Rabbits(84)

Just as Neil was about to say something more, his computer screens lit up with activity. He pressed a few keys and suddenly a text alert popped up on his phone. “Sorry, I have to get back to work.”

“Can we meet again sometime this week? Maybe tomorrow?” I asked.

“Nope,” Neil said as he led us out of his office and back up through the gate.

“What?” Chloe asked. “Why not?”

“Whatever you do, stay away from the game,” he said as he closed and locked the gate behind us.

Our interview was clearly over.



* * *



—

We left Fatman Neil working on the makeshift citywide computer matrix he kept in his strange porn shop basement, and made our way back to Chloe’s car. The moment she closed her door, she turned to face me. “What the fuck is up with the Berenstein Bears and the homemade super-spy computer bullshit?”

“Berenstain,” I said.

“You’re not funny,” Chloe said.

“I’m actually serious.”

“It’s fucking Berenstein, and I’m not arguing with you.”

For those who might be unfamiliar with the Berenstain multiverse conundrum, there’s a popular series of children’s books called The Berenstain Bears. But, interestingly, just like Chloe, most people remember it as The Berenstein Bears. This belief in an alternate pronunciation actually runs much deeper than a simple argument that can be addressed with a Google search. The people who remember The Berenstein Bears insist their spelling and pronunciation are correct, and refuse to believe that name had ever been written or pronounced any other way.

So, what happened?

The most prevalent theory goes like this: At some point in our history, two (or more) dimensions or streams of time diverged. Our world somehow hopped tracks—slipped streams into a parallel reality. There now exists an alternate reality—which is actually our previous reality, or one of our previous realities—where that series of books is still called The Berenstein Bears and Berenstain never existed.

There are similar theories surrounding a nonexistent film from the 1990s called Shazaam, which allegedly starred the comedian Sinbad as a genie, and the Mandela effect, a phrase coined by self-described “paranormal consultant” Fiona Broome. Broome claimed that she remembered South African leader Nelson Mandela dying in prison in the 1980s, while in reality Mandela lived until December 2013.

The most logical explanation for all of these competing memories is perhaps best illustrated by the following example. The belief people share that a film from the 1990s called Shazaam starring Sinbad existed is most likely due to a number of factors, including the following: Sinbad the comedian presented a number of Sinbad the Sailor movies in 1994. While presenting the films, Sinbad wore a genielike costume. In 1996, a similarly named film, Kazaam, was released starring basketball player Shaquille O’Neal as a genie.

So, we’re either misremembering similar things en masse, or we’re living in slightly different dimensional streams that branched off at some point in the past.

As an interesting aside, Fatman Neil had a Kazaam poster up in his lair.



* * *



—

“Neil seems like a fairly well-adjusted guy,” I said.

Chloe held up her hands. “I can’t even.”

We drove for a few minutes in silence.

“What are we gonna do now?” Chloe said.

Something about her voice sounded strained. I looked down at her hands on the steering wheel. She was squeezing hard, her knuckles tight and shiny. It didn’t happen often, but I could tell that Chloe was overtired and heading into a kind of light manic state.

I’d seen her like this before. I wasn’t the only one with an obsessive personality issue connected to the game.



* * *



—

A few years after we met, there were rumors that something big was happening with Rabbits, and we were all trying to figure out if the next iteration of the game had started.

Chloe had been chasing some clues related to a missing coast guard officer, and had somehow ended up stranded on the northern anchor of the Aurora Bridge. While she was up there looking for something that was supposed to be carved into the stone, she’d slipped and almost fallen to her death.

When I finally caught up with her and helped her off the bridge, she was severely dehydrated and hadn’t slept for days. I had to track down and pay Chloe’s alcoholic mother fifty dollars in order to get her to call the hospital and have her daughter taken off the hospital’s involuntary hold list.

Like most of us consumed by the game, Rabbits was a way for Chloe to temporarily enter another realm—a place where everything wasn’t exactly the way it was in real life.

We each had our reasons for wanting the fantastical world promised by Rabbits to replace the flawed emotional narrative of our real lives. For Chloe, escaping into a mysterious world meant that she was able to forget her family for a while and focus on something exciting that she was really good at.

For me, Rabbits was a way to try and hang on to the sense of mystery and wonder I’d been obsessed with as a kid. But it was more than that. I’d always imagined my obsession with the game was somehow helping me get over the loss of my parents.

But what if the opposite were true?