With a short-term plan, Martin felt re-energized and ready to tackle his to-do list, leaving the motel in a hurry. The old man remained asleep and let out a hoarse belch between snores.
The sound of the highway behind the building roared with traffic, but the road in front remained deserted. His old house waited a short six blocks away, causing the temptation to swell as he debated taking a casual stroll down his old street.
Six months. Follow the checklist, he reminded himself.
From the motel, the nearest apartment complex should be two blocks north. It was the same building he lived in in 2018, and he vaguely remembered it opening in the mid-90’s. With the leg cramps finally fading away, Martin started his journey north.
The sun didn’t let up as the clock struck noon. Mid-March in Colorado meant there was still one more month of unpredictable weather that could swing an 80-degree day to a freezing blizzard the next day. It was the perfect day to sit on the balcony with a cigar and a glass of scotch. But Martin had no cigar or scotch, let alone a balcony. Fuck this.
Martin dragged himself the two blocks only to find an empty lot. “You’re shitting me!” he shouted. Bushes and tumbleweed filled the landscape where his future residence would be built. “I could’ve sworn this was open by now.” He rotated to check the rest of the area, seeing nothing but the houses in the neighborhood and no apartment building in sight. One more block north was the middle school where Izzy would be.
Martin’s heart ached immediately at the thought. Here he was, one block away from his long-lost daughter, and all he wanted to do was barge into her classroom and hug her. Hug her and never let go. Take her from the school. Chris had cautioned against making drastic changes to the past. Surely kidnapping his daughter would change everything.
Stay patient. You’ll see her soon enough.
Tears welled in his eyes. Just seeing her in person would be enough to call this a successful trip. One last hug and kiss on her forehead that he could hang on to for the rest of his life would suffice.
Go back to the motel. It’s day one and you’re already risking your cover. Finish your plan, then worry about seeing Izzy.
Martin swiveled around on his heel and dragged his feet in defeat back to the motel. His thighs protested the additional walking, but his mind stayed too consumed to notice. He closed his eyes while he trudged along the sidewalk, picturing Izzy with her round, green eyes, brace-filled smile, and childish giggle that echoed in his heart and mind.
The walk back to the motel felt shorter, thanks to his racing thoughts. He entered the lobby where Randy sat behind the front desk, a cigarette pursed between his lips as he watched Seinfeld on a small, portable television.
“What can I do ya for?” he asked, not looking away from the TV.
“I think I’m going to be in town much longer than I planned. Do you know where the nearest apartments are?”
Randy plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and turned his attention to Martin with a scrunched face.
“Couple miles east of here. Off 84th by the flea market.”
“Perfect, thank you. Are you able to call me a cab by chance to take me there?”
“Yessir.”
Randy snapped the phone off its cradle and turned the wheel on the rotary. Martin patted the cell phone in his pocket, thankful for how far technology had advanced through the new century.
While Randy ordered the taxi, Martin perused the lobby that he had ignored earlier. Pictures of diesel trucks decorated the wood-panel walls, fake plants stood in each corner of the room, and a table with magazines about guns and trucks was tucked along the back wall next to a raggedy water cooler. The ashtray on the table overflowed.
“Cab’s here,” Randy said, having already returned to his TV with the cigarette back between his crusty lips.
“Thank you, sir!” Martin replied as he crossed the lobby, excited to travel by vehicle.
The yellow cab waited outside the main entrance, smoke puttering from the exhaust pipe. The paint was chipped in scattered areas and the driver side taillight appeared busted in by a baseball bat.
Martin opened the door and plopped down behind the driver. A bald, black man greeted him. “Hey, mon. Where to?”
A small Jamaican flag hung from the rear-view mirror, just above his ID card that identified him as Clinton Green.
“Hello, I’m heading to the apartment complex by the flea market. I’m not sure of the name, but it’s right off 84th.”
“Got it,” Clinton responded in a thick Jamaican accent. “Five minutes.”
“Do you know the name?”
“Larkwood Suites.”
“Thank you.”
Martin looked out the window during the drive. He’d never realized how clean the town had become over time. Seeing it in the 90’s again reminded him that it hadn’t always been the safest of places to live. Broken-down cars were parked in front of run down houses. Graffiti decorated abandoned warehouses that blended into the city’s skyline. A group of teenagers huddled in the warehouse’s parking lot, smoking cigarettes while passing a brown bag around the circle.
Ahhh, Larkwood. You’ve changed, but you’re still the same.
Seeing the city’s transformation over the course of his life showed Martin that even the worst of situations could one day sprout a better future. In 2018, the same area had an outdoor strip mall with a restaurant, nail salon, and liquor store.
Driving through town felt like a trip through the history books. They passed the block where his mom lived, and he craned his neck for a view of her house. It stood with its beige exterior, not having changed one bit over the years. Seeing the house caused gooseflesh to break out across his arms. The trip started to feel more like a fucked-up vacation mixed with a sickening nostalgia.
What would happen if I visited my mom? What could that mean for my future self?
Martin knew he needed to suppress these thoughts before they snowballed out of control. Temptation to push the boundaries would surely keep pounding on the door.
