Switchback

by Matthew Klein

  But the Kid was surprisingly gracious. ‘I would love to come,’ he had said when Timothy had called two nights earlier. ‘I would love to see you and Tricia.’

  So he showed up on Wednesday night at their doorstep, with a bottle of 1997 Côtes du Rhône – Timothy would need to improve the Kid’s taste in wine when he had the opportunity – and smiled at Tricia, who answered the door wearing an elegant black cocktail dress.

  ‘Wow, look at you,’ the Kid said. ‘You got dressed up.’ From his tone, it sounded like he expected Tricia to be wearing spandex and glitter.

  Tricia hugged the Kid. ‘Hi, Jay,’ she said.

  Timothy joined them in the doorway. The Kid handed him the bottle of wine and stepped into the house. ‘I didn’t know what kind to get. I hope you like this.’

  Timothy looked at the label. ‘It looks great,’ he said. ‘I’ll serve it tonight.’ He shook the Kid’s hand. ‘Good to see you, Jay.’

  He led the Kid into the living room to sit with Tricia on the couch. Timothy said, ‘Let me get some drinks. Jay, what would you like? You want to join me and have Scotch on the rocks?’

  ‘That sounds great.’

  Timothy turned the corner and walked into the recessed bar area. In the living room, he heard Tricia ask about what Jay was up to these days – had he found a new job, was he interviewing, was he still living in the apartment? Timothy opened a new bottle of twenty-one-year-old Dalmore. He threw some ice in two tumblers and filled both glasses halfway with Scotch. From his pocket, he removed three blue valium tablets and dropped them into Jay’s drink, then stirred the drink with his finger and waited for the tablets to dissolve.

  He returned to the living room and handed the Kid the laced drink. ‘Here you go,’ Timothy said. ‘To Mr. Dalmore, aged twenty-one years.’ He raised his glass.

  Jay stood from the couch and tapped his glass to Timothy’s. ‘To old friends,’ he said.

  ‘Who are you calling old?’ Timothy protested.

  At which they all laughed.

  They ate in the dining room, seated around the glossy ebony table, with the chandelier dimmed low and braided candlesticks flickering on the table between them. Jay had finished his first Scotch and was now on his second – which meant that he was in the process of drinking valiums number four and five. Except for an occasional slur of the word ‘Timothy,’ which came out ‘Tim-thee,’ he didn’t seem particularly inebriated; Timothy chalked it up to Jay’s young body and hearty constitution – something that Timothy would soon be taking advantage of, perhaps while polishing off some good Cabernet the following night.

  They ate steaks with arugula and parmesan shavings, and corn on the cob. It was a dinner that Timothy had chosen, as the last in his old body. The Kid wolfed down his steak.

  ‘I just think it’s great,’ the Kid said, ‘that you two are happy together. I have to admit, Timothy. I was a little jealous at first …’ He pointed his fork at Timothy, who sat across the table. ‘But I see that you are both in love, and that is great.’

  ‘Thank you, Jay,’ Tricia said. ‘That’s nice to hear.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Timothy said. ‘It is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jay said, ‘I mean, love is hard to find.’ He took a swig of Scotch, then put down the glass, too hard. ‘Whoo. I feel good.’

  ‘You okay there, Kid?’ Timothy asked.

  ‘Oh yeah. I feel fine. Really fine. Maybe I better slow down on the Scotch for a while.’

  The candlelight created flickering shadows under the Kid’s eyes, made him seem haggard. Timothy noticed the Kid’s forehead glistened with sweat.

  ‘Sure,’ Timothy said. ‘This will be your last glass. Just finish it so it doesn’t go to waste.’

  ‘Okay,’ the Kid said. ‘Bottoms up.’ He downed the Scotch. ‘Ahh.’

  ‘Good work,’ Timothy said.

  ‘I feel a bit tired,’ the Kid said. ‘You mind if I lie down?’

  ‘Go right ahead. The couch is over there.’

  Tricia and Timothy stood and helped the Kid to the couch. He sat down and collapsed back into the cushions. ‘God, I’m sorry,’ the Kid said. ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Maybe if I just rest for a minute …’

  The Kid closed his eyes.

  ‘Kid?’ Timothy said.

