CHAPTER 04 YEAR 35, MONTH 08 NARRATOR: JOHN My name is John. I grew up in New Jersey. I spent most of my adult life in Texas before moving to Phoenix. I'm a software engineer. I just wanted to show up at my job, get paid, go home, and take lots of vacations. I was on my way to a comfortable retirement and I didn't want to do anything to mess that up. My life was boring, but boring is underrated. I'd much rather live with boredom than anxiety. I'd spent enough time living with anxiety. Mom was a prominent economist. She spent some time in Chile helping them get their economy off the ground. She was known as the "Chicago Gal" because she'd studied at the University of Chicago. Dad's a retired radiologist. He's into cars and movies. He's a maker. I'd be more specific, but really, he can make anything. He built the television set that was in our family room. On my sixteenth birthday I got my driver's license. A week later I had my first job. I was videotaping weddings and church services for a video production company. My friends and I shot and edited six skateboarding videos. In college I majored in Computer Science, and minored in Film. Some people are into Star Wars. Some people are into Indiana Jones. Some people are into Back to the Future. For me, it was always Mad Max. Wasteland Weekend is an annual festival in California that looks and feels like a Mad Max movie. Everyone crafts intimidating costumes. A lot of people come up with characters to play. The goal is "immersion." When you're there, you feel like you've entered a different world. As soon as I heard about it, I knew I had to go. It was at this point that my life stopped being comfortable and boring and started becoming weird and interesting. My favorite Mad Max character had always been Scrooloose. He was a member of the Lost Tribe, also known as the Waiting Ones. He's the weird, mute, goth-like kid in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome who spends most of his time alone, doing his own thing. As an introvert who had never fit in anywhere, I'd always identified with Scrooloose the most. I decided to make Scrooloose a part of my character's backstory. I imagined that Scrooloose and I had been friends long ago, but we'd become separated. My character would be wandering around Wasteland Weekend, looking for his long lost friend. In Beyond Thunderdome, Scrooloose carries around an old talking Bugs Bunny doll. I went online and bought an antique Bugs Bunny doll just like it. My plan was to find a stranger dressed as Scrooloose, and return their lost bunny to them. Maybe I'd turn an imaginary friend into a real one. I found an old cowboy hat at an antique store. I ordered a leather motorcycle jacket that had started out looking like the one Peter Fonda wore in Easy Rider. I distressed the racing stripes. I added period auto racing patches, punk rock spikes, and hidden ventilation grommets. I figured no one would remember anybody's name so I included a nametag patch. I put Bugs in the chest pocket and zipped it up so only his head was showing. Our world isn't non-apocalyptic. It's pre-apocalyptic. Some kind of apocalypse is inevitable. Wasteland Weekend is a celebration of that. But why would anyone celebrate death and destruction? I was going to find out. I drove my 1975 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am from Phoenix, Arizona to California City, California, where Wasteland Weekend is held. The Trans Am didn't have any fake guns mounted on it or anything, but I figured since the Mad Max apocalypse had happened in the eighties, any pre-1980 car would be a cool car to bring. Really you can bring any car you want. You just won't be able to bring your car into the themed areas unless your car is themed, too. I loved that car more than anything. Stellar Blue, with a light blue bird on the hood. Two-tone red and white interior. Mine was the only one that had been made in that color combination. One of a kind. The story I'd heard when I bought the car was that it had been special ordered in red, white, and blue because the Bicentennial was coming up and the guy wanted to drive it in parades. The car had such a cool history. The car's documentation indicated that it had even spent some time in Australia. When I arrived at the event, I found a place to park and camp. I'd be sleeping in the car. It's a lot easier than putting up a tent. I got into character and introduced myself to my neighbor, Christine. It was her first time at Wasteland Weekend too. I asked her if she knew Scrooloose, or if she'd seen anyone matching his description. No luck. I headed into Wasteland City, at the center of the event. Along the way I checked out the