Alternating Current: A Tesla Novel (3 page)

“Phillip, wake up
Sweetie. C’mon, you promised to help me clean the attic today.”

He’d heard her
clear enough, but he didn’t respond. Pretending to be asleep was the only time
he disrespected his grandmother, but it was okay because she never knew it.

“Did you get home
late last night?”

He gave in. “Around
three.”

“THREE A.M.?”

“Yes, Grandma,
gimme five more minutes, please.”

“Five minutes,
then I get the garden hose.”

Phillip knew his
grandmother would never do such a thing. He rolled over and tried to go back to
sleep. Two minutes later, his grandmother returned.

“I brought you a bowl
of cereal, throw on some old clothes and meet me upstairs when you’re ready.”

Phillip grunted in
agreement.

A few minutes
later, he heard loud steps above him. He hadn’t been in the attic for a while,
but he knew there was no visible pathway, it was that cluttered. He heard his
grandmother kicking things out of her way. Then there was silence.

Phillip stomped up
the stairs. “Grandma, let’s make this quick---you’re crying, what’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer
him.

A quick look
around told Phillip why she was crying. The attic held so many memories. His
grandfather’s bellman uniform hung from the rafters. After all those years, could
she bear to part with it?

Phillip noticed
his mother’s things, too. A Barbie dollhouse and a black Barbie doll. He picked
up the doll.

“That’s Barbie’s
friend, her name is Christie. Your grandfather was so proud when he gave it to
your mother. He said if Barbie could have a Negro friend, then anyone could. It
was a different time then.” Her eyes welled with tears again.

Phillip hugged his
grandmother. He knew she missed her husband and daughter. He missed them, too.
Even though he’d never known his grandfather and couldn’t remember his mother.
Still, the memories were there, connected to all those items in the attic. He
was certain that once his grandmother overcame her sadness, he would learn a
great deal about his mother and grandfather. “So, where should we start?” He
tried to muster a cheerful voice.

“Oh, Sweetie,
maybe this isn't such a good idea. I'm not sure about this.”

“It's okay,
Grandma. These are just things. It’s the memories that are important.”

Mavis hugged her
grandson. “You’re a good boy, Phillip. Your mom would be proud of you. Your
grandfather, too.”

Phillip picked up
a box filled with old National Geographic Magazines. “Wow, I bet these are
collector’s issues. We could sell them on e-bay.”

“Your grandfather
will roll over in his grave. He loved those magazines. He even joined the
National Geographic Explorer’s Club.”

“Grandpa? An
Explorer?” Phillip set the box aside. He wanted to read the old magazines
someday. He stumbled over a small tricycle and grabbed the hanging uniform to
maintain his balance. “Hey look, my mom’s tricycle”

“No, Sweetie.
That’s yours.”

Phillip cringed.
“But Grandma, it’s pink.”

“This nice woman
gave it to your mother. Her daughter didn't ride it anymore. Times were tough,
besides, you didn’t care at the time. You loved it.”

Phillip placed the
tricycle near the stairs. “This has to go.”

The other toys had
him worried now. Dolls, tea sets, an Easy-Bake Oven, dress up clothes and more.
“Please tell me these aren’t mine.”

“No, those
belonged to your mother.”

Phillip sighed
with relief.

Mavis opened a
small trunk and retrieved a beautiful dress from inside. It flowed with lace
ruffles and a puffy hooped skirt, something reminiscent of “Gone with the
Wind.”

“I want to wear
this dress when you bury me. Don’t worry about shoes, you won’t see my feet,
but the dress is important.”

“Grandma, I don’t
want to talk about it, we have a long time before I’ll need to worry about
that.”

“I hope so, but
tell me you’ll honor my wishes.”

“I promise,
Grandma.” Phillip changed the subject. "What's that?" He pointed to
five large canisters stacked nearby. Much larger than coffee cans, the logo on
the cans read "Charles Chips."

“What are Charles
Chips?”

“Oh, your
grandfather loved those potato chips; they were so light and tasty.”

“I’ve never heard
of them.”

“They came out
about a year before he died. We had some friends that traveled to Pennsylvania
quite a bit. They always brought your grandfather back some Charles Chips. I
don’t know if they’re still around.”

“What’s in the
cans?”

“I’m not sure.
Your grandfather always said they were great for storage. He thought they were
fireproof.”

“Let’s open them
up.” Phillip took the top can from the stack and popped off the lid. It held
hundreds of old photos.

“I’ve wondered
where those pictures disappeared to. That’s your mom there, she was five years
old.”

Phillip stared at
the photo.

They rummaged
through other photos. Phillip saw relatives he’d never met and a few
celebrities, too. His grandfather took their pictures when they stayed at The
New Yorker.

