Other Worlds Than These (collection)

DEAR ANNABEHLS ^{MERCURIO D. RIVERA}

Dear Annabehl:

I’m concerned about the inordinate amount of time that my 13-year-old son “Jeff” spends with himself. A boy his age should be out and about, playing with friends, participating in sports and other after-school activities. I come from a very traditional family, and I have to confess that I’m concerned that this behavior suggests that Jeff may be gay.

My husband thinks I’m overreacting. What do you think?

Concerned Tuscaloosa Mom

Dear Concerned:

Generally, a boy Jeff’s age spending time with himself is perfectly normal. The question I would pose is: How many of his selves does he spend time with? Attachment to any particular self might prove to be unhealthy. If your son’s behavior persists for more than a few weeks, you need to revoke his Snatcher privileges and take him in for some psiprobing. If it’s of any comfort, this sounds more like classic narcissism than homosexuality. However, should your son be gay, you need to learn to love him for who he is. Alternatively, search for a heterosexual replacement. I recommend that you swallow two Validums, and pick up the recently published Bonds Between Multiple Me’s by Dr. Gregory Byars for an excellent discussion of this subject.

Dear Annabehl:

I’m going through the most difficult period of my life. I caught my husband Robbie cheating on me. The thing is, he’s cheating on me—with me. He insists that as long as the person he’s sleeping with is me, he isn’t technically cheating. That’s BS! I say that he exchanged his vows with me, not with skinnier, stringy-haired, slutty versions of me. He’s being immoral and unfaithful, isn’t he, Annabehl? I just don’t get it. What does he see in other me’s that he doesn’t see in me? I’m hurt, lonely and frustrated.

Dora/Memphis, TN

Dear Dora:

Take a deep breath and a Xantax, dear. It’s all a matter of perspective. That Robbie chooses to spend his time away from you with you is actually quite romantic. In fact, one might say he’s exceedingly faithful and truly devoted. You should be flattered as heck. What strikes me as odd is that while Robbie is off enjoying you, you’re “lonely and frustrated.” Get up off your derriere, girl, and kwitcherwhining! You should be spending time with other Robbies. You’ll find that doing so will strengthen your marriage and make both of you much happier in the long run.

Dear Annabehl:

We lost our son Tommy to an inoperable brain tumor, just a few days before his sixth birthday. My wife got it into her head that we should go forward with the birthday party with another version of Tommy as a way to say our final goodbyes. We set the Snatcher to a high-end frequency and nabbed another Tommy, who was none the wiser about his displacement. Well, you guessed it. The birthday party came and went and now “Tommy” is still with us. What about “Tommy’s” real parents? They must be going through hell. And what about our Tommy? Doesn’t he deserve to be mourned?

Whenever I raise this issue with my wife, she gets angry and changes the subject. She pretends that nothing ever happened. I know I should love the new Tommy, but all I feel is numb. What should I do?

L.P./Chicago, Illinois

Dear L.P.:

I strongly recommend professional psiprobing so you can learn to accept Tommy’s variant as part of your family. Your emotional confusion is understandable, sweetie. Many people who suffer a loss like yours find it difficult to accept a replacement. But your wife is behaving no differently than any mother would in her situation. Be sure to have Tommy routinely checked for the condition that caused his initial passing. It may become necessary to get yourselves another replacement. Good luck to you.

Dear Annabehl:

My mom and dad are fairly well-connected. As a result, we have Government authorization for Total Access to billions of Snatcher frequencies. My family’s been on the move ever since the first Snatcher prototype was developed. We’ve skipped into all sorts of psychedelic realities, including a black-and-white dimension at a high-end frequency where we were the only colored people in the world. (My parents, who think they’re cool, thought it would be “educational” for us to experience firsthand the prejudices faced by minorities. Well, we were treated like friggin’ circus freaks!) But most of the time the differences were so subtle that I couldn’t even tell we’d skipped.

I’ve met a boy I really like who lives down the block from us, so I want to stay here. I’m not even sure if this is the reality we originally came from, but it’s close enough, I guess. Why do my parents insist on skipping around? Apart from having a new boyfriend here, I’ve made other friends too. And it’s hard to make friends every time I skip. Sometimes the same people are slightly “off” in a new reality, and not as likeable. I hate what the Snatcher has done to my life! My parents just don’t understand.

Elinor/Houston, TX

Dear Elinor:

I suspect you may no longer be around to read this. But in case some other you (or others like you) need advice on this subject, I say: inject some soft hemo-music, take a long drag on a joint, and relax, honey. The important thing is to speak to your parents and keep the lines of communication open. If they refuse to take your feelings into account, speak to a stream of variants until you find a set of parents who care enough about your feelings to listen and to lay down roots here. Instead of condemning the Snatcher (shame on you!), why don’t you use it to help solve your problems?

