Black Pajama Pants by Rob Lichter, inspired by a story by Chris Stabler



“Mr. Bowers, your 1:30 is here,” came the voice through the speakerphone on his desk.
“Thanks, Sheila, send him in, please,” Mr. Bowers replied and placed the paperwork he was working on into a manila envelope and stuck the envelope in a drawer in his desk.
“Mr. Bowers?” the speakerphone asked again. It was Sheila and she was whispering into her handset. “I just want to warn you that your interview is a bit…odd. Just a heads-up.”
“Thank you, Sheila,” said Mr. Bowers and he hung up the phone. He took out the applicant’s resumé and began to scan it when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Mr. Bowers.

It was then that a pair of black pajama pants entered the room and took a seat in the chair opposite Mr. Bowers’ desk. To his credit, Mr. Bowers simply followed the pajama pants with his eyes and then looked down to re-scan the resumé.
“Mr.- Bauer, is it?” he asked the pajama pants.
“No, I CAME from Eddie Bauer. Bellevue, Washington state,” the pants corrected.
“I see,” said Mr. Bowers, looking back at the resumé. “I’ll be honest, Mr., um…Mr….?” The pants did not pick up on Mr. Bowers’ questioning tone and Mr. Bowers let the words hang in the air, not knowing how to proceed. This kind of thing was not covered in his sensitivity training.
“I mean to say, I simply don’t know if you’ll fit in at this company…at this…particular…ahem…at this particular time,” he explained delicately.
“What? Oh, because I’m black??” the pants said indignantly.
“Wait, what? No!” Mr. Bowers said, quickly. He was clearly in over his head here. “He scanned the resumé again, searching for something to talk about; something familiar. He found virtually nothing.
“Um, according to your resumé, you’ve never worked in research before, is that right?” he asked tentatively.
“That’s right,” said the pants simply.
“Well, we’re really looking for someone with experience in the field of research,” said Mr. Bowers with some confidence. Dismissing potential biosystems researchers on the grounds of insufficient experience was nothing new to him. He was back in charge of the conversation.
“I see,” said the pants. “So you’re telling me that even though your company has no pajamas whatsoever on staff, you’re going to turn me away?”
“You’re unqualified!” said Mr. Bowers loudly, shaking the resumé in his hand. “You’re not even a complete pair of pajamas! Where's the top!?” Mr. Bowers had the pants dead to rights.
“You’re not allowed to ask me that!” replied the pants. “You can’t ask me about my personal life at all. You’re treading on dangerous territory, sir. I’d hate to have to contact your human resources department before I’m even hired!
“You’re not even human!” exclaimed Bowers. The pants chuckled softly.
“That’s a good one,” said the pants. “I’ll have to remember that. But seriously, Mr. Bowers, we both know that this company has had a…let’s say ‘imperfect’ history regarding discrimination.”
“If you’re referring to the harassment case last year, that was a simple case of misunderstanding. We’d hired a deaf woman in the legal department. One of her coworkers tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention and she claimed inappropriate contact. That has no bearing on the matter in front of us at this moment! If anything, I should bring charges against you for using your…position…to…to try to bully your way into this company.”
“Mr. Bowers, the plain fact is that if I go to the media with my story, my alleged inexperience in the field of biosystemic research will go unnoticed. What the public will hear will be ‘major company is biased.’ If that kind of publicity is something you think you can handle, then by all means send me packing,” the pants said evenly.
Mr. Bowers eyed the pants with loathing. They sat in a standoff for several minutes. Without taking his eyes off of the pants, Mr. Bowers reached over to his phone.
“Sheila,” he said, “would you come in here, please?” A few seconds later the office door opened and a notch collar piped jacket with matching skirt entered.
“Sheila,” said Mr. Bowers through a clenched jaw, “would you please escort this…gentleman to personnel and get him set up with an I.D. card? He’ll be joining us in the research department.”
The pants rose from the chair and joined the jacket and skirt at the doorway.
“Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. B. You won’t regret it,” said the pants and winked at Mr. Bowers before closing the door behind him.
Mr. Bowers leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned himself. He mentally counted the days until retirement and sighed softly.

