Anatomy of Surprise, a short story

Anatomy of Surprise

Before the beginning of time there were no surprises. No such thing.

That, by the way, would be the beginning of this time, the one that we’re now busy doing things in. There may have been other times, you understand—quite likely, in fact—with other beginnings and other endings, but our time, the one we are concerned with here, knows nothing of these possible sister times.

And before this time began, there were no surprises. Nor were there any cars. Nor was there any matter to build cars with, nor any energy to mold cars, had there been matter to mold them with. Nor space for roads to drive around on in cars, had there been anything to bring cars about with. Nor, of course, any time for them to travel through had there been matter, energy, and space to make them possible.

Before this time, the one we’re in right now, there wasn’t much of anything, anywhere, just Alphonse.

Alphonse is now—through a long and intricate series of events, all conceived of and staged by Alphonse, of course—known as God around here, but I am getting ahead of myself. And besides, I don’t want to give you the impression that God’s real name is Alphonse. It is not. It is Joe. And you had better not remember that.

So, as I said, before the beginning of time there was only Alphonse. And Alphonse, being utterly serene—being, in fact, the personification of serenity, being nothing but—had, of course, been utterly serene for pretty much forever (I know, there was no time in which to be utterly serene forever in, but bear with me). Okay, all we had, then, was Alphonse, and he simply was, and simply being was a pretty serene business, so that’s what he was, serene, and had never been anything but serene, and was facing (or would have, had he had a face) the possibility of going on being nothing but serene for ever and ever and ever (yes, I know, I’m implying time again, sorry), a prospect that on the whole and upon serene reflection struck Alphonse as boring beyond endurance.

Something he did not feel like putting up with much longer (Yes, I know, time again, of which there was none).

So. To timelessly and serenely amuse himself Alphonse created little island universes, swirly things, lots of sparkly little points which were quite pretty and moved around and looked stellar and all that, but while they were beautiful and sparkly and swirled just so, what he longed for most of all was not starry sparkles but surprise, and these starry islands were hardly surprising at all since Alphonse knew quite well who was making them, and not only that, once he stopped—stopped making them, that is—they simply undid and went away. Which to Alphonse, again, was not very surprising. It was, to Alphonse, not to put too fine a point on it, a big bummer.

Indeed, Alphonse’s biggest (and only) problem was that he was all knowing. Not that there was much to know about, but what there was, at least while he kept it so, well, he knew about it alright. And this, in a word, His word, was boring.

So. One day he set out to fix himself a surprise, or at lease a little diversion, by trying to forget who was creating that little galaxy over there, just so he could look at it and go: “Wow. Look at that, will ya,” but he couldn’t. It was him doing it all right, and being all knowing he knew that very well. Try as he may, no way. Couldn’t fool himself. Besides, who else was there, to have done it? And, as before, as soon as he stopped putting it there, gone was the galaxy. Back to being serene and all knowing and nothing but. Damn.

He tried again.

And again.

Which is how he, after many, many fruitless tries, finally struck some very inspired pay dirt and created Lie, his finest—some would say only—accomplishment.

This is what he did: First he created—well, he keeps creating, you understand, keeps putting it there, or it would vanish—a galaxy: a few trillion, trillion sparks (stars to us, but to him they’re just sparks), and while doing this—keeping these things there, with his left hand as it were—he, with his right or some other hand, decided with a certainty only an Alphonse could muster: Joe did this. No doubt about it. This thing over there was Joe’s handiwork. Was there a Joe? Anywhere? Didn’t matter. Alphonse’s decision precluded such questions, any questions. It was absolute and doubtless, and it established as a certainty: Joe’s galaxy. This was Joe’s work. Plain as day.

Alphonse turned away for just an instant, pretending sudden interest in some other direction, then quickly looked back. Yes, still there. Joe’s galaxy. Alphonse moved closer to get a better look. And still there. So, where’s this Joe, then?

Ah! Shouldn’t have asked that. In asking he remembered that there was no Joe, that he had made him up, had made it all up, and poof went the galaxy.

Damn!

He tried again though, lied that is, said Joe did it, and better, harder this time, with more conviction, more certainty, with utter and complete and everlasting certainty in fact. Then, for good measure, he also decided to never remember having decided Joe did it. And to cap it he finally decided to never remember having decided never to remember, and that, as they say, did the trick.

There it was, a galaxy. Wonder where that had come from. He tried to remember, had he seen this before? No, he hadn’t. Had he done this? No, not that he could remember. And then, the most beautiful thing of all, when he could not for the life of him figure out how this galaxy had come to be, finally: he was surprised. Delightfully surprised. And very happy.

Now Joe was not the kind of creator of galaxies to rest on his laurels. No sir. One galaxy was not enough. Before you could say much of Jack Robinson he had built himself another one, one that actually crashed into the first which caused all kinds of havoc and intergalactic clouds and storms and all kinds of cool things, and Alphonse was surprised (and very delighted) at all the commotion. Who was doing all this? Somebody must be behind it all. Alphonse went looking for that someone.

