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234 Spitball for Mark Cull Physicists speculate that when you leave a place, a party, say, there are at least two universes where you go. In one scenario, for example, you’re a dog groomer. In another, a free-agent spitball pitcher who has gone back to Wichita to visit your family, circa 1982. Neither of you returns to the party. Those two roads diverged and kept on diverging. One’s a north-south polar orbit for a military satellite and one’s the busiest freeway interchange in the United States, a sweeping wing of rebar and concrete hurling vehicles along a wicked curve toward LAX. In either case, the party scene is basically over for you. How many parties can one person experience in this universe and any other ones? How many pieces of celery can a single hand drag-bunt across infinite varieties of soulfully flavored dip mixtures? Wherever you are, it’s time you go outside for a breath of fresh air. There’s a lingering whiff of clover, and across the street from the party some scruffy Standard Poodles are chasing each other in an Astro-turfed yard. Your moistened fingertips find the car key in the pocket of your dog-hair dusted coat. Nobody is going to miss you if you go. ...

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