Paradise by the Heineken Light by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Brian Alleva

On his way home from work, Yves normally drove an extra half-mile out of his way just to get something from 7-11. It wasn’t always the same thing; it could be a loaf of bread or a gallon of milk. It could be an air freshener. It could be a pack of batteries. Tonight it would be a package of those shaped rubber bands that kids wear around their wrists. He would tell the girl behind the counter that it was for his nephews. The girl behind the counter. Yves wondered if she knew that he made the trip every night after work just to see her. Of course she knew; she was a chick. Chicks always know this kind of thing, but Yves was a dude and dudes are clueless. Ask any chick.
Yves parked the car and walked up to the register. The girl was texting. Her fingers flew in a flurry before snapping the phone shut and looking up at Yves.
“Help you?” she asked.
“Hey, yeah, do you have those rubber band things the kids like?” he asked, “I-i-it’s for my nephews.” She pointed to the open bowl of colorful packages next to the register.
“Yeah, great! Ok, let’s see, oh there’s different kinds, huh? Like themes or something ha ha. Hey, sports, huh? Yeah, my nephews are into sports. I should get them this one for when I go visit them. Yeah, I don’t have kids. Maybe someday. You never know what’s going to happen in the future, right? Haha,” He picked out a small package from the bowl a little too hard and it flew out of his hand and behind the counter. The girl shook her head, picked it up and rang it up.
“Anything else?” she asked, clearly not amused. Yves got the distinct feeling that he should leave now. He paid for his things and left. He got in his car and looked at the girl though the window (and his own windshield, so basically through two layers of glass. That’s not important, I’m just clarifying). She was texting again. Who was she texting? Who was the important person in her life? He looked at the worthless fruit of his surreptitious romantic excursion. He imagined himself going home and throwing it out, like he did most of his purchases. He suddenly wanted a drink.
“But if I go back in and buy a beer,” he said to himself, “she’ll get even more annoyed with me.” As he thought this, three men roughly Yves’ age walked into the 7-11, laughing. He watched through the window(s) as they picked up a six pack and brought it to the register. She was talking to them as she rang them up. They were all laughing. The guys left and Yves had had all he could stand. He left his car and burst through the door. The girl looked up, surprised.
“Look,” he said, breathing hard, “I like you. A lot. I come here almost every day just to see you. I’ve spent I don’t know how much here and it’s never on anything I want. I don’t shop at 7-11! I come here to see you for like 5 minutes before I go home. Plus, I don’t even know your name! So who are you texting anyway, your boyfriend?”
The only other person in the store was a man pouring coffee into a paper cup. He turned to watch the excitement.
The girl wrinkled her brow at Yves and said, “Dude, people come in here all the time. I don’t remember who they are as soon as they walk out that door. I hate this place. If I couldn’t text, I’d go crazy. And it’s none of your damn business who I’m texting!”
They regarded each other silently across the counter.
Suddenly, a deep rumble shook the store. A flash of purple light tore through them. The light quickly died down. Yves stole a look through squinted, watering eyes and saw a mushroom cloud slowly rising in the distance.
“Holy shit!” shouted Yves.
“Yeah, “ said the girl.
The rumbling continued. They watched, transfixed, as the trees in front of the store caught fire and the mushroom cloud continued rising into the blindingly bright night sky.
The man with the coffee dropped his cup and ran for the door. The girl behind the counter yelled to him to stop. He opened the door, shouting, “Olivia!” The moment he opened the door, he was vaporized. The door slammed closed, sending his ash up in a cloud.
“Holy SHIT!” shouted the girl.
“Yeah!” said Yves. The girl looked at him, rolled her eyes and walked to the register. Yves watched as she emptied all the cash and stuffed it into her pockets.
“What are you doing?!?” he shouted.
“Hey, numbnuts, the world just ended. My boss isn’t likely to ask where the money went,” she spat.
“What are you going to do with all that money when we can’t even go outside?!” Yves shouted. The girl thought about this for a moment. “Whatever,” she said and continued to empty the register, “there’s no downside to having a little extra money.” Yves remained quiet and continued to stare outside.
“Hey,” he said eventually, “How are we alive? I mean, that guy burned right up and we’re OK. How is that possible?”
“Polarized glass,” answered the girl, “The sun shines through the window all day so the people working the register would normally get sunburned, but they put this special polarizing stuff on it or whatever and it protects from harmful UV rays. I guess it protects against atomic radiation, too,” she shrugged.
“Jesus,” Yves whispered.
