The Five Times I Met Myself

by James L. Rubart

  “Okay, let’s take a look.” The usher peered at the ticket for a moment. “Righty O, you’re almost there. Just head down to your right another three tunnels, head through ’er, and your seat will be on the left, seven rows up.”

  Brock glanced again at Sarge, who gave him a crooked grin. “You need me to take you up there?”

  “No. I’m good.” He gave Sarge a quick salute, which made the older man laugh.

  Brock lifted his foot—no problem now—and took a few steps down the concourse. He tried to wake himself as he moved, but it didn’t work. So what now? Might as well get to the seat and try to enjoy the game until his body or mind or both decided to release him back to the waking world.

  As he stepped through the end of the third tunnel, the crowd roared so loudly the stadium rumbled under this feet. Brock gazed at the big screen. Seahawks touchdown. Wait. The stadium didn’t look like CenturyLink Field. And there was no sky overhead. As he stared at the ceiling of the stadium, he realized he had to be in the Kingdome, demolished in March of 2000. So this dream had taken Brock to a place in time at least fifteen years back, long before Paul Allen’s Microsoft money would build a state-of-the-art stadium for the Hawks.

  Brock trudged up the stairs till he reached row seventy-eight. He glanced at his ticket, then at the empty chair five seats in. That would be his. The man on the far side of the empty chair was turned, his attention downfield, so the back of his head was the only part of him Brock could see. Still, something about him seemed familiar. The action on the field died down, and the man turned and sat down, his face now in profile. Brock gasped.

  It was Brock’s father.

  He turned and his eyes locked onto Brock’s, but only for an instant. There was no recognition of who Brock was, but why would there be? Brock swallowed and rubbed his head hard. Wow. Regret and pain and longing all surged up from the deep part of his soul. The chance to talk to his dad again. This was a gift, orchestrated by God. Had to be.

  Brock shuffled past the four people in the seats between him and his father, then sat down next to the man he’d longed to sit down with one more time. Brock’s father nodded at him, then turned his attention back to the game. But a second later he turned back with a puzzled look on his face. “Do we know each other?”

  “No.” It was partially true, maybe completely true. The Brock Matthews his dad knew was not the man sitting next to him now. The Brock Matthews of today had changed.

  “I’m Donald.” Brock’s dad extended his hand. “What’s yours?”

  “My name is—” What should he say? His real name? Make one up? His dad wouldn’t recognize him with his fifty-three-year-old face, so why not tell the truth?

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Brock.”

  “Really.” Brock’s dad gave a tilt of his head. “That’s one of my sons’ names.”

  “Good to meet you.” The words felt thick coming out of Brock’s mouth.

  Donald leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Wish I could say it was good to meet you.”

  “What?” Brock let out an embarrassed laugh.

  “Nothing personal, you know? I’m sure you’re a good man. But you see, that son of mine I just mentioned? He was supposed to be sitting where you are. I bought the tickets, asked if he wanted to go. He said yes, and I was looking forward to the day together. But he obviously decided to scalp the ticket instead, and here you are. A little money worth more than a little time with your dad.” Brock’s father turned and gave a halfhearted smile. “But kids are born to break your heart, you know?”

  Brock only nodded. He of course hadn’t scalped the ticket, but he was too fearful his voice would crack if he spoke.

  “In all fairness, I’ve blown it my fair share with him. And in his tween years? Not good. Never really got healing from that. So I can’t say I blame him for blowing me off. Thought things were getting better between us, and they are, but apparently not enough for today. No worries. There’s always tomorrow. Step at a time. Life isn’t over yet. I’ll get my chance, he’ll get his, the good Lord is going to work it out for us.”

  Brock glanced at the date on his ticket and it became even more impossible to speak. October 22, 1989. His dad would live only three more weeks. Life was over for the man sitting next to him, and his father had no idea. Brock closed his eyes and swallowed.

  “I hope he works it out with you.”

  “I’m telling you, he will. Gotta have faith. Gotta trust. Gotta hold onto the evidence of things not yet seen. I might have figured out the important things later in life than I wanted to, but I’ve got ’em in my back pocket now.”

  “What are the important things?”

  “Simple.” Brock’s dad turned, zeroed his gaze on Brock, and leaned in. “My God. My wife. My two sons. After that, nothing else comes close. You know?”

  Brock did know. But he’d figured it out too late.

  A roar from below turned their attention to the field, and for a few minutes Brock and his dad focused their attention on the behemoths in the blue-and-white jerseys. When the play stopped for a TV timeout, Brock turned to his father.

  “I have a son, so I get it—they can’t see life from our perspective. I’m guessing he’s already feeling bad about not coming. I bet he really regrets it. He’s probably already called your cell to apologize.”

  “My cell?”

  “Your cell phone.”

  Brock’s dad gave a puzzled smile. “You mean like a car phone? I’ve been reading about them. Supposed to be the next big thing. I doubt it’ll ever catch on for the masses. Too expensive. Who is going to pay seventy-five cents a minute to talk on the phone in your car? But you said it like everyone has them. Are you into advanced technology?”