cars. There were newer cars, older cars, and military vehicles. All of them were covered in dirt and lots of them had bull bars, spikes, and fake weapons mounted on them. Toecutter rode by in the back seat of an old convertible. Aunty Entity watched over the city gates. Lord Humungus was DJing on a stage. No one was dressed as Scrooloose. I asked everyone I met if they'd seen Scrooloose. The answer was always no, but everyone promised to ask around and try to help find him for me. I danced. I delivered a letter for the Wasteland post office. I ate a brownie someone handed to me. I got a haircut at the Body Shop. The babe who cut my hair told me about a big celebration coming up in Australia for the fortieth anniversary of Mad Max. It was a year and a half away. I'd always wanted to visit Australia, but the thought of traveling internationally made me anxious. I'd never been out of the country. When I returned to camp, Christine was sitting by the fire. We shared our stories. Christine asked if I'd been to the memorial yet. She explained that it was a small structure at the top of the hill, built to pay tribute to wastelanders that were no longer with us. "You should go," she said. There was still some light left, so I went back out and headed up the hill. I couldn't believe what I saw. His name was painted in large letters on rusty sheet metal, glowing in the light of the setting sun: SCROOLOOSE LANCE A. MOORE II I'd spent the past month getting myself into the mindset of a character who was looking for an old friend. I'd expected I would either find him, or I would not find him. Discovering his name on the memorial was a highly unexpected sort of closure. Standing there at the memorial, I was no longer playing a character. I perpetually, desperately need the catharsis I feel when I'm crying, but I always have trouble letting it out. Instead, I always focus on what I can do, or how I can fix things. It's so hard for me to just let go, and give in to the pain. Mom had died of cancer that year, but I hadn't cried. I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried. But now, tears were streaming down my face. I was crying over the death of someone I'd never met. I was crying for my mother, too. I was crying over death itself. I was crying over decay, rust, fire, oxidization, entropy, ephemerality, destruction and the fact that, one day, the sun would grow so large that it would swallow the earth, and with it, all the works of Monet. I unzipped my chest pocket, took out the Bugs Bunny doll, and placed it on the memorial. I had turned my imaginary friend into a real one. I was no longer merely a Wasteland Weekend attendee. I was a wastelander. This is my story. But it's not just my story. It's not a costume; it's an outfit. It's not a character; it's a persona. It's not immersion; it's just life. I knew at that moment that I'd return to Wasteland Weekend next year, and every year. I'd attend all the local events I could. And it was time to start planning my pilgrimage to Australia for the fortieth anniversary. A closure can be a new beginning. I came down from the memorial a changed person. But some other things had changed, too. The world around me was a little different. Several people looked more like beggars than Mad Max extras. One woman was covered in what looked like real blood. There was no amplified music. There was music, but it was coming from people singing, banging on things, and playing acoustic instruments. I met a very tall War Boy on his way up to the memorial. I gave him the wasteland salute, which is two middle fingers, crossed. "Wasteland!" I said. "What's Wasteland?" he asked, in an accent I didn't recognize. "What do you call this place?" I asked him. "The Gathering." "What's The Gathering?" "It's where we come to find thems we're looking for and thems we've lost." "Lost?" "Lost. In the Big Bang." On the way back to my camp, I noticed the cars were older and rustier. Many were still weaponized and intimidating. The weapons were less wild, more realistic. Maybe real. Now, every car I saw was a pre-1980 model. There was more dirt on my clothing. I looked down at my wrist. My Wasteland Weekend wristband was gone. Maybe I'd traveled back in time and ended up in some war-torn country. Maybe I was having a stroke. Maybe it was that brownie I'd eaten. Dagnabbit. I should have asked what was in it. I've always been a teetotaler. I've always hated the idea of drugs. Humans don't have claws or sharp teeth. Our minds are our tools of survival. Whatever drug this was, it was not giving me a pleasant experience. I didn't know who I was, or where I was. I felt like I was losing control. It was the worst feeling