  The Kid was asleep. His mouth dropped open and he started to snore.

  Tricia poked him. ‘Jay?’

  The Kid was out cold.

  ‘All right,’ Timothy said. ‘Let’s go.’

  47

  They dragged the Kid to the garage and loaded him into the back seat of the BMW. The first problem was that the back seat was only five feet wide, while the Kid was six foot two. Timothy pushed the Kid’s shoes up into the rear windshield in order to fit the body in the car.

  ‘Tim-thee?’ the Kid said, dreamily.

  ‘Yeah, Kid. You had a little too much to drink. Me and Tricia are going to take you home.’

  ‘Thanks, Tim-thee.’

  Timothy searched the Kid’s pocket for his car keys. ‘Here,’ he said, tossing them to Tricia. He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re late.’ The backup-and-restore cycle would take a few hours, and he needed to catch the ten o’clock red-eye to New York.

  Tricia said, ‘We’ll be okay. Drive slowly.’

  Timothy pulled the BMW out of the garage. Tricia followed in the Kid’s Jetta. They headed toward Sand Hill Road.

  As Timothy drove, he looked in his rear-view mirror to make sure Tricia was keeping pace. Again, he glanced at his watch. He stepped on the gas. The speedometer needle touched forty-five miles per hour.

  He looked again in the mirror. Tricia and the Jetta were falling behind him; she was refusing to speed up to maintain pace.

  Timothy realized he was a bit drunk from his own glass of Scotch. It was affecting his judgment. Even without valiums in it, Dalmore packed a punch. He lightened up on the accelerator and watched the needle fall back to forty.

  But it was too late. The red and blue police lights appeared behind him, with bright high beams and three quick honks of an electronic siren.

  ‘Damn it,’ Timothy said.

  Timothy pulled the BMW to the side of the road. He was on Sand Hill now, just a mile from Dr. Ho’s. If only he had been a bit more careful …

  Timothy looked in the rear-view mirror. The police high beams reflected off it and highlighted a rectangle of yellow light around Timothy’s eyes. He squinted. He saw Tricia and the Jetta continue driving past him. She turned to look at him as she passed.

  The police officer got out of his cruiser and walked, heels crunching gravel, to Timothy’s window. ‘License and registration, please.’

  Timothy smiled gamely. He tried to keep his mouth closed, to prevent the tell-tale odor of Scotch from leaving his car. He leaned over, popped the glove compartment. He took out the registration and handed it to the police officer.

  ‘License please?’

  Timothy reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. His fingers flipped through a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. He thought about it, weighed the probabilities. Cash had worked that night at the opera, years ago, when he was caught speeding on highway 101.

  His index finger rested on the dirty, oddly consoling texture of the bills. He recalled the conversation with his wife in bed the previous night, when he had promised her that he had changed. The old Timothy would have grabbed the thick wad of hundreds, waved it at the cop, comforted by the knowledge that money always let him buy his way out of trouble. But what would the new Timothy do? He was half surprised to see his own index finger leave the bills and skip to the wallet pocket where he kept his license. He watched himself remove it and hand it to the police officer, then he shut the wallet tightly, with the hundreds trapped inside.

  ‘He all right?’ the officer asked. It took a moment for Timothy to realize he was talking about the Kid, who lay sprawled across the back seat of the car, snoring. His feet were stuffed into the back window.

  ‘He ha
d a little too much to drink,’ Timothy said. ‘I’m designated driver tonight. Just trying to get him home safe. Right down the road.’

  ‘You been drinking?’ the officer asked.

  Timothy thought about this. It must have been obvious to the policeman – the smell on his breath. Maybe he was slurring his words. ‘A lot less than him,’ Timothy said. ‘Just trying to do the right thing and make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.’

  The policeman looked at Timothy’s driver’s license, then at Timothy. He handed the license back.

  Timothy took it and glanced at the photograph. It had been taken only two years ago, but he was surprised by how young he appeared. He looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. There were bags under his eyes, and his skin was pale in the police high beams. His hair was grayer now. He looked tired.

  ‘Okay,’ the policeman said. ‘Take him to his home. When you get there, sit down for an hour or two, until you can drive safely. If I see you on the way back, you’re going to spend the night with me.’

  ‘Okay, Officer.’

