by Shawn Inmon
The conversation continued, but Joe didn’t hear. He backed quietly out of the room and continued to look for the bathroom. After he found it, he walked back down the corridor. He had every intention of just passing the break room by, but at the last minute, he turned in. He walked loudly, and this time the girls heard him.
He pulled out a chair across from them and sat down. He flipped his bangs back so his birthmark stood out more than usual.
The two girls had markedly different reactions. The blonde girl flushed and looked away. The raven-haired girl named Jill let a look of disgust wash over her face.
“Listen, I know you’re young,” Joe said to Jill.
“What are you, an old man?” Jill interrupted.
Joe smiled. “Good point. Sometimes I forget how young I am. Anyway, I heard what you said about me not needing a Halloween mask. I thought about not saying anything, but I just couldn’t. I know how you intended it, but I just wanted to talk to you about it.” Joe turned his head to the right, so his left eye looked directly at Jill. “This is just a birthmark, right? It’s not something I asked for, or something I got because I’m a bad person. It’s just part of the genetic lottery, and I lost on this one.”
“You. Are. A. Freak.” Jill said. “If you don’t leave us alone, I’m going to tell the lady out front that you are bothering us.” A devious look crossed her face. “I might even tell her you grabbed me somewhere naughty.”
Joe shook his head a little and let his hair fall back over his face. “No problem. I’ve still got work to do. Have a good day.”
Joe stood and walked around the table and out of the room. He returned to the task at hand, feeding dog food bowls, water bowls, and cleaning up messes as he went.
Joe was finishing the last kennel, leaning down and talking to an old bulldog with sad eyes. “You look like you blinked, and somehow ended up in here, old fella. I hate to see it.”
From behind him, a voice said, “I’m Elle.”
Joe turned to find the blonde girl from the break room standing right outside the cage.
“Like the letter?”
She smiled. “No, like E-l-l-e.”
“You know, that makes a lot more sense. Nice to meet you, Elle. I’m Joe.”
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m embarrassed by the way Jill acted. I could apologize for her, but—“
Joe held his hand up. “No need. Really. But I appreciate your coming and introducing yourself. That’s a stand up thing to do.”
And, once again, I sound like an old man instead of a teenager.
Elle dimpled a little and said, “Well, I’ve got to go. Our hours are done for the day. Only 60 more to go!”
She ran down the hallway to the door as Joe watched.
A relationship’s gonna be tough. Who would be the right person for me? Elle looks too young for me. But, if I went with someone actually my own age, it would look like they were cradle robbers.
Oh well, I don’t think Elle is interested in me anyway. It’s a problem for another day.
Chapter Twelve
The next few months flew by. Debbie put him on the schedule to work three times a week at the shelter. He soon had a name for every dog and cat that came in. Debbie called him her good luck charm. From the time he had arrived, they hadn’t had to put a single animal down.
He also started attending Al-Anon meetings at 10:00 A.M. on Tuesdays. When he attended his first meeting, he had no idea what to expect. He thought he might just sit and listen to somebody lecture him, but that wasn’t the way the program worked. Everyone who came to the meeting seemed to know each other, and each one had an assigned task. One made coffee, another got the cookies out, and several others set chairs up around a long table.
The Alcoholics Anonymous group met at the same time in another room across the hall. Many couples seemed to arrive together, splitting off only when they got to their separate meetings.
There were many things Joe liked about the meetings. He didn’t have to speak if he didn’t want to, but most weeks, everyone else did. They didn’t preach at him, or even tell him what he should be doing. Instead, they all told stories from their own lives, either from the distant past, or something from that week. Joe noticed that no one ever offered advice unless someone asked for it. Often, they would conclude by saying, “In the old days, I would have handled it all wrong, but not anymore. Now, I knew how to handle it.”
Each meeting was concluded with someone saying, “The meeting’s over. Take what you like and leave the rest.” That was an appealing idea to Joe, and he did exactly that. As time passed, he opened up about living with his mother, even though he didn’t say that to him it had been decades earlier. He had learned that the average person was not ready to accept the idea of time travel.
I can’t believe how few specific memories I have of this time. Who won the World Series? I watched it, but damned if I can remember. What were the big news events of 1978? Likewise, no idea.
Finally, a thought occurred to him. He sat down at his kitchen table, wrote out a short note, sealed it in an envelope, and took it with him to his next appointment with Abigail Green.
He sat down in the overstuffed couch in her office and handed the envelope across to her.
“What’s this? You’ve still got three week’s credit built up.”
“That’s not a check. I know that when I came in here, telling you I thought I was a time traveler, you thought I was crazy.”
Abigail looked somewhat exasperated, but slightly amused. “’Crazy’ is really a word I don’t toss around a lot.”
“Right. Okay, then. Then maybe you thought I was using this whole story as some way to evade something I didn’t really want to talk about. Or, maybe it was just a distraction to keep from thinking about my problems. I don’t know. For some reason, though, it bugs me that I can’t find a way to convince you of the truth. So, I think that envelope will do it.”
“How so?”
“I wrote down something that there should be no way I could know. My memory isn’t all that great, so I couldn’t write the exact date that it happens, but I remember it was after Mom died, but before Christmas that same year. So, I thought I’d give it to you now. You keep it somewhere safe, and one of these sessions, I’ll ask you to open it up.”
Abigail stared levelly at him for several seconds. “All right. We can do that. But for now, tell me about your week.”
JOE MANAGED TO FILL his weekdays, but he still found himself with time on his hands on weekends. He went to movies at the Pickwick every Saturday. He got a kick out of seeing movies like Saturday Night Fever, Grease, or Animal House in theaters again. He had once had them all on VHS, and eventually DVD, but nothing beat the experience of seeing them in a crowded theater, with people who reacted in all the right places.
