Call Greg the next morning

I settled to bed fairly directly after Greg left that night.

I slept very well. But I woke to dreams of living life as a woman, but where everyone I met casually -- men and women both -- casually copped a feel of my chest. It was vaguely exciting, but really more confusing in the way of dreams than anything else.

I woke feeling refreshed. I got up to have breakfast, and tried to plan my next experiment. It was Saturday. I generally only work during the week, so I had some free time to play with.

Funnily enough, of all the things that happened the night before, it was the pizza boxes that reassured me most of all about how this strange device worked. It produced continuity errors, but did it's best to smooth them out. Greg and I had both, in the end, eaten pizza in the 'real' world, though we'd been tidier than we would have been in the alternate world where we'd gotten high. Greg remembered the broad strokes of our interactions, though had problems recalling those details about one world -- like my gender or my name -- which were different or implausible in the other.

I figured, that meant that I didn't have to be quite so careful. I didn't know just how things worked, but if my old friend Greg could only just concieve of me having been a man, and if details such as the locations of food containers got tidied up when the switch ended, I probably didn't have to be very secretive.

Maybe I should still be a little bit careful, though. Not paranoid, not anxious... but on the one hand, I'd frequently be dipping my toes (to mix a metaphor) into strange worlds which I'd only half imagined; and on the other, I didn't know what would happen if I switched back, while interacting with someone who wasn't in the know.

I thought of Greg. I decided that I should call him: to thank him again, let him know that I was okay, but also to check in with him. He had seemed a little spooked the night before. And in fairness, who could blame him? Even setting aside the existential crisis I'd inadvertently triggered, this would be a lot for him to take in.

I took a moment to switch first. I'm not sure exactly why, though part of it was my wanting to reassure him, if I could, by offering him some continuity with last night.

I thought of a world much like the one last night, and was amused as my flannel pyjama bottoms switched out for a pair of panties. I hadn't imagined any specific dress-like variant for my usual sleep-wear, so it seemed that the stone interpreted the social convention of women not wearing trousers to mean that I didn't wear pyjama bottoms as Joan. I gave Greg a call.

"Hello," Greg answered, when I did call.

"Hi Greg," I answered in a somewhat higher-pitched voice -- one that I was still getting used to, but which has started to feel as my own. "It's Joan. I'm just calling to say thank-you again for last night."

I could hear Greg's wisened smile through the phone. "It was my pleasure, Joan. It had been too long since we got together. How are you feeling after last night?"

I'd decided to change the world a little less this morning: I hadn't made cannabis legal. What would he remember? That was the big question, in more ways than one.

"I'm feeling pretty good," I told him. "I slept like a baby. But what do you remember about last night?"

Greg hummed. "Well, I remember that you had more than a little Duvel, and took some hits from a joint that you let me smoke. We got a bit cosy on your sofa as I recall. I hope that I was a gentleman?" Greg's question was friendly, but we both knew it was rhetorical. He had never touched a woman in any way that she hadn't asked him to first: that's just who he was.

"Of course Greg, darling," I said -- the term of endearment surprising me as it sprung from my lips. It came easily, reflexively: but like Greg's question, it was just a friendly affectation. A bit of banter, even: it left an aftertaste of friendly sarcasm on my tongue. "But I don't think that I actually drank anything. I just smoked my regular brand of cannabis. Don't you remember?"

"Huh?" Greg asked. "I -- er," he trailed off. "I... think you're right. But how can you... have a regular brand..." he struggled to make sense of brands of marujuana in a world where it was illegal.

A moment of silence. Then: "Oh. Oh."

"Do you remember now?" I asked him.

"Yes," he said tentatively. "Yes, I do. Joan, can I ask... why you're calling me?"

I sensed that Greg was a bit upset. "Sorry Greg," I told him. "I thought that if I drew attention to it, you could see for yourself what continuity there is with last night."

Greg was quiet. "Okay, Joan. I appreciate the thought. If I'm honest, I'm not sure that it's a very good idea to draw my attention to differences between switches this way... I'm not sure it's good for my mental health."

I paled. "Oh shit," I exclaimed. Greg prized his mental health highly, despite what a stranger might think of his recreational activities. He was giving me a pretty major warning.

"I forgive you," Greg said. "I have to tell you, Joan, this is some pretty serious ring of Gyges stuff you're messing with." Greg didn't need to explain: we both knew the famous ancient Greek allegory about a ring of invisibility and the moral peril of using it. "But I'm glad that you're making an effort to figure out the risks of using it... And as far as these discontinuities go, I think it's probably a good thing for me to experience this one time. I have a sense of continuity now with last night's switch, however imperfect. So I didn't die, last night, after all."

"That's what I hoped you'd feel," I said to Greg. "I don't want to put a strain on our friendship, Greg. I value it too much for that. Is there a way that I should approach things with the switches?"

Greg paused. "I think that, between switches, you should probably try not to draw attention to it too much. If you do, maybe don't refer to specifics about other switches too much." He paused again. "There's a lot of potential to gaslight people with the switches, Joan. It's not very nice to make people doubt their memories in this way unless it's strictly necessary. Even if you have a very good reason to remember differently."

