Page 62 - 2017 WTP Special Edition

Drive-By (continued from preceding page)
—And none of these people know each other, he says —and they come from all over the world, and yet they all share this same, very clear, memory.
—And there are heaps of examples like this, Thomas says, waving at the laptop —It’s all over the internet.
—But wasn’t it all over the news, I say —a few years back. When Mandela died. Wasn’t the TV blighted?
—All over the internet?
—Well, Thomas says —that’s your memory. But the fact remains that a huge amount of people around the world do remember that Nelson Man- dela died in the eighties.
—Well, to explain the phenomenon, Thomas says —some people are saying, and it is only one pos- sible explanation, but, that, the existence of alter- nate universes might be one possible explanation. Collective memory might be explained by like, a slippage between parallel universes.
—But they’re wrong, I say.
He keeps pinching emphasis on the word might, disowning already whatever it is that he’s trying to tell me.
—Maybe, maybe not, says Thomas —maybe a memory is just a memory, maybe it gathers its validity from its existence.
—An alternate universe?
You see, this is the danger with Thomas, if you let him get going.
The thing about Thomas is, he’s logjammed. Too many theories that are all in disagreement.
—Maybe their memory is as valid as yours, he says.
—Dad, says Thomas —Dad, it’s just a theory, it’s just a bit of fun.
—But you saw the news, I say —so they’re wrong. And that’s that.
—Tell me son, did you spend any time today look- ing for a job?
—Look, that’s just one example of the phenom- enon, says Thomas, starting to scrabble about through his laptop —There’s heaps of others. Can you picture the Volkswagen logo, the VW? Can you picture the V and the W connected to each other, or separate?
Thomas closes his eyes for a moment. The calm before. He pushes the laptop off to one side, leans in to me, draws breath enough to last a few rounds.
Now, I owned a diesel Passat —best-in-class for boot space —the one time, back home, back in the tail-end of the boom, back when the banks were handing out cash, and we thought that all you needed to do was sign for it.
—Some, he says. —Some, I say? —Yeah, some, he says. —Hmmm
—Connected, I say —V sitting on top of the W. —Don’t be so sure, Thomas says.
—Hmmm indeed, he says.
And next he’s spinning me the laptop, showing me a Volkswagen logo with a small bar of white space between the V and the W.
—And do you reckon, Thomas, I say —that, in your parallel universe, you’re less of a fucking waster, than you are here in this one?
—Bullshite, I say. 53
That’s it. Thomas, up, back of the knees knocking over the chair, all posture and unfilled body frame, swiping the hair back out of the eyes.
—You know Dad, everything was fine till you