“I need a drink,” she said and came out from behind the counter. She walked past Yves to the beer case, opened the door, pulled out a sixpack and came back to the counter. She pulled off a can from the plastic ring and tossed it to Yves. She then hopped up onto the counter and pulled off another one. Yves stared at the can. The girl snapped hers open and took a gulp. Yves opened his can and hopped up onto the counter with the girl. They drank in silence and watched the earth die.
“So…DO you have a boyfriend?” asked Yves, looking down at the can in his hand. He was feeling bolder. After watching the world end, the question that he’d been too afraid to ask seemed pretty insignificant now. The girl didn’t answer right away.
“Even if I did, he’d probably be dead now anyway. But no, I didn’t. Don’t.” she said.
After Yves had a couple of beers in him, he began to fear the girl less. They talked about TV shows and music they liked. They flipped through the gossip rags and made fun of the celebrities and their ridiculous lives. The sixpack finished, Yves hopped down from the desk and went to get more beer, bumping into the donut case as he did so. He returned with another sixpack. He pulled one off the ring and threw it to the girl, missing her by three feet. It smashed into the cigarettes against the back wall and send dozens of packs tumbling to the floor. He looked wide-eyed at her, who looked back at him and they both howled with laughter. The beer cans piled up and they talked through the night before finally falling asleep.
Yves awoke the next morning to the beeping of the microwave.
“Hey. I made you breakfast,” she said, pulling out a breakfast burrito and handing it to him. He opened the paper and the smell of sausage made his stomach turn. “Thanks,” he said, “Maybe later.” Yves poured himself a cup of black coffee and took an apple from the fruit bin.
“You know what? I still don’t even know your name,” Yves said and bit into his apple. The girl was eating her own breakfast burrito, drinking a Red Bull, and staring out the window.
“Adamina,” she said.
“Nice to meet you, Adamina,” said Yves and they both looked quietly out the window. Adamina put out her hand and Yves took it in his.

HERCAMORE B. SMITH AND THE UNOPENABLE BOOK
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Ed Garrison III


Professor Rudolph Alexander Smith was the chair of the physics department at the University. He was a highly respected and well-liked presence at the school. The Professor’s only living family member was his son, Hercamore. Hercamore was unlike his father in almost every way. He was slovenly, watched loads of reality television and rarely, if ever, used his mind for anything worthwhile and derided those who did. His father, the professor, had been known to shrug and say, “Sometimes it skips a generation,” and pick up another hors d’oeuvre.
Hercamore felt that the Professor went out of his way to make him feel stupid. Besides feeling that his father was a condescending snob, Hercamore also resented his parents for naming him the name they named him. His mother was no longer alive so Herc rarely ever thought of her. His umbrage was focused on his father.
One beautiful, sunny afternoon, Herc was watching the game on TV. It was a close one, and Herc held partly-chewed Doritos in his mouth. He had stopped chewing at the snap of the ball and he’d yet to feel the need to resume. As the touchdown was made, Herc came to realize two things; the phone was ringing and he was in the middle of eating Doritos. He went back to chewing and picked up the phone.
“Myeah?” he managed.
“Mr. Smith, this is Professor Hardin at the University. I work with…worked with your father,” said the voice on the phone.
“What happened, he get you fired?” Herc replied.
“What? No! He’s, I mean, I was his colleague until his death...” Hardin finished weakly. Herc swallowed and muted the TV.
“Dead?” Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?” asked Herc.
“Professor Rudolph Smith, yes. Is this…Hercamore? His son?” asked hardin, sounding unsure.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Wow, really? The old man’s dead, huh?” said Herc.
“Why, yes,” continued Hardin, “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I’d assumed you’d been told.”
“The old man never tells me anything. Or if he does, I don’t understand it,” explained Herc.
“Well…well, this is a bit awkward, Mr. Smith. Your father’s remains were donated, per his wishes, to the biology department. He left a will and wanted the University to have everything. I-I didn’t know how you’d take this and felt I should speak with you, personally.”
“Mr. Hardin, if my dad left you his stuff, then go ahead and take it and leave me alone,” snapped Herc.
“It’s Professor Hardin, Mr. Smith, and I’m happy to hear you won’t be any trouble. Oh, he did leave you one thing. A book.”
“A book? What a joke! It’s probably some ancient Sumatran math poetry or something, right? Condescending prick!”
“No, actually I don’t know what sort of text it is. The book has no markings on it whatever. In any case, Mr. Smith, it belongs to you now. I can have it shipped to you if you like…”
“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” said Herc, his eyes drifting toward the aftershave commercial. “Hey, wait a minute. I don’t have to pay for shipping or anything, do I?” he asked, testily.