The second can had
more National Geographic Magazines. The more valuable issues, Phillip thought.
Why else would his grandfather store them in the fireproof can? The third can
was packed full of paper. Mostly drawings and sketches. Schematic diagrams with
notations. Some right out of a science fiction movie. A giant telephone booth
with rods and coils protruding from the top. And schematics for something
labeled “Hypersensitive Vacuum Tubes,” which, if you believed the notations,
detected the presence of ghosts. There was even a drawing for something that
looked like a Death Ray.

“I didn’t know
Grandpa was into science fiction.”

“He wasn’t. Some
old man that lived at The New Yorker gave him that stuff for safekeeping. He
said the government was after him. He died a few months later; he was
eighty-six years old. Your grandfather was quite fond of him. Saved all his documents,
just in case. Ridiculous, huh.”

Phillip opened the
remaining canisters and found more diagrams and drawings.

“You can throw
them all away now.”

“I might keep them
awhile. Just for laughs.” Phillip picked up the pace, suddenly motivated to
finish cleaning the attic.

***

A Charles Chips
canister holds upward of two thousand sheets of paper. Phillip spent the rest
of the day examining the contents of the three canisters. Try as he may, he
didn’t understand anything; incomprehensible mathematical formulas, logarithms,
mathematical equations; many several pages long. The pages varied in degrees of
whiteness, tinged nicotine yellow to eggshell. The dates spanned four decades. Most
baffling was the sporadic social commentary interspersed among such intellectual
ideas. They didn’t make sense, either. For example, one comment read, “The
tyranny of dictator’s pales when compared to the tyranny of entrepreneurs.”

Phillip didn’t
understand the correlation between a dictator and an entrepreneur. Hitler came
to mind at once, he had read a few books about World War II and flawed German
combat strategy. An entrepreneur took a bit longer. A few minutes later, Bill
Gates flooded his thoughts. He had to laugh. Bill Gates more tyrannical than
Hitler? How? And why would the developer of such high concepts make such a
notation?

Philip dove
deeper. He tried to maintain a semblance of order among the notes, drawings,
and commentary. He separated the few concepts that were recognizable from the
many that were not. The latter ones concerned him most. Page after page of
equations; molecular structure; chemical compounds; physics; gravity; inertia,
they boggled his mind. Concept names that conjured up visions of Doctor
Frankenstein in his laboratory or aliens from other galaxies. “Vixen Venom,”
poisonous to all, but humans, the key word, poisonous. How could something be
poisonous to insects or animals, but not harmful to people? Had he discovered
some genetic code that differentiates humans from other species? And how could
he prove this claim? Phillip, eyes bloodshot and heavy, read on.

“The
Electrostimulator,” as far as Phillip could tell, regulated the bioelectric
activity of the human nervous system. An early design of the Defibrillator,
elaborate circuitry led to a washboard-like device strapped around a patient’s
chest. “The undergarment of Kings and Queens, denied the masses,”

“Electrostatic
Deuterium Oxide,” hundreds of tiny molecules on page after page with numbers
and symbols, it resembled a child’s color by number book, but it was “The end
of tyranny.”

Phillip tiptoed
past his grandmother’s room to use the bathroom.

“Phillip, are you
awake? Sweetie, it’s seven-o-clock, why are you up so early.” Phillip was still
dressed. “Phillip Washington, have you been out all night dressed like that?”

“No, Grandma. I
haven’t left the house.”

“Why are you still
dressed? Did you sleep in your clothes?”

“I haven’t slept
yet.”

“Phillip
Washington, you didn’t bring a girl into that pig-sty bedroom, did you?”

“Relax, Grandma,
there’s nobody here.” Phillip explained that he’d been up all night going
through the Charles Chips canisters.

“Get some sleep
right now young man. Those papers belonged to a loon, I want you to throw that
stuff away as soon as you wake up, and clean your room while you’re at it.”

“Yes, Ma’am,
goodnight.”

“Don’t tell me
goodnight. It’s morning.”

All those notes
and diagrams the work of a loon, Phillip had doubts. Although, many would lead
you toward that conclusion. Phillip recognized the later writings, the ones on
the eggshell paper were much more far-fetched than the older, nicotine yellow
pages. The scientist’s faculties had probably reduced, diminished, but his
imagination appeared still vibrant, judging from his concepts. Phillip wondered
about this “mad scientist.” Why hadn’t he read any books about him?

Many of the
documents, although written in English, had a foreign caption or signature.
Phillip thought it was Russian, which made some of the concepts frightful. Did
the Russians have a “Death Ray?” His imagination ran wild. Maybe he was the
loon.

