Jumping

In the vastness of time, space, and reality, unusual things sometimes happen. Maybe it's a hiccup in quantum space-time, or possibly a powerful being with a sense of humor decides to have some fun with us. Whatever the reason, it happened. Just ask Greg Schank.

Greg walked out of the car dealership with a huge grin. He had another outstanding month, selling more cars than the next three salesmen combined. It was the third month in a row he had taken the top spot. Another plaque was going up on the dealership's wall, with an obscenely fat commission check coming his way. On top of that, the owner had taken him aside and given him a bonus check to show his appreciation.

"Lucy, I'm home," he said in his best Ricky Ricardo voice.

There was a thunder of paws. A three-year-old, one hundred and thirty pound Mastiff juggernaut came around the corner at a full run.

"Slow down, slow down!" he exclaimed.

Lucy didn't.

Like a defensive lineman taking down a quarterback, the excited dog took him right off his feet. Greg flew back, his head hitting the doorframe before landing flat on the kitchen floor.

Blackness

It was the final two laps of the Nascar Talladega race. In the number four car, Greg was holding onto the lead, but the number eight car was on his tail.

"He's trying to move inside," his spotter Johnny J radioed him.

"I see him."

Greg hit the turn, slid down, blocking the attempt to pass him.

"Good move, but he's going to try it again on the last corner. He's got to do it there or you win. Be ready for it."

"Piece of cake."

He flashed past the last lap white flag. Greg put the hammer down, pushing the car to its limits. He took the last turn high up near the wall.

"Here he comes, Greg. You hold him off, you got this race."

Greg used the banked turn to slide down, trying to block the passing attempt as he had done on the previous lap. The number eight car tapped him on the back quarter panel. At 200 miles per hour, things happened fast. The impact pushed the car off Greg's line and air pressure did the rest.

His car slammed into the wall and rebounded off, but was now going sideways. His tires grabbed the track, but his directional speed caused the car to start rolling. It bounced and went airborne. His car hit, pieces flying everywhere, and then went airborne again, his crash harness keeping him inside. As he hit the track, another car T-boned him, driving him back into the wall, and the car started flipping end over end. With a tremendous impact, his car landed on its roof, disintegrating around him.

Blackness

Greg came up out of the crystal clear, turquoise water of the Caribbean. He pulled off his flippers, mask, and snorkel. He ran up to where Karli was sitting on a blanket under a coconut palm. He handed her a conch shell he had picked up off the bottom. The two of them weren't romantically involved; they just liked doing things together with no strings attached. Friends with privileges was the term they used. They were here with a group of people, but the two of them had wandered off, deciding to spend the afternoon by themselves on a secluded beach.

"Nice conch," Karli said, looking it over. "The water is really calm today."

"It's beautiful out there. It's clear all the way to the bottom. Lots of fish and coral out at the reef." He picked up a towel. "You having a good time?"

"Sure, what's not to like? I like everyone we're with, but it's nice to get away for a while. Plus, it's beautiful here, peaceful, and you looked pretty good coming out of the water," she said with a grin. "I could use a cold drink, though."

Greg finished drying off, reached into the small cooler, and fished out a bottle. "Beers are all we have. The frozen drinks will have to wait till later."

He popped off the cap and handed it to her. He got another one for himself.

"Works for me." She took a long pull on the bottle. "That's better."

"You know, sitting under a coconut palm can be dangerous," he said. "That would hurt getting bopped with one."

"What are the chances of that? Quit being a scaredy cat. Come on, sit down here and pay attention to me. We're on a tropical beach and there is absolutely no one around."

A breeze suddenly kicked up. The coconuts above them trembled and one let go. With his attention completely focused on Karli, he never noticed. If it were a movie, it would have fallen in slow motion, landing gracefully in the sand. Instead, the coconut obeyed Newton's Law of Gravity with Greg squarely in its sights. With a loud bonk, it impacted his head.

Blackness

Greg stood over his ball eyeing the putt. It was twenty feet, slightly downhill, breaking right. Not an easy putt, but he saw the line, made a practice stroke, took a breath, and let it roll. Tracking right on his line, it hit the edge of the hole. He thought it was going to lip out. Instead, it took a lap around the inside of the cup and dropped. Grinning, he went over and pulled it out of the hole.

"You must have been practicing. You've been killing it all day out here," his buddy JJ said. "One more hole and you will have officially kicked my butt."

"Just one of those days where everything is working. That rarely happens. Either my driver's working and my irons aren't, or they're both working and I can't putt. It's these days that keep me coming back."

"Yeah, well, next time you're giving me strokes."

"How about you just golf better."

"Stick it where the sun don't shine and don't be getting all cocky just because you have one good round," JJ said, punching him in the arm. "Maybe that will throw off your swing."

Greg went up to the eighteenth tee and striped one right down the middle.

"Or not," he said, grinning.

JJ then hit his drive, not a bad shot, but a little right towards the trees between the fifteenth and eighteenth fairway. It landed in the rough. JJ was good with that; he was normally in the rough anyway.