  Stupid. Few people had cell phones in 1989. And no one carried them.

  “I think a day is coming where cell phones will be as common as cars.”

  Brock’s dad grinned. “Okay, if you can predict the future, can you tell me what I need to say to my son to jump-start our relationship?”

  Again, Brock feared his voice would betray him, but he plowed ahead anyway. “I don’t know about the future, but I know what I’d say to my dad if I could go back in time.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wild? To go back and tell your dad the things you were too stupid to figure out in your youth?” Brock’s dad shook his head. “That would be gift. So what would you say?”

  Brock swallowed and turned his attention to the field as he spoke. “I’d tell him I was blind and couldn’t look past the times we locked horns and tossed each other to the ground battered and bleeding. I’d tell him how much I looked up to him and hated him at the same time. I’d tell him I finally realized that he was dealing with all the broken parts of his past when he was trying to be a dad to me. I’d tell him how much I miss him, how much I love him, and how I wasted the years we were given.”

  Brock paused as one more thing he wanted to tell his dad filled his mind. But how could he say it without sounding extremely strange? The only way was to change the names and sport to protect the innocent and hope the message still got through.

  “The last thing I’d tell him is about the time I went to baseball camp when I was young. The leader of the camp humiliated me in front of all the other kids, and then told me I had no talent for the sport. So I gave it up but wish I hadn’t, because it was the thing my dad and I had together. I’d tell my dad that was the reason I gave up baseball. It wasn’t a rejection of him.”

  When Brock finished he risked a look at his father. Tears had formed in his dad’s eyes, and Brock pulled his gaze away because his eyes were welling up too. Silence rose between them, but it seemed to draw them together like a magnet. Finally, Brock’s dad spoke.

  “I know your dad would have given anything to have heard those things.”

  Again they sat in silence, and again, Brock’s dad was the one who broke it.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”
<
br />   “Is it strange that I’m telling a complete stranger things about me and my son?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Okay then.” Brock’s dad folded his hands across his lap and seemed to be studying the program lying between his feet on the concrete. “A lot of people don’t believe in signs. I do.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t get the one you were looking for.”

  “Nope. Not this time.” He glanced at Brock with a sad smile. “This game was going to be the spot of my big reveal. The plan was to give my son a gift that I think would have changed his life. That was my plan. Maybe even God’s plan. But apparently not Brock’s plan. And I think you gotta have all parties buying in for a plan to work. Manipulation Nation isn’t a country you want those you care about to live in.”

  Brock sucked in a quick breath. A gift? He couldn’t stop himself from asking the question, even though it was inappropriate.

  “What was the gift?”

  His dad gave Brock a curious look. “I’m probably going to keep that to myself. It’s like blowing out a candle on your birthday cake and then telling folks what you wished for. And who knows, maybe the wish will come true someday.”

  “But you’re going to find another time to talk to him, right?” Brock’s pulse raced. For some reason his life seemed to hang on the answer.

  “Yeah, probably.” Brock’s dad shrugged. “Actually, probably not. This was the moment, you know? If I believe the moment is now, then when this moment goes, the moment is gone.”

  “You need to ask him again.” Brock tried to keep his voice steady. Part of him wanted to tell his dad exactly who he was, but there was a high chance that would end the conversation cold. His dad wouldn’t buy into the idea that Brock had traveled into the past to have this conversation. Who would? He hadn’t even been able to convince his younger self.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Maybe this time he’ll take the gift.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Brock’s dad shrugged. “Maybe next year at this time.”

  “No, it needs to be soon.”

  “Who did you say you were, mister?”

  A slew of responses ricocheted through Brock’s mind, but none of them would be the right response, because he’d already cracked the ice under his feet with too many familiar questions. Soon he would be sinking into icy water.

  “No one.”

  “Then I think it best if we move onto other subjects, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

  The conversation was over. Brock had blown it, and he knew trying again would only make things worse. When the game ended, his dad stood, gave a vacant smile, and extended his hand.

  “Good luck with your son, Brock.”

  “Good luck with yours.”

  The moment Brock’s dad walked out of sight, the colors of the stadium and seats and players swirled together and the dream faded, then blinked out. But Brock didn’t wake up. He rocketed straight into another dream, where he found himself at Java Spot staring across the room at himself.

  Chapter 48

  Brock restrained himself from sprinting across the room, eased over slowly instead, then stood at the table till his younger self looked up.

  “Hey, Future Me, long time.” Brock motioned at the chair across from him. “Sit. Catch me up.”

  “What’s the date?”

  “September 27.”

  “What year?”

  “Hoo, boy.” Young Brock shook his head and grinned. “Nineteen eighty-nine.”

  “There’s a Seahawks game on October 22 between the Seahawks and the Broncos. You have to go to that game.”

  “Have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “With who?”

  “Your dad.”

  Young Brock smiled again and turned to Morgan, who was twenty feet away at his usual counter position, engaged in conversation with a young lady who took repeated sips of Morgan’s drink.

  “Hey, Morg-Man. Guess what my pal is telling me?” His younger self pointed at Brock. “Next month I have to go to a Seahawks game! With my dad. That’ll be a blast, no doubt.”