Another gentle but strong warning. "I understand, Greg."

Greg paused again. He was on a roll now, but he always took care to speak gently. "I have to tell you Joan, this stone of yours is very worrying. Ignoring how it's even possible... Well, again, it's like the ring of Gyges. I have to ask: are you sure you should be using it?"

I was stumped. The possibility of not using it had simply not occurred to me.

Greg relieved me of the obligation to answer. "No, that was unfair. I'm sorry for saying that, Joan. Maybe we can talk about that later."

I was a little confused, but accepted. "Okay. Maybe some other time."

"Just..." Greg was **** to say something, but was holding himself back, desperately trying to maintain his cool. "Please try to use it in a compassionate way. For the sake of our friendship if nothing else. If I have any continuity, I'll probably be dimly aware of how things are switching. Very dimly, maybe... but can you please try to choose worlds where people will not suffer more than they normally would?"

Greg was trying to speak evenly, but was failing. I heard a trace of fear, but also sadness, in his voice.

My heart broke for poor Greg. From his perspective, he was basically begging some careless goddess-child to be careful not to hurt people. A limited-time opportunity to plead about The Problem of Evil, even. And who could blame him? I'd do the same, assuming of course that I didn't fold into myself with cowardice instead.

I didn't even have any intentions to do any differently. But Greg probably felt that he had just this one chance to ask me to walk the right path.

"Greg, I promise you that I will do my best not to use the stone cruelly. And... to be more careful. I -- I might even try to make at least one thing significantly better in the world, each time I use it."

Greg breathed out through his nostrils. Even through the voice call, I could see him do it. "That sounds like a good way to start," he said. He paused. "Joan, I'm going to take a big personal risk. As long as I've known you, you've... well... you've been a bit of a tom-boy, if you don't mind me saying so."

This made sense to me. "That sounds fair."

Greg paused. "This is a bit weird for me to think about, Joan, so I hope this question makes some sense to you, and that it's not offensive... Would you say that you're a tom-boy, by choice? Or do you wish you could sometimes be... more feminine?"

I was taken by surprise. But I could just about work out what Greg was getting at. Greg was stretching himself, remembering on some level that I wasn't normally a woman, despite his lifetime of memories of me being a female friend... and inferring that if he knew me as a tom-boy, perhaps it was because, somehow, I'd secretly been living my life as a man. And -- at the same time -- maybe I would have preferred not to have lived that way: like having habits as though I'd been raised in a cult.

"Joan?" Greg asked.

"It's okay," I answered quickly. "I understand why you ask, I think. Um... actually I think I'm happy as a bit of a tom-boy. I like comfortable clothes, plaid shirts, good walking shoes: I've never wanted anything different to that. But maybe it would be a good idea to pick up some more feminine affectations. Maybe... learn to perform just a little bit more, as a woman."

"Okay," Greg said. "Well, I'm glad that you're comfortable with yourself as I know you, Joan." An interesting phrasing, that was. "You always did strike me as a fairly authentic person. But if you'd like someone to learn some more... feminine ways to style yourself, I wonder if you'd like to meet my sister and her wife," he said.

At the time, I hadn't appreciated just what Greg was doing in making this offer. I now understand how big of a risk he'd taken. But even if he hadn't grasped everything it would entail, it had been a stroke of genius on his part.

"Sure," I told him. "You've mentioned them a few times before, they sound very nice," I told him.

"Alright," he said, sounding very deliberate. "Leave that to me. I'll organise an introduction. Let me get back to you on that. Are you free tomorrow, by the way?"

I had no plans for Sunday. "Sure," I told him.

"Okay, very good," he said. "Joan, I -- well, I hope that you appreciate how strange all of this is. I don't think I'd do this for very many of my friends. I hope that I can trust you to be the person I know and remember. Whatever it is, that you might remember," he said, uncertainly.

I felt a bit humbled by this. "Greg, I'm sure that I remember things a bit differently to you, but I shared this with you for a reason. You're the one person I could think of, who I could trust and who could handle how strange this was likely to be. I've always thought of you as very sharp, gentle, and wise. I was glad to be able to share this... thing with you. The last thing I want is to spoil that."

Greg seemed reassured by this. "I'm happy to hear that Joan," he said. "I'll be in touch in a little while. Though, er..." he hesitated. "I don't know if I'll remember to call you when you're... not Joan. So, er, maybe try to... keep being Joan if you'd like me to introduce you to Tegan and Alice."

"Okay Greg," I answered simply.

"Fuck, Joan, this is hard to think about," Greg said with an uncharacteristic oath.

I laughed. I surprised myself with how musical my laugh was. "Poor Greg! Thanks for being such a good sport," I commended him. "There's none better suited to the job than you."

Greg grunted with grudging satisfaction. "We'll discuss my salary later," he told me.

We said our pleasantries, and hung up.

That had been a bit heavier, than I expected it to be. But interesting social developments were now afoot. Meanwhile, Saturday still stretched on before me. I had time to experiment, and I had the chance to step out the door a new woman.