For a while there near the end, Bob was getting
pretty damn annoying if you ask me, talking on
and on about the theory of quantum immortality
like he knew something about it, which he didn’t,
he had read, no, like perused a damn newspaper
article about it and meanwhile this guy Everett
wrote whole books about it, but like I said, if you
ask me, anybody who believes in something like
that is on a pretty dangerously crazy ego trip
anyhow, and Bob kept telling us over plates of
greasy french fries how there would always be
a microstate waiting for him to experience out
there, someplace beyond the yellow horizon of
probabilities that we could even calculate, and so
he would just go on living forever, simple mathe-
matics, the asshole said, always a soft mattress
world to catch him when he fell, but he stopped
talking about it pretty soon because he died when
he fell down a flight of stairs in his apartment
building and broke his damn neck, and I don’t
even really feel too smug about being right,
I guess I might not even be right, maybe he only
left our world, or my world, or however you’re
supposed to say it, actually yeah, I bet there’s a
place right now where he fell just right and got
right back up, brushing himself off, maybe a pretty
girl even saw it happen and made sure he was all
right and they both had a laugh about it and went
off for coffee, every night I fall asleep trying to
calculate the probabilities, so many zeroes, this
world is too full of zeroes, maybe Bob was right,
the other guys tell me I’ll go crazy if I don’t stop
obsessing about it, they say that Bob is in a better
place, and I’m starting to think they’re right, I can
almost see the numbers in my dreams, almost see
Bob and his pretty little girlfriend climbing each
confident step at night, when there’s nobody watching,
when the walls between the worlds are thinnest.