“No, Mr. Smith. I will make sure it’s taken care of. Good day to you and…I’m sorry for your lo-.” Herc hung up before Hardin could finish.
Several days later, a package arrived at Hercamore’s house. He signed for it and brought it inside. Herc opened the brown wrapping paper and sliced the box open with a blade. Opening the box, he saw, nestled in the shredded newspaper, a dark blue velvet bag with a drawstring. Herc reached in and removed the bag. It was heavy. He pulled the drawstring, opening the bag, and pulled out a leatherbound book. Hardin was right; there was no writing on it anywhere, just a plain brown cover. He tried to open it but it wouldn’t open. He looked for a clasp of some kind but found nothing. The book simply didn’t open. He looked in the box for something else, but saw nothing. Then he noticed a small slip of paper inside the velvet bag. He picked it up and held it to his eyes. It had writing on it, like a fortune cookie fortune, but in his father’s handwriting:
“For Hercules, Sometimes it skips a generation.”
“What a dick,” thought Herc and tossed the book and the bag into the shredded paper and went to go watch some TV.
When the game was over, Herc got up to throw out the empty chip bag and he passed the table the package was on. As he walked past, he glanced inside. The book and the bag were there, resting on a newspaper inside the box. Herc stopped and stared. He was sure it had been shredded paper, not a full newspaper in which the book had been packed. He chalked his confusion up to not really caring all that much and went to bed.
The next morning, Herc came downstairs and walked past the package on the table again. Curious, he looked inside and saw the book, the bag, and a whole bunch of shredded paper. He reached in and tried to open the book again, but to no avail. He picked up the note and read it again.
“Hercules,” he said to himself, “My name is Hercules?” In a burst of hopefulness, he went down to the cellar, to the file cabinet. Herc pawed though the files until he found it: his birth certificate. He opened the manila envelope it was it and scanned it until he found his name.
“Hercamore Benoit Smith,” he read softly. Why did his father call him Hercules? It sure was cooler than Hercamore! Hercules was a cool-ass name! Was his father trying to be nice to him by giving him a cool nickname? In no universe did that make sense. Hercamore filed the certificate away and settled on the fact that he never understood his father and vice versa. He went back upstairs and picked up the book. Again, he tried to pull it, pry it, bend it, but it still didn’t open. Frustrated, he brought it with him into the living room and sat down in his chair. He put he book on the side table and realized he didn’t have a beer. Rectifying this, he returned to the living room, grabbed the remote and sat down. He took a sip from his beer and rested the bottle on the book. After flipping the channels for a bit, he found a reality show about a midget baker who had 8 kids.
“Bingo,” he said and picked up his beer. He took one swig and almost spit it out. The beer had gone completely flat. He forced himself to swallow and stared at the bottle in utter confusion. He picked up the book and the bottle. He walked to the entertainment center in which the TV rested and slid the book onto a shelf between a potted cactus and an autographed baseball on a little stand. The ball read “Reggie Jackson” in ballpoint pen. Herc went to the kitchen and swapped out his beers. He tested the new one. It was fine. He took another taste of the old one. It was flat. He took the new one back to the living room and rested it on the table next to the chair. He was tentative at first, but the new beer was just fine.
Herc woke up in his chair. It was dark out. The TV was broadcasting an infomercial for a CD set of Super Soft Hits from the 90s. Herc turned off the TV and stood. In the semi-dark of the room, he saw something strange above the TV. He flipped the wall light on and took a look at the small, potted cactus on the shelf. It was black and shriveled. Then he saw his beloved Reggie Jackson baseball. It was completely blank. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands. Nothing. The book caught his eye. Angrily, he picked it up and brought it back to the box it arrived in. He placed it back into the pouch and went upstairs to bed. As he climbed into bed, his phone rang, startling him.
“Yeah, what?” he barked.
“Mr. Smith, I’m so sorry to disturb you so late, but…may I ask…did you receive that book your father left you?”
“Mr. Haldin? That you?”
“Hardin, yes,” said the voice on the phone. He didn’t bother to correct him on the whole ‘professor’ thing. You’ve got to choose your battles.
“Mr. Smith, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. You must bring me that book immediately. Can you get to the University tomorrow? I promise I will make it worth your while.”
“Five hunnerd,” said Herc.
“What?” replied Professor Hardin, genuinely perplexed.
