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Sweet
caffeine holds the mysteries of the universe… just ask Mr. Burke… THE INFINITE BEAN By Tim W. Burke “Yeah,
you decided?” asked the college girl,
clicking her lip rings. George
murmured, “Double-mochachino with triple-shot of espresso. Two squirts of
fudge-wasabi syrup. Whipped chai on top. Green coffee bean sprinkles.” She
stared, “Excuse me?” He pointed to the capped bucket with the
handgrip recessed into its side, “Kaiju-grande. Squirt the fudge-wasabi in the
cup before you pour the mochachino?” The
cashier tried affecting a smirk, but her voice betrayed awe, “You. I’ve heard
about you from the other shops.” Despite
his fatigue, he mustered a bashful smile and tucked his shirttail. She
turned to mix the concoction. George counted out the exact change, and dropped
an additional dollar into the cup with “Tips Please?” written all over it. Beside the cup, a new
sign read, “Win A Trip To Our New European Grand Openings!” The Infinite Bean was a nationwide chain,
which was another reason to George liked getting coffee here. The selection,
the décor, the very countertop arrangements of mandarin-tamarind muffins were
the same in every city he visited when giving briefings. His satphone trilled
“The Hallelujah Chorus”. He kept an eye on the
cashier’s progress as he put the phone to his ear, “Hey.” “Hey yourself, buddy!”
chided his wife Maureen, The Institute’s director, “Where’re the statistical
models for the relay switches?” “I’m waiting for
numbers to finish crunching.” Back at The Institute,
Maureen looked up from her computer, “You’re not getting coffee, are you?” George tucked his chin
reflexively, “May-y-ybe.” “The second of your
huge ones?” she pressed. The cashier swirled
the cup, seeing that the syrup was mixing well. He stuffed an extra
dollar in the tip cup, “I need to review the entire grid to find what’s
misreading a friggin’ photon and screwing up quanta. I need a
pick-me-up.” “And not to get any
sleep tonight. Again.” “I’ll
cut back after this project is over. Once the numbers are crunched then I’ll
cut back, I promise. Really.” The
cashier turned. Behold the wondrous elixir! Maureen
sighed, “Well, when you pick up your coffee, lift with your legs.” With
a snort, he took the cup, “Thanks. Love you too. Gotta go. ‘Bye.” He
drank deep. The fudge-wasabi coated his throat with spicy goodness as the chai
swirled down, providing the perfect medium for delivering the tiny green coffee
beans with only the slightest jostling in the epiglottis. His
pulse began pounding in his femorals, then his armpits, then his pinky fingers.
He rubbed his eyes. The coffee was kicking in. His nose and ears felt itchy and
he resisted the urge to pick and pluck at them. George
holstered his satphone absently and fished for his car keys. Mind buzzing from mathematical equations and
stimulants, he considered the photon relays for the next wave of information
transmission and encryption. The
doorway was dinging, but faintly. Someone jostled his shoulder, George
blurted, “Excuse me! Sorry about that! Boy was I rude! I –“ Vague shadows filled
all the empty space in the aisles, in the seats, near the counter and magazine
racks. The roar of the crowd tumbled together into bubbling and warbling. He
was jostled again, then turned and saw no one near him. His own hands were
definite and vivid. He did not feel lightheaded or confused. Then
he looked out the window. Afternoon sky shimmered into downpours then into
glowing dusk. Below, the street popped and faded from busy downtown street to
empty rain-washed suburb to a small town nestled in snow-capped mountains. George
realized his mouth had dropped open. Behind
him, someone said, “You’re here with me!” A
skinny man touched George’s shoulder. The man wore a greasy designer shirt and
stained slacks. His beard was ragged and his graying hair bristled past his
shoulders. Angry, startled eyes were rubbed by fingers with chewed nails. “My
name’s Dunkynn! Dunkynn Dunfree! Get me out of here!” “What?” “Dun-kynn.
With a ‘y’. Two ‘n’s. Heavy on the last ‘kynn’. Did you see my performance art
piece in Montpelier last May?” “What,
Vermont?” “You’re
not from Montpelier?” “Costa Mesa,
California.” “Oh god. I was trying
to leave town, you know? I had a long drive ahead of me. So I stopped into The
Infinite Bean!” “Yeah. Me too” “Love
the Double Mocha Lattechino.” George
whistled, “Pretty high octane. Haven’t tried that. Do that with espresso
shots?” “Of
course! I had a long drive ahead of me to L.A.! Going for my acting career!
