Time Code

by Charles Eugene Anderson

   

  Part Five

  I can’t find her and I’ve looked everywhere. I love her, but where do old people go when they are young?

   

  Part Six

  The sound track is disco and Marta is dancing with me. New York is a black hole, and it’s bankrupt, but Marta is beautiful. Now I know why I have always hated the Bee Gees.

   

  Part Seven

  “It sucks and you suck too,” said Michael giving me back my smart phone. “They want you to find Marta. You know where she’s at? Don’t you?”

  “The boys from Time Code said that I have to find her?”

  “Yep, that’s what they said. Your family. Your problem. They want you to go back and find her. Once you locate her. Pull her back, and everything will be okay.” Michael is finished talking to me. He pulls out his flip-phone. Pops it open. And he makes a call. He’s calling his grandmother. Rub salt in the wound. What an asshole!

   

  Part Eight

  Marta is lost in her own world at the disco. The music plays loud, and she can’t hear me. I walk out onto the floor. I am focused. Maybe, I am too focused. I didn’t see the dude. He looks like John Travolta, sort of, but he’s bigger, and I had bumped into him again.

  “What the fuck?” he said to me. It’s loud, but he’s loud enough for me to hear him clearly.

   

  Part Nine

  “I have to go back?”

  “You can’t kill him. The code isn’t right, but it’s time to go back,” said Mike.

  “I have to save Marta and not kill him. But he’s got one of those you should be dead faces.”

  “You’re a psycho?”

  “You’d be a psycho too if you have to do the shit I have to do.”

  “Will that fix it?”

  “I hope so,” said Michael. He takes a TV dinner out of the oven. The old fashioned kind that’s in the aluminum, the foil on top, the fried chicken, three pieces: leg, thigh, and wing. In the upper right corner, mashed potatoes and melted butter. In the upper left corner, peas, carrots, and corn. In-between the two are the baked apples. I can smell the cinnamon.

  I said, “It’s wrong. Your food is wrong. I have eaten enough of these in my lifetime. It doesn’t look right.”

  Mike asks, “What’s wrong?”

  “The mashed potatoes should be on the left. The vegetables should be on the right.” I take my fingers and peel the burnt mashed potatoes from the bottom of the discarded foil cover on the table. I am really hungry because of the time travel, and I eat it. It tastes good.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fuckin-a. I’m sure. I lived on these in college. They were four for five dollars at City Market.

  “You got to go. The Time Code is all fucked up. Now get out of here so I can eat in peace.” Michael starts with the apples. He uses a fork and eats them first. What sort of d-bag eats the dessert first? I really hate Michael.

   

  Part Ten

  The only thing worse than hearing the Bee Gees is hearing the Bee Gees played backwards. I hope Michael fixes this the next time.

   

  Part Eleven

  “I am going to kill you,” said Chester to me. The Bee Gees are playing right this time at least Michael got that correct. We have done this many times, after I bump into him, he pulls out a knife because the Time Code’s vortex had thrown me into him and he’s angry.

  This is what happens every time. I bump into him. He bumps into someone else. The someone else is a little dude in polyester, he’s wearing a leisure suit. The little dude has a switch blade, pops it open, and kills Chester, my grandfather.  If it’s not the little dude there’s always someone else there who pulls a knife. Yet in this Time Code scenario, Chester always ends up dead because of me. New York City in the 1970’s, it’s another Beirut. Like the one in Lebanon. It’s the seventies, I thought everyone sat around with their TV dinners and watched Happy Days. Who knew?

   

  Part Twelve

  I grab Marta by the hand. She smiles at me. I tell her I have some blow, and would she like to go with me.

  She agrees. Great, my grandmother is a coke head. I am going to need therapy.

  She squeezes my tushy as we walk to someplace more private. Didn’t she used to do that after I had a bath? When I was a child?

  When I’m finished, I’m going to need therapy in Vienna.

