Once up, Wilder’s face was crotch-level to the man across the train car. He didn’t like the view. But train commutes were invariably faster for Wilder than walking. And he couldn’t drive in the world of “Is.” A baby cried. Comfortable enough, he sipped his coffee and pretended, like the other commuters, not to notice the baby or it’s loudly shushing mother or Wilder’s own crotch. His flaccid penis bulged under his slacks like a giant rubber dreidel, pushing past his knees and slumping towards the floor.
In Wilder’s fantasy world, that is, the world of “If” and not “Is”, jungles grew from skyscrapers and he had only to gather a vine in his hands to swing from building to building. The only time of day was twilight, and the only kind of coffee was dark roast Colombian, and currency operated on a barter system of objects that only started with vowels.
‘Excuse me?’ said the woman with the baby. ‘Can I sit here?’
Wilder dragged his massive hand off the adjacent seat; is thumped onto the floor. His thin shoulder torqued from the strain.
Operating in the world of “If” simplified a lot of things for Wilder. He had fewer evolutionary advantages in “Is”. Only one, in fact, came to mind: his lips, of similar size and shape to a venus fly-trap. They smacked so loudly when he ate; they had become a source of personal delight. Unfortunately, his tongue was far too large to fit behind them, which prevented other things like clear speech or whistling.
The woman’s baby continued to cry. It had red hair and a red face. Besides that, it looked very much like Wilder; they were roughly the same size. Wilder wondered if it was an ugly baby or a pretty baby. Babies were born much larger in the world of “If,” but without eyes; those did not develop until later. Other, more important senses developed first, and by the time eyes arrived there were of little use. For this reason, there was almost no staring in “If”. Or, if there were, and if they did, it was from heads as bulbous and domed and from eyes as vacant and blue as Wilder’s own.
The baby cooed at Wilder. The woman laughed.
‘Oh, now he’s in a good mood! Do you like the nice man, sweetheart? I’m sorry he is just so cranky in the morning.’
Wilder shrugged, which caused his chin to bump his navel.
‘Oh, but he likes you! Yes, you like the nice man, don’t you?’
The baby burped and it’s eyes flared wide, clear whites around cornflower blue.
Perhaps another traveller from “If”, Wilder considered, returning to his coffee.