The Life and Times of Johnny Plotpoint

Johnny flipped open to the first story - a story about Sam Hall, who didn't exist anywhere except in a big computer. Another man had made him up, but the things he made Sam do led to a revolution. Johnny liked the idea of that - that a man who didn't exist could change the world. He didn't know why, but it seemed to make sense to him.

The waitress returned with his food. He began to feel at ease. This was usually the part where he would start talking to someone, say what needed to be said, and move on. She set his plate down on the table.

"The baristas told me to tell you that there is no such thing as Mexican Chipulte. It doesn't exist. I brought you a cup of Kona blend instead. I think you'll like it." She smiled at him, turned around and left. Johnny just stared at the food on his plate. His eggs stared back, mocking him. It doesn't exist. Some part of him had told him that he had tasted Mexican Chipulte before - that he had been somewhere where they served it. He was never wrong about things like that.

He picked up his fork. It felt cold and heavy in his hand. The smell of his eggs wafted up and mixed with a faint chemical smell from the table - he didn't know quite what it was. He suddenly felt very small - like he was even less significant than normal.

Since his ride began, Johnny had seen a lot of people. He talked to them and said what needed to be said, then he got on his bike and rode away. They drifted in and out of his life just that fast, their only purpose was to receive the little bits of information he had to give. He didn't know why it was like this, but that was life. Now, sitting here in this little coffee shop, staring down at a plate of eggs that he didn't know he wanted, he suddenly got the feeling that everything was wrong- like someone had turned his spoon around and the world was reflected back at him upside down.

He cut into his eggs and watched the yolk ooze out onto the plate. It didn't look appetizing. It didn't even look real to him. He stared at it and watched it bleed across his plate, covering his bacon.

"Johnny?" a voice said.

He looked up. The old man that the waitress had been talking to was standing at his table. He had a box - a computer - in his hands. He was smiling.

"What's happening to me?" he said, setting his fork down and looking up at the man. He knew that this man would have the answers.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" the man asked.

"Should I?" Johnny said, not sure how to respond.

"I think I had better," the man said, scooting into the booth across from Johnny. He settled into the seat and looked up at Johnny. "You're not eating your eggs. Aren't you hungry?"

"I don't know." Johnny looked down at his eggs then back up at the old man sitting across from him. The man had a kind face. His gray hair was thinning on top and he had a moustache. There was something familiar about him.

"Do you remember me, Johnny?" the man said, smiling.

"I think so. You look different."

"Forty-six years tends to add a few gray hairs." The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a booklet folded in half. "How's the Indian running?"

"Still running the same," Johnny said, a little puzzled by the question. He had never had trouble with his bike.