The Phone Call
The phone rang, the one still attached to a landline, the one only salespeople, survey takers, and robo-calls know.
“Hello?”
“Danny?”
“Mom” I said before I realized and caught myself. “Who’s this?”
“Why Danny, this is your mom. Who do you think it is?”
“I know it’s not my mom. So, whoever this is, it’s funny. I get it. Good prank.”
“Daniel J. Martinez. You don’t call your mom any more. So, I have to call you.”
“Good one, asshole.”
When I hung up, I felt a bit of remorse though I knew I shouldn’t.
Not many women made prank phone calls, and this seemed to be more mean than funny, but it took all kinds to make the world spin around.
The phone rang again. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings. Answering machine. Hello. You have reached the Martinez residence. Please leave your message after the beep. How archaic, I thought. I must have recorded that message ten years ago. Back when we had used this damn phone. My mom never got used to calling my cellphone. That’s why I kept it – just for mom. I should have disconnected it three years ago.
“Danny. This is your mom. Why’d you hang up on me?” I heard the woman weeping. She blew her nose and coughed on the message. I picked up.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Danny. It’s your mom. I miss you is all.”
“My mom’s been dead for three years.” There was silence but neither of us had hung up.
“Danny Junior. What kind of talk is that?”
No one but my mom called me Danny Junior.
Time travel or a ghost, I didn’t know. I picked up my cell phone and looked at the date and time. Surprised. More like shocked. I shook my phone, but the date remained the same. It couldn’t be right.
“Danny, you still there?”
I glanced at my phone once more. Stunned, but willing to accept the unfathomable, even if it made no sense.
“Mom? I asked softly.
Would You Choose Life?
The hospital wasn't so bad. They didn’t have as many channels as I had at home, but they had enough. Television just filled the time; it didn’t entertain or inform at this stage of my life.
The nurses were friendly and some of them were even prettier than you would think. Doesn’t matter how old you get, you still look. You admire the curve of a backside, the arc of a breast, the subtle, serpentine lines of a feminine frame. One of them usually had an extra button undone on their uniform. Maybe she forgot or maybe she did it on purpose, I don’t know. I caught a glimpse here and there of something lacy beneath, and I think she knew. Probably just part of sympathetic health care for a dying old man. Don’t call me a dirty old man – I’m just a man, still a man.
I was George Lamengola. I was 84 years old and I was dying of terminal cancer.
The doctors weren’t overly friendly, and I couldn’t pronounce their names for the life of me, but their bedside manner was reasonable and their words were succinct and precise. I hated all that mumbo-jumbo bullshit you sometimes get when people think they are smarter than you, so I guess I’m lucky I had the physicians I had.
I lacked nothing. I had everything to keep me occupied and take my mind off my impending death - smart phone, laptop, MP3 player, and a fancy tablet my grandson bought me. I had dozens of apps and games and I could watch a million videos whenever I wanted to. I didn’t have much use for apps and games, but I read to put me asleep and watched dozens of old movies, so I guess all this technology had value.
Friends and family kept coming in with presents. Why they would bring me stuff, I have no idea. I had too much already. Boxes of this, bundles of that, bags of some stuff, satchels of even more stuff. Merely junk and detritus now. And flowers? For god sake; I didn’t want any flowers. Hospitals are already filled with the stench of death and decay – who needs flowers to wilt and die right in front of you. Who wants a reminder of your coming fate? Who wants a kaleidoscopic display of mortality?
Did they think I was staying here for a long time? Did they think my reservations were long-term? I guess they felt obligated because it was Christmas and I wasn’t home where I belonged.
When I was a kid, Christmas gifts were a few candies, perhaps a used baseball glove, and if we were lucky, a hand-me-down pair of pants from an older cousin. When my brother got too big, he gave me his bike. It was rusted and bent like a pretzel, but it still worked if you didn’t pedal too fast or hit any bumps. I was the happiest kid in the world on Christmas. Mom would have baked some oatmeal cookies – the aroma was one of the highlights of the holiday season. Dad patted us boys on the back and told us how good we'd had been all year – that was our Christmas gift. Santa Claus didn't spend much time dropping off presents in my neighborhood, or any neighborhood I knew about.
Everyone's is still talking about the great recession a few years back, but I don't know what all the whining and complaining is all about. It’s almost a decade in the past now and things aren’t that bad. We live in a land of plenty – oh boohoo, one less device, a few less downloaded songs, a few less dollars in your pocket. No one is standing on line for a few scraps of bread. Not much of a recession if you ask me.
All in all, it's been good. I don’t want to sound like the proverbial grumpy old man. We all need to make do in the time we have. I was born at the right time - 1932 was a good year to have been born, and I supposed 2016 is as good a year as any to die. I'm old and I can't fight, fuck, or find my glasses when I need them.