And finally found him. Messing with a couple of bright colored metal looking things that gave off blue-white smoke through a little pipe in the back not far from the rear wheel.

“Hey, you there. Who are you?”

Joe stopped what he was doing, stood up, straightened his you wouldn’t call it back, and wiped his, well not hands exactly.

“I’m Joe.”

“Joe?”

“Joseph, actually.”

“Joseph?”

“Yes. An you are?”

“Alphonse.”

“Can’t say that rings any bells. Where do you come from?”

“Hard to say.”

“Well, you must have come from somewhere.”

“Don’t remember.”

“Been here long?”

“Here? Just arrived.”

“Ah. But you’ve been around.”

“Around, yes. For ever.”

“Me too,” said Joe.

“What’s this then?” asked Alphonse, nodding in the direction of the ‘56 Chevy Joe was tinkering with.

“Called cars,” said Joe.

“What do they do?”

“They’re energy converters. Pour in some old dinosaur here, like so, and off they go, moving down the road spewing ozone destroying fumes.”

“Roads?”

“Here, see the tarmac, asphalt.”

“Asphalt?”

“Another use for old dinosaur,” said Joe.

“What are those things, dinosaurs?”

“Ah, you missed that, did you?”

“Missed what?”

“Earth, Ventra, Eupherus. I filled them with dinosaurs and extincted them all. Had a great time doing it too.”

“Earth?”

“Oh, I forgot. Just arrived, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you have been around?”

“Definitely.”

“But not around here?”

“No, not around here.”

“Where else is there?”

“Don’t know.” Alphonse looked around, still surprised. And still very much delighted. “So, you’ve made all this, huh?”

“Sure have. And you? What have you been up to? Wherever it is you’ve been.”

“Supervising,” said Alphonse.

“Supervising what?”

“All this,” said Alphonse with a sweeping, not a little proud gesture with not his arm exactly.

“Supervising, my foot,” said Joe. “Goofing off more like it.”

“Watch it,” said Alphonse. “You can’t talk to me this way. Don’t you know who I am?”

“You’re Alphonse, you just said so.”

“I’m more than that. Much more than that. I’m Alphonse, the ultimate creator.”

“You? You’re not the ultimate creator. This is the first time I’ve laid eyes on you. I’ve never seen you create a thing. Not for as long as I’ve been here.”

“Which is how long, exactly?”

“Oh, a long time. Trillions.”

“Trillions what?”

“Trillions of galaxy revolutions.”

“Ah.” Alphonse frowned. He didn’t quite know how to deal with this Joe. He looked around for something to nit-pick about. “Something’s missing though,” he said.

“And what would that be, Alphonse?”

“Shouldn’t there be something, you know, some things in our image. To run these, what did you call them?”

“Cars?”

“Yeah, cars.”

“That’s a thought,” said Joe, “but I don’t think in our image is such a hot idea, wouldn’t fit in these seats. Something with two legs instead, and two arms, and a head.”

“Yeah,” said Alphonse, “let’s call it an Adam.”

“An Adam?”

“Yeah. And let’s make him a wife thing called an Elvira. And they can have a bunch of babies and we can have lots of people writing confused books about them and start all kinds of religions.”

“Nah,” said Joe, on reflection. “Sounds boring. Let’s make some more dinosaur instead.”

“What’s with you and dinosaurs?” said Alphonse.

“They’re cool,” said Joe. “And they convert so nicely to fossil fuel. Just give them a little time, and a little pressure.”

“Can they pray?” asked Alphonse

“The dinosaurs? No, not really. They don’t care much about that kinda stuff. They eat, lay eggs, hatch and become fossil fuel, that’s what they do.”

“Well, who prays then?”

“Prays to whom?”

“Why, to me, of course,” said Alphonse.

Joe shook what should have been his head. “I don’t like the sound of that. Let’s stick to non-praying dinosaurs,” he said.

“Well, you stick to your dinosaurs. I’ll make an Adam,” said Alphonse.

“You can’t,” said Joe.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re gonna have to have me do it, or they won’t stay.”

“Oh, shit,” said Alphonse as he suddenly remembered, and everything went poof.

And so he had to start all over again, really deciding this time that no matter what, and no matter what Joe said to remind him, he would not remember. And it worked fine, all the way up to:

“You can’t,” said Joe.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re gonna have to have me do it, or they won’t stay.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Alphonse. “I’m Alphonse, the creator of the known universe.”

“Actually, no,” said Joe. “I’m the creator of the known universe.”

“That’s bull,” said Alphonse. “I made you, and you know it.”

And, of course, poof went everything.

“Oh, shit,” said Alphonse.

So he started all over again, really really deciding this time that no matter what, and no matter what Joe said to remind him, and no matter what he said to Joe to remind him, he would not remember. And it worked just fine. Still does.

So far.

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf

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