I'd ever felt. I found my car keys, or someone's car keys, in my right pocket. There was a heavy bag of coins in my left. I no longer had my wallet or my phone. I found my car, right where I'd parked it, but it was dented, rusted, and scratched. It couldn't have been vandalized. The damage had clearly happened over decades. I'd heard people on LSD might look in a mirror and see their face melting or something like that. Maybe this was all in my head. Christine was gone. I had a new neighbor, or at least, she was new to me. I wasn't new to her. She gave me a look of pleasant recognition and waved me over. She radiated peace and acceptance. These things were just what I needed at that moment. She was cooking meat for tacos. I was hungry. Maybe I was dehydrated, or my blood sugar was low. Maybe it was my electrolytes. If you drink water, but don't eat enough food, you can get water intoxication. She handed me a taco. "Have we met?" I asked. "Yes," she answered. "I'm Lioness." "Who am I?" She gave me a funny look. "A few hours ago you were Firebird. Who are you now?" "That's what I'm trying to figure out." "Are you ok?" "I might have hit my head or something." She checked my head for injuries. "Did it happen in The Cage?" "What's The Cage?" "Where people fight. There's no fighting at The Gathering, except for in The Cage." "I might have accidentally taken some kind of drug. I'm sure I'll be fine, once it wears off. Have you seen my wallet and phone?" "I haven't seen a working phone in decades. You should probably get some rest." She walked me to my car. I put the keys in the door and they worked. I got in. This must be my car. They only made one in this color combination. I had the keys in my pocket. But who am I? I looked down at my nametag. It was covered in dirt and barely legible, but I could just make it out. It no longer read "John." It read "Firebird." I recognized my face in the rearview mirror. I pulled up my sleeve, and found the freckle on my right arm that I used to stare at in elementary school when I was bored. This is my body. Sort of. Some things are different, but I'm still me. I jumped at the sound of someone trying to open the locked passenger door. I looked over, and oh my wow. She was just my type. And the way she looked at me. Her pupils were wide. Her eyes were bright. She didn't just know me. She loved me. I had no idea who she was, but I could see in her eyes that she loved me. I don't think anyone has ever looked at me that way, before or since. After about five dumb seconds of staring, I was pretty sure that I loved her, too. I unlocked the door, and a flood of joy and beauty poured into the car. Her arms were around me. She was kissing me. I was reunited with a lover I'd never met. "I've missed you," she said. She had an amazing Australian accent. "I've missed you too," I said. Somehow it felt right to say that. I'm not going to turn this into pornography but I have to mention one thing. I've always liked women who are smart, but also primal. I've never been a germaphobe. I'm more of a germaphile. The fact that humans mated successfully for a hundred thousand years before soap, shaving, and deodorant were invented is proof that some forgotten part of us loves dirty, hairy, smelly sex. And I did love it. We loved it. I have a body here, I have a history here, I have possessions here. I even have someone who loves me. Lost as I felt, at least I had a partner. "I stole a pair of shoes from your old place. Hope you don't mind," she said. "Huh?" "I lost my shoe, remember?" I had to explain to her what was happening as best I could. I didn't even know her name. "I'm sorry, but I'm kind of out of my head today." "You sound like you're from Texas! You really are an American now, aren't you? "How did I sound before?" "I don't knaeiouw." To every word, she added several mellifluous vowels they only have in Australia. "It's been ten years. Last time I saw you, you talked like me. Now you sound like Johnny Cash. I like it." "I think I have amnesia." She started gently feeling my head for injuries. "Noggin's all right." "I think I'll be ok, but right now I have some stupid questions." "Like what?" "What's my name?" "It's written on your jacket, dumba**." "What's your name?" She hadn't realized how serious this was. She sighed. "I'm Mad Skelli... and I love you." "Mad Skelli.... I think I love you, too." Her face fell. I didn't expect that. "Who the f*** are you?" she said. She grabbed my head and smacked it into the steering wheel. I really did not expect that. She got out of the car. "Go suck a cactus." She slammed the door. I passed out, or fell asleep. At that point, I couldn't tell the difference. When