The doctors told me I don't have much longer, and you know what, I agreed with them. The working parts in my body no longer felt like working. I could feel it – I guess when you get as old as I am, there’s an intuition for death. I knew that I was going to miss my family, my wife of over fifty years, my two kids, my grandkids and especially my two great grandkids. I knew that I was even going to miss technology. It’s been amazing how technology has advanced. It’s unbelievable what scientists and inventors have created. I was once surprised and awed at television, automatic transmission, microwave ovens, Velcro, roll-on deodorant, and transistor radios. Though I was ready to move on to the afterlife, you know, the pain and forgetfulness did make life arduous and challenging, I felt like I would be missing something incredible.
However, my race to the eternity came to a screeching halt.
Satan, in the form of a young doctor, had a deal for me.
Two weeks ago, a handsome, well-groomed, seeming tenderfoot of a doctor came into my room; one who I had never seen before. He introduced himself, but I’m too old to remember a four-syllable first name and a seven-syllable last name, so excuse me if I forget his what his name tag said. He told me of a study; a clinical trial for which he needed volunteers, and I guess I fit the profile. I guess Satan’s promise of immortality came in the form of a clinical trial.
“You are terminal, Mr.Lamegola.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, doc.”
“Ok, I will tell you that I can stop you from dying. Would you be interested?”
“Hell yeah. Can you stop all the aches and pains, too?”
“Yes, them too.”
“I’m all in.” My tone was sarcastic but my ears were open to any possible hope. “Why did none of my other doctors tell me about this. I’ve been preparing myself for the inevitable, but I’d be happy to stay around a little longer.”
“Well, Mr. Lamengola, it’s not exactly well known, this study.” He looked up from my chart, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.” It’s quite new and it’s quite secret, but it is very exciting. There are no results yet and we don’t fully understand the mechanisms that drive what we can do, but we are doing life-altering things.”
“You need me?’
“We need volunteers.”
“You need people about to die. Those with no hope.”
“Very perceptive, Mr. Lamengola.”
; “Where do I sign up?”
The good doctor handed me a clipboard and a long form filled with legalese, most of which I couldn’t read as the font was far below my eye-grade level.
“It’s the usual form – waivers of liability, non-disclosure, clinical trial information, and the routine legalese. Sign and we can get started.”
So, would you choose death at an old age, after living a very satisfying life filled with family, friends, and fun, or would you elect to prevent that inevitable death for a chance at a new life? Even if it was just a glimmer of hope and you had to sign forms that might have sold your soul to the devil? If that’s all you knew, what would you do?
Be honest, you would want to remain a live, right?
You would have signed those papers, too. I know it.
I chose a new life, and I knew more details and specifics about it than what I have given you. I wish I could say I made the right decision. I wish I could say that I was happy with my choice. But the truth is, I can’t. I was given an encyclopedia full of information to prepare me for my new journey, and yet I didn’t honestly know what to expect.
My name is no longer George Lamengola. I am no longer 84 years old. I am no longer suffering from terminal, late-stage cancer. I no longer have myriad aches and pains to contend with each waking moment. I no longer have a family. I no longer have friends.
I live in the past. My name is Alex Greenwald. I am 25 years old. My parents are dead – they died in a car accident when I was 18. Or, so I am told. Or, so the story goes. I am an only child. I graduated from San Diego State University with a business degree. I recently moved to New York to look for a job. I played basketball and baseball in high school, and I wasn’t a bad player in either sports. I read my bio on a piece of paper I found in my pants pocket. I had $5,000 in my jacket pocket when I showed up on the streets of lower Manhattan. I also had two credit cards in a wallet – a Visa and a Discover card with the name Alex J. Greenwald imprinted on it. I do not know what the “J” stands for.
I am a man without a past. Or, at least, I am a man without a real past.
I paid for a room in a small, lower Manhattan boutique hotel - $250 per night for about 200 square feet of space. Now, when I say I live in the past, I don’t mean the distant past. I met Dr. eleven-syllables on the night of December 20th, and according to this newspaper I picked up in the hotel lobby, it’s November 11th, 2016 – the same year I was getting ready to die, but several weeks earlier.
But, I do live in another body. Lean, agile, tall, full head of brown hair. It’s not a bad body – I guess I can live with it.
I had spent four nights being tested and prepared for the study. Needles, probes, medicines – not much different than I’ve been going through for the past two years. The Asian doc told me the basics. “You will become a new person; you will not look like yourself; you will be young, much younger, you will have to make it on your own, and your old self will die the moment you make the transition.”
“What happens to, um, me? This body?”
“Your family will have a body. You will have a funeral and then you’ll be but a memory.”
“This body will be dead, um, here in this bed?”
“That’s how it works, Mr. Lamengola. No one will suspect anything.”
“Holy shit, doc. This is science fiction.”
“Say a heartfelt goodbye to your family. But, you cannot tell them anything about this. They cannot know what is about to happen. Do you understand?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “You can never tell them what happened or make contact with anyone. Incidental contact can happen, but you are to never tell them who you are, or who you were. Understand?”
I understood. My last night as George Lamengola was a tearful one to say the least. It was five days before Christmas and the room was definitely not filled with the Christmas spirit. I don’t think my family quite understood what all the tears were about since I was usually too much of a curmudgeon to let my emotions get out of hand. They were planning on moving me to hospice in a few days but debating whether to send me before or after Christmas. I suppose my dying early saved them the tough decision and the hefty expense of hospice care. As frugal, some would say cheap, as I am, I was happy to save my family a few bucks, even if it meant I would die a few weeks earlier than expected.