  I see Chester again, and I hope I got it right. Instead of me bumping into Chester, it’s Marta who bumps into the big boy this time. His mood seems to soften because it’s a pretty girl who has bumped into him instead of me. Everything is right in the world. But has the Time Code restored the whole enchilada?

   

  Part Thirteen

  I am really hungry, and I hope there are more TV dinners for me to eat. I look at Michael’s TV dinner. It’s not right. I yell. He yells back. We have that kind of relationship. I know what you’re thinking. No, he’s not a relative. My world is fucked up, but it isn’t fucked up that bad.

  No, I didn’t sleep with my grandmother, and I didn’t kill my Grandfather. My name isn’t Oedipus, nor am I a hillbilly either. You are really fucked up if you’re thinking that about me. Chester and Marta got married. They moved to New Jersey. They had two point three children. They lived in a bungalow. They had the nicest lawn in the neighborhood.

  The Time Code was restored. Everything was right with the world. Everything except Big Mike’s TV dinner. “It tastes good,” he said, but he’s not angry. “Quit looking at my food. It’s okay, piss weed. It tastes fine.”

  I squirmed in my chair, and I would drool like Pavlov’s dog pretty soon if I didn’t eat something. “How long do they take to cook? I mean it’s an old-fashioned oven. There isn’t a microwave here?”

  Michael goes to the stove. “I got you covered, Bro.” He’s at the oven, gets an oven-mitt to protect his hand, and he takes another dinner out of the oven and brings it to me.”

  I peel back the foil, and it’s Salisbury steak. Michael isn’t so bad. I finally got to eat. Even if it didn’t look right, at least it tasted pretty good, just like I remembered. But there should be peas not Lima beans in its container, but the gravy smells good. It’s brown. In what Time Code scenario should Lima beans be included in a TV dinner?

  Before I finished this story. There’s one last thing Michael said to me, “I have Jiffy Pop for later. Maybe we can eat some while we watch Welcome Back Kotter or Starsky & Hutch?”

  Okay, monitoring the seventies. It isn’t too terrible. Fucking Time Code, it always restores everything back to normal…almost.

  Chapter 17

  The Ink Beneath

  Not all skin was meant to hold the ink beneath.

  It didn’t matter to Isaac which skin was brought before him because his needles could pierce it all the same.

  “Why would such a pretty girl cut off all of her hair?” he asked. The girl in front of him whose hair was no longer than the shaved heads of prisoners he had known so long ago.

  “I don’t know,” she replied.

  “Why do you want a tattoo?” he asked knowing some tattoos brought up memories of his own past.

  “Because they‘re cool. All my friends…”

  There would be a time when his old store front would pass with him and so would Isaac’s only tattoo.

  “Where’s your own ink?” she asked as she admired her new tattoo.

  “I only have one tattoo,” said Isaac.

  “Is it a work of art like mine?”

  “No, there were no artists at Auschwitz,” said Isaac showing her his own forearm.

  The girl stared at Isaac’s tattoo, and for a moment, he thought she might’ve understood. He had been a prisoner, a slave that should’ve died.

  Isaac knew there might be a time when this young woman might grow tired of her tattoo and might want it removed, but he also knew he had the skin of a survivor and meant his skin should hold this ink f
or the rest of his life.

  But he didn’t know how to make this art, this labor, until after he had left the camp where he had been forced to mark so many who didn’t want the tattoos he gave them. He had learned a hard lesson, and as an old man, he knew not all skin should hold the ink beneath it.

   

  Chapter 18

  Christmas Poinsettias

  He knew there were times when his church was too quiet. One of those times was before a wedding when the florist was still making sure all of the flowers were arranged just right. Polly, the organist and his wife, would wait patiently for her organ to warm up so she could practice the march a few times before the bride arrive and fretted about. Then, there were the hours before the Easter service when nothing could be heard in the sanctuary, and Pastor Webb had to arrange the white lilies himself because Polly was outside hiding the dozens of eggs she had boiled hard and dyed the night before. That tradition hadn’t been embraced by his small congregation at first, but after seeing the joy of the children in the afternoon hunt, they decided to reduce their grumbling and quieted down about taking up a pagan belief. Now those children had grown and gone away.