Kind of had it jump-started! Kind of had to take the plunge! My wife and her
father were yammering-yak-yak-yak so much about getting another accounting job
it was driving me nuts. So I had to get away, you know?” Through
the window, sun shone on the Washington Monument. The scene darkened into a
rainy city street-canyon boxed in by skyscrapers. The street shifted into a
sun-dappled cobblestone walkway in a landscaped garden. “Yeah,”
said Dunkynn, “That. It keeps like that all the time. Even at night. Can’t open
the doors at night. It’s a trap! Can’t
get a signal for my cellphone! Can’t get out! Watch!” Dunkynn
twisted a napkin and stuck the tip into the jangling blur of the door. He
pulled out a shredded white muck. George
almost dropped his coffee. Dunkynn cackled, “And
after closing time, at night, the doors won’t open! And the glass won’t break!
Get me out!” “Jeez,” George said,
“Good thing this happened after I got my coffee.” Later
that afternoon at The Institute, Maureen got an e-mail: “Stats processed.
Where’s George?” She
growled and punched up a display on her computer, “Probably in the bathroom.” Whenever
she wanted to find George, Maureen went online to a government GPS locator and
punched in the transponder to George’s satphone. Saved them both from nagging. “New
Orleans?” she blinked, “Chicago?” She
punched the speed dial on her PDA and groaned, “Where the hell are you?” “Honey!”
George laughed, obviously caffeine-buzzed, “you-won’t-believe-what’s-happening!” “Slow
down! Where…are…you!” “The
remote on this coffee joint is broken.” “What?” “I’m
looking out the window, and the outside keeps changing. All over the map, but
in the U.S. still. I can’t seem to touch anybody in here. I’d think I was losing
it, but I’m here with some guy named Duncan Dunfree from Vermont.” A
man’s voice cried, “No! Give me that!” Maureen
watched George’s red dot jump somewhere near New York City, “Who? Who’s there
with you? Your GPS is jumping all over the United States.” “Duncan
Dunfree from Vermont. We’re stuck –“ The
man yelled, “They can’t know where I am!” The
signal cut off. Maureen
paled. Then she got mad. “Rich!
I think George’s been kidnapped! Some guy named Duncan Dunfree from Vermont.” Rich
popped his head from his cubicle, “Maureen, don’t do this.” “I’m
not over-reacting! I’m replaying the refreshes. Rich, run down these
coordinates, will you?” She
punched her refresh displays onto the room’s big screen then tapped out the
first set of GPS coordinates onto a map website, “What the hell? These
coordinates are for The Infinite Bean at 437 Lancaster Avenue, Villanova,
Pennsylvania.” Rich said, “The second
reading is to The Infinite Bean on Cove Drive, Key West, Florida. Third is The
Infinite Bean in Olathe Park, Kansas. The Infinite Bean in Ventura Beach.
Another in Little Rock. Riverside, New York. All Infinite Beans. Huh.” “Do
these coffee joints have uplink capability? Something that can jam GPS?” Rich
looked up, “You’re kidding, right? At the most, they have satellite radio.
Nothing that could scramble his GPS. And this is some specific scrambling going
on. Have you heard of anything like this?” “No!”
said Maureen, “Get our FBI guy on the line.” Meanwhile
at The Infinite Bean, George picked at the pieces of his satphone, “What’s
wrong with you?” “Look,”
Dunkynn slapped George away, “I just need to think, okay? My situation’s a
little delicate and needs some sincere strategizing. I’ve been drinking coffee
for months and months, and it’s maybe getting to me.” George’s
knuckles hurt from holding his huge coffee container, but he did not dare put
it down, not after seeing that napkin shredded. He drank. “Why
don’t,” he stammered, “you get something to eat? You look like hell. I mean,
nothing personal, pretty bad.” Duncan
leaned back against a wall, “I’ve been eating nothing but fat-free cran-gran
muffins! And blueberry scones made with extra-virgin olive oil! And black
walnut biscotti! I’d kill for a bologna sandwich. On supermarket white bread.” He
began to weep, “I’ve done so much, I’ve put up with all this, and…nothing is
going to screw this up for me.” Desperate,
George looked for something with which to brain the man. The
window showed an indigo sky whorled with glitter around a tiny, blood-red sun.
Below, ebon buildings built with strange angles cast shadows across a
courtyard. George
was afraid to move, That’s a red dwarf sun releasing bursts of gas. And
those buildings! That’s no architecture I’ve ever seen! The
scene shifted into seagulls drifting in an azure sky over a seafood restaurant. “You
see that?” George finally asked. “The
red place?” Duncan cackled, eyes streaming, “Even Hell has The Infinite Bean.
