My time covering the Crows in New York did not end, even after the last of them leapt off planet. I had barely scratched the surface of the Big Apple. But I spent too long on a version of Earth that had both New York City and where the Late Show with David Letterman still aired. It would have been a world the most resembled the early 2000s of Earth_42.

I got lazy with my methods of navigating downtown. Let’s just say I’d leverage dimensional leaping to get around and some New Yorkers took notice. I gained a reputation among that city that never sleeps. I had to appear on Letterman to expel any false rumors… or 4th-dimensional ripple effects.

The city dwellers had witnessed my performance of several feats that broke laws of contemporary physics. They’d eventually, inevitably develop an elaborate lore about my presence among the five boroughs that contained the potential for irreversible ripples which would alter the course of this Earth version’s evolution. None of this was ideal.

Furthermore, my helmet had earned the nickname “Bueller,” after Ferris Bueller and his day off. The helmet not only protected my head; its viewfinder supplied enough augmented reality (AR) metadata in whatever strange corner of a world I’d find myself. I could become like Ferris Bueller in any situation. The helmet smoothed the roughest of transitions between realities and circumstances to equip me with the vital intel to excel in this space with newfound friends. Friends were the key to assimiliating into any occurrence. It was the dynamic between these players’ connection—the notes in this existential orchestra—that dictated the vibe and tone I’d need to tap, in order to successfully integrate.

What did this all mean for my fellow New Yorkers?

Well, this also meant I’d get lazy materializing into foreign Earths, like that time I disrupted a whole week in New York City. Bueller’s AR would smooth over any rough patches from sloppy leaping, I thought. But the AR intel my helmet provided only worked if I could conceal these otherworldly abilities in the process.

Say I swept down into the Park Plaza lobby to strike up a conversation with some prominent guest, an entertainer. Say, Andrew Dice Clay. He may have even approached me first, asking if I “want the picture (with him)??”

It didn’t help anything if I opened, spouting in-depth knowledge of this character’s life without explanation.

“Oh!” the Dice might say. “Who is dis guy?? Some kinda stawkah?”

Bueller supplied me intel to establish trust with my new peers and, therefore, had to be leveraged carefully. It doled out the knowledge to me gradually, seamlessly, so as not to turn heads. It was important to keep people—even the Dice Man—none the wiser. Otherwise, I could risk Thunderbird exposure.

But no amount of metadata or seamless integration techniques could conceal what manifested as a sheer miracle from the perspective of city dwellers. It also didn’t help that I levitated 15 stories above 5th Ave, because I’d rather surf gravitational waves at high velocities than sit in New York’s infamous rush hour traffic, or suffer the humid underground haunts of NYC’s subway. Let’s just say there were witnesses, whose whistleblowing ripple effects of my transcendent descent upon the Big Apple would require a massive correction. Addressing each disruptor individually would be about as effective as the little Dutch boy plugging proliferating dam holes with his finger.

Bueller intercepted the Late Show staff the next night to invite me as their guest. I won’t get into the nitty gritty of how such a feat in PR was possible, but I will say that possessing access to the 5th dimension provides one with the necessary fate strings to pull outside of time. Step one was getting their scheduled guest to cancel. Step two was inserting myself seamlessly into the green room. Bending time and human minds with tachyons cleared the way for me to appear on late-night TV, on such short notice and with no known earthly reputation (other than a growing mystique that would have to be squashed).

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I walked out onto Letterman’s stage decked in my finest black suit, with a red tie. I wore my fabled mask and helmet. And then I wiped everyone’s memory in the audience and who’d tuned in.

The interview started as it would for any celebrity, public figure, or person of interest.

“What would, ah, ya say you’re doing here, Bill?” Dave got right to the point as I sat in the hot seat. The radiating stage lights bore down on my helmet and reflected from its smooth surface.

“Well, Dave, there’s this thing called the Kardashev scale. It measures the complexity of civilizations. A Type 1 civ has mastered the entire energy of its home planet. Type 2 has captured and harnessed its whole star system. And Type 3 has climbed the ranks to harness an entire galaxy. Earth is a Type 0 civilization. We haven’t even figured out how to tap into the true potential of our Mother Earth.”

“Ah, I see,” said Dave. “And we’re supposed to do what with this information?”

“I’m here to raise you from a Type 0 to a Type 1, but none of this matters right now. I’ll soon wipe your memory, your entire studio audience’s recollection and the people’s watching at home.”

Dave’s eyes dilated into perplexity at my utterance of wiping people’s memories, including his, but the consummate broadcaster trudged on.

“So how’d you get up to the 15th story there, on Park Ave?”

The audience chuckled. Even under profound bewilderment, the talented late night host had a knack for levity. I was still wearing my helmet—I had planned on keeping it on the entire interview—but I must say, this was the first time since anointing as a full-fledged Thunderbird that I did not feel like I had complete control over the situation. Letterman was the boss.

