I mean, really, it's ICU, so my fellow inmates are, for the most part, unconscious.  There's a crappy 13-inch TV mounted about seventeen feet in the air, and I have no idea where the remote control is.

I have no idea where my so-called friends are, either, but apparently they have better things to do.  So be it.  I can entertain myself.

After about three minutes of staring at the ceiling tile (and there is a stain up there that looks an awful lot like a three-legged turtle), I manage to find the call button.

I found the controller for the bed first, which resulted in a lot of pain.  Of course, doing anything like, you know, breathing pretty much results in a lot pain, but you'd think they'd have the bed rigged so I couldn't fold myself in half.

The nurse finally arrives to rescue me.  (And is it too much to ask that a caretaker not laugh outright at a patient in serious pain?)  I explain the problem, and she hands me the remote with a smile.

It is not quite three in the afternoon, and there is absolutely nothing on the TV.  I'm talking nothing.  I briefly consider flipping it off and pondering the heart-rending saga of Gertie the Turtle and how she lost a leg and ended up in suspended animation on the ceiling of GW.

Instead, I watch several heavily-made up and impractically-clad women recite patently awful dialogue about men named Crest and Isthmus.  Seriously: Isthmus!  And they say it with a straight face!

When I can no longer take it, I watch about ten commercials in a row.  Which are an alarming mixture of household cleaners, feminine hygeine products, and toys marketed strictly to one gender or the other.  We're talking little blonde, curly-haired girls in pink outfits playing with dollies versus tough little boys in green pelting each other with some sort of gun-like toy.  Which is especially disturbing, given the reason for my hospitalization.

In desperation, I flip to PBS.  Now, I'm a big fan of PBS on a theoretical level.  I am all for a channel where kids can be entertained and learn at the same time, and where people who love the arts can watch unending operas and ballets.  But PBS is not really my fare.  I have been to the ballet exactly once -- Mandy dragged me -- and if live ballet leaves me cold, you can imagine my feelings on pre-recorded ballet.

And I flat out hate opera.

So you see why I rarely watch PBS without a mandate from Toby (who, by the way, has a freakish obsession with Sesame Street).

To my utter amazement, there is something interesting on PBS.  Screw the networks; my new favorite channel is the Public Broadcasting Station!

There is a man named Brian Greene discussing theoretical physics.  Seriously.  I'm immediately entranced; I mean, who knew there was still no Universal Theory of Everything?

Aside from, you know, theoretical physicists.

From what I glean from his explanation, small scale physics and large scale physics are, at their most basic level, incompatible.  They can't both be true.

I am fascinated.

"Superstring theory," Dr. Greene says, "posits that the universe is actually made up of tiny loops of material -- or, for lack of a more precise term, 'string' -- that are given their unique characteristics by their vibrational pattern."

I'm not sure I quite grasp that, but it sounds really cool.  Like Star Wars or something.

Dr. Greene also tells me they're very close to an announcement regarding string theory.

Lucky for him I was bored out of my mind and stuck in a hospital bed; who better to give this news the kind of world-wide attention it deserves than the Press Secretary?

I call CJ immediately.

She is not impressed.  In fact, I have to argue a lot before she even agrees to mention it in her briefing.  And then she calls them psychics.

I could kill her.

Okay, I really need another phrase.  "Kill her" is just... too close for comfort about now.

I could smack her.

Still too violent.

I could make disparaging remarks about her.  For several hours.

Fortunately for CJ (but unfortunately for Donna), it is Donna who walks into my room right after the PBS program ends.

"Donna!" I exclaim.  I'm really excited about this.  "Scientists are this close--"  I cringe and lower my arm back to my side.  Mental note:  Am not yet well enough to gesture wildly.  "They're very close to announcing the Universal Theory of Everything."

"So?" Donna asks, disinterestedly.  She's busy unpacking her bag full of tricks.  Well, really, her bag full of the stuff I badgered her into bringing me.

She hands me my small spider plant with an eloquent look.  "What are you talking about?  Science?"

"I don't have a pet," I say, and place my plant on the tray to my right.

"What?"

"I don't have time for, you know, a cat or something.  So I have a plant."

"Do you talk to it?"  She is grinning.

I fake indignation.  "Actually, I sing to her.  It's a she."

"You have a female plant?"  Now she is snickering.  "Does she have a name?"

"Yes," I answer haughtily.  "But right now, we're discussing theoretical physics."

"We are?" she asks, still smiling.

"Yes, we are."

"Since when are you a science person?"

"I've always been a science person."

"Josh," she says, "what's the difference between exothermic and endothermic?"

"What?  Donna--"

"No, Mr. Wizard, I want to know the difference between exothermic and endothermic."

"Exothermic and endothermic?"

"Yes."  And now she's smirking at me.  "Like in chemistry."

"I never said I was a chemistry person."

"Josh--"

"Physics, Donna."  I talk louder to drown her out.  "String theory.  Maybe that's what I'm supposed to learn from all this."

"What?" Donna asks.  Her smile is gone.

"You know," I say.  "My lesson."

Donna leans in.  "You're saying the reason that three ignorant, violent, and hate-filled young men opened fire on the President, his daughter, her black boyfriend, a good portion of the White House Staff, and several dozen innocent bystanders is that you were fated to obsess over physics?"

It's possible I have made an exceedingly stupid remark.

"No," I admit finally.

Donna stares at me for a long moment.  "They're bad people, Josh.  And they did an awful thing.  This has nothing to do with you personally."

"I know," I answer, my voice surprisingly weak.

It hits me sometimes.  The magnitude.

She takes my hand.  "I'm just saying."

"I know."

I close my eyes against the sudden threat of tears.  I have already made an ass of myself; no need to add 'sobbing idiot' to the days highlights.

Donna stays with me, her thumb stroking the back of my hand.  She tells me stories until I fall asleep.

I must sleep through the night, because when I wake, it's barely light out.  Donna is gone.

But she has left me a gift; a copy of Brian Greene's The Elegant Universe: Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and the Quest for the Ultimate Theory.

THE END

10.20.00