Work Text:
The existence theorem captures the notion that, if a Thing is in State A at Time A, and State B at Time B, then that Thing, whatever it is, needs to have gone through every state in between. And that there exists a Time T between Times A and B when that Thing existed at (or in) State T, if State T lies between A and B.
And if that Thing didn’t exist at Time A, but does at Time B, well, it came into existence some time between A and B.
Eight or so hours ago – let’s call it Time A - Bertram Gilfoyle had been in the state of Massachusetts, leaving too early to properly adjust his brain chemistry before his flight. So instead of being pleasantly buzzed he’s had the same swirl of poorly remembered math and poorly rendered life shit chasing each others’ tails around in his brain.
And now it’s Time B and he’s in the sate of California. And why was he trying to make this into an equation?
What had he been thinking about?
Right…
Tara wants a baby. And she’d like – or at least will allow - half of its DNA to come from him.
Shit. State shift one part A. Not-parent to parent, exact time TBD but soon.
State shift one part B, non-existence to existence for said kid, and how the hell was he supposed to do that to anybody?
State shift two. Tara wants him to move to Boston – no, not actual Boston-Boston, not even to Somerville; no, the owner of Tara’s Davis Square tripe-decker is selling, and so Tara and some friends are buying in Methuen – even the word Methuen revolts him – and Tara wants him to opt in.
And if he wants out of their relationship, now’s the time, because she’s not moving his shit to Methuen without him. (Shit he’d be loathe to give up, truth be told – a lot of it dating from when they were cohabitating in Montreal, then Cambridge. Total value, including the furniture, probably less than $5K, but it was his, damn it.)
And he has no clue what to do about any of this.
- - - - - -
He hadn’t bothered with WiFi on the plane because he has zero trust in its security. So the cavalcade of texts waiting for him when he switches out of airplane mode isn’t surprising; neither is the fact that, with the exception of three from recruiters, most of them are from Dinesh.
He scrolls up – Dinesh wants to know if he can hack some government database. Um, maybe? Vital statistics. California probably but he’s not certain. Again, maybe-to-probably, though like hell he’d do it. He likes his green card, and as he’s currently unemployed, maybe this isn’t the best time to go on a crime spree, especially a crime spree in his field.
Scrolling down… now Dinesh is asking him to hack a hospital system. Also probably yes, and something he might be willing to do.
Okay, Dinesh finally gets around to explaining himself a few texts later. He’s trying to help Jared figure out details about his birth, including but not limited to his birthdate, because their favorite lemon popsicle is trying to get a passport, ASAP because Richard is going to go weird out Europe and apparently that means Jared is as well.
The fact that Jared exists means that Jared had a beginning.
As did online-accessible hospital record systems. Gilfoyle doesn’t know many things, including whether he wants any part of Tara’s plan to keep the species going, but he’s absolutely certain that no hospital system in California will have 30-year-old protected health information anywhere he can reach.
He does, however, know something about passports.
‘Ducky doesn’t have a birth certificate?’ he types, dropping into a seat across from Hudson News.
‘Don’t you ever pay attention to the duck?’ Dinesh responds. ‘All his paperwork is fucked.’
Doesn’t he have a drivers license? ‘How does he drive?’ he types.
‘Poorly.’
Gilfoyle starts to respond, trying to do a spin on pot-kettle-black, but the target is just too large.
Instead, he types, ‘Aren’t his birth parents in Santa Cruz?’ Jared had been giddy as a chihuahua to meet them last month; after, nothing, and Gilfoyle hadn’t felt like poking that particular pile of despair.
‘Yeah….’ Dinesh responds. ‘You think they’d have his birth certificate? That would solve everything.’
‘You don’t need one necessarily for a passport. Someone who was at his birth just needs to sign something. His mother preferably. I’ll figure it out.’
‘Softy.’
‘Yeah, apparently.’ And time was short… and tomorrow he needed to start his job hunt…
Bicoastal? Should he just call fucking Raytheon now and get it over with? Or would they require US citizenship?
State at Time Now equals Canadian. State at Time Now plus some delta equals American. Not a continuous function, though, so what the fuck was he even doing?
He opens a browser; the instructions on how to deal if you don’t have a birth certificate take less than a minute to find. ‘Print out a DS-10 and come get me at SJC,’ he types.
‘You seriously want me to pick you up at the airport?’