“We here, mon.” Clinton stared at Martin in the rear view. “Six dollars, please.”
Fuck. All my money’s in a single wad.
Martin didn’t want to pull out a bundle of three thousand dollars in front of the cab driver. He was new in town and didn’t need any locals murmuring about the new guy with all the cash. With a balled fist, he stuffed his hand into his pocket and wriggled his fingers to work out a lone bill from the wad, hoping it was bigger than a single.
Alexander Hamilton stared at him when he pulled his hand out and Martin handed the ten-dollar bill over without hesitation. “Have a good day, mon.” Clinton watched Martin leave the cab with a quick head nod in return.
The cab drove off and Martin faced Larkwood Suites, an apartment complex he had a hard time remembering from any point in his life. It was tucked behind a neighborhood, away from the main roads. He had never ventured to this part of town and made a mental note to come back to this spot in 2018 to see if the building still stood.
The complex stood three stories tall with a brick exterior. Each window had an air conditioner visible from the outside, and many of them buzzed as they worked on the hot March day. The entrance had double doors that Martin pulled open, letting out a gush of cool air that felt marvelous on his sweating neck.
A wall of mailboxes, each marked with unit numbers, greeted him before passing through another set of doors into the main lobby. A vending machine hummed while its light flickered next to an open office door where Martin peered into in search of help.
A middle-age man sat behind a cluttered desk, his attention focused on the boxy computer monitor that took up nearly all of the space on his desk. The screen glowed on his face to highlight his thick, black mustache and wavy hair. A couple of crumbs clung to life on the bottom edge of his facial hair. Martin cleared his throat to get the man’s attention.
“Oh, hello there. Is there something I can help you with?” The man’s voice came o
ut deeper than expected, and when he stood, Martin noticed bulging muscles stretching his polo shirt to its limits when he stuck out a hand to shake. “Vincent Mack. You’re not from this complex, are you?”
“No, sir. I was actually hoping to see if you had any open units for rent.”
“That I do. What’s your name?”
“Martin Briar. I just got into town a few days ago and need somewhere to live. Been staying at the Sunset Dream Motel.”
“Yikes. Are you a trucker?”
“No. I’m a writer. Just traveling around the country looking for new material.” The lie came out naturally, and Martin decided to make this his story going forward.
“I didn’t think so. You don’t exactly look like the kinda guy who’d stay at the Sunset. Is it just yourself?”
“Yes.”
“I have a studio unit that just opened up – I was actually putting together a flyer for it right now. 450 a month, includes water and electric.”
450! Martin fought off a gasp. He had over six months’ worth of rent, at that price, in his pocket. He could stay and not worry about a job.
“That should work fine,” Martin said in his best expressionless voice.
“Awesome. I’ll print out the contract for you to review. Will you have first and last month’s rent?”
Buddy, I have all the rent.
“Yes.”
“My man. Gimme ten minutes and I’ll get you that contract. Bring it all back tomorrow and you got yourself a place to live.”
“Thanks, Vincent, I appreciate you working with me on such short notice.”
“Call me Vinny. And it’s no problem.”
Martin waited in the lobby while listening to the printer whoosh back and forth. This landlord didn’t ask for any credit information, identification, or references. Life was simple in the 90’s, and Martin celebrated by buying a 25-cent Coke from the vending machine.
11
Chapter 11
Vinny never asked for any of the standard background information that was common in 2018. Martin returned the following morning after a rough night of sleep at the motel. His neighbor apparently paid for a deluxe service from Randy’s business card as screaming and moaning carried through the walls until 3 A.M.
Martin expected to live in a closet based on the tiny amount of rent due for his studio, but was surprised to find a spacious room when he entered. He walked into a full kitchen with his living room/bedroom combination behind the island counter, and a bathroom and closet in the far corner. The studio was roughly the size of his 2018 unit, and also had a balcony where he could continue his nightly traditions. A lemony scent filled the air, so Martin cracked open the window above his air conditioning unit to freshen the space.
The empty studio stared back at him, the white walls bare and demanding decorations. He’d need furniture. Sleeping on the floor for six months wouldn’t suffice. A couch, bed, and some barstools were all he really needed. He could eat like a king every night if he wanted to go out and about. Downtown Denver was only a ten-minute drive in the 90’s, before the constant rush hour that began after 2010.
Finding a car was his next objective now that he had shelter away from the hooker-loving truckers. As much as he wanted a flashy car, he knew he needed to blend in with his surroundings. Larkwood didn’t exactly have BMWs rolling down the street.
Every time Martin had a thought pop into his mind he pulled out his phone to open Google, only to find it useless and disconnected. The Internet wasn’t in homes at this point in time, and Martin realized he’d have to go to the library should he need to use a computer.
How did we function before the Internet? The thought of driving to the library to search for the nearest car dealership, then printing the directions to get there, seemed like an ancient practice.
The Yellow Pages! Vinny would have a copy in his office for the tenants to use.
Martin left his apartment and flew down the one flight of stairs to the lobby, where Vinny’s office door stood open.
