The Jeff Zone
By Jeff Gamble

I was so close.

Sitting in a wooded grove the other day, contemplating the possibility of physical time travel and time dilation, and I was perhaps just moments away from figuring out how to warp space-time. If I had just had a few more moments, I could have outlined the mathematical details involved in creating a little tube, or wormhole, allowing us to bend the space needed to travel to other ends of the galaxy without requiring thousands of light years to do it. My surroundings were peaceful, perfect for deep thought and meditation. Around me was ambient light. The sun was softly filtering through the rows of pine trees that formed a canopy over my head. The only decipherable sound was a trickling brook in the distance that gently flowed though a bed of ambling, fist-sized stones. Everything I needed in order to properly concentrate was in place.

As everybody knows, a “wormhole” theory states that time travel could be achieved through a scenario of creating matter with negative mass and negative energy density, allowing us to bend space in a way that literally brings the space closer to us – as opposed to having us travel to that space. It’s all been has been confirmed to be mathematically possible, but of course nobody’s been able to figure it out yet. As I maintained an almost trance-like state of mind while in the woods though, I was able to see all the equations and possibilities more clearly than Matt Damon in "Good Will Hunting", and with greater ease than in Russell Crowe in "A Beautiful Mind." It was all coming to me so easily. The numbers were all just fitting into place. Math had never before been a strong subject for me, but there I was, unraveling one of physics’ greatest mysteries without any effort whatsoever.

Then, as the answer was on the verge of finding its logical conclusion, a voice pierced my mathematical nirvana, cutting my concentration like a hatchet. I rapidly blinked my eyes a few times, and suddenly found that I wasn’t in a shady grove at all, but rather in the kitchen of my in-laws home. In front of me was a soup bowl, and in my hand was a spoon. My wife and her parents were all looking at me intently, almost expectantly. I looked back at everybody for a few seconds, trying to figure out where I was and what was going on.

“I’m sorry, excuse me?” I said in Spanish, attempting to get my bearings.

My wife slightly shook her head in disgust. “My dad was asking you a question about your computer,” she said flatly.

Without looking like I had missed a beat, I quickly tried to piece together what had got by me. “Oh, right. Right. What is you wanted to know again?” But the effort was futile. They could tell that I’d been once again drifting off in the netherworld known simply as “The Jeff Zone”.

People who have spent time in foreign-language speaking countries know all about The Jeff Zone. It’s a place the mind wanders to when oversaturated with an unfamiliar tongue. Here’s how it works: while everyone around you is speaking at full speed and you’re doing the best you can to keep up and understand, at some point the brain overloads and breaks down. It sticks a ‘closed’ sign in the window and says, “Anybody else around here ready to knock off for happy hour?”

The act of “going in” isn’t entirely voluntary. In fact, most of the time you don’t realize you have gone in until you are already out. One minute you’re engaged in reality, and the next minute you’re wondering what you missed, and how much. It’s like you’re walking on the sidewalk with everyone, and then all of a sudden some guy peeks out of an alley way and says, “Psssst. Hey, you. Yeah, you. C’mere for a second. I want to show you some pretty colors and lights.” So you go check out the pretty colors and lights, but when you return to the sidewalk the people you were walking with beforehand are on the other side of town.

While in The Jeff Zone, I’ve discovered that it’s pretty much anything goes. I never know what I’m going to find in there. One time I encountered a Spanish-speaking squirrel, and he had to be eliminated immediately. Normally though, everything is euphoric and I just drift along on my own, safely cocooned in my new environment. During recent trips I have conversed with alien life forms who gave me rides in their tricked-out saucers, have seen tiny elfin creatures riding majestic unicorns as they gallop over happy rainbows, and have discovered a new city named Jeffville – a place populated by nacho-serving strippers. (BTW, Jeffville is a fantastic spot.)

I myself end up in The Zone at least once a day, usually while at the table during lunch. The family will all be talking, and at first everything will be normal. I’ll be doing my best to follow the conversation, and when I think I can throw a comment in here and there without sounding like an idiot, I’ll even add my two cents. Eventually though, as I continue trying to focus on understanding every syllable that’s being spoken, I begin to break down. I feel myself squinting as I work harder and harder to concentrate, until finally, I have the facial expression of somebody walking straight into an artic wind. When I reach that point it’s all just a matter of time. From there, The Jeff Zones’ own form of heroin kicks in and suddenly my face – which moments before was straining and hurting with concentration – lets go. Radiohead’s “Exit Music (For A Film)” music starts playing, and off I go to a land that looks a lot like a Skittles commercial.

I used to believe that sanctuaries like this were accessible through a combination of prescription and street narcotics, but I now know differently. But as with any serious drug, going into The Zone is dangerous. The Jeff Zone’s side effects offset whatever euphoria you may experience while under its influence. The resulting hangover from “going in” may be that when you come out, a group of people could be waiting for you on the other side, looking not-so-pleased to see that you’ve taken a small mental vacation. I used to look to Marta when I’d snap out of it, hoping that by making eye contact with her she’d bail me out and catch me up to speed on what I missed. She’s figured out what the desperate eye contact means though, so I’m on my own now.

I figure that I’ve probably got just a couple more months of being allowed to go into The Zone. For the time being, I’m more or less being given a pass as a language-deficient imbecile. Part of me thinks that the family actually likes it when I escape because it gives them a break from talking to me in Spanish like a two-year-old. “We don’t eat fish with that fork, Jeff. We eat the fish with the other fork. Look. See this fork in my hand? This is the good fork. Other fork is the wrong fork…the incorrect fork…the bad fork.”

After my grace period ends though, I don’t know what’s going to happen. A million people have told me that after six months in Spain, I’ll be speaking like a native. I think that under normal circumstances they would be right. But because I’ve discovered this magical dimension, I may need more time. I’ve got some bookmarks placed in some of my favorite Jeff Zone places now, and I have actually started making lunchtime appointments to show up. I mean, learning a new language is cool, but lets be honest. So is Jeffville.

I imagine that after everyone gets sick of my crap, there will likely be some kind of intervention. The family will sit me down in a room and, one by one, will tell me how my behavior has affected them, and how self-destructive I’ve become. I’ll naturally protest, and try to make it clear that I don’t have a problem at all. I’ll tell them they are out of their minds and that they’re the ones who have the problem, not me. “Listen,” I’ll say, “I’m just thinking about other things sometimes, like dancing ribbons with sparkles, or chicks with nachos. That’s it. I can stop thinking about that stuff anytime I want.” The whole episode will likely turn out to be a disaster.

In the meantime though, I’m going to keep going in. There are a lot of things yet to see, and a lot of problems yet to be pondered. For example, I never did finish solving that time travel equation. And if I can sort out this whole theory of how the wormholes work, then I think I’ve got it made. The human race would be completely turned inside out. The world as we know it would be changed forever, and I’d be hailed in ways Einstein never could have imagined. From then on, people wouldn’t be mad if I went into The Jeff Zone. They would celebrate it. They would expect it. They would beg me to do it. To earn that right though, I’m just going to have to keep forging ahead. Nothing significant was ever achieved without hard work and determination.

- January, 2006