  The time before the Christmas Eve service was always the quietest inside the walls of Edge Cliff Baptist Church. On that evening Pastor Webb had to turn the Wurlitzer on all by himself. While he waited, from its insides the organ hummed a special song. If he had remembered, he would have sat at the piano instead. Like all ministers of his generation he could play a small repertory of songs on the old upright with painful ease. He didn’t like to remember, and he would wait patiently for his wife to join him at the organ’s bench.

  “I almost didn’t make it,” said Polly. “That’s some fierce snow out there. Why didn’t you call off this evening’s service?”

  “Didn’t you wear a coat?”

  “I hope someone will come.”

  “They are mostly too old. The old don’t like fighting the weather.”

  “I’m here.”

  “But you’re not…you’re just as young as when we first got married.”

  A smile softened her lips. “I’ll start playing, but you’re going to have to rearrange those poinsettias. You know how I like them.”

  “Nobody’s coming.”

  “It doesn’t matter…I’m here.”

  Pastor Webb remembered how the organ had remained quiet during Polly’s funeral. The local florist had arranged all the flowers as best as she could, but she had forgotten to place any around the organ itself. He would have brought some poinsettia plants to place up there if he had remembered. The organist from the Methodist church had offered to play, but Webb had refused him. It didn’t seem right.

  “You know poinsettias are my favorites.”

  “Yes, I remembered,” said Pastor Webb, “the beauties of the new world.” He took two of the biggest plants in both his hands and quietly placed them where he knew she wanted.

  Polly began to play, and sweetest harmony subdued the sounds of the storm.

  Polyhymnia’s music traveled throughout the place of worship. The pastor knew his wife missed her sisters terribly, Clio and Thalia, Mel and Cally, and the other sister muses Polly had left behind in the old world.

  The sacred harmonies soared. If Pastor Webb had remembered, he would have known that all too soon he would have to leave this place and go back to the quiet that enclosed the rest of his daily life, but that night his wife would be his muse again and her music would fill both the church and his heart.

  Chapter 19

  After the Last Showing

  The popcorn is cold. It’s been leftover from the night before.

  The licorice is stall. The fresh boxes are in the storeroom.

  The soda is flat. The carbonation hasn’t been adjusted in years.

  The elderly come to the first show. Matinee tickets are the cheapest.

  The teenagers come to the last show. They can kiss in privacy of the balcony.

  After the movie has started, the users can wipe the glass counters, sweep the floor, and make sure toilets are clean.

  After the last showing, the movie manager can count down the cash draw to zero.

  When the audience is gone, the theatre has been cleaned, and the doors are locked, but has everyone left?

  What about the characters on the screen?

  Does the drama end because there isn’t an audience?

  There something you don’t know.

  The Wolfman returns to howl at the moon.

  Frankenstein stands and walks towards his creator.

  Dracula opens his coffin.

  And Scarlett swears never to go hungry again.

  Chapter 20

  September Remembered

  “Do you remember?”

  “Of course, I remember. It was September, right?” says Maurice confirming my question? “Was it September 5th?” He drinking an iced coffee. Not my kind of coffee, but Maurice seems to like it.

  “No, that’s my birthday. It’s always a good date,” I say smiling. I drink my coffee black and hot. I get drink it out of my favorite mug. It’s chipped. There’s tiny crack forming in the top of the mug. It will eventually destroy it, but for now it holds my coffee.

  “It wasn’t September 11th? Was it?” He asks. He stir his coffee with the plastic straw the coffee shop has provided. I know he’s not happy with the color of his drink. In a minute, he’ll get up and find some more cream to make it lighter. I know him. I love him, but he so predictable sometimes.

