The Residue

THE RESIDUE

“Trillionaire – how does that sound, huh?” Samson Heitt said to his assistant. She flicked her long black hair back and sighed. His blubbery butt rested on the edge of her desk. She hated that.

“It sounds impossible,” she said. He paid her extra to tell him the truth. When you’re rich nobody tells you the truth anymore.

“Nothing is impossible when you’re intelligent,” Samson chuckled. Hannah looked at him. Samson Heitt wasn’t intelligent. He was just greedy enough to use every trick in the book, like all modern monopolists. He was a billionaire. Just a billionaire. At forty-two. Now, he wanted to be a trillionaire. And he wanted Serena, the new up and coming supermodel. She’s fresh, she’s young and she gives off a naïve aura. She’s perfect, he thought.

“You’re not exactly a nerd,” said Hannah.

“I hire nerds,” he said, tiny coal-like eyes gleaming with pride.

“Yes,” she said.

“Don’t yes me. That’s not what I pay you for,” he said, and smirked. She smiled. She was mean to him, and he was mean to her. It was part of the job.

“I just think, that you are overestimating your intellectual capabilities,” Hannah corrected herself.

“Ah yes. Megalomania. My shrink warned me about it. It sets in after the first billion. Fair enough,” he sighed, “did you send the invitation to Serena?” he asked looking through the window at Serena's beautiful face on the video billboard.

“Yup. A week ago,”

“Did she reply?”

“No. It’s the third one I’ve sent her. I don’t think she’s interested,” Hannah said with a sardonic smile.

“She will be. Soon every woman will be interested. I need to see Branko,”

***

Alex Branko raised his eyebrows and tapped his pen on the desk, thinking. He looked at Samson.

“It’s extremely unethical,” he said.

“I don’t know what that means,” said Heitt and shrugged.

“It means-” Branko looked at Heitt and stopped. It would be pointless to try to explain.

“Legally - no one can touch me. Or you,” said Heitt.

“Still, there will be consequences. We have the technology to trace a favourable outcome to its origin. But there would be ripples. And side effects. And residue.”

“Like what?”

“Usually it’s small details,”

“Will anyone notice them? Will anyone know? After the change?”

“Only some individuals. Conspiracy theorists, sensitives, intuitives, people with a high nonconformity quotient. Maybe zero-point-five percent of the population,”

“So, nothing to worry about,” Samson smiled.

“You can easily neutralize them. Have your people mention it on the news, that they’re all a bunch of nutjobs. Something in the daily column. Say the residue isn’t real and they remember it wrong.”

“Great. I’ll do that,” Heitt clasped his hands.

“But find someone else to do it, because I can’t be involved,”

“Ah!” Heitt said and held his chest like someone shot him. He leaned on the desk, “I’ll pay you anything you want. You’ll never have to worry about money again,”

“Of course. Because if it works, you’ll never have to worry about money ever again. I’ll just get the scraps,”

“Come on, don’t be like that,”

“OK, I want a billion dollars,” Branko said, just to test him. He didn’t really want to do it. He simply couldn’t.

“Ha ha ha, I’m not gonna just give you a billion dollars, are you out of your mind?”

“I think it’s a fair price for meddling with the universe.”

***

The dawn broke and birds exploded with song in a pristine meadow, untouched by humans. Humans didn’t exist yet. A black hole appeared in the sky. A large dump truck and a digger gently dropped to the ground near the riverbank. Men in hardhats got out of the vehicles and gathered around the guy with a map. He pointed at the river and gestured vividly. A group of monkeys observed them from the trees.

***

Next morning, Samson called Branko to meet him in his office. Branko came in and sat down reluctantly.

“So tell me, how exactly will it happen?” Samson Heitt wheezed. Branko sighed. He had better things to do.

“You don’t need to know,” Branko replied.

“Will I inherit the money? Will I win the lottery? When will I be rich?”

Alex Branko gave him a long look. His blank expression masked a variety of feelings. Contempt, resignation and a deep understanding of human nature, that he had acquired against his will, over the course of his cooperation with Heitt.

“Your profit depends on the productivity of your employees. The only way you can get richer is when they become more productive,”

All of a sudden Heitt became defensive. The term “productive” struck a chord.

“Well, but… Alex trust me, if I only knew how to make them work more efficiently, I… I ... I used every way I could, I cut their time off, increased the workload. They can barely walk at the end of the shift,. There are no seating areas, and they only get two bathroom breaks.”

“I know,” Branko said bitterly, barely hiding his disgust. But Samson was in his fantasy world, counting his future money.

“When will I be super rich?” he asked again.

“It will take three days for the change to set in fully. There will be minor residue. Barely noticeable. The colour of a cereal box, name of a popular video game, that type of thing. Then, you’ll need to silence anyone who remembers a different timeline and that’s it. You’re all set,”

“I need to know. How will it happen?”

“You’ll see. There is only one universe where you are a trillionaire. So, we only had one option. Whatever happens, you need to accept it. You’ll be the only one with the full memory of both timelines,” Alex Branko concluded. Hannah peeked into the room.

