The Five Times I Met Myself

by James L. Rubart

  Tyson sauntered into the kitchen and flopped into a chair next to the table. Looked like he just got a haircut. Short, neat, all hairs in place. Went well with his perpetual smile.

  “What’re you making, Dad?”

  “Do you have to ask?” He glanced up and winked at his son.

  “Nah. I could smell it all the way upstairs. But I would’ve known even if I couldn’t smell it.”

  Brock smiled and turned back to his creation. Slice the ham ultrathin and overlap the pieces so you barely had to chew it, lay it on a lightly buttered English muffin, then the egg, drizzle on the sauce, sprinkle a few capers on top—not enough to steal the flavor, just to enhance it a bit. Next, give it two—sometimes three—slices of fresh avocado, and place a half spoonful of finely diced tomatoes on the side.

  Finally, serve with a flourish and say something stupid like, “Voilà!” and watch your son roll his eyes at you, but know underneath that he won’t ever stop loving the way his strange father serves up Saturday-morning breakfast.

  “Is Mom joining us?”

  “She was still asleep when I came out.”

  “Why does she sleep so long on Saturday mornings these days?”

  “Tired I guess.” Brock shrugged.

  “From what?”

  It was a good question without concrete answers. It wasn’t that many years ago that Karissa and he would get up at the same time on Saturday and Sunday mornings, grab coffee, and sit out on their back deck, rain, shine, or fog. They would review the week that just ended and talk about the week coming up. They’d read Oswald Chambers or God Calling—what Karissa called the Green Ladies because of the two authors and the color of the book’s cover—and then spend a few minutes praying together.

  Wasn’t that more than a few years back? Yeah, it was. At least six. He couldn’t remember why they’d stopped, just that there had been a slow slide from doing it five mornings a week, to three, to just on Saturdays, till they didn’t sit down at all.

  These days, Karissa slept till almost nine most Saturdays, and Brock had gotten used to having coffee alone. More than grown used to it, he probably would be irritated if Karissa walked into his den as he geared up for the day.

  They had always said they wouldn’t look at each other once the nest was empty and ask, “Do I even know you anymore?” But today Brock knew he’d be asking once Tyson left, and he had little doubt Karissa would be too.

  “You know, if you don’t sell your recipe to some restaurant, you’re an idiot.”

  “What?”

  Tyson’s comment brought him back to the present.

  “Write the thing up, show it to a few nice Seattle restaurants. Sell the thing. Don’t be stupid.”

  “I think that’s a compliment.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Tyson threw back a glass of orange juice and poured himself another half glass. “Wake up and do it.”

  “I cook for you guys, for myself, not for other people.”

  Back in his midthirties, Brock had considered pursuing cooking more seriously, but he never wanted it to turn into a job. It was his escape, and he’d always worried that if he attached dollar signs to the thing that brought him a river of joy, the joy would seep away till he was standing in a dry creek bed.

  “I get that.” Tyson dropped his fork on his now-empty plate and it clanged like a bell. “I’m just saying you could make some money if you let a few more people in on your secret sauce.”

  “Then it’s not secret any longer.”

  “There’s this cool verse in the Bible about not exasperating your kids. I think you should look it up.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  After breakfast, Brock went to his den to check the number of hits on Black Fedora’s new website. Yes. Traffic was up again for the fourth straight month.

  An hour later, Karissa strolled into the room, combing the tangles out of her long hair.

  “I think I missed breakfast again.”

  “I made you an eggs Benedict. It’s in the oven.”

  “Thanks.” She stood and stared at the floor for a few seconds. “So? Did it work?”

  “What? Dreaming about you?”

  “Yeah, did you do the lucy dreaming and talk to me inside your dream?”

  “Lucid, not lucy.”

  “I know.” Karissa smiled. “Just trying to interject a puff of humor-wind into the sails. So, did you?”

  “It was amazing.” Brock leaned back from his monitor.

  “Really? Tell me.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “It was so real. And you were so beautiful. It was the day I gave you that amethyst promise ring at Woodland Park Zoo.”

  “That was a weird day.” She frowned as if trying to remember.

  “It was a great day. It was the pre-engagement engagement ring.”

  “Yeah, but there was something about it that was strange, wasn’t there?”

  “Sunshine, warm weather, sub sandwiches, a few games of cribbage, and me giving you the ring . . . nothing strange that I recall.”

  “It’s funny.” Karissa gave him a puzzled look. “I thought you . . . wow, it’s been so long, but I thought you gave me the ring at dinner the next night, not on the lawn.”

  “No, it was on the lawn.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “But did it work? Did it bring back feelings?”

  “It did.” He smiled, stood, and wrapped her up in his arms. “We’re going to make it.”

  “I hope so.” She gave him a light squeeze back. “Are you going to work today?”

  “Just for a few hours.”

  She blew out a long breath and bit her lower lip.

  “What?”

  “It’s Saturday. You’ve made it, Brock. Black Fedora is everything you’ve ever dreamed it could be. More than what you dreamed. Far more. When are you going to slow down so we can enjoy the life it’s given us?”