“I bent gravity to surf on its waves,” I said.

“Alrighty,” Dave ushered the conversation along. “Say, Bill, why don’t you take off that helmet?” The TV host’s request was buttressed by encouragement from the crowd.

Reluctantly, I slowly doffed the headpiece. I’m happy to say I heard a few woos! from girls in the crowd (and maybe a few males too. Who knows? The Ed Sullivan Theatre was dark). I set the helmet down on Dave’s desk between us.

“You, eh, you ever eat popcorn out of it?” Dave quipped, to an even louder wave of laughter from his faithful studio audience. I played along in deference to the master of broadcasting.

“Uh, haha, no, no,” I said, finding my words under the bright lights and lingering chuckles from the dark pews. “The hot butter would severely damage the internal circuitry, Dave.”

The crowd seemed to like my impromptu response, as a few giggles fluttered from the other side of the fourth wall. It even got a laugh out of Letterman.

“Ha Ha! Well, that’s great, Bill. Glad to hear it. So what else do you want to inform us of here tonight?”

“Thanks, Dave,” I said, “I’m here to tell everyone, including you, Dave, that I got lazy hopping around your fine city and regrettably decided to cut a few corners. I possess the ability to bend gravity, you see, in such a way that I can hover 15 or even 20 stories above the street, but the good general public aren’t ready for such wonders just yet.”

“And you’re here to tell us not to tell anyone that you defied physics this week?” Dave shifted from comic to cross-examiner. “Sorry, pal, cat’s out of the bag on that one.”

The audience rumbled with laughter, ever hanging on the host’s side.

“Something like that,” I said. Then, I gazed directly into camera 1 and guided the cameraman to close in tight on my helmet, still sitting on the host’s desk. My giant, light-up Thunderbird eyes embedded in Bueller flashed in brilliant bursts that filled the studio and cameras, reaching into remote viewers’ homes. “There was never a guy flying over Park Ave,” I said, over Bueller’s light show. “It was a hoax. I’m here to plug my book, Big Cat.”

An electromagnetic pulse surged from my helmet, reverberating throughout the studio audience, hopping on airwaves that then broadcast to the entire nation’s remote viewing public.

A beat.

Dave shook out of the daze where the rest of his audience still stirred, wrestling with what had just occurred.

“Well, OK, Bill,” he said. “What’s the book about?”

“Thanks, Dave. It’s a sci-fi tale about navigating the multiverse.”

Dave reached out his right hand to shake mine.

“OK, Bill, best of luck to ya,” he said, as the house band played us to commercial.

As the audience climbed out of their collective stupor and applauded, Dave leaned in close to my ear and said, “Nice job. Thanks for filling in on such short notice. Come back again anytime.”

Years later, every now and then, a “Mandela Effect” clip would surface featuring my mythical appearance on the Late Show, but those hearsay accounts never amounted to more than a shimmer.

I submitted this story as a feature piece to my metaphysical newspaper, the North Star, covering the planet that would forever more be known as “Earth_Letterman.” It was the first of many that I successfully pitched to the editor:

Thunderbird Appears on Late Night TV to Quell Ripple Effects

A lot of Earth versions in the early 2000s enjoyed the privilege of tuning in every night to the Late Show with David Letterman. I had visited one such version recently and found myself in a rather precarious situation, when the locals took notice to this Thunderbird’s otherworldly skills.

I got sloppy and accidentally let the cat out of the bag so to speak. These were a primitive people and were not ready for the jaw-dropping presence of a higher consciousness being. In short, they caught me gravity hopping 20 stories above 5th Avenue. There were too many eyewitnesses.

So I had to go on Letterman. In one fell swoop, I could clean up my mess.

After my helmet, Bueller, paved the way to appear the following night—my afternoon antics above Manhattan were still fresh in all the local zeitgeist—I must say that Letterman’s people were very nice. I remember feeling nervous sitting in the makeup chair. It was also a little awkward in there with their hair and makeup lady, since I refused to remove my helmet. We just chatted mostly to kill the time. The small talk helped calm my nerves before it was time to stand in the wings just offstage, waiting for Dave to introduce me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Bill Thunderbird,” Dave said.

Under the brilliant studio lights, I walked on stage to greet the host. I sat down and we chatted. After a few minutes of light banter, I set my helmet down on Dave’s desk. My helmet erupted an electromagnetic memory wiping pulse from its light-up eyes that poured through the studio audience and cast over radio waves to the remote television viewing public.

And Voilà. My ripple effects from local physics’ transgressions vanished from those earthlings, via mass communication. But prevention of ripple effects is the best medicine. I don’t recommend this drastic technique.

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If you liked this Late Show tale, you might like the novel Big Cat.

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