Alternating Current: A Tesla Novel (2 page)

Almost everyone in
Phillip Washington’s family was dead. Everyone but his grandmother and his Aunt
Edna. And Phillip, of course. Tragedy crept into his life when he was a toddler
and remained, it happened all around him. His mother died when he was three and
he never met his father. Phillip’s grandmother raised him and she did a damn
good job under the circumstances.

Mavis Washington
and tragedy were on a first name basis. Her husband died on February 2, 1943
when a hit-and-run driver ran him down in front of The New Yorker Hotel.
Frederick Washington worked at the hotel. Phillip had tried many times over the
years, but his grandmother wouldn’t tell him what happened. She never talked
about her husband and hardly ever told stories about his mother. She did
everything in her power to shield him from more tragedy. He’d turned seventeen
before he learned his mother died from an overdose. And his grandmother only told
him then so he wouldn’t contemplate using drugs.

Mavis was a strong
woman who had no problem talking to Phillip about education and his future. She
made sure he didn’t fall in with the wrong group of friends and encouraged him
to read a lot, and take his education serious. Phillip had never witnessed the
drive-by-shootings, the drug deals, and the crazy crack whores that were a
normal part of life for many children in the city.

Thank God he
wasn’t a gang-banger. He went to church most Sundays and was brought-up to
respect other people and treat them the way he wanted to be treated. At
nineteen, he was a fine upstanding young man. And he had only his grandmother
to thank.

Phillip loved his
job at the Barnes and Noble bookstore. He loved to read, and the “smokin’ hot”
manager didn’t hurt any, either.

Carrie Lockwood,
actually the assistant manager, used her looks to her advantage. Still, he
wasn’t shy about sucking up to the boss either. Phillip flirted with the blonde
supervisor often and Carrie flirted back, mostly to entice Phillip to work
late. A few winks and a sigh went a long way. Phillip would put books away all
night if she’d let him.

“Hey, can you work
the mid-shift tomorrow?” Her eyes went aflutter.

Phillip hesitated.
He couldn’t work, but he didn’t want to disappoint her. “Oh, I would, but I
promised to help my Grandma clean the attic. It hasn’t been cleaned since my
Grandpa died.”

“No problem,” Carrie
sighed as she spoke. Not a flirty sigh, more a disappointed one. “I’ll ask
Lilly. Would you at least stay tonight and put these books away?”

The Friday night
rush had left a huge pile of books on the cart. Still, he didn’t have plans, probably
go hang out at his friend Rick’s house and play Madden Football on the Xbox.
Another half-hour wouldn’t kill him, and the extra money would come in handy.

“What books do you
like to read?” Carrie helped push the cart.

Phillip didn’t
think she cared about what he read, probably just making small talk. “Oh, I like
Erotica,” he fibbed, expecting her to blush. She didn’t.

“Well, okay, have
you read
Nymph
?”

“Uh---no---not
yet, been meaning to.” Had she called his bluff? Does she read such books?
“What’s it about?”

She picked up the
top book from the cart. “The inside-cover boasts an edgy tale about the Los
Angeles dreamscape that is Shangri-la.”

Phillip stumbled,
but regained his balance. “Sounds good,” he fibbed again.

Carrie smiled. “No,
I'm serious, what kind of books do you read?”

“All kinds. I’ll
tell you while we put these away.” They headed down the main aisle. He was unsure
if he should be truthful about his reading list, not wanting to come off as
nerdy. He could always lie about what he liked, but what if she didn’t like
what he lied about. He decided on the truth. “I like anything legal. Legal
thrillers, suspense, whodunits. Like Grisham or Turow. Espionage and Special
Ops stuff like Clancy and Ludlum, and I’m big on conspiracy theories. The Camel
Club is one of my favorites.”

“What about
something like this?” She held up David Kiser's “Road to Dallas.” A book about
the Kennedy assassination.

“No way, I stay far
away from J.F.K. books. I think he’s still alive. Marilyn Monroe, too.”

His remarks
appeared to catch Carrie off guard. “You can’t be serious?”

“Sure I am, let me
explain.” Right away Phillip wished he hadn’t offered to explain. He had a
theory for everything, some good, some far-fetched, and some silly. His JFK
theory teetered on the border between far-fetched and silly, only because he
refused to admit the darn thing had landed right smack in the heart of “Sillyville.”
Nonetheless, he let her rip. “Okay, right now on some deserted island near
Fiji, some old couple is humping inside a grass hut.”

Well that worked.
Carrie blushed, but regained her composure quick. “So, you think he gave up his
presidency and his family to run off with another woman?”

“Of course he did,
Marilyn was smokin’ and besides, Jackie was a prude, just look at her.” When
the words left his mouth, he realized he wasn’t in “Sillyville” anymore. He had
entered “Stupidtown.”