  “We do enjoy life.”

  “Not like we should.”

  “I love that company. It’s given us so much.”

  Karissa turned and as she walked away she said, “And taken as much as it’s given.”

  That night, Brock sat in his den gazing at a photo of his dad and him taken years earlier.

  In the picture, they stood on the dock of the Talon Lodge fishing resort up in Alaska, a king salmon in each of their hands, big stupid grins on their faces. One of the best days of Brock’s life. The beauty of southeast Alaska had turned out to be stunning in late July, and the lodge was a genuine log cabin, but what made the trip unforgettable was it was the first time he and his dad had gone somewhere, just the two of them, since Brock was eight years old. They’d started to chip away at the ice that had been their relationship as long as he could remember.

  His dad had asked him to go again the next summer—wanted to make it an annual trip, and Brock had too—but when July rolled around he’d backed out. Work had been insane.

  He’d tried to come up with a few more things to bolster his excuse for not going, but there were none. The third year he’d again promised to go—and again broke his commitment. The summer after that his dad didn’t ask. Then a heart attack struck him in early November of that year, and he was gone.

  Brock lifted the photo off the wall and drilled down on every detail of the picture. The matching grins on their faces. The slightly whiter skin around their eyes where their sunglasses had shielded them. And their arms around each other.

  “You still beating yourself up over that?”

  Brock looked up to find Karissa standing in the doorway, arms folded.

  “Hey, dear. Didn’t see you.”

  “Are you?”

  “A little bit, maybe.”

  “Maybe? Long past time to let it go.”

  “I know.” Brock slid the photo onto his desk and sighed. “Not that simple though.”

  Karissa let the silence linger, but after a minute she said, “You should try it again.”

  “Try wh
at?”

  “Your lucid dreaming thing. Try talking to yourself this time. Young Brock. Tell him about Alaska. Why he should go. It won’t change anything, but it might make you feel better. Get it off your chest, you know?”

  “Myself?” He hadn’t thought of that.

  “Sure. If you can control your dream, why not dream yourself into the past and have a conversation with the person you used to be?”

  “That would be crazy.” Brock touched a finger to the frame. “But wouldn’t hurt anything to give it a shot.”

  Chapter 8

  JULY 1985

  Seconds after falling asleep that night, Brock found himself staring at the entrance to Morgan’s place, Java Spot. Exactly where he wanted to be. As he stared at the door he willed the year to be 1985. Instantly the door swirled like a whirlpool. When it stopped it had morphed into the one Morgan had replaced when he took over the shop from his dad in the early nineties.

  Brock drew a deep breath and stepped inside. If he was right, he was about to have an extremely strange encounter.

  Brock glanced around. Two-thirds full. In one corner was a cluster of what looked like college students who seemed familiar. A few couples sat next to the windows. Three people sat alone, hunched over notebooks and textbooks, glancing from one to the other as they scribbled notes to themselves. He smiled. It seemed so archaic to study that way. But it would be another sixteen years before laptops would start taking over the computing world; ten before they’d be drinking his coffee in here.

  He scanned the shop looking for . . . There! His heart pounded as he stared at the early-eighties version of himself winding his way to a table in the back. Brock had no video of himself from that time, only photos, so it was a strange sensation to watch himself in motion. It seemed like he moved faster, which shouldn’t have been a surprise but for some reason still was. His hair was thicker, darker—almost black—and he twirled a pencil around his fingers like a miniature baton as he settled down at an empty table. Brock smiled. He stopped doing that with his pencils years ago.

  He stared for a few more seconds, then juked his way around the tables and eased up to his younger self. If he was controlling the dream, then he should be able to talk to himself without much problem.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mind if I join you?”

  The young version of himself looked up and gave a quizzical smile. “You are?”

  “A friend.”

  “Uh, sure, why not?” He motioned to the chair across the table.

  Brock sat and spread his hands on the table and stared at the wrinkle-free complexion, the expectant, believing eyes. So much hope. The days when he had all the answers.

  His younger self spread his hands on the table in an almost exact mirror of Brock’s.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I so wish this was really happening,” Brock muttered.

  “What was happening?”

  “I need to tell you a few things.” Brock sighed. “Just to get it off my chest, you know?”

  “Not really.” Young Brock glanced at Morgan, who stood behind the counter drying coffee mugs, then pushed his chair back a few inches.

  “If this was real, I’d tell you so many things.”

  “If it was real.” The younger version of himself raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes.” Brock stared into his own eyes. The moment felt as real as the dream in which his dad told him to embrace the painful truth because it would set him free.

  “I’d tell you about obvious things to do differently and then ones that are more subtle, the ones under the surface of life. As the years wear on, they float up and demand you look at them. And if you don’t pay attention to them now, you won’t like the cloudy water you’re left with.”

  “Should I be taking notes?”

  “Great idea.” Brock smiled to himself. He’d never been one to keep a journal. Wished he had. So many moments lost from memory.

  “Who did you say you are?” Young Brock pulled his hands tighter across his flat stomach.