On the fifteenth tee, which paralleled the eighteenth hole, Jim, Jim Bo to his friends, took a huge swig of beer. He thought he had mad golf skills and the more he drank, the better he played. He had at least six beers, so in his mind, he was on top of his game. The reality was very different. His golf buddies knew the truth, but there was no telling Jim Bo that. Since he always brought a case of cold ones, except for busting his chops on occasion, they let him have his fantasy. He took a couple of practice swings.

"I'm going make this one scream," he said, laughing.

"Just try to keep it on this hole, Jim Bo. We're tired of looking for your ball," one of his golf buddies said.

"Screw you, you're all just jealous."

"Jealous of a banana slice? I don't think so. You're up."

"Grip it and rip it," Jim Bo announced.

He loosened up his shoulders, addressed the ball, and swung with everything he had. It was another huge banana slice, heading over the trees towards the eighteenth fairway.

"Damn it," he exclaimed loudly. "You put that thought into my head."

"Maybe you should yell Fore. I thought I saw a cart over there."

"Screw that. There's nobody over there and if there is, too bad for them," Jim Bo said nastily.

Greg found JJ's ball in the rough and waved to him. JJ drove the cart over and surveyed his next shot. He decided on a seven iron. Greg stepped back to give him room, smiling at his ball fifty yards ahead, sitting pretty in the middle of the fairway.

As Greg watched, JJ made a practice swing and let it rip. It was a beautiful, high draw that landed in the middle of the green, ten feet from the hole. It was his best shot of the day.

"Finally, caught one flush," JJ said.

Jim Bo's ball soared over the trees towards the eighteenth. With no warning, neither Greg nor JJ saw it coming.

JJ turned to Greg, who gave him a thumbs up, right before Jim Bo's ball hit Greg in the forehead.

Blackness

Sergeant Greg Schank sat behind the wheel of his squad car while Jonesy was getting coffee from a food truck. They had been partners for two years. Greg couldn't remember having a better one. They got along great and had pulled each other out of jams more times than he could count. Greg was studying for the lieutenant exam, which, if he passed and was promoted, would get him off the street. It meant losing Jonesy as a partner, but he had worked hard for this. Besides, Jonesy knew and understood. It was the way of things.

"Attention all units, we have a 10-46, bank robbery in progress at Union Bank, 1421 Canal Street. All available units respond."

It was only three blocks from where they were.

"Unit 19 responding. ETA, five minutes. Hey, Jonesy, forget the coffee," he yelled. "We got a 10-46. Move it."

His partner ran back and jumped in. Lights flashing and sirens blaring, they took off. They screeched to a halt in front of the bank. Both of them jumped out, guns drawn, as the McHale brothers came running out, money bags in hand. Seeing the police, they opened up with assault weapons, causing Schank and Jonesy to dive behind their squad car.

"Just great, pistols against AK47s," Jonesy exclaimed.

As the McHale brothers moved away, Jonesy popped up, firing several rounds in their direction. The two bank robbers hosed down that end of the squad car, one round clipping Jonesy in the shoulder. He went down. Greg grabbed him by his Kevlar vest and dragged him further behind the car.

"Where were you hit?"

"Shoulder, just grazed me. I'm okay. Don't let them get away."

"Unit 19, shots fired at the police. Officer down."

"10-4, Unit 19. Backup and ambulances are inbound to your location."

"Go, Sarge, get them."

Bent over, Greg used other cars as cover as he ran after the McHales. They lost track of him in their haste to get away before more cops showed up. Greg got parallel with them, rose, and fired several times.

"You shot Mike, you son of a bitch," the remaining McHale screamed.

With his rifle on full auto, he let loose. Greg ducked behind the car and moved further ahead, reloading as he went. He swung around the front of the car and opened fire. The remaining McHale never saw him. He took two rounds, which pushed him back against the building. His finger was clamped on the trigger and he kept firing until the clip ran dry. He slumped to the sidewalk. One bullet caught the corner of the building behind Greg and ricocheted back across the street, catching Greg in the back. His vest stopped the round, but the impact knocked him forward, his head hitting the car.

Blackness

Slowly coming to, it felt like someone was wiping his face with a warm, wet, smelly washcloth. Greg struggled back to consciousness, trying to remember what happened and where he was. It slowly dawned on him that he was lying on his kitchen floor, but he couldn't remember how he got there. That happened once in a while when he had been drinking too much, but he was pretty sure that wasn't the case this time. His head was throbbing like a marching band was playing its halftime show in it. He put out his hand and found a hairy face an inch from his. He slowly, painfully opened his eyes to see Lucy licking him frantically.

"Okay, okay, girl, back up a little before you lick my face off."

Lucy started barking excitedly, prancing around him. Groaning and holding his head, he managed to get to his knees, then, holding the kitchen counter, got the rest of the way to his feet. He held on tight until the room stopped spinning. He petted the excited dog.

"Wow, you should be playing professional football," he said to her.

Other than a huge lump on the back of his head, he felt better. All the experiences he had in the five minutes he was knocked out flooded back.

"That was the weirdest thing ever. What was all of that?"

Across the Greg Schank multiverse, all the Gregs were waking up, remembering the same weird happenings. They had experienced this jumping around the different realities, living brief moments of each other's lives. In the final second that their realities stayed connected, they all had the same thought.

"I would have won that NASCAR race."

The End