‘I’m not taking an Uber to Santa Cruz.’
Time to figure out when and how Jared – or should he say Donald? – crossed the x axis into existence. Or the y axis?
Damn, he needed a drink.
- - - - - -
Two beers and twenty-five minutes later, Gilfoyle’s closing his eyes as Dinesh peels away from the curb at Arrivals. “Don’t kill anyone,” he says, trying not to sound like he really thinks this is a possibility.
Is he really going to keep his eyes shut the whole way to Santa Cruz?
He sighs and pulls out his laptop. More googling reveals that Jared’s mom’s statement and signature won’t be enough – to make this official, they’d need a notary, and he’s fresh out. Well, at least they’ll get the ball rolling.
“Where exactly are we going?” Dinesh asks, sensibly.
Fortunately, Jared’s phone’s location information is one thing he HAS hacked. He gives Dinesh the address of the only place in Santa Cruz that Jared’s visited recently, then settles back and watches the baby redwoods flit past. Massachusetts has plenty of trees as well – and 93 is straighter than 17, rather boring but not nearly as dangerous, he bets.
He’s not going to make a baby because highway safety?
“Ever think about leaving the valley?” he asks, immediately regretting this because now Dinesh is looking at him instead of the road.
“You mean, move back to Pakistan?”
“I mean, live anywhere but here.”
“Tara wants you to move to Boston, doesn’t she?”
Damn. “Yeah. Maybe. I’ve run out of excuses to stay here.”
“We have better trees.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Better weather.”
“I’m not here because of the weather.”
“Then why are you here? Why did you move out here in the first place? In 2014, you could have done what you were doing ANYWHERE.”
“Because it’s California.”
“It’s still California,” says Dinesh.
- - - - - -
Once Gilfoyle has the address, he gets to work.
And – it’s hella weird.
The house was purchased in 2000 for $799K by Stu and Susan – get this – Dunn. Parents of Peter, Lisa, and Donald.
No, not their Donald-turned-Jared; though given how closely all three children were spaced, he might as well have been.
So did that mean that Jared hadn’t been adopted at birth?
“Plan B,” he announces. “We’re not going to talk with his parents at all, we’re just going to steal Donald’s birth certificate.”
“Donald who?” asks Dinesh.
“Dunn, of course. Think he’d mind being a year younger?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Gilfoyle brings Dinesh up to speed; Dinesh shakes his head. “You’re the security expert,” he says. “Even if you can hack their system remotely, how many cameras do you think their neighbors have? And even if you can crash the system, someone’s going to notice this car. And, like, what if they’re HOME? What if they have GUNS? We aren’t in the valley anymore. And, what if we can’t even find where they keep their documents?”
Gilfoyle hates that Dinesh is right. Plus, truth be told, they’re actually pretty bad at crime.
“Let’s stick with Plan A,” says Dinesh. “I’ll do the talking.”
- - - - - -
And he does. And isn’t half-bad at it. Hello-we’re-friends-of-your-son-Donald-no-not-that-son-Donald yes-he’s-very-tall yes-we-think-it’s-Marfan’s-too-does-that-matter?
Gilfoyle had expected a door slam at that point, but instead they’re in the living room sipping herbal tea – and then call-him-Stu leaves the room and comes back with an envelope. “We meant to give this to him last month,” he says. “Nobody ever came for it….”
It’s Jared’s original birth certificate. Existence proven.
- - - - - -
By the time they’re back in the Tesla, they’re both ravenous, so they drive to the wharf – a process that takes almost as long as driving back home would have - and find a crappy bar with a decent menu. He wants to be sardonic but it’s just not coming – it’s been a very strange day, and right now he seems incapable of anything but watching Dinesh watch people.
“Why is everyone wearing hats?” Dinesh asks.
Dinesh is right. Everyone is wearing a hat. “Savages,” Gilfoyle says.
Dinesh nods. “Tell me more about Tara. Why hasn’t she moved out here? She seems to like it.”
“Because it’s not Boston.” It’s not even Methuen.
He takes out his phone and googles Methuen. It’s – not as bad as he expected. More urban, less white.
That is doesn’t seem awful - fills him with terror.
The existence theorem implies that, if something is going to be over, there’s a time it has to end.
“I have a small U-Haul’s worth of shit in Massachusetts I don’t want to toss,” he says.
“Want company?”
“Yeah.”
* * * The End * * *