“Martin! There’s not something wrong with the place, is there?” Vinny asked.
“No, not at all. I was actually looking for The Yellow Pages. Do you have one?”
“Of course.”
Vinny swiveled in his chair and rummaged through a pile of papers on the desk behind him. He pulled out a thick yellow book heavy enough to knock a senior citizen unconscious and dropped it on the desk with a hard thud. “Here you go.”
Martin flipped through the pages in the “C” section and appreciated the simpler times of life. If you truly wanted a piece of information, you had to go get it.
He arrived to a section labeled “Cars” and found a list of a couple dozen dealerships, mostly in Denver.
“Are there any car dealers you know of in Larkwood?” he asked Vinny.
“Yes. They might not be listed in there. Good buddy of mine runs a dealership on Quebec Street called Caracas. Tell him I sent you and he’ll take good care of you.”
Martin used the phone in the lobby to call a cab and only waited five minutes for its arrival, and another five to arrive to the dealership.
The dealership was a small building, no bigger than a fast food restaurant, with at least 100 cars surrounding it in the lot. A few clunkers were visible, but the front line showed some promise.
A scrawny man wasted no time meeting Martin on the lot when the cab departed.
“Hello there. Anything I can help you with today?” he asked in a squeaky voice and slight Latin accent. Martin studied the man’s slicked back hair and the cheap jewelry adorning his wrists and neck.
“I’m in the market for a new car. Just need something reliable to get around town, nothing special.” Martin watched the man’s brown eyes bulge in excitement at the hot lead that just walked on to the lot.
“Yes, sir. My name’s Antonio. Anything you need. Do you have a preference for American or foreign?”
“I don’t. Just looking for the best deal.”
“Of course. Come.”
Martin followed Antonio, who darted around the corner of the building, and braced himself for the attempted screwing he was about to take from the car salesman. They passed a row of American makes, and headed deeper into European and Asian models.
Antonio, dressed in a cheap suit, stopped in front of an early 90’s BMW. “This is one of the finest cars we have.”
Martin studied the car and loved it, but a BMW was out of the question.
“I’ll give you a great deal, yeah?” Antonio pressured as Martin remained silent. Antonio glanced at the information sheet on the driver’s window. “Only 30,000 miles. Its price is $15,000, but I’ll do ten for you. Yeah?”
Antonio nodded at the end of each sentence, finally receiving a smile back from Martin.
“I’m looking for something a bit more subtle. I wanna blend in, not be turning heads at every red light. I have $2,000 cash in my pocket. What can you give me for that?”
“Ahhh, yes, of course. I have just the thing.” Antonio’s skinny fingers clasped together as he led them away from the BMW and toward the back of the lot. He stopped in front of an old Buick and stretched a hand out to present it to Martin.
“1988. 120,000 miles.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand.”
“Bullshit.” Martin stepped up to the information sheet and saw the price clearly listed at $1,600. “That’s not what it says here. You trying to pull a fast one on me?”
Martin turned and walked away, not making it five steps before Antonio pleaded.
“Please, please. Sorry, sir. I made a mistake. I thought this was priced different.”
Martin turned back to Antonio and saw the immediate regret on his face. He never planned on leaving; he had nowhere to go. Besides, he could negotiate an even better price now that he caught the salesman red-handed.
“So you’ll give it to me for $1,000 then?” Martin asked.
Antonio looked to the sky as he made mental
calculations. “I can do $1,200.”
“Perfect.” Martin played him like a fool.
“I’ll draw up the paperwork.” Antonio returned to the office building with his tail between his legs.
* * *
An hour later Martin pulled out of the dealership in his “new” Buick Regal, black paint chipped and fading, and bubbles about to burst from the poor tint job on all the windows. Now he felt like he fit into the Larkwood scene and knew no one would pay him any attention.
With wheels underneath, Martin felt ready to explore this 1996 version of the world more freely. He could even plan a road trip and visit the rest of the country. Perhaps a trip to the Olympics would be a reality after all.
He drove through town with the windows down, letting the air flow and ruffle his hair. The air conditioning was broken, so he had no other choice. He passed the pile of ashes that was once his church and sped through the intersection.
It’s time. I just want to drive by.
It only took three minutes before he pulled into his former neighborhood. Cars lined the sidewalks as always; the residents never quite seemed to grasp the concept of a driveway.
The trees that normally shaded the block in the summer stood tall and leafless, and this allowed Martin to see his home the moment he turned on to Cherry Street. He coasted at a steady five miles per hour as he passed all of the familiar houses that were once his neighbors.
The nostalgia overflowed as he felt the effects of living in a different dimension.
There it is. The hairs on his arms stood at attention as he stopped the car across the street from his old house. The ranch home stood out with its light green siding and forest green trim. The lawn was still yellow but had clearly been aerated in preparation for the upcoming spring season.
The clock on the radio read 12:33, so he knew no one would be home, and pulled into the empty driveway. A squirrel stared at him from the front porch and darted away when he stepped out of the car. The house radiated its many memories as he walked around to the backyard to get out of sight from any nosy neighbors.
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