“You can tell just
by looking at her?”

“Yep, I’m a pretty
good judge of people.” He tried to recover, but only got in deeper.

“Okay, what about
me. Am I a prude?”

Phillip went
silent for a moment. His mind frantically checked for the shortest route out of
“Stupidtown.” He didn’t want to stay another minute, but there wasn’t an easy
way out. He thought he’d answer, “I hope not,” but that would be childish. A
more dignified approach was necessary, or better yet, a way to change the
subject. How? He needed something compelling to take her mind off the question
at hand, at least for the time being. And what did he know about her anyway?
What did they have in common? Books? What would move their conversation in
another direction? A non-sexual direction. And did he really want that? No, not
really. He just came out with it and hoped he wouldn’t offend her. “You’re too
sweet to be a prude.”

Carrie let the
remark pass unanswered.

Phillip had dodged
a bullet. He realized that he sucked at flirting and trying to impress women,
he made a mental note to read up on the subject.

Carrie tossed him
a book about Martin Luther King. “What about him? Did he run off with another
woman, too?”

“No, I’m pretty
sure he’s dead.”

“You think?”

“Well, you can
never be certain.” Thankful the conversation had turned; he wouldn’t say
anything embarrassing about the Martin Luther King assassination.

“What about
Elvis?” A large book fell off the cart. After Carrie reached down and picked it
up, her cleavage was unavoidable.

Phillip stared, more
than obviously.

Carrie adjusted
her blouse and asked again. “What about Elvis?”

“Alive. Somewhere
jammin’ with Bob Marley.” He shouldn’t have, but he continued to stare.

Carrie stopped the
questions. “Sounds like you have all the conspiracies figured out, what do we
do now?”

Phillip didn’t
answer.

She stepped around
the cart and sashayed toward him, close enough that she didn’t extend her arm fully
to hand him the last book on the cart.

“Nymph” fell to
the floor, bounced and landed behind Phillip, who stood frozen.

Carrie leaned
forward, careful to brush against his leg as she picked up the book.

Phillip still
didn’t move. She was toying with him. Why? She had never done so before, and
he’d stayed late plenty of times. Then again, he’d never been caught staring at
her tits before. Had she figured out he was an easy target or was she bored?
Either way, it was time to get out of there. “That’s the last one.” He grabbed
the empty cart and headed for the checkout area.

“I appreciate your
help, Phillip---hey, get out of here, I’m sure you have plans.”

“Well, I’m
supposed to meet some friends at this party.” He lied hoping to regain some
cool points. “How ‘bout you? Doing anything exciting?”

“Oh yeah, I have
to clean my apartment before my boyfriend gets in from D.C. tomorrow. He works
at the Smithsonian.”

“Wow, sweet job.”
Phillip though about the boyfriend, no doubt some Harvard type. Still, working
at the Smithsonian was worth some cool points.

“I guess we’re
both cleaning this weekend.” Carrie grabbed her coat from behind the counter.

“What? Oh yeah, my
grandma’s attic. Fun stuff.”

“Hey, if your
grandmother decides to throw away any old furniture give me a call. I’m still a
couple of pieces short for my apartment.”

Their small talk had
turned dull. They left the store, Phillip turned right on Seventh Avenue and
Carrie went left. They headed to different parts of town, to different worlds.
Phillip didn’t belong in her world, but he liked it nonetheless. He wanted more.
A smart, successful, and beautiful woman with a black belt in Aikido and her
boyfriend worked at the Smithsonian. Who wouldn’t want more of her world?
Except for the part about the boyfriend. Phillip would deal with him later.

Turbo stood in the
kitchen of his new flat and watched his frozen dinner spin, blasted with microwaves.
Six minutes later, voila, pot roast with new potatoes and glazed carrots. With
a napkin draped across his wife-beater, he retrieved the
three-compartment-plate from the device he despised, yet those days, couldn’t
live without. The annoying machine cooked his food unevenly and spattered gravy
everywhere, but that's not why he hated the contraption. He loathed all
electronic appliances. He left the oven’s door ajar for the light and finally read
the divorce papers from earlier.

The light made new
potatoes look old. Turbo dug into the pot roast, careful not to spill gravy on
his undershirt, or the papers. He’d mastered the operation of the microwave, but
the washer and dryer frightened him. He eluded doing household chores of any
kind during twenty years of marriage. Perhaps one of the reasons his wife,
Maria, filed for divorce.

