The Five Times I Met Myself

by James L. Rubart

  “I remember how you beat him up when we found out.”

  “He never cheated again.” Ron pushed back his hair. “Wish I could do the same thing right now.”

  The truth washed over Brock like an icy wave. “Who stole our money, Ron?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “It’s not there. No trace of where it went. We can’t find it. Our IT guys say the hackers were brilliant.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “When do you think? While you were off gallivanting around the world in China, and Costa Rica, and Japan.”

  “Working. Not gallivanting.”

  “Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Are we going to start in on this again?”

  “No.” Ron slumped forward, head in hands. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? Why didn’t you come to me?” The words came out louder than Brock intended.

  Ron blew out a long breath and turned his head toward Brock but didn’t respond.

  “We’re going to find a way out of this.”

  “There isn’t a way out, Brock.”

  “There’s always a way out. We’re going to battle this insanity with everything we have. Right?” Brock leaned forward and tried to keep his breathing steady. “Right?”

  “I told you, it’s over. I’ve been fighting it with everything I have. I’ve pulled every string. Called in every favor. We are finished.”

  “Then let me ask again, why did you keep this from me? Why didn’t you tell me this was going on?”

  “This was my war to fight, not yours.”

  “That’s an asinine answer.” Brock slammed his fist into his chair. “I’ve given my life to this company. Everything I own, everything I am, is wrapped up in Black Fedora. It goes down, so do I.”

  He’d told Karissa for years to wait just a little longer and the breakthrough would happen. And it had. The past six years had been stellar. This coming year was supposed to be even better, the one that would set them completely free. But now the dream was crashing and burning with the power of a nuclear warhead.

  “The company was my life too.”

  “And you leave me out of the greatest battle it’s ever faced? For the third time, why didn’t you come to me?” Brock stood and paced on his brother’s tan carpet.

  “Like I said, this was mine to fight.”

  “Tell me the real reason. The deeper reason. Time to get real, brother.”

  “You’re the artist, the one with heart and a palate that creates coffee flavors the world loves. The one who talks to the media, the spokesperson, the face everyone loves.”

  “I never wanted to be the spokesperson. The PR firm said it should be me, and you agreed, and even then I said no.”

  “But once we talked you into it, you learned to love the limelight, didn’t you? Made you feel good. Made you feel needed. Told you you were worth something.”

  “What does that have to do with what’s going on right now?”

  “I have to spell it out? You’re the face and heart of the company, I’m the mind and the strategist. I don’t spend a lot of time in your part of the company and you don’t spend a lot of time in mine.”

  “Nice try. Once more. The real reason.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The truth.”

  “No you don’t. You never do. You just want this company all for yourself. And it ticks you off that you never have been the true owner. The fact I’ve held that itty-bitty two percent over you galls you so bad. You taste it every morning along with your three cups of coffee. And it torques you something fierce that I’m your baby brother and the one who is really in control.”

  “Oh, we’re going to talk truth? How ’bout if I’d focused on the business side I’d be better at that part of the company than you could ever be.”

  “Now we’re in fantasyland.” Ron flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Enough.”

  The reality of what was about to happen to his life settled on Brock like a thick fog.

  “What will we have left when this is over?”

  “Nothing. I already told you that.”

  Brock’s stomach clenched. They’d just bought the big house two and a half years ago. A nice vacation house too. When Tyson applied to colleges last fall they told him private college wouldn’t be a problem. And he’d been accepted at Gonzaga. Shelling out $75,000 per year? No problem. Now suddenly it was.

  “Does Shelly know?”

  Ron nodded.

  “You told your wife before you told me.”

  “Now you get to tell Karissa. Get over it.”

  “How many other people know?”

  “Richard. The lawyers. No one else.” Ron rubbed his forehead. “Yet.”

  “When is it going to leak?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if it hits the web by tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

  “Wow. Thanks for giving me so much lead time.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I want to look at all the financials. Everything. There has to be a way out of this.”

  “I knew you’d say that, and knew what you’d want to do. So I’ve prepped it all for you. It’s all ready to go.” Ron pointed to a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. Two silver flash drives sat on top of the papers.

  “I’m going to find us a way out of this.”

  “With your vaunted business skills?”

  “Whatever it takes.” Brock rose, picked up the papers and flash drives, and strode to the door. “There’s always a solution if you dig hard enough.”

  “Not this time, brother.”

  When Brock left his office at nine thirty that night, a large part of him admitted Ron was right, on two counts. First, he didn’t have the skills to find an answer. Second, from what he could understand, Black Fedora was drowning in red ink so deep he couldn’t see the bottom.

  As he pushed through the lobby doors of their building, despair stabbed at him. But it wasn’t over yet. He refused to believe this was the end of the company he’d given his life to and loved like nothing else.