“Serena called. She said she’s sorry and that she’s been busy,” she said to Heitt.

“Oh. Heh heh,” Heitt chuckled.

“She’s willing to make an appearance at the party. Her agent will send you the agreement and the invoice,”

“What, do I have to pay?” Heitt scoffed.

“That’s how it works I’m afraid,” Hannah said and shrugged.

“Well how much?”

“About fifty grand, but it’s not final,”

“What?” Heitt looked at her, blinking, as the little imaginary calculator in the back of his head spat out the numbers.

“You do own a mirror Samson, don’t you?” Hannah said and Samson looked at her with his mouth half open. He might have to amend that honesty clause in her contract after all.

“Oh, and nothing is guaranteed, because, quote, she’s not a prostitute,” Hannah said, air-quoting on her way out.

***

Serena came out of the bathroom and walked to the bed, droplets of water on her velvet skin. Her body was perfect in every way. Long legs, wide hips, spotless caramel skin. Beautifully shaped breasts, round and perky. And her feet - the feet of a gazelle. Samson was obsessed with her feet. Graceful, thin with long pink toenails. Bony. Chiselled. He’s always had a thing for feet. He was fascinated with her. Why? Because she was the best. That one perfect specimen, arduously selected from thousands of other girls. The end result of series of endless castings. Eliminate every girl who deviates from the ideal in the slightest way. Discard anyone whose skin is not smooth enough, who is not skinny enough, symmetrical, or subservient enough. Select and eliminate, select and eliminate to finally find a woman like her. The supermodel. So that she can end up in his bed, and endure thirty minutes of him sweating and grunting over her, after a night of grovelling, flattening himself and overspending on champagne and jewellery. What a wonderful world we live in, he thought and smiled.

“What are you thinking?” he asked. He rarely asked women that. He must be falling in love.

“I think you’re a toad,” said Serena.

He chuckled. Yet here you are, he thought. I’ll pay her another fifty grand tomorrow and then maybe she’ll agree to a flat rate. Maybe he should call of the quantum thing. The truth was, his motivation to become a trillionaire flopped after a night with Serena. In his fantasy, she was bedazzled by his status, eyes gleaming, mouth half open in adoration, willing to do anything he wanted. In his daydreams she’d mouth “thank you,” looking at him like a bewildered goat. That was yesterday. Now, he wasn’t so sure, that the money would change the way she felt about him. But the money. You don’t walk away from a trillion dollars, he thought.

***

Mark came back from work late this evening. He had deadlines and there was just too much data. He could only type about a hundred fifty words per minute. The faster he went, the more errors he made. Then he’d have to go back and the datasheet got all scrambled. He hated that job but it paid well, for a twenty-five-year-old with no degree. Jen, his wife, had waited for him with dinner. They ate in silence, both too tired to talk. He ate, staring at the cereal boxes on the kitchen counter.

“I though it used to be blue,” he said.

“What?”

“Wasn’t that cereal box… always blue?"

“No, it’s red.”

“I know it’s red. It’s just that… It doesn’t look right.”

“Mark, will you please stop?” Jenny was immediately irritated. She knew where he was going.

“What?” he asked, slightly offended.

“I’m sick and tired of your stupid conspiracy theories!” she exploded and stormed out of the kitchen. Mark went to the bathroom and ran the bath. He needed it after walking home in the cold spring drizzle. He lowered himself into the bath and inhaled deeply, putting his toes on the edge of the bathtub. They clasped the curved rim nimbly. Too nimbly. He straightened his toes and looked at them alarmed. He tilted his head and squinted. They seemed unnaturally long. He wiggled them. He didn’t know he could do that.

“Huh,” he mumbled, “hey Jeeeen?” he called. She came into the bathroom, slightly annoyed.

“What?”

“Were my toes always that long?” he asked.

“You’re crazy,” she said and went back to the bedroom. Mark shrugged and put his feet back in the water. They made love that night and the cereal boxes, long toes, and his overtime melted away into nothingness.

***

Samson Heitt woke up with a headache. The night with Serena was now just a memory and he felt a sucking void in his plexus, annihilating the last good feeling he had left in him. He reached for his phone and called her. No answer. He pulled himself out of bed and walked naked to the gargantuan penthouse window. He went out on the terrace, feeling parts of his body shrink in the cold and looked at the bustling traffic below.

“I’m a billionaire!” he yelled at the world, his belly blubber shaking violently as he spread out his arms in a victorious gesture. A couple of appalled, white faces popped up in the windows in the office building opposite.

“He he he,” he cackled. Alex Branko did pick up.

“What’s the progress?” Samson asked.

“Our team got back yesterday. The operation was successful. Expect results in two to three days,” Branko reported.

“Am I going to be a trillionaire?”

“Yes. You and a few other people,”

“What? You never said that! I thought it would only be me,” Heitt got angry. Alex Branko sighed heavily.

“That’s how the economy works. When productivity increases, people get rich,” he spoke slowly, like an adult addressing a toddler. Heitt hung up and went to his dressing room. The tall, black glass doors reflected his obese, ugly body. He put on a suit and pulled out a pair of shoes. For some odd reason the shoes seemed enormous. Like clown shoes. For a minute he thought he was in someone else’s dressing room. He looked at the shoes from all sides. He looked at himself holding the shoes in the mirror. He shrugged and put them on.