morning came, I woke up, and everything was normal again. It had been a wild dream, or drug trip, or whatever. I was glad it was over. Or at least I thought it was over, until the world started bouncing back and forth again, this time more quickly. Looking out the windshield, I could watch things change before my eyes. My surroundings alternated between Wasteland Weekend and some other place that was just like it, only more real. Sometimes it would last a few seconds. Sometimes it would last a few minutes. A note appeared on the dashboard. It literally appeared, out of nowhere. It was written in handwriting similar to mine. It read, "Hi." I replied by adding to the note. "Hi." Things kept bouncing. Every time I returned to my world, the note got a little longer, and I'd add something to it as well. I seemed to be communicating with a counterpart who was experiencing something similar to what I was experiencing. My counterpart and I pieced together what was happening through our notes. It wasn't the world that was changing. My consciousness seemed to be trading places with another version of me in another timeline. "Firebird" was just a nickname. We were both named John Binns. We used to be the same person. Our lives diverged when we were young. For some reason, now, our lives were converging again. We were both being handed unprecedented opportunities to see the worlds that could have been. I couldn't meet Firebird face-to-face, but I could become him. When I became him, he became me. Hopping between timelines wasn't time travel. Firebird's world was an alternate version of right now. I explained Wasteland Weekend, where we dress up like we're in the movies. He explained The Gathering, where we come to find thems we're looking for and thems we've lost. I wrote down an explanation of how to use my phone. He left instructions for how to use a computer he'd built that took up the whole back seat of the car. We used my phone to make videos for each other. He tried out Google, YouTube, Wikipedia, and Facebook. We pieced together the similarities and differences between our timelines. He was excited to find out that Julian Simon had won some bet. He was dismayed to discover that Naomi Klein had written a six-hundred-page bestseller about what a monster Milton Friedman was. When I was a kid, my family canceled a trip to Australia so Dad could accept a job offer. Firebird's dad turned that job down, and his family took the trip. When I left home, I moved to Texas. Firebird got stranded in Australia. I acquired a Texas accent. He acquired an Australian one. It's been said if a butterfly flaps its wings in a certain way, it can cause a tornado. A butterfly flew right in my world, wrong in Firebird's world, and nothing's been the same since. My world went on to experience the greatest successes humanity has ever seen. His world burned. At this point we started composing this manuscript, keeping copies in both timelines. Firebird wrote a summary of his life, which you've read. Now I've contributed a summary of my life. From here on out we're writing it in the present. Maybe I'll even write some of it about the future! We're going to be just as surprised by all of it as you are. We call Firebird's timeline Epoxyclypse. We call mine Tomorrowland. You don't have to believe me. I'm not sure I believe me. I can tell you what I'm experiencing. You can call it autobiography, fiction, or delusion. Firebird and I were hitting it off until I got to the part about Mad Skelli. From that point on, this document became the world's first unauthorized autobiography. Or, more precisely, it became an adversarially collaborative autobiography. So let's have a moment of adversariality. Firebird is kind of a jerk. He's about to go into one of his little tirades, and before he begins, I want to make it clear that I disagree with him on a couple of points. First, mental illnesses are real. They aren't always caused by one's problems, or one's outlook on life. Mental illnesses can happen for no reason at all. You shuffle some genes, mix up some chemicals, fire up some neurons, and something goes wrong. I'd never presume to judge someone suffering from mental illness, especially when it's quite possible that I myself have some undiagnosed condition that makes me think my mind is capable of moving between timelines. Second, I'm a Texas liberal. Texas liberals, like most Texans, want a smaller government. But we only want to cut wasteful things like the American war machine. We want to use those savings to expand social programs. We believe the government should educate people and provide for everyone's health and welfare. All right Firebird, now it's your turn.