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In This Universe Jon Flowers is a Story

by Nathan Susnik

As Lydia takes his hand, Jon Flowers’ heart skips a beat. No, literally. It skips a beat. He has a premature ventricular contraction. It’s not dangerous, but this is his first experience with it. His knees go all wonky and he jerks his hand away. Sweat forms on his forehead; he is dizzy. His breaths shorten to gasps, and he excuses himself to the bathroom. He is dying, he thinks, having a heart attack at 26 and dying. In a state of panic, he forgets about Lydia, walks out of the restaurant, and flags a cab that takes him to the ER. They take blood, hook him up to beeping machines and tell him that nothing is wrong. They say that he should see a cardiologist for a thorough examination just to be sure. The cardiologist informs Jon that he had an anxiety attack triggered by a premature ventricular contraction. After he has been given a clean bill of health, Jon does not call Lydia. At this point in his life, he is too embarrassed about his anxiety to explain this to someone else. This is not a meet-cute. They never talk again.

Jon Flowers does not get the girl, and he never will. In fact, in the realm of infinite universes, there are none in which Jon Flowers gets the girl. Even in the universe in which Jon is an actual flower, no bees seem to want to pollinate them. In this way, Jon Flowers is a singularity.

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As Lydia takes his hand, Jon Flowers’ heart stops. Sudden cardiac arrest – not caused by stress, just bad timing. It would also be bad luck, but in this universe Lydia is an EMT. She performs CPR for the next 17 and a half minutes while the ambulance struggles through a 15-car pile-up on the I-94. When they arrive, Lydia is drenched in sweat and out of breath. The next day, she will wake to sore muscles and an immense sense of pride. This is the longest that she has ever performed CPR on anyone. Jon’s heart restarts and he is put into an artificially induced coma. His mother visits him every day. She brings a battery-powered boombox and plays him music that he liked when he was a child. She never cries while in his hospital room – positive thoughts only. She saves her tears for home. When he recovers, Jon does not remember the incident or the date or even Lydia. His mother tells him the story, and Jon waits until after cardiac rehab is complete before he calls Lydia to thank her. They laugh the kind of awkward laugh that two people share only after a life-changing experience, and he thinks this is the perfect time to ask her on a second first-date.

“I’m sorry,” says Lydia. And she explains that while Jon was unconscious, she met another man. Things have gotten serious over the past four months. Lydia and Jon never talk again.

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As Lydia takes his hand, Jon Flowers’ heart rate goes through the roof. The building across the street has exploded. Pieces of rubble shatter the restaurant’s windows. Lydia has a deep cut on her left bicep. In a bit of quick thinking, she uses a cloth napkin as a makeshift bandage. From broken conversations and panicked screaming, they learn that the Earth is under attack by aliens. The aliens have already destroyed most of the country’s military capacity. Communications are in chaos. That night, Jon finds his father’s old service revolver and joins The Resistance. He is disintegrated by a death ray the very next day.

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It does not go any better for Jon in the zombie-apocalypse universe. Jon is simply not that kind of hero. In fact, in most universes, he is no better at saving the world than he is at dating.

Even in the universe where Jon Flowers does save the world, he does not get the girl. The Earth is attacked by giant tent caterpillars, playing into his skill set as an entomologist. But when he must choose between saving Lydia or the world, he has no clever solutions; he says no catchy phrases. He simply saves the world, and Lydia dies. Jon Flowers never gets the girl.

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As Lydia takes his hand, Jon Flowers does not have a heart. Not a physical one, at least. It is made of text, pumping imaginary blood through a fictional body. In this universe, Jon Flowers is a story. His name was built using lists of common names. Both his first and surname were taken from somewhere in the middle, chosen because they sound pleasing when spoken aloud. Jon Flowers. When a reader scans the text, Jon feels the words that compose his face: dark brown skin, strong eyebrows – often raised – with mirrored crescent-moon scars on their inside edges formed from old lacerations made when he was hit with a stray basketball while holding a pair of binoculars backwards. When he smiles, and he smiles a lot, the corners of his eyes crinkle. They crinkle when he’s happy or when he’s nervous. They sometime even crinkle when he’s sad. When people like this description, it sends ripples across the multiverse that his other-selves feel as slight tickles near the ribs. They smile even though they do not know why.

The Jon Flowers of this universe knows of the other Jons. He sees their capacity for self-determination but knows that he is subject to the will of another. Yet, he hopes that the strength of his character will penetrate the text, causing the story to change – the least-measurable concentration of independence. He also knows that when the words end, his world ends, and he dies. Yet, he yearns for deliverance. His hope: he may live on (for a while) in the thoughts of those who liked his description, those ticklers of his other-selves. Perhaps, he thinks, his true fate lies in the place where the text stops. Perhaps it is only then that he can slip the bonds of character and space.

He is on the balls of his feet, muscles flexed, waiting for the right moment: a moment in which his jailer drops the key, accidently leaves an open door, and a portal unfolds through which he can jump. An unfinished sentence.

As Lydia takes his hand, Jon-

Flowers…