  “Really?” I frown. I look at my coffee mug, but is there a bead of coffee sweat forming along the crack? Will this be the last day I drink my coffee? It’s horrible. My stomach starts to twist in knots. Is this blue mug with a yellow flower going to collapse?

  Maurice saves me from my inner turmoil. He reaches out for my left hand. Touches it, and let’s his fingers rest on the top of it. “It was September 21st. We danced.”

  “We danced,” I say remembering. I am looking at the man in front of me again.

  “We danced because we were married.”

  “Yes, now I remember.” I say. I want to look at my mug one more time, but I don’t want to look away from my husband ever again. “You’re my husband.”

  “I’m your husband, and you are my wife,” he says.

  “Will my coffee be okay?” I ask. I want to look done at it again, but I don’t want to look away from Maurice because I don’t want to forget again.

  “If it breaks, we’ll find another mug to replace it.”

  “I don’t want that.” I say.

  “Neither do I, but it’s only coffee,” he says.  He hand grabs mine tighter to reassure me.

  “I have Alzheimer’s don’t I?”

  “Yes, but it’s okay.”

  “Do you still love me?”

  “Of course, I do.”

   

  Chapter 21

  Grafting In the Dark

  It’s the grafting that makes it better. It’s fun.

  What teenage boy doesn’t think about it?

  They say the average person thinks about it fifteen times a day.

  I know I think about much more than that. Am I abnormal?

  Oh, you thought I was talking about something else.

  I know what you were thinking, but that’s not me.

  I am a gardener and grafting has been around for over 4000 years.

  It was first used by the Chinese.

  “Charlie, come back to bed.”

  I was just kidding; it was only a small lie.

  “And bring back another one of those hybrid tomatoes. They’re delicious.”

  What? I can’t be good at two things?

  Chapter 22

  Test of a Lifetime

  Time to take the test.

  Will I pass or fail?

  It’s a mystery.

  Should I pick the third vial?

  I know the risk.

  Who’s watching my assessment?

  One is more te
mpting than the others.

  Each contains its own poison.

  But only one of the four will kill me.

  The first contains charity.

  Of course it’s a silver color,

  but sometimes the liquid turns gold.

  The second has compassion.

  Most of the time it’s pure with no color.

  Yet sometimes it turns black.

  In the third there’s love.

  What color is it?

  Will it change color if I touch it?

  The forth is humility.

  It has to be considered last.

  It can’t be rushed or it turns to something else.

  I still want to take the third vial.

  I haven’t forgotten one of the poisons is deadly.

  A quick death if I choose wrong.

  Then I realize I have two hands,

  and I can take an extra vial for myself to drink.

  Chapter 23

  Coffee Lover, Muffin Lover

  Jay had been cut off from his place in the line from his slow march to the front of the bakery’s counter, again. He would have been okay with this misconduct had it been the first, or second, or even the third time he had been moved back, but in the last month it had been four times that this same man had cut in front of him. Jay was determined to say something to this man who had just violated one of society’s unwritten codes of conduct, bakery etiquette and the proper place to wait your turn.

  If Jay would have been a more astute person, he might have noticed that he lived in a city of near-sighted Baby Boomers and maybe the muffin gods were trying to tell him it was time for him to leave for a smaller and friendlier community that didn’t attract people from that generation.

  But Jay rarely noticed such things, and the other things he didn’t notice were that some of the people in the bakery were only there for coffee, and some like Jay, were there only for the muffins. There was also the rarer customer that held out for coffee and muffins together, but those individuals were held in the highest contempt by the patrons behind them because their minds were never made up once they reached the front of the line.

  If Jay had been a viewer of the nightly news he would have heard the many reports that had recently confirmed the fact that huge muffins were bad for the health, and those muffins with their high number of calories and trans-fats had caused numerous nutritionists to permanently go into a state of diabetic shock over the giant size of the blueberry pod-like baked goods.