Sleep would be
best, but hundreds of documents covered his bed and much of the floor. He
changed into his pajamas, grabbed a pillow, blanket, and the notes for
Electrostatic Deuterium Oxide and went downstairs to the sofa. His grandmother
had already gone to church. Phillip stared at the clusters of molecules and
realized he perhaps should have chosen an easier concept to read at bedtime,
still, he wondered how those tiny molecules could end tyranny. Exhausted, he tucked
the pages under his pillow and fell hard to sleep.

Turbo had eaten
his fifth frozen dinner in as many nights. Tired, he welcomed bedtime, even
though hours would pass before he’d fall asleep. He’d learned to cope with this
pre-sleep time when his mind raced. No more self-pity, no more over analyzing
his failed marriage. Instead, he used this time to plan, to strategize new
marketing ideas and practical business solutions for the repair shop. On some
nights, he dreamed up new inventions or improved ones already in existence. He
longed to be brilliant like his uncle. Occasionally, he plotted revenge against
Con-Edison. Turbo excelled during pre-sleep. It’s when he felt most important,
empowered to accomplish great things.

Turbo’s father had
told him stories about his uncle. One, in particular, came to mind that night.
Tesla had claimed many times that he’d contacted life on Mars. Of course, no
one believed him. His peers bantered and ridiculed him. Even Turbo had doubted
him, until the other day. What about Alex Gaye? Did he really contact Mars?
Turbo could kick himself for not getting the young man’s phone number.

***

Maria entered the
repair shop in a much calmer manner than on her previous visit. Cosmo high-tailed-it
into the backroom. Turbo stood ready behind the counter.

“William, we need
to talk.”

He knew right away
that it wouldn’t be good. “William? Who’s William? All these years I’m Turbo,
now I’m William. Did your hot-shot lawyer tell you to call me that?”

“I’m not here to
fight. I just want to let you know that we're moving.”

“Moving? Where?”

“Florida.”

“Florida. Are you
crazy? You’re not moving my kids to Florida.”

“Yes, Turbo---I
mean, William. I am.”

“Where are you
gonna live?”

“With my sister in
Naples, until I find a place. It’s a lot cheaper to live down there. And God
knows you can’t pay child support. Were leaving next Sunday, you might want to
say goodbye to the kids before then.”

Turbo took a deep
breath. “You’re just gonna pack up and move? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”
Her voice cracked and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Goodbye,
William.”

The whole
“William” thing was really pissing him off, but he rose above it. Not wanting
their conversation to end, he had to think of something to say. “Maria, wait.
At least tell me what I did wrong.”

“That’s the
problem, Tur---Will---oh, fuck it, TURBO. You have no idea what you did.”

“Then tell me.
Right now, tell me.”

“It’s too late, it
doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Please, tell me
anyway. So I don’t screw up with my next wife.”

Maria laughed.

“That’s not
funny.” Deep down, he knew it was.

“Look at you.
You’re overweight, going bald, and you spend your days rotting away in this
hellhole. You watch soap operas and plot revenge for a relative that died over
fifty years ago.”

“Leave my uncle
out of this.”

“Leave him out of
this---leave him out of this---he
is
this. There, I said it. You're
obsessed with your dead uncle, that's why I'm leaving you.”

“Obsessed? Give me
one example.”

“You think the
government stole your uncle’s concepts---

“They did.”

“Maybe they did,
but they were his concepts, not yours. You’ve had a chip on your shoulder your
entire life, just like your father. You think the government owes you something
and you want them to pay.”

“What’s wrong with
that?”

“It consumes your
entire life, one outrageous scheme after another and none of them work. You’re
wasting your life away and I can’t bear to watch it anymore.” Again, her voice
cracked. “Goodbye Turbo.”

***

When Cosmo came
back out front, Turbo was slumped in the recliner. He stared at the blank TV
screen.

“Why’s the TV off?
Did somebody die?”

Turbo just stared
at the darkened screen.

“C’mon, ‘All My
Children’ starts soon. Where’s the remote?”

Turbo pointed to
the floor, the makeshift remote was smashed to pieces.

“What happened?”

“I smashed it.”

“I see that, why?”

“She’s moving.
Just like that, after twenty years.”

“Where’s she
moving?”

“She blames me for
everything, she’s moving to Florida.”

“Florida?”

“Yes, Florida.”
Turbo sat up and turned to Cosmo. “Am I obsessed with my uncle?”

Cosmo tried to
change the subject. “Oh, I almost forgot, Mrs. Fuda called earlier---

“Am I obsessed
with my uncle?”

“Maybe a little,
but in a good way.”

Turbo went behind
the counter and grabbed his coat and hat.

“Where are you
going?” Cosmo asked.

“To see my kids.”