  He trudged toward his parking lot two blocks away, wracking his brain for an answer, for even a shred of hope, but nothing came. Brock rounded the corner on Cherry Street and smacked into a man, who crumpled to the sidewalk as a muffled grunt escaped his mouth. Brock bent over and took the man’s shoulder.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  His matted hair was the color brown that looked like it had dust in it. His skin was dark and his thin green coat and pants clung to him as if they were a size or more too small. A backpack that might have been bright red once upon a time leaned against the building.

  “Whew.” The man shifted from his knees onto his backside and wrapped his arms around his legs. He glanced up at Brock. “You used to play football?”

  “No.”

  “I did.” The man patted himself on the chest. “Made it too. Cornerback. Played five seasons for the Rams back when they were in Los Angeles. Not a starter every game, but still made good coin. You should look me up.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Robert.”

  “You need money?”

  “Could always use a buck.” The man grinned.

  Brock looked at him. “That’s all you want? A dollar?”

  “If you can spare more, God will bless you.”

  “Oh he will?”

  “Most assuredly.” Robert looked at Brock with eyes that were as defiant as they were defining. This man might be living on the street with his entire world packed in a duffel bag, but it was clear he respected himself.

  “Man makes his plans, but the Lord directs his steps.” Robert opened his eyes wider as if to ask whether Brock accepted that as true.

  Two thoughts struck Brock as he stared at the man. First,
most people were probably closer to life on the street than they believed they could be. Here he stood, looking down both figuratively and literally on a man who could conceivably be himself in the short future. And second, his dad’s words from his dream were coming true.

  “What kind of food do you like?”

  “Thai food.” Robert smiled.

  “Good choice.” Brock extended his hand and the man took it. Brock pulled him to his feet.

  Robert gave a shy smile. “I used to make it for my family.”

  “Really.” Brock studied the man and wondered how much of this meeting was orchestrated by God. “That’s interesting. It’s a dish I’ve cooked a time or two for my family.”

  “Hard to do much cooking these days.” Robert’s eyes grew intense again and Brock turned away after a few seconds.

  Brock opened his wallet and found two hundreds, a fifty, and three twenties. Depending on how the next week went, this might be the last time he could give stupidly for a long time. “Take this.” Robert opened the wad of cash, then slowly lifted his gaze. “I can’t. Too much.”

  “I want you to have it. Maybe help you get a leg up.” Brock pushed Robert’s hand away. “The Lord gives, and I have a feeling the Lord is about to take away in great measure. So take this while you can.”

  Brock took the long way home, hoping Karissa would be asleep by the time he arrived. His wish was granted. Her soft rhythmic breathing was soothing in a way as sleep took him amid the torrent of anxiety.

  Chapter 12

  MAY 19, 2015

  The malaise felt like a drug fogging his mind when Brock woke the next morning. It was almost like a dream, but he wasn’t dreaming. He glanced at the clock. Two minutes after seven. Good. Karissa would be in the shower for at least another five minutes, which would give him time to escape to another part of the house where she wouldn’t immediately find him. He needed time to process the explosion that was about to rock their world. Time to surface from the despair. He gave a sad laugh. Five minutes wouldn’t be enough. Neither would five months if they truly were going to lose everything. And he’d seen it in Ron’s eyes. They were.

  He rolled out of bed and half walked, half jogged across their bedroom and through the door. Just in case Karissa finished early. Brock snaked into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and started to head for the media room, but stopped to stare at the rain that squiggled down the windows. He put the coffee down and shuffled toward the French doors leading to the back deck and, beyond that, their lush green backyard.

  He pulled the doors open and stepped onto the rain-soaked deck. The coolness of the water pelting him didn’t snap him out of his trance-like state, but deepened it. Brock slogged over to the red brick push-of-a-button fire pit they’d put in five years ago and dropped into one of the seven plush patio chairs that ringed the pit. The water on the chair instantly soaked his back, but Brock barely noticed. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back so the rain would fall directly on his face, and asked God a question he doubted would be answered.

  “Why?”

  He sat there for minutes, or it might have been an hour. He didn’t know, didn’t care.

  The squeak of the doors opening filled the air.

  “Brock?”

  Brock didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t turn. Didn’t answer.

  “Brock?” Karissa asked again. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Again, he didn’t answer. He should have, but all that escaped his lips was a six-second sigh. The doors shut and he opened his eyes and glanced at them. Good. She’d gone back inside. Would leave him be, give him the time to do whatever it was he had to do. If only he knew what it was.

  But half a minute later the doors squeaked again and he heard the rapid-fire patter of rain against Karissa’s umbrella. He opened his eyes and listened to her soft footsteps across their cedar deck, almost drowned out by the sound of the rain. When she reached him, he motioned toward the chair across from him. She didn’t speak. Just stared at him with a mixture of concern and worry.

  “Care to join me?” Brock sat up a bit and motioned again to the chair next to him.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Taking a shower.” Brock lifted his palm and let the rain patter down on it. “Nature’s way.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” Brock wiped the rain off his eyebrows. “It’s all good.”