  “And love your wife. Don’t let the wind die down.”

  “Morgan put you up to this, didn’t he?” Something shifted in his younger self’s countenance as if he knew this was a practical joke and decided to play along. “So I’m getting married, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Karissa.”

  Younger Brock leaned in and whispered, “So when should I let my girlfriend Sheila know about this?”

  “When it’s time.”

  “You’re not going to give me the date?” Young Brock bobbed his head side to side as if taunting him. “Want to get the moment right.”

  “I don’t want to spoil everything for you.”

  “Right, can’t do that.” Young Brock scooted his chair back, stood, and stuck out his hand. “Great to meet you, but I gotta go.”

  “A couple more things.” Brock took his younger self’s hand but didn’t let go. “Stop beating yourself up over the fact that Royce stopped following Jesus. Not your fault.”

  Young Brock’s face went pale as he pulled away from Brock’s grip and sat back down. “How do you know about that?”

  A slew of possible answers spilled into Brock’s mind, but in the end he decided on the truth. It would make the dream more fun.

  “Okay. Why not?” Brock smiled. “I’m you, thirty years from now.”

  “How do you know about Royce?” A sliver of fear hung in his younger self’s eyes. “I’m serious.” His younger self glanced in Morgan’s direction, and when he turned back, his face had relaxed. “Wow. Right on. Finally you’re here. What took you so long? Did you get here in a DeLorean or on a moonbeam?”

  “I’m serious too.”

  “Oh yeah, I can tell you are.” Young Brock brought his fingers together, formed a square, and peered through it at Brock as if it was a frame. “Not really seeing the resemblance between you and me.”

  “Trust me, gravity and gray will catch up with you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Young Brock pointed at him. “How much did Morgan pay you to do this? He’s making fun of the fact I think Back to the Future is the movie of the year, right?”

  “No. I really am who I say I am.”

  “Cool.” Brock snatched a scrap of paper out of his back pocket along with a pencil. “So lay it on me then, Future Me. Stocks to buy, Super Bowl winners to bet on, the exact date I meet this Karissa gal, friends to avoid, all of it. Gotta write it down so I don’t forget.”

  “The problem isn’t me being real, it’s you. I so wish you were.”

  “I’m not real?”

  As the words left his younger self’s mouth, he blurred for a moment, and when he came into focus again, he wasn’t Brock. In his place sat Mr. Hammond, Brock’s fifth-grade teacher—and basketball coach.

  “When you want to accomplish something, you don’t try to do it, you do it.” Mr. Hammond poked the table. “You don’t try to practice, you practice. You don’t try to get better at your outside shot, you put in the hours that will make it happen. Right, Brock?”

  “Right.”

  Brock closed his eyes and concentrated. When he opened them, Hammond was gone and Young Brock was back.

  “Wow. That was strange.”

  “It’s strange that you think I’m real?” His younger self shook his head.

  “No, what just happened. I’m asleep at the moment, but aware I’m asleep, and controlling this dream, but I lost it for a second.”

  “So like I said, I’m not real.”

  “Correct. I’ve created you out of my mind and memories.”

  “I’m a figment of your imagination.”

  “Essentially, yes. All from my subconscious.”

  Young Brock knocked his head rapidly. “Hello? McFly? Anybody home?”

  Brock stifled a laugh.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I forgot how much I quoted from that movie
after it first came out.”

  “What? You don’t like Back to the Future in the decades to come, Future Man?”

  “Not true.” Brock smiled. “I own the trilogy.”

  “Trilogy? What trilogy?”

  “You know how it says To Be Continued at the end? Zemeckis makes the next movie and a third one at the same time. But the second one doesn’t come out till ’89. All three DVDs together don’t come out till 2009.”

  “DVD? What’s DVD?”

  “You’ve seen CDs, right?”

  “Yeah. Expensive.”

  “And you rent movies on VHS.”

  “Or Betamax.”

  “Right,” Brock said. “I forgot about those.”

  “Betamax is far better than VHS.”

  “True, it was, but the better product isn’t always the one that wins in the marketplace.”

  “You’re getting off track.”

  Brock leaned back in his chair and smiled. He liked himself. Even though this wasn’t real, and he was fully aware he was asleep right now next to Karissa, it still felt completely authentic and surprisingly fun.

  “A DVD is a movie on a CD.”

  “A CD can’t hold that much information.”

  “It will. By the summer of 2003, DVD rentals will pass VHS cassette rentals.”

  “Thanks for the uh, future history lesson.” His younger self pushed back from the table and stood. “Like I said a few minutes back, I gotta go. Anything else?”

  “Yes, the most important thing.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Years from now, when your dad asks you to go on that second fishing trip, don’t turn him down. Go. The year after that, when he asks you to go a third time, go on that trip too.”

  “I’m not exactly a fishing kind of guy. And my dad and I aren’t exactly—”

  “Go on the trips. Trust me. I promise it’ll save you a great deal of regret. No matter how insane life gets, don’t miss the trips.”

  His younger self laughed as he ambled away from the table. “Sure, Future Brock, why not?”