Humphries’ Third Principle of Fermi Acceleration

Peter stood alone in his dressing room, naked from the waist down.

He was preparing to give a speech to a room full of renowned physicists on ‘The Mystery of First Order Fermi Processes and the Injection Paradox.’ The only problem was, Peter didn’t know anything about ‘The Mystery of First Order Fermi Processes and the Injection Paradox.’

Admittedly, he had written a celebrated article on the topic. But in his defence, writing the paper had been an accident. He was not now, nor had he ever been, an expert in theoretical physics, but had up until very recently taught middle-school history. Despite his lack of scientific knowledge, however, he had somehow managed to write a ground-breaking physics manifesto while in a drunken stupor several weeks after his wife left him for an actual physicist.

It was not just that Peter had failed to achieve anything in life. Nor was it that over the years he bloated like a corpse lying face down in a stream, or that he chewed with his mouth open, or his apathy, or his laziness, or his depressive bouts. The reason his wife left was clearly stated in her divorce registration, citing ‘extreme mental cruelty by means of unwarranted and unjustifiable boredom.’

It began in primary school. Peter was bullied mercilessly for his love of trains.

“Okay, class,” his teacher announced, “let’s look at what you’ve done. Peter, what’s that you’ve drawn?”

“It’s a train, sir.”

“A train? You were supposed to be drawing your hero.”

“The Class A3 4472 Steam Locomotive paved the way for modern trade routes across Europe, sir. This train is my hero.”

The class stared.

His teacher spoke under his breath. “Are you an idiot, Humphries?”

The children laughed.

Peter buried his head under the drawing of a locomotive with a moustache and tried to hold back the tears.

But it was too late.

The rest of the year, they called him Pew-Pew-Peter and formed human chains to imitate train cars whenever they saw him. Peter could not understand why they had to be so mean.

Even the teachers started using his nickname.

“Pew-pew? Has anyone seen Pew-Pew?” his teacher called during registration.

“Must have missed his stop,” a student shouted. Everyone chuckled.

If only trains were popular, Peter thought, then he wouldn’t be mocked so viciously. He wished he could be a train. Trains never made fun of each other. Trains never had their feelings hurt. Why couldn’t people be more like trains?

He asked his mother to do something at the school gates one day. She responded the same way she always did.

“Don’t speak to me in public.”

Every day that year he cried himself to sleep and promised he would never draw attention to himself again, never do anything to be labelled different. He would live a life as boring as possible, and melt into the background, safely hidden from judgement.

“Have you ever thought about parting your hair on the other side?” his wife suggested on their first date.

“And look deranged? Are you mad, Clarice?” Peter balked and almost called the evening off. Who was this woman living life without a semblance of order, coming in on the very first date and suggesting such drastic changes?

Unfortunately, Clarice misinterpreted his rigidity for humour for far too long into their relationship, and by the time she realised the truth, it was too late to back out.

She begged him to have a single original thought. But Peter was not one for thinking for himself, he preferred reading about other peoples’ thoughts in dusty books like The Origins of the London and North-Western Railway (LNWR) ‘Precursor’ Class type 4-4-0 Steam Locomotive.

Now he’d had one of the most original thoughts in human history, and his wife had, in a roundabout way, helped prompt it.

Though Peter did not remember writing the article, he did vaguely recall wanting to best Dr. Brown (his wife’s new lover) at his own game.

It was one Wednesday evening after Peter and his wife had separated. Peter was drinking alone and mumbling to himself about the injustice of his wife’s betrayal. He chose a random unsolved physics conundrum from the internet and set himself to solving it.

He locked himself in his study with only a bin for a toilet, a bottle of brandy, and the promise he would not leave until he solved the unsolvable.

He quickly ruined his paper and broke his pencil, and his bin overflowed sooner than anticipated.

Still, he was not getting anywhere. He needed to innovate.

He tried holding the pen in his other hand. No change.

He tried sitting on the floor.

He put his clothes on back to front.

He stood on his head and fell and got a black eye.

He berated himself in a Scottish accent.

He put on his wife’s dress that hung on the back of the door.

Nothing seemed to work.

He sat in silence a long time, and then resigned himself to drinking until he could not drink anymore.

But at some point in the drunken blur, something odd happened. A primal instinct took over and the pages filled themselves with foreign symbols and formulae. In a moment of lucidity, Peter realised he had cracked it.

Balled up wads of chewed paper littered the floor, and there was a surprising amount of blood on the walls.

But he was done.

Before he had a chance to sober up, Peter personally delivered the handwritten paper to Dr. Brown’s office, with a note attached.

Here, I solved it for you. Love, Peter Humphries, BA.

The following afternoon, Peter received a call.

“Good afternoon, old chap, is this Mr. Peter Humphries?” a young voice asked.

“Yes. Who’s this?” Peter replied.