  When he arrived at the 3600 Sand Hill Road office complex, the parking lot was deserted except for Tricia, sitting in the Kid’s Jetta, waiting for him.

  He pulled into the space beside her and got out of the car.

  ‘You made it,’ she said. ‘Any problem?’

  ‘Nothing I couldn’t talk my way out of,’ he said. ‘Help me get him out of the car.’ They pulled the Kid out of the BMW, feet first, and sat him gently on the pavement. Each grabbed an arm, and lifted him to his feet.

  ‘You okay, Kid?’ Timothy said.

  The Kid moaned.

  ‘Okay,’ Timothy said. ‘Let’s go.’

  They carried him up three flights of stairs to Ho’s office. When they knocked on the door, the doctor answered immediately. ‘You’re late,’ he said, and looked at his watch.

  ‘Sorry, Doc.’ Timothy and Ho carried the Kid down the corridor, into Laboratory #1, and stretched him out on the floor. Timothy was out of breath.

  Dr. Ho walked to his computer terminal and typed something. In the back of the room, the hundreds of computer fans hummed.

  ‘All right,’ Dr. Ho said. He walked to the laboratory island in the center of the room, lifted a hypodermic needle, held it up to the light, tapped it. ‘Are you ready, Mr. Van Bender? This is a sedative. It will help you sleep during the backup procedure. The procedure itself will be painless.’

  ‘Where do we do it?’ Timothy asked.

  Ho gestured to the door at the back of the room marked ‘Keep Out.’ It led to Laboratory #2.

  ‘Can I see the equipment?’ Timothy asked.

  ‘Sorry, Mr. Van Bender,’ Dr. Ho said. ‘These are the rules. No one sees the lab or the equipment. Not even the patients on whom I perform the procedure. Your wife wasn’t awake, either.’

  Tricia said, ‘That’s true, Timothy.’

  Timothy regarded the doctor suspiciously.

  Ho said, ‘It’s up to you, Mr. Van Bender. We can do the procedure, or not.’

  Timothy thought about it. Was there even a choice? He couldn’t continue living as Timothy Van Bender. He had gotten this far. Now, all he needed was to exert his will. That was all that was required: sheer will. ‘Okay,’ Timothy said.

  Dr. Ho approached with the needle. ‘Are you ready?’

  Timothy turned to Tricia. ‘I love you, Katherine.’

  She kissed him. ‘I love you, too.’ Then, brightly: ‘Nothing to worry about. I’ll see you when you wake up … Jay.’

  He smiled. He would need to get used to that. When he woke up, he would be Jay Strauss, the Kid. At least, one of him would be. The one that was destined to continue living. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  He rolled up his shirt sleeve and held out his arm. The doctor wrapped a rubber tourniquet around his forearm. ‘Make a fist, please.’ Ho rubbed the vein in his arm. Timothy turned to look at Tricia and felt the needle go in, and then the warmth of the injection.

  ‘There,’ Ho said. ‘You’ll start to feel very relaxed now.’

  Timothy did.

  ‘Come,’ Ho said. ‘Have a seat.’ The doctor led him to a plastic chair near the computer monitor. Timothy sat down. He was going to ask for a glass of water. But before the words could come out, he went to sleep.

  48

  When he woke, he was seated in the same chair. Ho was standing over him, saying, ‘Mr. Van Bender? Mr. Van Bender?’

  Timothy’s eyes fluttered open. He was still groggy from the sedative. He knew something momentous was happening, but couldn’t quite remember what. He looked around the room, at the racks of computers – hundreds of them – and at the plasma computer monitor in front of him, filled with an endless string of binary digits scrolling off the screen.

  ‘It’s done, Mr. Van Bender. The backup procedure was a success. An identical copy was restored into the new vessel.’

  Timothy remembered now. The Kid. He was to become the Kid. He looked down at his clothes, and at his body. He was wearing the same chinos and a white button-down shirt that he had worn to dinner. He looked at his arm – the graying hair on his forearm poked out from his sleeve.

  ‘But I’m still—’

  ‘You are Timothy Van Bender. The Timothy Van Bender whose line will not continue.’

