In All the Wrong Places

Q.E.F.

“Come in” said Mrs. Prospect, “into my parlour said the spider to the fly”, misquoting, I think, Mary Howitt. 

A genial, if a tad florid woman draped in a scarlet dress, Mrs. Prospect – real name Mrs. Hamilton, recently widowed – smiled broadly and waved me past the entrance hall and into her expansive and remarkably sterile living room. 

“May I offer you some coffee Mr…..?” she asked pointing me to a white chair next to a large bay window.

“Petrescu, Mrs. Hamilton”, I responded.  “Nathan Petrescu.  And thankyou, I would love some.  It’s been a long drive to get here and I skipped breakfast.”  No harm in letting her know the sacrifices I’ve made to be here.  Ha!

I spent a lifetime looking for you…  

(A song¹ from the radio I heard on that drive enters my head for some reason.  Which is odd given I don’t even like country music…)

Mrs. Prospect nodded and pottered off to her equally sterile kitchen as I took the offered seat and started to unpack my wares.  As I did so, I took in my surroundings in my practiced way, looking for the nuances I can use to make my sale.

A word of introduction.  Nathan Petrescu, forty-two years of age, born on the tenth of October, ’10. Together for seven years with Polly, an astonishing woman an order of magnitude younger than myself, and the most prolific salesman the Quantum Publishing company has ever had.  I’m currently in the middle of my longest sales tour to date – trying to work my way efficiently around over one thousand cities around the United States – and even to a seasoned professional like me it feels like it’s been forever and it’s time to go home.  But here I am, sitting in Mrs. Prospect’s alarmingly featureless living room, trying to work out how I’m going to get her to part with her late husband’s money on 24 volumes of a book she doesn’t need.

The aroma of coffee enveloped me as I pulled Volume One of the “Quantum Bible” from my satchel.  Brushing it off and burnishing the metallic detailing with my jacket sleeve, I took a closer look at the living room.  The only real sign of life was a bookcase in the far corner and, regarding it as something of a lifeline, I eased myself out of the chair and wandered over to take a gander at its contents.  An unremarkable collection greeted me, and I was moved only to withdraw a single book for closer inspection.  I laid my own volume on top of the bookcase and opened the well-thumbed book in my hands.

“’Well, it’s no use your talking about waking him,’ said Tweedledum, ‘when you’re only one of the things in his dream.  You know very well you’re not real.’ 

‘I am real!’ said Alice, and began to cry.”²

I looked up from the book to find Mrs. Prospect standing mere inches away from me, proffering a large, steaming mug of milky-looking coffee.  I tried to contain a flinch and placed the book back into the bookcase so that I could accept the offering.

“You enjoy reading Mr. Petrescu?” she asked, motioning me again to sit.  “I suppose a man in your profession would.”

“I do indeed but I certainly don’t get as much time to as I would like.  Sometimes it feels as if I am forever on the road and never finish going anywhere,” I responded quite honestly.

Mrs. Prospect sat heavily and looked at me with an air of expectation, sipping slowly at her own mug of coffee.  I placed mine on the minimalist table next to me.  Showtime.

Playing a fool’s game and hoping to win…. (Damn earworm).

“Mrs. Hamilton,” I began, slipping into my patented patter mode, “as you know from our telephone conversation a few days ago, I represent the Quantum Publishing company, purveyor of quality, life-enhancing works such as the Quantum Bible itself.”  I brandished the slick, purple-bound volume to catch the light pouring through the bay window to best effect.  “I’m happy to tell you that we are currently initiating a new campaign and, as one of the most prominent citizens of your community, we have selected you to receive a full set of the Quantum Bible for free, without any cost to you at all.”  Eye contact maintained, I assumed my hook was being taken.

“I don’t think I need to tell a lady of your obvious discernment how important to social status knowledge is and how such a collection of volumes can signify prominence these days.”

…telling those sweet lies, and losing again….

“Perhaps you don’t,” she agreed, settling back in her chair and smiling slowly, “but I’d like to hear more about what is actually in that volume you’re holding.”

Comfortable now in my typically uneasy fashion, I went to autopilot.