“This is Dr. Percy Brown, my boy.”

“Hello, Dr. Percy Brown. Who are you?”

“I believe we met once before? When I came to collect your wife’s belongings?”

“Ah, yes, Dr. Brown. Thank you for calling. Do you have some fresh suffering you wish to inflict upon me?”

“Quite the opposite, my dear Humphries. I read your paper. I think it’s brilliant.”

Dr. Brown explained that Peter’s article would transform our understanding of particle physics, that infinite, clean energy was now on the horizon, that his writing could save the planet from ecological crisis, and that he would be a very rich man.

Peter did not care much about particle physics, or infinite, clean energy, or saving the planet from ecological crisis, but he wasn’t opposed to the idea of being a very rich man.

And so, with a little cajoling, Peter agreed to have his paper typed up by his nemesis, reviewed by the finest academics, and published.

Peter never really had anyone he could call a friend before, but in the weeks after publishing his theory he was surrounded by very influential people, all referring to him as their friend. He felt a strange, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he was no longer dreading waking up tomorrow.

Peter received an invite to join the prestigious Dolor Ipsum Coetus, an exclusive society of intellectuals. He dressed in his finest suit, an oversized tweed he inherited from his father that smelled of cigars, and took a train to Oxford. He followed the directions to the back of a run-down gothic building and rapped on the heavy oak door three times.

“Secretum verbum?” a voice demanded.

“Sumus ut captiosus,” Peter read from his invite.

The door swung inwards, and Peter found himself facing a grand hall with portraits of bearded men on the walls. It smelled of rich mahogany and stale urine.

“Welcome, Peter,” the president announced as Peter stepped inside, “we’ve been desperate to meet you.”

“You have?”

“We have. Can I offer you a whisky?”

“It’s 10am,” Peter said.

“Amaretto then?”

The president introduced Peter to the brilliantly minded members, all extremely keen to speak with him. Peter adored the attention. They seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, and no one switched off when he started talking, or spoke over him, or even wandered off mid-conversation.

“What did you eat on the morning of your discovery?” an aging scholar asked.

“Jam toast, maybe?” Peter replied.

“Fascinating.” The man scribbled in his notebook.

“Did you have a bowel movement that day?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Exceptional, truly exceptional.”

Everyone was so kind, so inviting, so friendly. And all Peter had to do was keep mysteriously silent on his theory.

They didn’t want him to leave, and on his way out, Peter shook more hands and hugged more men that he had in his entire life. For the very first time, Peter felt he existed, that he was recognised, and he began to experience what it might feel like to belong.

A slight irritation, however, was that Peter had named his theory Humphries’ Third Principle of Fermi Acceleration. In his drunken state, the name seemed an incredibly droll means of infuriating Dr. Brown by withholding two mysterious originating principles. Unfortunately, he now had the added annoyance of undercover physicists trying to wheedle secrets from him, secrets he did not have.

“Remind me, what was your first principle again?” a barista casually snuck into conversation as he frothed Peter’s milk.

“Get your own theory, you lecherous-” Peter yelled and stormed away without the coffee he’d paid for.

Not only did Peter have to manage sneaky physicists, but he was constantly pestered about giving a speech on his theory.

“I don’t want to give a speech,” Peter said.

“Why not?” his agent responded through clenched teeth, aware of just how lucrative even one talk would be.

“I don’t know how to write a speech, or give a speech, and look at me, I hardly look like a speech giver.”

“That’s why?”

“Yes.”

“Those are the only reasons you won’t give a speech?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no other secret reason?”

“No.”

“No other excuse why you won’t, further down the line, change your mind and refuse to speak?”

Peter sensed a trap. “No.”

“Understood.”

And so, his agent set about remedying the explicitly stated, albeit wrong, roadblocks between Peter and a public presentation on his theory.

She hired a speech writer to write a speech, a speaking coach to coach his speaking, and a fashion designer to design his fashion (largely ignored). After employing all of these people to train Peter, he no longer had much of a reason to refuse.

Nevertheless, a speech would be a disaster. As soon as Peter opened his mouth, everyone would realise he was a fraud. They would ask questions he would not be able to answer, and he would flounder and be exposed as a liar. They would heap scorn and shape upon him, and he would become an outcast, a pariah, and would never be able to work again. He would lose his tiny apartment and have to live under a bridge and offer favours to lonely men for food. His new friends would never speak to him again. His publicist, manager, and agent would all have to find other jobs, it might take them weeks. It would be a catastrophe for all involved.

He could have simply said no, refused to give a speech. He was a genius, and geniuses (geniusi?) did whatever that pleased.

But everything changed for Peter one evening and none of his newfound prestige, or even his concerns about being outed seemed to matter much anymore. His indifference began when Dr. Brown invited Peter for dinner. The two were celebrating Peter selling the license of his theory to an energy megacorporation.