  Morgan offered a confused smile, then returned his focus to the woman. Brock waited till his younger self turned back and stopped grinning.

  “Please, just go to the game.”

  “Not gonna happen.” Young Brock shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” His younger self stood and pushed his chair in. “Sorry, gotta run, F. B.”

  “No. I’m not kidding. If you only do this one thing, go to that game.”

  “Listen.” Young Brock leaned on the table with both hands and drew his face close to Brock. “Do you still believe you’re an ancient version of me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then like I said a number of times before, if you really are me, you know my dad and I aren’t the best of pals. We weren’t the greatest pals in days past, and it’s on the high side of likely that we’re not going to be pals a year from now, or ten years, or twenty years. Going to a Hawks game isn’t going to change that. I can wait a while to see how things go.”

  “No you can’t. He’s going to die of a heart attack just weeks after that game.”

  His younger self’s countenance grew dark. “Don’t say stuff like that. Not funny.”

  “It’s going to happen.”

  “I think we’re done here.” Brock’s younger self stood and slipped into his coat.

  “I’m not here to anger you, Brock. I’m here because I dreamed about being at that game with your dad moments ago, and I talked to him and—”

  “Even if you are who you say you are, and he’s going to die, how am I supposed to get to that game? He loves the Hawks. So does Ron. Those season tickets are for the two of them. The Hawks are their thing. I’ve never been invited. And I’m not about to ask.”

  “Because you can’t risk your heart being hammered again.”

  “Shut up.”

  “He’s going to invite you. Trust me.”

  “Trust you?”

  “Yes.”

  His younger self raised his eyebrows. “Even if he invited me, I wouldn’t go. Faking my way through three hours at a football game would not be the way either my dad or I would want to spend a Sunday afternoon.”

  “Part of you desperately wants exactly that. And he wants a relationship with you more than you can imagine. But he doesn’t know how to tell you. At that game, he’s going to try.”

  His younger self jammed his hands into his pockets and pressed his lips together as he stared at Brock.

  “I can see it in your eyes. You almost believe me—that I’m you—and somehow we’re able to communicate with each other across time. I’m not saying I understand it either, but I know it’s real.”

  “Yeah, you had me for a time, but I’m not subscribed to that magazine anymore.”

  Heat filled Brock’s face. It wasn’t going to work. “I proved it to you. The basketball story, the one no one knew—”

  “There were more than thirty people there. I don’t know why and I don’t know how, but you somehow tracked one or two of them down and got the story.”

  “I didn’t. No one knew about the conversation outside the gym with just you and the coach. No one could have overheard it.”

  “Maybe they did. I was eleven. I wasn’t checking to see if anyone was within earshot.” Young Brock pointed at Brock. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but we’re finished. Don’t talk to me again. Go live out your weird beliefs with someone else.”

  His younger self rose and strode across the room toward Java Spot’s front door.

  “Brock!”

  He didn’t turn.

  Brock rose to go after himself, but before he could take two steps, the coffee shop vanished.

  Chapter 49

  JUNE 16, 2015

  When Brock woke the next morning he didn’t open his eyes right away. He needed a moment to accept the fact
that when he looked around his world, he would see nothing different. No change for the better. No radical reversal of his circumstances. Because his younger self wasn’t going to the game—correction, hadn’t gone to the game—years ago.

  But it was okay. He’d surrendered, and the peace he’d felt when he’d done that remained. He would survive in this time line because there wasn’t any other choice. He would live his life as it came and would continue to try to have a relationship with Tyson. And until Karissa remarried, he would try to win her heart back. Lost cause? Waste of time to try? No, because God was the God of hope, and because this journey had given him the chance to give up his idols, and he had chosen well.

  He took a deep breath, threw back the covers, and opened his eyes. His pulse immediately spiked. Not his ceiling above. At least not the ceiling in the houseboat. He whirled in bed, first to the right, then to the left. Definitely not the houseboat.

  It took a few seconds, but then it struck him. There was a nightstand on the other side of the bed. With a hand lotion and lip balm on it. Not a man’s, so not his. A woman’s. He took a slower look at the room. A couple’s room, not a single man’s room.

  No. He wouldn’t let his heart hope. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. Seven a.m. He concentrated his ears on the bathroom. No shower. That meant no Karissa. Not good. So where was he? Still dreaming? No way. By now he knew the difference.

  Clearly he was back in his old home, but with whom? Sheila? Someone else? Brock roused himself out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweats, and stumbled across the hallway and into his den. The moment he stepped through the doorway he stopped cold. Where his Alaska photo should have been was a picture he’d never seen.

  Brock shuffled over to the wall next to his desk, lifted the photo off the wall, and collapsed into his leather chair.

  “Impossible.”

  He held the framed picture in both hands, ran his thumb over the glass, and studied the photo. His dad and a twenty-seven-year-old Brock stood together in the Kingdome, arms around each other, the Seahawks field in the far background.

  “He went.” Brock’s body went limp. “The kid went. I can’t believe it.”