  “All good? You’re sitting outside in a deluge with a look on your face close to the one you had the day your dad died.”

  Brock stood and stared at the gathering blackness in the heart of the clouds.

  “I should have gone to business school. I should have been the one running the business side of the company, not Ron. If I’d gone to business school I could have convinced my dad to give me fifty-one percent of the company.”

  “What happened?” Karissa’s eyes narrowed.

  Brock turned to face her. “We’re losing the company.”

  “What do you mean, losing?”

  “Our lives are about to change.”

  The dark-blue umbrella slipped from Karissa’s hand and fell slowly to the deck. She blinked against the rain now peppering her face. Blotches of rain spread across her shoulders.

  “What are you talking about?” Karissa’s face went pale. “How did this happen?”

  “Someone hacked into our accounts. Stole the money. We’re broke.”

  “And Ron didn’t catch it.”

  “He trusted our CFO.”

  “He’s the one who’s doing this?”

  “No, but the CFO should have seen it. He got snowed. Whoever did it covered their tracks. I don’t understand that stuff. I just know the money is gone and whoever did it is good. We can’t find them.”

  Karissa stared at him with utter despair on her face and gave slow, tiny shakes of her head.

  “I should have done something.” Brock raked his hand through his hair. “Made him show me the financials. Sat down with him on a regular basis, learned the basic skills at least.”

  “Don’t sign.” Karissa sat down hard and crossed her arms across her chest. “Fight this.”

  “I’m trying, believe me, but in the end I might have no choice.”

  “You always have a choice.”

  As Karissa walked away, Brock asked himself for the fifteen hundredth time why he hadn’t gone to business school. The question haunted him the rest of the day and was still on his mind that night, when he slipped into a dream that called upon every one of his newly acquired lucid-dreaming skills.

  Chapter 13

  What’s wrong with you?”

  His dad stood at the top of the stairs in a home that looked similar to the one he’d grown up in. It had light-brown shag carpet, and the walls were painted gold. “Wonderful World” by Sam Cooke poured out of a nearby stereo.

  Brock stood on a linoleum landing and tried to run as his dad clomped down the stairs, but he couldn’t move.

  “What’s wrong with him?” His brother Ron leaned on the railing above Brock to the right. He held the same brown package his dad had held in the earlier dream, but this time part of the wrapping was torn off and Brock saw hints of a blue box underneath. It stirred a memory deep inside. But before the memory could land, his dad’s voice sliced through the air.

  “He’s an idiot, that’s what’s wrong with him.”

  Brock focused. Change it! Get out of here! But nothing changed. Nothing shifted, except the air grew thicker.

  “I think your brother’s right. You think you should have gone to business school? Nah, not a good idea.”

  “Why?” The word eked out as if Brock couldn’t stop it.

  “You know the truth. Do I have to say it?” His dad’s face grew stony. “Ron, a business man? Yes. You? No.”

  “You didn’t think I could cut it.”

  “You said it, not me.” His father stopped halfway down the stairs.

  “But if I wanted to run Black Fedora when yo
u retire, I should have gotten a business degree.”

  His dad slowed his cadence to a crawl as he glared at Brock. “I never said you had to work for my company.”

  “I wanted to, Dad! Don’t you get that?”

  “You just wanted to beat your little brother.” His dad stared at him with unblinking eyes. “And now it’s going to destroy you. ’Cause it’s coming.”

  “What is coming? Tell me!”

  Brock woke seconds later, covered in sweat. He eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Karissa, took a shower, grabbed a cup of coffee, then went to his den to practice his lucid-dreaming techniques. Now more than ever, he needed to find his younger self again and test the idea that what he said to himself in the past truly could have an impact on his present.

  He returned to bed an hour later and immediately returned to the land of dreams, but this time he was in control.

  When the dream started, Brock immediately knew where he was. He stood four and a half miles north of the North Cascades Highway’s Rainy Pass on a section of the Pacific Crest Trail. No idea why his subconscious had brought him here, but it was a spectacular spot to converse with his younger self.

  This section of the PCT ran along the eastern edge of the Cascades and through the Pasaysten Wilderness. The lack of any snow told him it had to be at least mid-August, maybe as late as mid-September. But if he was about to bump into his younger self, it had to be September 1986.

  That was the date of his first solo backpacking trip, and he’d been more nervous than he let anyone see. But he’d made it to Manning Provincial Park in British Columbia with no major incidents, touched the marker, then made the trek back to road 5400 at Hart’s Pass, where Morgan picked him up.

  A sweeping fir-lined valley spread out before Brock. Behind him was a series of switchbacks that led to the top of Cutthroat Pass. An ache of regret welled up in him. He’d promised himself that if he ever had a son, he’d take him on this trail, but he and Tyson had never made the trip. Brock had never even mentioned the idea.

  He smiled at the memory of a man he’d bumped into nicknamed Yukon.

  “I’m California born and bred, but I’m a Washingtonian now. Folks up here are kinder than warm snot on a cold day.”