Didn’t you know?” * * * Rich
reported, “We lost the signal.” The FBI liason Agent
Spencer snapped his cellphone closed, “We’re searching all Infinite Beans in
the county. So far, nothing.” “He’s still not
answering his phone,” said Maureen, “Ideas?” Both shook their
heads. Spencer said, “He
could have wandered off and gotten lost again. Remember last time you called
out a manhunt?” “I heard what I heard,
agent. I suggest you get grim.” Spencer’s
cellphone buzzed. He listened, then snapped the phone shut. “That ‘Duncan Dunfree’
name came through on the FBI database.” “And?” “There’s
a ‘Duncan Dunfree’ alias Dun…kine? With a ‘y’ and two ‘n’s? An accountant from
Vermont. Has a Federal warrant against him. Homicide and embezzlement in
Montpelier five months ago. Suspected of hacking up his wife and father-in-law
and running off with their savings.” “They
have The Infinite Bean in Montpelier?” “Dunfree’s
car was found outside it still running, but he was missing. Why?” * * * George
plucked his earhairs and leaned against the windowframe, “Why? She said my GPS
was jumping all over. We’re obviously jumping all over. How come?” He
fidgeted and answered himself, “Naah. I got quanta on the brain. But…what if we
are in all these places at the same time?” Dunkynn
huddled against the far corner by the magazine rack, out of the way of the
stream of jostling shadows. He
wiped an eye, “Could you not think out loud? I’m trying to figure…” Lost in the shifting
scenes out the window, George scratched his nose, “How many Infinite Beans are
there? Hundreds upon hundreds! All identical, right? All Infinite Beans are
designed to the same specifications. They are built with the same materials,
down to the pipes, wiring and tiles. Traffic patterns, background radiations,
gas mixtures and thermals all fall within the same narrow range.” Banging the satphone
housing on his forehead, Dunkynn spoke through clenched teeth, “I just need
some quiet!” “Quantum entanglement
is believed to be two particles having affected by each other, still able to do
so at a distance. But this melding of Infinite Beans means that similar
particles kept in proximity will entangle another group of similar particles in
similar proximity. The number of Infinite Beans apparently reached a tipping
point, creating gates into which open for split-seconds of time, creating…what?
What?” “What?” Dunkynn
snapped. “’Infinitebeanspace!’
This is why the satphone worked and your cellphone didn’t. That’s why we can’t affect our
surroundings! The door is opening and shutting hundreds of times a second, or
when closed we are trying to open all doors simultaneously, which spreads our
effort out until its near pointless. Same with the window! Hundreds of times
stronger than just one windowpane, due to the overlap.” He gestured to the
gray, babbling shadows, “The worst we are to the customers are strange bumps
and noises and misplaced muffins.” Dunkynn bit a corner. “But why us? Why now?
We’re normal guys. I did what I did everyday. But I was worrying at some
equations. Dunkynn, didn’t you say you were an accountant?” Dunkynn pulled out a
butter knife, “You’re driving me nuts! I had no reason to be thinking about any
accounts or anything, okay? Figure out how to get us out of here! And shut up!” “Okay!” George eyed
the knife, dull but still lethal. He sipped. Then he tipped the paper tankard
up high and smacked the bottom. Uh oh, he
thought. He considered and slipped along the wall to the whiteboard. * * * Uh oh, thought
Maureen, looking at the report on Dunkynn,
I hope George pays attention to this guy. Spencer got off his
phone, “The Infinite Beans we’ve contacted are reporting a strange message that
appeared out of thin air. People watched it being written on white boards with
the day’s specials. So far, fourteen shops report ‘Geo. In Quantum! Change!’” “Just appeared out of
nowhere?” Rich gasped. The FBI agent read
from a notepad, “It is as if ‘an invisible hand is writing very slowly.’ The
writing substance used --“ Maureen interrupted,
“Fudge-wasabi syrup.” Spencer and Rich
looked to each other and shrugged. “He’s still alive,”
Maureen sighed and shook her head, “George goes on and on about quantum theory.
What would he need changed? I remember he told me, ‘There can’t be any
interference in the medium. It has to be perfectly conducive.’” She punched up the
Infinite Bean corporate web site, “We have to move quick!” “Why?”