So, if you could change from George Lamengola to Alex J. Greenwald, would you do it? If you could go, in an instant, from 84 years old to 25 years old, would you jump at the chance? If you could go from a life filled with happiness and memories to a life a bit less known, would you quickly ask for a pen to sign on the dotted line?
I don’t know if Satan expects some favor, but there was a note in my pocket for a doctor’s appointment I had on January 6th. The place was across the river in New Jersey – a place called the Anti-Aging Group. The doctor’s first name had four syllables and his last name had seven. I still couldn’t pronounce it.
I assume I was beholden to keep my appointment. If you make a deal with the devil, I suppose you should keep your future check-ups.
I don’t know how they did. I never understood much about physics or biology. Was it time travel, reincarnation, cloning, or some other outlandish science experiment? I don’t have the scientific terminology to even try and explain it. I’m not sure Dr. eleven-syllables and his staff have a real name for it. But, whatever they call it, it worked.
I can’t tell you if I made the right choice. I’ve only been here for one night, and I’m standing outside my granddaughter’s office waiting until she gets off work so I can catch a glimpse of her. I know she is going to catch the bus and head straight to my home where she’ll visit her dear old grandpa. I recall that they moved me to the hospital the first week of December while they made hospice plans, so on this day in November. I’m still home in the comfort of my own bed, surrounded by my own things and accumulated junk.
That’s where my granddaughter was headed. To see me – the old me.
Don’t worry, I had no plans to follow her. Though I knew more about that crusty old grandfather than anyone, why would Alex J Greenwald go see George Lamengola, and what the hell would they talk about?
The Coin Collector
If you are reading this, it means I was caught red handed. Or, at least suspected of a crime.
I only went back four times, but each time was profitable. The first time was to an uneventful and rather sparsely populated Brooklyn in 1801. Brooklyn was a very small community at the time; the Brooklyn Naval Yard was under construction, so things were headed in the right direction, but population density and overcrowding wasn’t a foreseeable problem at the time. I had forgotten I could use the GPS coordinates or I would have at least gone to lower Manhattan. I ended up appearing in a large open field in the middle of nowhere. I walked to the modest community and, though I had purchased clothes that replicated the era before I left my own time, I still looked and felt out of place. I did find a 1796 Bust Dime on one of the muddy, unpaved streets. Though it certainly wasn’t in mint condition, I sold it for $8,300 to a very excited coin dealer when I returned.
He inspected it, but asked no questions.
For me, time travel was going to be a business, and as far as I knew, I was the only one in this particular business. To those who don’t understand, it seems like a crime, but no illegal act was committed. No theft, no robbery, though deception might be easier to prove.
The time travel technology had been handed to me by my Uncle Frankie, a social pariah, family freeloader, and unheralded inventor who had probably invented the most revolutionary device of all time. But no one knew it. Frank L. Easterly, Uncle Frankie, to me and my sisters, should have been a celebrated inventor and major historical figure. Instead, he stayed under the radar, but lived a life of high luxury without ever seeming to have a job or make an income.
When I was ten years old, my Uncle Frankie took me to an inventor's convention in New York City. We walked the convention center and looked at strange
gadgets, unnamed devices, and shiny machinery. Though there were plenty of normal looking gadgets that were mere adaptations and improvements of devices already in use, there were also plenty of gadgets comprised of tubes, switches, blinking lights, batteries, wires, electrodes, and shiny metal. These men or women touting their unconventional inventions were usually at the end of an aisle, around a corner, or hidden behind another booth. These were the outliers; the mad scientists seeking ways to transport humans through space or time, regrow limbs, clone animals, or change the molecular structure of objects. These were the loonies; my uncle called them the magicians with misunderstood tricks and the deceivers of deception. They had ideas, big and wild ideas, but they had not yet mastered the tricks.
I thought my uncle was being dismissive of these scientific outcasts; little did I know that he was one of them, and walked among them with confidence and ease.
When I was twelve, my uncle came back to town after a year's absence and declared to the family that he had finally achieved his first patent. He had designed and built so many odd devices over the years, but none of them had ever been patented. Until that one. But, before you think it was something revolutionary or worthy of a science fiction novel, I must tell you that it was merely an adaptation of the very normal blender. The new type of blade that he invented and patented has been lost to posterity, but I imagine if you go to the United States Patent Office and look through their records, you can research it yourself. Needless to say, no money was made on this invention, and my uncle spent a few months in the spare bedroom at my aunt Delilah's house, until one day he just disappeared, like he always did. First class plane ticket in hand to the Canary Islands, and then no contact with the family for a long stretch of time. The kids assumed he was living like James Bond; the parents dismissed him as a petulant freeloader probably conning foreigners out of their hard-earned lira or francs or pesos. I just missed him – he was fun to hang around with.
Altering the Apocalypse: and Other Short Stories About Humans and Time Travel Page 11