Dear Annabehl:

My sister “Betty” is having a crisis of faith. Before the Breach War began, variants of so many faiths skipped through our transborder that she wonders now whether our beliefs are any more “true” than the beliefs of other versions of us. Yesterday a bald variant of Betty showed up and proclaimed her Jesus Christ—a clean-shaven Christ with a buzz cut—the one true Son of God. She ridiculed our own bearded Jesus and called him “a slovenly hippie imposter.” Ever since then, Betty has stopped going to church and has fallen into a deep depression. She keeps asking about the near-infinite number of souls that populate the transdimensional slate and why God, if He exists, would have created them to believe in so many different faiths.

What can I do to help her?

Chastity/Pomfret, Conn.

Dear Chas:

I’ve consulted with spokesman Father Joseph E. DeMichael about the Catholic Church’s position on this subject. Church doctrine, he explained, teaches us that the variants who refuse to believe in the true, bearded Jesus—not other, bizarre Jesii with different haircuts and wardrobes—are doomed to eternal damnation. In fact, many church scholars believe that the very reason God allowed us to invent the Snatcher is so we can seek out our variants and enlighten them about the one true God. So whatever else happens, at least our souls are safe, dear. Pass it along. Tell Betty to pour herself a tall glass of cabernet and relax.

Dear Annabehl:

I’m stationed at the frontlines near the Great Wall of China where the Breach is at its worst. The hordes continue to battle their way through. We’ve been fighting hard to repel these forces, and this week alone I’ve lost six friends and three versions of their replacements. The other-dimensional armies grow more freakish every day, some are barely humanoid, in fact. We don’t know what’s coming through next, Annabehl. I have to confess: I’m afraid. I’m writing to ask your readers for their prayers and support. Any e-transmissions they could send our way would provide a tremendous lift. Neural books and movies—and especially hemo-music—would be greatly appreciated as well. Thank you.

Private Sandy Ripple,

Special Global Forces

All readers, atten-tion! Every citizen of this plane should applaud the heroism and self-sacrifice of our brave young troops. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for defending the transborders from that wave of lower-dimensional scum, Private Ripple. While those of us who have not done a tour of duty cannot possibly understand the horrors you and your compatriots have faced, we all extend our love and support. Readers, please send your letters and donations to Dear Annabehl and we will arrange to forward them to the troops. Don’t let our soldiers down. Yes, they’re replaceable. But remember, so are the invaders. This is why there appears to be no end in sight to this war. Support our troops!

Dear Annabehl:

Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but your advice to L.P. from Chicago struck me as amazingly insensitive. He had just lost his son to a brain tumor and his wife used their Snatcher to abduct a variant from a nearby dimension. Of course he felt numb! He never had a chance to grieve. Worse, what about the parents of the variant they kidnapped? They must be devastated by his disappearance. This whole world is turning to [crap]! What were you thinking, Annabehl?

An Old-Timer/Topeka, KS

Dear Old-Timer:

I stand by my advice, gramps. There was simply no need for L.P. to grieve when a replacement was so easily accessible. Grieving is dead! Death is dead! I did recommend psiprobing, however, so he could learn to accept his new son, who is an innocent in all this, after all. As for the transdimensional parents who lost their child, you seem to forget that they too can use their Snatcher to find themselves a replacement. So search for that antique bong in the back of your dusty closet, old man, and inhale deeply. Get with the times.

Dear Readers:

I am pleased that we are once again able to bring you my Dear Annabehl column after our long absence. It’s been a difficult six months. Today’s column is dedicated to all the courageous soldiers and their replacements who gave their lives at the Breach. I understand that there’s still a great deal of confusion, some pessimists might even call it chaos, with the Ardiente administration taking over. Although the Ardiente underlords do have a pseudo-demonic appearance, don’t let their horns and red tails throw you. As they’ve pointed out, they’re “broadminded traditionalists,” a God-fearing salt-of-the-earth-type of people. Most importantly, they have promised to rule benignly and to deregulate Snatchers, to allow Total Access into and out of our reality to people everywhere. Freedom is precious, after all.

There will be a period of adjustment before things get back to normal, but trust me, readers, they will. Keep working hard and have faith. There is a reason for everything. You’ll see. This will all turn out for the best.

