Tikal

Last I remember, Iftikhar and me were traveling through Guatemala, near Tikal, one of the homes of the ancient Maya. Our goal was the Temple Tzichechliztan, about twenty-five mile southwest of the Caribbean shore, fifteen degrees north of the Tropic of Cancer. Our goal was rooted in Einstein's theory of time-space: the exact physical location as specified above, on a certain date. The seventeenth of May, this year, to be exact. Because on that date, the star Deneb, the star that the whole solar system is rocketing towards at two hundred fifty miles a second, Deneb will appear directly between the two stone parapets atop the temple-tower. And when one stands at exactly one-hundred meters (and how did the ancient Maya know this distance? I mean, its like one-one ten thousandth the distance from the north pole to the equator through the city of Greenwich, England, as designated by nineteenth-century physicists), the light from the star is alleged to grant one supreme enlightenment.

Now I know what you're thinking: this is absolute one-hundred percent new age bullshit. And I would normally agree with you, except for one thing. Well, one person, rather. Edwin Hubble.
Who was Hubble, the lesser-intellected may be asking at this point. Simple. Hubble was a partyer, a frat-boy, a boxer. A man of action. And he also happened to be the greatest star-gazer of the early twentieth century. It was Hub that determined that the universe was expanding. Indeed, because of this man's work our knowledge of the universe expanded. What was once thought of as simple gaseous nebulae were now recognized to be galaxies, akin in size and stature to our home, the Milky Way. And we were alone in a sea of island-universes.

But Edwin found out that this was not exactly true. How, you say? Well, here's the stretch, and to know what happened I need to introduce you to a friend of mine. Alexander Iftikhar roomed on my floor at my dorm at college. He was also an astronomer, but he minored in history, and his area of expertise was the history of science. Alex was an odd individual. Eclectic in dress, fluctuating always either a half-decade before or after a given particular clothing style. His overlarge horn-rimmed glasses covered small beady eyes, which sat upon a face clothed in perpetual three-day stubble. He never bathed, except on the weekends, when he spent marathon reading and writing sessions in the tub. A night owl, he knew hundreds of infomercials by heart, yet always ate the same foods (waffles for breakfast, cheese fries and roast beef for lunch, tortellinis and occasionally fried chicken for dinner) because having the same diet saved the energy expenditure of having to make a decision on what to eat. He was annoying, petty, vain, shy, overbearing, a wallflower who dominated a room after he left.

Alexander was also the most brilliant person I ever knew. How do I know? Again: Simple. As a good-faith gesture for setting him up with my sister, Alex did all my projects and term papers in courses completely opposite of his (theology, medieval lit, polisci) and I aced every class over three semesters running.

Years passed between us after those golden years at Princeton. I graduated with a degree in metaphysics, floundered, was given a job teaching, lost it over a set of fifteen-year-old breasts, moved across country, washed cars, sold cars, moved to the midwest, and finally settled in a Madison Avenue ad agency mail room at age thirty-three. I lost touch with Alex, but do remember seeing his name on an article in Scientific American in the mid-nineties.

Then, a mysterious message on my answering machine one hot night in July, year last. It said, simply, "Pakistan. 1776."

I played it a couple of times. Couldn't identify the voice, so I erased it. A week passed. Got home after a heavy drinking session with some of my pals at Rowe, Bottoms and Gupta. Blinking light on the telephone. And again: "Pakistan. 1776."

"Screw you, pal," I mumbled, then went to the bathroom to puke up a bunch of Spaatan beers mixed with Long Island Ice Teas. The next day, shaky and hungover, I called the phone company and had my number changed.

Then the messages continued, only by snail mail this time. A postcard. Stamped, Lahore, Pakistan. The note, in familiar cat-scratch, read: "1776. Jefferson knew it: Deist bible Mark 121." It was signed, A. I.

Artificial Intelligence, I muttered. I tore it into halves, then quarters, eighths, sixteenths, and watched the pieces flutter into the garbage pail.

Then the truth broke into my room and cuffed me on the hood of its cruiser. "Alex," I gasped, and promptly fetched the torn pieces. It took a good half-day to resurrect all the pieces, then another half a day staring at the card to divine its meaning.

I took out a notebook. Jotted down some notes. Let's see ... first call was .... I consulted a US Open Tennis calendar I had hanging on the wall. I neither played tennis nor was interested in watching the Open, but I did enjoy pictures of the buxom tennis babes on March, October, and December. Seeing this was July, I had to flip back a few pages. With a small bit of calculation, I noted that the first call was on a Monday, July 11. The next would have to have been that Saturday (traditional drinking night for much of aimless America): July 16. Next I examined the card. It was postdated July 18, and today was the thirtieth. So ... Alex calls me enigmatically two times. As I do not figure out his weird riddle, he decides to call me again, only to find my number changed. He thus mails me out a postcard from Lahore, Pakistan, which takes maybe twelve days to reach me in New York City.

I meditated on that information. As no spark of intuition burst forth, I set it aside, to concentrate on my weird but hyperintelligent friend's message.

1776. JEFFERSON KNEW IT: DEIST BIBLE MARK 121. A.I.

Checked my watch: 2:58 PM. The library would still be open. I leaped up, grabbed my notes, and headed out to the NY Public Library and a copy of Thomas Jefferson's self-penned account of the gospels.

The first leg of my journey to the temples of the Maya commenced.