“It’s axiomatic these days that knowledge is power, Mrs. Hamilton.  But that only applies in reality when that knowledge is applicable to the problems we face in our lives.  The Quantum Bible is a unique work that collects the best writings and cogitations of the world’s leading thinkers in the applications of quantum ethics³ - bridging physics and philosophy, God and the God Particle so to speak.  It provides an unprecedented insight into solving the most intractable problems of our very existence.  With the guidance of this book you can move from ‘if you think you’ve understood it, you haven’t’ to ‘Eureka’.”

I paused for a moment to see if I was indeed having any impact.

Searching their eyes, looking for traces, of what I’m dreamin’ of….

Mrs Prospect nodded invitingly.  The bit between my teeth, I ploughed on.

“The book provides the first convincing, coherent and consistent methodology for understanding the deepest conceptual and technical framework for dealing with our every day lives and the first true answer to the question “How should I live?”.  It passes the most stringent of all physical and metaphysical tests in predicting from within its own creation process and, because of that, enables the best route to human achievement.  Now everyone who enjoys a symphony can be a Mozart.  Everyone who plays the stock market can be a Warren Buffett….”

“And everyone who loves can be a Juliet with her Romeo?” Mrs. Prospect interjected gently.

Hoping to find a friend and a lover….

I blinked.  “I’m not sure that’s the best example of…” I ventured but she carried on.

“Every Isolde finds her Tristan.  Every Heloise her Abelard.”

“Well, those are all tragedies Mrs…..” I stammered.

“They don’t have to be.  After all, maybe every Polly finds her Nathan too.”

I blanched, almost dropping the book onto her thick, well-appointed carpet.

And I was alone then.  No love in sight…

“Mrs. Hamilton – how could you possibly know my partner’s….”

Mrs. Prospect smiled an enigma that the Mona Lisa would have bowed to.

“Not all Prospects are alike Mr. Petrescu.  If I may be slightly impertinent, do you believe in what you sell?  Now remember ‘always speak the truth – think before you speak – and write it down afterwards’²” she said, holding that singular smile.

I felt the room beginning to close in around me.  The sterile, featureless walls a prison of eternity and translucent reflections.  I looked up and saw not white any longer but only red.  A Red Queen.  Perhaps that is why I answered her.

“No,” I faltered.  “To be honest, I don’t.”  I was.  And I didn’t.

I did everything I could to get me though the night…

“And yet, you are a poster child for it Mr. Petrescu.  You have achieved the statistically impossible.  I heard it said once that you could only expect to find your true soulmate once in every 10,000 lifetimes⁴.  And yet here you are, going home to your Polly.  ‘As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being’ says Mr. Jung⁵.  Look in the mirror for your proof of that truth Mr. Petrescu.  In the infinite darkness, you found your one and only spark of light.”  Mrs. Prospect reached across an impossible distance without moving and gently took my hand.

My eyes began to mist.  I ached for my Polly more than I could say.  I haven’t seen her for a thousand years.  Maybe 100,000….

Then you came knockin’ on my heart’s door, you’re everything I been looking for…

Mrs. Prospect – Mrs. Hamilton – smiled gently again.  “You found your soulmate, Nathan.  You made the impossible possible and your proof came from within – love will find a way.  No problems are truly without solutions, not when humans are involved.  So, take heart Mr. Salesman, your travels are at an end.  All that remains now is for you to go to your partner….to find your way home.”

Mrs. Hamilton stood.  “I don’t think I shall buy your book today Mr. Petrescu.  But then I don’t think either of us has to.”

I eased myself upright, wiping the tears from my eyes.

“No Mrs. Hamilton.  Thank you.  I think I shall go now.”

Mrs. Hamilton nodded slowly and escorted me to the door.  Outside it was cold and beginning to rain.  I hitched up my collar so I wouldn’t notice and, on my way to my car, finished humming the song I had had in my head all day.

God bless the day I discovered you, oh you,

Looking for love.

Looking for love in all the wrong places…

Polly, my one true love, it’s time to look in the right place where it’s always been.  It’s time to come home.

Q.E.D.

Attributions
1.       Lookin’ for Love, Johnny Lee (1980)
2.      Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll (1865)
3.      Quantum Ethics - A Spinozist Interpretation of Quantum Field Theory, Sebastian Fauvel (2013)
4.      What If?: Serious Scientific Answers to Absurd Hypothetical Questions, Randall Monroe (2014)
5.      Memories, Dreams, Reflections, Carl Jung (1961)