Dear Annabehl:

With the new Government taking over and Total Access now fully in effect, I’ve decided that it’s time for me and my family to take our leave from this reality. My wife is reluctant to leave her friends behind, but I keep telling her that we can relocate just a few frequencies away where she can have the same friends, more or less. Meanwhile, other me’s are flooding in at an unprecedented rate: me’s with blue skin; me’s with mammary glands; me’s with really bad haircuts; and me’s indistinguishable from me in every objectively discernable way (except every now and then one of me will smile in a dark, sly way that gives me chills). There isn’t room in my house for all of me’s. And there’s only one job for one of me. They won’t tell me, but I think they’re all running from something, something truly terrible in their own realities. Whatever it is, I’m afraid that it may be coming. How can I convince my wife to leave? I think it’s time for everyone to escape across the transborder. I know a lot of people who have made the same decision. Maybe I’ll find another world, one where Snatchers were never invented. But how can I skip through unless it has a Snatcher portal entrance? Do you have any advice on whether we should leave?

Packed But Not-Quite-Ready To Go/Biloxi, Mississippi

Dear Packed:

This is Annabehl filling in for Annabehl. Annabehl (persona prime) has moved on to a higher plane and left this column in my lucky hands. I consider it an honor to be stepping into her shoes (figuratively and literally). Forgive me if it takes a bit of time to get up to speed. In my reality, I stripped for a living and doled out advice at the bar during breaks, so this is quite a step up for me.

Freedom is a precious, wonderful gift. Go wherever you think you’ll be happy. By all means, cross the transborder! Take an acid trip! Do whatever! We’re free!

Dear Annabehls:

While at work last week I dialed into my bank and discovered that all of my accounts had been emptied. By the time I got home, all of my clothes and other personal belongings were also gone. It’s apparent that one of my variants has gone too far this time, Annabehl.

I’ve decided to commence legal action against my self and have retained an attorney who’s agreed to take the case on a contingency basis. My friends insist that litigation against one’s self is just a waste of time and money. I disagree. Part of the reason why the world economy is on the verge of collapse is because of the actions of a few variants like this one. What do you think? Should I fight for my rights? Or should I do as my friends suggest and just let this go?

Esteban/Bronx, New York

Dear Esteban:

Have you ever heard of a little item called a Snatcher? Step through it and retrieve your items upfrequency, for goodness sake! Then snort a little elcitron and relax.

—Annabehl

Dear Esteban:

Annabehl is off-base on this one. Two wrongs don’t make a right. Pursue your remedies the way all patriots do: through litigation. Then snort a little elcitron and relax.

—Annabehl

Dear Esteban:

I’ve consulted a legal expert who points out that service of process can be tricky in transdimensional litigation. Also, the law is still unclear on whether our courts even have jurisdiction over our variants. No, I have to agree with Annabehl and disagree with Annabehl on this one. Take a short trip upfrequency and exercise a little self-help. Then snort a little elcitron and relax.

—Annabehl

Dear Annabehls:

Congrats on the great job you’re doing in place of Annabehl, who was miles better than Annabehl, who was leagues better than Annabehl, who was almost as good, I’d say, as Annabehl. Here’s my dilemma. I’ve asked my cousin JoJo (persona prime) and three of her variants to serve in my bridal party as maids of honor. It turns out that JoJo, one of JoJo’s variants, is feuding with her mother, my Aunt Josie. Since that JoJo isn’t from this reality, Aunt Josie isn’t her real mother, mind you, but JoJo can’t seem to get this through her thick skull. She refuses to attend unless I replace Aunt Josie with a variant—even though Aunt Josie really is, in effect, a variant, at least in relation to the complaining JoJo. Aunt Josie refuses to attend if her selves are invited. (My aunt and my mom are old-fashioned and insist on being the only versions of themselves at the wedding.) Two of the other JoJos insist, however, that I invite their actual mothers from their respective realities—and refuse to participate in the bridal party unless I do so. Meanwhile, Sean, my fiancé, has demanded multiple me’s be present on my wedding night! I guess I’m my mother’s daughter because I have no desire to share the stage with anyone on my wedding night—even me! I want my wedding night to be a special, one-on-one experience between me (me prime, that is) and Sean (Sean prime, that is). What should I do about JoJo, JoJo, JoJo, JoJo, Aunt Josie and Sean? I’m too busy and stressed to deal with all of this. I have wedding plans to make!

