” I asked.

  He is the being to whom I now owe my life, and my allegiance.

  “Your allegiance?” I asked, as Troi let out a persnickety squawk.

  I am afraid our business arrangement has outlived its usefulness, Richard. You have been an excellent partner, and a friend. But I have new horizons to explore now, as does my beloved, if she will join me.

  Troi looked at Riker and cocked her head. They must have been having a private conversation, as they stared at each other knowingly for a few minutes. Finally, Troi turned to me.

  I will go with him. But before we leave, he must relay to you the message of Conthu.

  I was stunned. So suddenly, after this long time as a team, they were just going to go away. This Conthu must hold some great power. “Go on then,” I said. “What does he have to say to me?”

  Riker recited the message.

  The ball in your possession is called a Chooser. With the Chooser, you have the power to select your destiny. Not change the result of your choices, but select which choice to live with.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  Of course not. Riker paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts and attempting to dumb it down for a mere human. Imagine existence as an infinite number of co-existing realities – each the result of a choice. Each time you make a choice, all possible alternatives are created and exist, outside your own realm. I know you’ve heard of quantum reality theory – it was discussed in one of the texts you shared with us a couple of years ago.

  A couple of early morning beach walkers approached from the street. Riker and Troi took off and circled overhead for a minute while they passed. I nodded to them with a fake smile. When they were at the bottom of the steps the birds returned and landed on the bench beside me. I cautiously said, “Okay, so, the universe is made up of lots of alternate realities.”

  No, the multiverse is made up of an infinite and ever-increasing number of alternate existences. It’s important that we keep the terminology clear, Richard. Conthu has explained to me that the Chooser allows you to “window shop” – to peruse the possibilities – to view the immediate consequences of a choice - to get a glimpse of the “what if.”

  “And?”

  If you see a reality you believe you would be the preferable outcome of a given decision, the Chooser allows you to
enter that reality – to assume that existence.

  “That sounds fantastic,” I said. It was a little hard to swallow, but being in business with a pair of talking seagulls was enough to keep my mind open. “So, what’s the downside?” I asked, always looking for the angle. “And how does it work?”

  You will know how to use it, instinctively. The longer you possess it, the greater your ability will be. The downside, as you say, is that you may only use it three times. Once it has been used the third time, you will be given a choice. You may live with the sum of the choices you’ve made, or return to a point in the past – a time before this moment - and go forward with no opportunity to switch realities, confined to the consequences of all of your choices, as all mortal men.

  “Kind of a money-back free trial Chooser ball, eh?” I chuckled wryly.

  Riker looked at me, and looked as serious as a seagull can look. Do not make these choices lightly, Richard. Conthu suggests that you hold in your hand one of the greatest powers in the multiverse.

  I looked down at the Chooser. “Tell me,” I said, “why did Conthu give it to me? Was he done with it?”

  Conthu exhausted all three of his uses, and is passing it on, as has been the tradition for as long as the multiverse has existed.

  “Did he keep the choices he made, or did he hit the reset button?”

  Have a good life, Richard.

  With that, Riker and Troi flapped their wings and soared out across the beach, over the breaking waves, out to the rising and falling swells of deep blue water, and out of my life forever.

  #

  I returned to my musty room at the Inn and began loading up my van. My heart sank as I placed the empty, rattling cages in the back on the gray carpeted floor and slammed the doors.

  I couldn’t believe they were gone.

  As quickly as they’d entered my life, they’d disappeared. As I thought about it, I realized that our relationship had always been on their terms. They were always in control, and just let me think that I was the boss – they condescended to this lowly human, got what they needed from me, and provided me with the silly little sea treasures that I used to make a living.