Midway through his
meal, Turbo realized his frozen dinner lacked a dessert. Resigned to glazed
carrots instead of apple crisp---he vowed never to purchase that brand
again---he thought about Maria’s apple pie or cherry cobbler. What he wouldn’t
do for some right then. Disappointed, he tossed the plastic plate and fork into
the trash. No need to support Con-Ed by running the dishwasher. Even if he
could figure out how it worked. He closed the microwave’s door and went to bed.
His thoughts held sleep hostage. Why did his wife leave him after twenty years?
Sure, they fought, but Turbo worked hard and you couldn’t find a better father.
Was there another man? He tried not to think about it, but he knew it was
useless. The thought consumed him. Most nights he thought about his failing
business, or his weight, or his vendetta against Con-Ed and the United States
Government to name a few. But those weren’t important that night, not with the
divorce papers next to him on the nightstand.

***

The repair shop
was located about five blocks from his new flat. A tiny building sandwiched between
two larger buildings, not in the most desirable neighborhood, it housed the
family enterprise for years. His father taught him to fix radios in that shop.
Then he advanced to televisions and small appliances, even microwave ovens. The
radio remained his favorite; he had a connection to it. He didn’t despise electronics;
he despised what they had become. He had earned a decent living during the 80’s
and 90’s, and then it became cheaper to purchase new products rather than
repair broken ones. Advances in electronic circuit boards and computer chips
made it easier and less expensive to mass-produce those products, while, at
least in Turbo’s mind, much of the technology was stolen from his uncle. These
days customers were rare.

The many nearby
apartment buildings had enjoyed better days, when they had tenants. Among the
boarded up storefronts on Turbo’s block, only a Jewish Deli and a
“claimed-to-be-real” designer shoe store remained.

“Cosmo, turn on
the damn sign. How we gonna get any customers if you don’t turn on the sign?”

“Sorry,” was all Cosmo
said.

Turbo made a beeline
for the recliner. He half-expected Cosmo to give him some bullshit excuse why
he didn’t turn on the sign, which he did most mornings. Turbo was glad he
didn’t. He just sat there in the recliner thinking, not about Maria. He’d done
enough of that last night. He thought about relocating the shop. He thought
about it often. Would another location improve business, or was his a dying art
form, destined for extinction? Like so many other devices he worked meticulously
on over the years. He witnessed the death of the phonograph, the eight-track
player, the cassette player, and the VCR. He’d marveled at the Compact Disc and
DVD, and tried to keep up with the latest advances in technology. Yet the more
he learned about the latest and greatest, the more he realized those devices
used his uncle’s designs and innovations. Especially all the wireless
technology. He grew agitated and craved revenge, retribution. Somebody had to
pay. Even all those years later, somebody had to pay.

Maria entered the
shop and slammed the door hard enough to knock off the tiny bell attached at
the top. The bell hit the floor with a clunk. “Where is he?” She asked, waving
the bounced check in Cosmo’s face. She knew she was being a bitch, but she
didn’t care. She was that upset.

Cosmo didn’t
flinch. Obviously comfortable with Maria’s animated entrances. He pointed across
the street. “Mrs. Fuda’s garbage disposal is broken again. I keep telling the
old bat not to put fish bones down it.”

“Cosmo, that’s not
nice. She’s old and forgetful.”

“She remembers who
to call when it breaks.”

Maria half-smiled.
“At least she’s a customer.”

“No she’s not.
Turbo hasn’t charged her in years.”

Maria’s anger
subsided. For a second she remembered that her husband was a kind and caring
person, he’d been a good father and husband for most of their marriage. She put
the check in her purse.

With Maria calmed
a bit, Cosmo used the opportunity to pry. “Maria, when you two gonna quit this
nonsense and get back together?” He had a puppy-dog-like expression on his
face.

“I wish we could,
Cosmo, but it’s complicated.”

“What’s so
complicated? You’ve been together for twenty years. What about Nic and Angie?”

“They’re smart
enough to know what’s happening.” Maria thought about the kids. Angie, their
seventeen-year-old daughter seemed to be taking it all in stride, but their
fifteen-year-old son, Nic, was having a rough time.

“I’m glad they’re
smart enough, because I can’t figure it out, neither can Turbo. He thinks
there’s another man.”

Maria went silent.
After all those years, how could he be so stupid? How could he even think such
a thing? She’d been in love with Turbo since their second date, and that would
never change. Then all at once, she realized Turbo was right, there was another
man.

The long silence
had Cosmo shaken up. Maria could see the gears turning in his brain as he tried
to choose the right words. She smiled a devilish grin and waited for him to
speak.

“C’mon Maria, I
know you better than that, I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t believe
I could find another man?”

“No, not that, you
could get plenty---that’s not what I’m saying. I refuse to believe it”

“I hate to tell
you, but there is another man. And he’s right over there!” Maria pointed to the
portrait on the wall.