Spencer asked. “The Infinite Bean
opens in Europe tomorrow,” Maureen slumped, “ Another one-hundred and sixty-two
stores in fourteen countries! Our ability to control goes way down.” “It’s almost one in
the morning,” said Rich, “He’s been there for nine hours. I can’t imagine
spending one hour in an Infinite Bean. The music would drive me nuts.” Maureen snorted, “He could
care less about the music. But…all the other customers do. Is the guy from
Infinite Bean’s corporate office still on the line?” She snatched up the
receiver, “Sir, you are about to do your country a great service, at a great
inconvenience to your shareholders. At nine a.m., Eastern Standard Time, every
manager of every Infinite Bean must do something to alter his store. Play polka
music, change the color of the lightbulbs, remove seating space, as long as
they don’t all do the same thing. To encourage your cooperation, sir, your
government has two words for you. No, not ‘Homeland Security.’ “‘Procurement
contract.’” * * * George had run out of
syrup before he finished his message. His heart was slowing down and he started
feeling tired. Beginning to crash. He had to keep himself awake. He said,
“Listen. This is so cool. As soon as we have controlled an acceptable number of
variables…we could send a robotic craft to construct Infinite Beans on Mars.
And I have completely lost my train of thought.” Dunkynn was
strangely calm, “You know, I always wanted to be an actor. But I took a job at
my wife’s father’s brokerage. Bookkeeping. Paid the bills while I did summer
stock.” In the closed
Infinitebeanspace, George had tried to find a weapon. The chairs, the
equivalent of hundreds of chairs, were far too heavy. He didn’t want to risk
looking for another knife like Dunkyn’s, for fear the crazed actor would find
what he had painted on the sign. But it was Dunkyn
who noticed the change. He got up from the
floor, “My butt feels funny.” The room started to
shake. “I can…see the
furniture clearer!” Dunkynn cried, “My god are we getting out of here?” George said,
“There are fewer stores in our space! There are fewer to smooth out the ride!
’Change’ anything! Maureen got my message!” As Infinitebeanspace
quaked, a voice yowled. Dunkynn shouted,
“What? What ‘nice one?’” Hesitantly, George
explained the message. Dunkyn looked
around, “Where are we going to end up? Who’s your wife that she has so much clout?” “She works for the
government.” “What?!” The
voice cleared up, “Ge-e-e-eorge! This is the FBI. Is-s-s that you-u-u-u?” Dunkynn sprang to
his feet, “The FBI! You set me up!” With a hideous
scream, he fell onto George with the butter knife. Pushing a chair, George
found that he could actually lift it. He put it between himself and the maniac. Dunkynn stabbed and
stumbled over. He clamped his hands on George’s windpipe and threw him to the
ground. Under George’s hands and cheek, the floor tile changed texture: cold
tile, strangely flesh-like, tile, flesh. Wait! He thought,
This is wrong! In the food court of
Christiana Mall in Newark, Delaware, the gathered task force noted ghostly
yowling over the alternative rock hits on the loudspeakers. A buzzing, gray
huddle faded into view beside a carpeted pillar. “Turn on the register!”
said Maureen. Glowing zeros appeared on
the screens. A person could be seen within the huddle. In shock, hysterical, the
manager said to the phantom, “Welcome to ‘The Infinite Bean.’ May I help you?” The blurring became
worse. The cashier pushed past
the manager, clicking her tongue stud, “That’s not how you do it. It’s – ‘Yeah,
you decided?’” With a cry, the form
solidified and sprang to his feet, clawing at the air. George looked around,
puzzled. Maureen walked up to him
and swatted him on the arm, “Making me worry!” “Ow!” Then she hugged him. Breaking from the
embrace, George said, “Honey, where’s Dunkynn? He was on top of me!” Spencer waved to the
other agents, “Look around!” “Honey, I’m so tired. But
it’s great! We hacked into an existing stargate system! Thousand monkeys with
typewriters and all that! Some alien race already had a system in place! Jeez,
this is going to take decades to sort this all out!” He rubbed his hands
together, “Well, I better get to work! Who wants a cup? I’m buying! First I
gotta make a pitsto --” Maureen grabbed the back
of his shirt and lifted him, “If you move, I will kill you.” “But hone-e-ey!” George
whined, “I wanna work on the stargate!” Spencer returned,
shaking his head, “No one else was with you.” “Oh,” George
considered, “Oh! We hacked the alien stargate, and doing so disturbed their system!
We might have crashed their transportation network! I think they’d be pretty
angry about that!” It
looked angry. Dunkynn
chewed his nails. The light from the red sun made his blood on them look black.
“Yeh!
Oo-ee-sye-did!” it said with a lilt. It gave metallic clicks. Hands
shaking, Dunkynn handed over all his money, but the thing rolled its many eyes
and called over its shoulder. “Ma-na-jer-r-r!”
Dunkynn
screamed.