  Timothy looked around the room. Rows of computers hummed. ‘Where’s Katherine? Where’s—’

  ‘They left for the airport. They said it was important for them to catch a plane. They said you’d know what that meant, and that you would understand.’

  Now it was coming back to him. He was the unfortunate Timothy Van Bender. There was another one, the lucky one, who was driving to San Francisco Airport with his wife. Timothy looked at his watch. It was five minutes before ten o’clock. Tricia and the Kid – or rather, Katherine and Timothy – would be boarding their flight soon, and would be taking off on the red-eye for New York.

  ‘Do you remember what you have to do now, Mr. Van Bender?’

  Ho peered at him through his tiny spectacles. He looked sad, as if he regretted this part of the Plan.

  ‘I know,’ Timothy said. ‘I need to end this line.’

  ‘The sooner you do it,’ Ho said, ‘the easier it will be. Remember, you are alive somewhere else at this moment, living in another body, driving in a car with your wife.’

  ‘I know,’ Timothy said.

  ‘I’m going to give you something,’ Ho said. ‘A sedative. It won’t put you to sleep, but it should make things … easier.’ He produced another hypodermic needle and held it, needle side up, near his face.

  Timothy was groggy already, and so didn’t protest. Ho took his arm and rolled up his sleeve. Again Timothy felt a pinch, and then heat, as the injection spurted into his vein.

  ‘Can you get up?’ Ho asked.

  Timothy tried. He pushed up from the seat and stood, shaky, off-balance.

  ‘You know what you have to do now, Mr. Van Bender?’

  Timothy nodded. He knew. He looked around the room one last time – at the computers, at the monitor, at the door marked Keep Out. He knew he would never return here. ‘I know,’ he said.

  He stumbled out of the lab.

  He drove back on Sand Hill, toward Palo Alto. He half expected to see red and blue police lights behind him, to be pulled over by the same officer and have to explain that, in addition to a Scotch, he was now under the influence of a mild intravenous sedative. But the lights never appeared and so he continued driving, careful to keep the speedometer needle at thirty-five.

  He glanced at the clock in the dashboard. It was ten minutes past ten o’clock. At that moment, the Kid – or rather, the other Timothy Van Bender – was flying on an airplane with Tricia Fountain, who was, in fact, his wife Katherine. It boggled his mind. He felt dizzy. Maybe it was the drug Ho gave him. He found it hard to concentrate, to focus on the events of the evening. There was something bothering him, some doubt gnawing at his gut – and it took him a moment
to realize that it was, in fact, fear. He was afraid of what he had to do next.

  He understood what Ho meant when he said that the sooner he did it, the easier it would be. Every minute he spent alive, in his old body, made him grow further apart from the other Timothy Van Bender. If he ended it now – by driving into a telephone pole at sixty miles an hour, say, or by pulling into his garage and letting his BMW engine idle – he would exist independently only for a few minutes. He could comfort himself by knowing that his existence as a being that was separate from the other Timothy Van Bender was limited – limited only to a car ride down Sand Hill Road – a ride that was essentially meaningless, a ride he had taken a thousand times before.

  But the longer he waited, the more distance would open up between himself and the other Timothy – the Kid Timothy. He would have more experiences, like the smell of jasmine rolling down the foothills and pouring through the car vents, and more thoughts, like the one he was having now. It was as if they had been standing beside each other – he and the other Timothy – and then the earth opened and a chasm split the ground between them, and grew wider, and carried them further apart, into their own worlds. The longer he waited, the further away he would be carried, the more he would live independently. The longer he waited, the harder it would be.

  He was going to head home, and just do it – just pull into the garage, and close the garage door behind him, and let the car run, and fall peacefully asleep – but then he rolled down his window and he smelled the warm night air, and he decided, what the hell, why not have one more drink?

  So he stopped in downtown Palo Alto, across from the train station, and parked alongside the Old Tavern. It was a place he liked to go because they kept it dark, and they let you smoke, and it smelled like cigars.

  He left the BMW without locking it, figuring that, if it was stolen, then so be it, and he walked ten feet from his car into the tavern.

  It was Wednesday-night dead, with a smattering of people – some college students, and a few businessmen in tight, itchy suits, looking around for girls that were not there. Timothy walked to the bar and ordered a Scotch. One more for the road. The very long road.