Desperate Dixie/San Diego, CA

Dear Dixie:

We Annabehls are unanimous on this one: schedule a session at the Snatcher ASAP! Replace the troublesome JoJo—the JoJo who still carries that unseemly transdimensional grudge against her mother, your aunt (non-prime to her, actually, though that JoJo refuses to acknowledge it)—with another more agreeable version of JoJo. And good riddance! Carrying that type of transdimensional baggage really is childish and unacceptable. Talk to the two remaining JoJos and explain to them that this is your special day, that weddings are expensive and that you decide how many variants of your guests can attend. If they don’t like it, zap, get yourself two more replacements. As for your fiancé’s desire to turn your wedding night into an orgy, you’ll have to forgive me, honey, but you might want to zap yourself a variant who has a little more regard for your feelings. (After the wedding night, he can indulge in whatever multiple-you shenanigans you and other consenting variants of you wish to engage. But on the wedding night? He’s a pig!) Finally, to reduce the stress, snatch another you out of the Snatcher and delegate these wedding tasks to your self. Then mix yourself a margarita and head to the sim-beach for some well-deserved RNR.

Dear Annabehls:

I’ve come to the depressing realization that my life is empty and truly, truly meaningless. Over the past few years I’ve met variants of myself who’ve led fascinating lives: one lived in a remote village in Guatemala where he helped construct homes for the poor; one skydived at sunset from a stealth copter into the Grand Canyon’s Colorado River; another made a point of scaling Everest every autumn and making love to a beautiful woman on its snowy mountaintops. When I think about my own life, Annabehl, I’m struck by the safe choices I’ve made. I spend my days focused on the tedium of an office job I’ve never really wanted, caring for an elderly mother who doesn’t even recognize me anymore, living life just going through the motions. I can see the remainder of my humdrum life stretched out in front of me, only I’m trying to pretend that I don’t see it, Annabehl, because I know I don’t have the ability to make any changes anyway and thinking about it just makes me feel more hopeless and impotent. And what does it matter what I choose to do? For every South American village I’ve never visited, for every mountain peak I’ve never climbed, another version of me is out there embarking on those adventures anyway. Nothing seems to matter anymore.

Jacob/Salt Lake City, Utah

Dear Jacob:

I’m not going to tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. And I’m not going to tell you to get up off your keister and make some changes in your life. Why bother? Somewhere some variant of you is making those necessary changes. You see, essentially you’re right. Whatever you decide to do really is meaningless. But there’s certainly nothing to be gained by being depressed about this fact either. You’re suffering from classic symptoms of Variant Inadequacy, kiddo, which is not at all uncommon. To give yourself a better perspective, you need to interact with some downfrequency variants who don’t have it anywhere near as good as you. Heck, nothing cheers a person up more quickly than studying the misery of his variants. So pop open a beer, visit the Snatcher, and just relax.

Annabehl, Annabehl, Annabehl, Annabehl and Annabehl concur with Annabehl’s advice.

Annabehl, Annabehl and Annabehl dissent with the substance of the advice, but concur in the recommendation of a beer.

Annabehl abstains.

000000000000000000111000000000000000000011110000000000000 000000099115555000000000000000000007700000000000000000000 0000Dear Annabehls: 0000011111333377777777700099999999999999 99:

I’m afraid. So afraid I can barely function. I feel totally adrift, as if nothing, no one, that I know is quite right. It’s difficult to explain, but sometimes I swear I don’t recognize my children. Didn’t I used to have a uni-daughter named Allison? I have a memory, a fading dream-memory of brushing her tangled blond hair. The thing is, I know no one has uni-daughters, certainly not me. I have an adorable set of identical septuplet boys. And while I know that this is my house, why do I sometimes find myself stumbling into rooms I never even knew existed? And my friends. Why do I forget their names? Sometimes I stare into the mirror-eyes of our pet elphine, and I don’t even recognize my own reflection. The diagonal rows of black eyes that speckle my face seem unfamiliar to me. I’m afraid, afraid that the walls between realities have finally crumbled, and that I’m the only one who sees it. Wasn’t the sky blue a long time ago? I could swear that it used to be. Didn’t we used to walk upright on two legs? I’m lost, Annabehls. I don’t think I know who or what I am any more.

Lost in Newfoundland

000000000000099555577777777999000000000000000000000000000 00Dear Lost: 9999999999999999900077777777111100000000000000 07

We’re sorry to say that there’s only one reality, dear, and we’re stuck with it. The sky has always been deep red, we’ve always skittered on six legs, and we’ve always come in sets of seven, nine or thirteen. It’s not unusual to sometimes feel out of place, to feel cast adrift like a wind-blown ember in the eye of a black tornado, everything around you changing while you’re standing still. We’ve felt that way ourselves, sometimes. Do what we do, Lost. Buck up. Fly high on the fumes of ecsahol, if necessary. And relax.