“Serena’s agent called,” said Hannah as he entered the office, “you are not to contact her directly.”

“Alright. We’ll get there. Baby steps,” he murmured. His urge to own a trillion dollars came back. Then we’ll see. She won’t fight me then, he thought.

***

Mark woke up the next day with an odd feeling. His thick body hair was itchy. He went to the bathroom. He took a bristle brush from the shelf and brushed his luscious chest hair, as always slow and careful around the nipples. As always? I always had thick chest hair, he thought and a feeling of panic came over him. He remembered Jen had some anti-anxiety pills in the cabinet. Maybe this time he’ll try some. He swallowed two. He brushed his teeth and got dressed.

“Bye hun,” he said in the door. Jen came out of the bedroom.

“Are you going to work late again today?” she asked and smiled seductively.

“What? I never work late,” he said. Jen looked at him. It was an awkward moment, but he had no time. He had to go. He got to the office real quick. There was something about that day. Everything ran smoothly. He got to his desk and took of his shoesocks. He sprayed his naked feet with compressed air. He didn’t want any fluff on his other keyboard. His other keyboard? he thought. He paused for a second while setting up his desk. His own thoughts seemed foreign to him. Like he didn’t recognize them. It must be the medication. He sat down in his chair and moved his upper desk toward him. The lower desk was in place. He put his toethumbs on the spacebar of the lower keyboard and looked up at the monitors. The panic came over him again. As if something was about to happen, but he didn’t know what. Just brush it off. 

“Coffee please,” he whispered to his AI assistant and proceeded to type with his hands and feet.

***

Samson Heitt was lying in bed smiling, remembering the night before. Serena was in the shower. He rolled over and looked at his phone. He checked his e-mail. Dozens of unread messages. Funny, he thought. They were all from last night. He clicked one of them. It was him, on the cover of the Financial Times. He didn’t remember being in the shoot. Or maybe he did. The more he looked at it, the more he remembered. As if the memories appeared out of some unknown void. He scrolled down. The cover read “Samson Heitt - Another Trillionaire?”

“Yes!” Samson Heitt yelled and jumped out of bed. “Yes, yes, yes, it worked!” he jumped around his bedroom, hands and feet uncoordinated in a lame middle-aged dance of victory, “Serena!” he called. And then he remembered. No one else will remember the other timeline, where he was just a lousy billionaire.

“What?” Serena answered in a low voice. He walked towards the bathroom and tripped over his feet, falling down on his face. He gathered himself up, panting. He looked down and saw two large opposable thumbs on his feet. His feet were huge, and looked like monkey feet. He could move his long, agile toes independently and catch things with them. Disgusting.

“What the heck?” he mumbled. He looked at the rest of his body. His entire front was covered with thick, shiny hair. He touched it. Must be a side effect.

“Yuck,” he said. He checked his back. Even thicker. He went to the dressing room and looked at his back in the mirror, twisting his head around. He had a coat of hair on his back, a rug reaching down to his buttocks.

“Ugh,” he said. That’s fine he thought. I’ll just get a wax. But the gigantic monkey feet? Wait! That must mean that Serena….

“Serena. Oh no. No no no no...” he said. He went to the bedroom.

“Serena?” he called her.

“What is it?” she asked, coming out of the bathroom naked. He looked at her body. Her changed body. Thick, light brown hair covered her forehead. Her beautiful round breasts were invisible under the thick coat of fur. He looked down at her feet, her once gracious, bony, beautiful pink feet that he loved and adored and saw two sturdy monkey feet with long fingers and brown nails.

“Oh no,” he wailed and tears rolled down his cheeks.

“What?” Serena asked, perplexed and annoyed. His knees felt weak and he sat down on the ground. He got up on all fours and crawled to the window, away from the monkey beast, the monkey beast he had sex with the night before. But he was also a monkey beast, he thought. He felt his insides revolt, like his entire body protested against itself. He opened the window, sobbing, with shaking hands. He stood up and looked down at the familiar streets. The buildings seemed taller for some reason.

“I’m…” he choked on his tears, “I’m a TRILLIONAIRE!” he yelled, raising his arms to the sky, the fat folds on his belly flapping as he hopped up. A man playing two stacked pianos appeared on the video billboard, finishing a complicated finale with his hands and feet. The audience gave him a fiery standing ovation.

***

At home Mark rummaged through the closet.

“Did you see my green jacket?” He asked his wife.

“Try looking in one of the boxes,” Jen answered, “upper shelf,” she was on the sofa reading a “Mandela Effect” magazine. Mark reached for the box on the upper shelf and the whole thing fell down. He came into the living room.

“What are those?” he asked, holding a pair of red stilettos, too small and too narrow for any human feet from their current timeline. Jen looked at the shoes and jumped up.

“Aha! The residue!” she yelled, wide eyed, pointing her finger at the shoes.

“Jen… will you stop with your crazy theories?” Mark sighed.

THE END