During the dinner Dr. Brown had gone on about his admiration for Peter. He edged his chair closer until their knees were together, and gently touched Peter’s arm. It became apparent it was not only veneration Dr. Brown felt, it was infatuation.

After they split the bill, and were enjoying a candied mint, Dr. Brown casually suggested that if Peter were ever inclined, he could contact Brown on this number. Peter looked at the digits scribbled on a napkin that were not Dr. Brown’s publicly available contact.

“But I’m not homosexual,” Peter said.

“Nor am I, I’m an academic.”

Peter met Dr. Brown’s eyes. He could feel the warmth of the professor’s leg, could smell the minty freshness of his breath.

Aside from their business relationship, Peter never expected anything more from Dr. Brown. He did harbour quite a lot of resentment towards the professor for his part in ending Peter’s marriage.

But the potential to ruin his soon to be ex-wife’s life by accepting Dr. Brown’s proposition, was enough to give Peter pause. The resentment he felt towards his wife was the catalyst that allowed him to, for the first time in his life, consider his preferences.

His sexuality had, much like all his urges to break from convention, remained locked away, deep down in his subconscious. It had never crossed his mind to be with a man before, but now that he considered it, he found he may not be so averse to the idea.

When he really thought about it, he began to question everything.

Was he actually attracted to his wife? Had he ever been? Or was she simply the only person willing to sleep with him and allow him to pass as ‘normal’? Could he think of any women he was attracted to? Did he like cereal? He ate it every morning. What about history, did he enjoy teaching it? Was coffee delicious, or just a means of fitting into the staff room? Was beige even his favourite colour? He wasn’t so sure anymore.

His stomach knotted and his mind leapt from one insecurity to the next. A few minutes ago, he had been so certain about so much, and now he knew so little. He began to question his every belief as sweat beaded on his face and chest.

“What do I believe?”

His whole life he had never been one to question anybody, himself included, for fear of upsetting, and was far more concerned with fitting in than he was about knowing the truth. He had lived only as a reflection of what he believed society wanted. He did not exist as his own entity, his own being.

The more he thought, the more questions he had.

“Who am I? What am I?”

In the end, Peter could only come up with one answer to his questions - he did not know. He truly didn’t know anything about himself.

Peter sat in the restaurant long after Dr. Brown left. He gripped the table, his world spinning, as his mind flickered through every opportunity he had missed.

“Would you like to try this ice cream, Peter?”

“Pistachio? Certainly not.”

“Why don’t we go to Paris for the weekend?”

“We have cheese at home.”

“How about a swim in the sea?”

“You mean the fish toilet?”

“A massage?”

“I am perfectly capable of rubbing my own shoulders.”

The floor lurched beneath him, and his vision blurred. He struggled to swallow. There was so much he hadn’t done, so much time wasted.

This one moment of consideration, borne from spite, was enough to upend Peter’s existence far more than the millions he had earned selling his theory, more so than the renown he had gained, or the respect he had garnered. More so because, not only did the realisation impact the rest of his life, it repainted every moment he had lived up to this point.

Peter realised he had not been an imposter since the invention of his theory, but rather his whole life had been a lie.

And he was sick of it.

He lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling. He bitterly regretted the time spent living in fear, but slowly he came around to the idea of the time he had left. This was not the end, it was a beginning. He was starting his first adventure. All by himself. He only had to decide where to go.

The idea of giving a speech then, suddenly felt of very little importance.

Instead, he would face the truth and live a life of honesty from here on out. He would figure out who he was, and he would not care what others thought.

Peter never did accept Dr. Brown’s proposal. He had too much to figure out, and he’s too young for me anyway, Peter thought. He also realised his own misery had made being married to him unbearable.

“You can hardly blame her. She did her best,” he thought and took a bite of his morning toast. It wasn’t his wife’s fault for leaving, they were simply not right for one another.

Standing in the cramped room backstage, Peter pulled on his trousers and buttoned the fly, he looked at himself in the mirror. There he was, an honest man, and a happy one, for the first time in his life.

He thought about his own theory, about ‘Humphries Third Principle of Fermi Acceleration’, and what he had learned from the discovery. He wondered about the other two principles, the ones that were not real but almost undoubtedly existed somewhere deep in his subconscious. He thought about what other truths might be lurking, just below the surface, waiting to reveal themselves.

He pulled on his pre-laced elasticated brogues, opened his dressing room door, and nodded for the stage manager to lead the way. As he walked, he wondered if they would still call him a genius after they learned the truth.

Peter stepped onto the stage in front of hundreds of professors, all waiting to hear him speak. He marvelled at the sheer quantity of knowledge possessed by this group of men and women and wondered how much they really knew about themselves.

He smiled.

“Good evening, everybody. My name is Peter Humphries, and I’m a fraud.”