“Gimme five hunnerd dollars and I’ll be there before lunch,” said Herc. There was a pause on the other end.
“That will be fine. Please be here by twelve tomorrow, Mr. Smith,” said Hardin. Hercamore hung up and went to bed.
The next morning, Herc was driving and drinking a hot cardboard cup of coffee. The velvet bag was in the seat next to him. He arrived at the University at eleven o’clock and found the Physics Department. He walked down the hall until he found a door with his father’s name on it:
Professor Rudolph Alexander Smith, Department Chair
He knocked on the door. Professor Hardin opened it from the inside. He looked at Herc and then at the bag in his arm.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Smith. Thank you so much for coming. Please sit down. So sorry about the door, they haven’t gotten around to changing the uh…the name,” stammered Professor Hardin.
“So you’re the boss here, now, huh? Man. My dad leaved everything he owned to the school, you get a big promotion and I get a doorstop! Ain’t that a bitch!”
“Mr. Smith, if you’re implying that I receive one bit of pleasure from your father’s passing…well, I…I…” Hardin continued to stammer.
“Alright, alright, calm down, jeez! Anyway, I brought the book. You bring my fee?” said Herc, slapping the bag unceremoniously on the desk.
“Yes, yes, of course, here you are,” said Hardin, pulling a check from his pocket and handing it to Hercamore. Herc stared at the check and then to Hardin.
“Why are you so quick to pay me for this thing?” Herc picked up the book and put it in his lap, his brow furrowed. “What’s it really worth?”
“Mr. Smith, I’m afraid this isn’t about monetary value. This book is invaluable to the future of physics! This book is the internet! It is the internal combustion engine! Mr. Smith, no offense to you, but this book belongs in the hands of those who can comprehend it.” He reached for the book. Herc pulled it to his chest.
“So explain it. I have nowhere to be all day. Try me,” said Herc.
Hardin sighed and slumped into his seat. “This book, “ he began slowly, “is the Anachronisticon. It is the book of time displacement. Your father was working on temporal causality and quantum mechanics and through his work, he came into possession of the book.”
“So, you know what’s in it?” asked Herc, getting interested.
Hardin laughed softly. “Inside are the result of years of work. Inside are the calculations and results of innumerable experiments proving not only that time travel is possible, but exactly how to achieve it!”
“So why can’t you open it?” asked Herc.
“Because it hasn’t been written yet,” Hardin replied with excitement. “The Anachronisticon should not be in this time, yet it is. As it has not been written yet, it cannot reveal what has been written. Do you understand?”
Herc shook his head. “No, not really.”
“I told you,” muttered Hardin. “The book was written in an unknown plot in the timecurve grid. Whoever was working on it, let it slip backwards in time. This…future scientist…has lost his entire life’s work. We must keep it safe and return it to him once he shows himself. It may be a dozen years, it may be a hundred. But we MUST return it to him. If we do not, it will never be written and we will create a paradox. If this happens, a chain reaction will occur and time as we recognize it will cease to exist!” Hardin was standing now and breathing heavily. “Do you see now? If this book is not returned to its rightful plot on the timecurve grid-“ Herc stood up suddenly.
“You know what?” he said, smirking, “I think I’ll hold on to this thing. He began to walk to the door. Keep your check. I’ll keep the arachnophobia safe. If things get tough and I ever need to hock it, I’ll know where to go. Seeya!” and he was gone.
Hercamore kept the anachronisticon in the cellar, next to the file cabinet. In time, he forgot about it. In time, he changed. He met a woman, Charlotte Benoit. They fell in love. She moved in with him. They got married. In time, Charlotte became pregnant.
In the hospital, after she gave birth to their son, they were asked to name the child. Hercamore knew the power of a name. He remembered how happy he was when he thought, if only for a few minutes, his name was not Hercamore.
“His name is Hercules,” he told the nurse, “Hercules Smith.”



FIFTY YEARS LATER



Professor Hercules Smith was head of the physics department at the University. He was a highly respected and well-liked presence at the school. The Professor’s only living family member was his father, Hercamore. Hercules was unlike his father in almost every way. He was an asthete, an art collector, a philosopher and an intellectual. Professor Hercules took after his mother, but she passed years ago. He was currently working on a theory of temporal manipulation and he was getting close to the answer. He was scribbling frantically in his brown, leatherbound journal, when he got a phone call. His father was dead and he had left everything to his son.