Still, that left him many hours to fill, and he did so by working on his house. It had never been the loveliest house, but he set about making it shine as much as he could. He put a new gutter system up, repaired the flashing around the chimney, and finally decided to paint the whole exterior.
By early fall, he had checked off every item on his house to-do list, He walked around the outside, admiring the neat flower beds, the fresh paint, and the overall sense of order that had come over the house. A thought hit him out of nowhere.
I should sell this house.
In his previous life, he had never considered such a thing. The house had been his Fortress of Solitude. He had closed the door to the outside world and retreated into the safety and comfort of the familiar walls.
All of which is why he wanted to sell the house now. He loved it, and would never set a torch to it, of course, but selling it would serve as a symbolic cutting of ties with his previous life.
Joe contacted a local real estate agent in early October. She told him that the conventional wisdom was that it was better to wait until the spring, when the daffodils would be blooming. Would he be interested in calling her in March?
> He was not, so instead, he called another realty office. When he told this new agent about his desire to sell his house, her first question was, “When can I come take a look at it, so I can prepare a market analysis for you?”
Much better.
Joe met with her that very afternoon, and she brought him a market analysis the next day. She told him that the market was a little slow, because high interest rates were dragging the market down, but because of all the work he had done, she thought she could get him $45,000.
Joe called the bank to see what his mortgage balance was. $7,200.
He called the agent and told her to market the home at $42,000.
He got an offer before Halloween and had to be out of the house by his birthday, December 1st.
That gave him many new projects. He had to find a new place to live, and he wanted to downsize and simplify his belongings. He ended up donating more than half his belongings, and all his furniture, to St. Vincent de Paul. He moved into a small, one-bedroom apartment at the River Crest Apartments the last weekend of November.
His one splurge was a new bedroom and living room set from Coleman’s Furniture. He wanted a clean break from his past.
The craziness of selling the house and getting moved to his new place took up all of Joe’s attention, but even so, he still caught a stray newscast here and there. One story that was unavoidable during that time was the murder of Congressman Leo Ryan and the mass suicide in Jonestown, Guyana.
At Joe’s next appointment with Abigail, he asked her if she had the envelope he had given her months before.
“Of course. Still sealed.”
“Can you get it and open it?”
“Joe, you’ve made so much progress over the last six months, I thought maybe you were ready to leave all this behind.”
“If you’ll just open it, I’ll never mention it again, unless you want to ask me questions.”
Abigail excused herself and went into another part of the house. A few minutes later, she returned with the envelope.
“Perfect. Can you open it and read it?”
Abigail sighed, but, using a letter opener she carried with her, she slit the envelope open and took the single sheet of notebook paper out.
“Will you read it out loud?”
Abigail nodded, adjusted her glasses, and read.
“I can’t remember the exact date, because aside from dates like the attack on Pearl Harbor, or the day Kennedy was assassinated, or a few events that will happen in the future, I just don’t remember specific dates. I do remember that this happened sometime around Thanksgiving the year my mom died, so that’s coming up soon.”
Abigail shifted in her seat, as if she was reading ahead and was surprised by what she saw.
“A U.S. Congressman name Leo Ryan is going to lead a delegation to look into charges that a man named Jim Jones is running some sort of cult and holding people hostage in a makeshift encampment called Jonestown, in Guyana. Mr. Ryan and others in his entourage will be shot and killed as they are boarding their plane to return home. Jim Jones will then lead his followers in a mass murder/suicide. I can’t remember exactly how many are killed, but it’s hundreds. He will use a poisoned drink to kill them. It will introduce a new phrase into the language—“drink the Kool-Aid”—even though it wasn’t actually Kool-Aid that was used. That’s all I can remember about it, but that should be enough.”
Abigail dropped the paper into her lap. “There’s more, but that’s enough.”
Joe sat, expressionless, looking at Abigail.
If that’s not enough to convince her, I don’t know what will be.
Abigail mechanically folded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope, the whole time looking down at the task at hand and not at Joe.
Finally, she looked at Joe with new eyes. “I can’t explain this.”
“Sure you can. I’ve already given you the answer. Somehow, I’ve traveled in time. What other explanation could you possibly have for the envelope you’re holding in your hand?”
“I don’t know. Occam’s razor says that the most likely explanation for an event is the simplest one. So, which is simpler, that you somehow snuck into my house and replaced the envelope you gave me with this one? Or, that you are a time traveler?”
Joe shrugged. “I think I know my answer to that question. What’s yours?”
Abigail avoided the question and mused, “I did once have another patient who claimed something similar.”
Joe sat bolt upright. “What was their name?”
“Joe, surely you know I can’t say. I’ve built my practice on patient confidentiality. But, she did give me several predictions like you did. The first came true, but the second was wildly wrong.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Things change. I am living a different life now than I was before. That impacts things in ways I can’t imagine, or predict.”
“I’ll need to think on this more. I’m afraid I can’t say I’m ready to accept it.”
“I understand. I would be the same way. I don’t know why it was important for me to convince you. I’ll just focus on the work we do in here now, because you’ve really helped me. Asking me to attend Al-Anon has been a big step forward.”
When the session wrapped up, Joe exited by the side door, right into the teeth of a December rainstorm. He pulled the hood of his coat up and hurried to the Oldsmobile. He climbed in, turned the key and pushed the defroster on high.
Important lesson. People can’t believe the impossible. Even when you prove the impossible isn’t really impossible, they still can’t believe.
Chapter Thirteen
On New Year’s Day, 1979, Joe sat cross-legged on the floor of the living room in his tiny apartment. The television was turned on and tuned to the Cotton Bowl, where Notre Dame and Houston were engaged in a wild, back-and-forth game.
Joe wasn’t really watching. Instead, he was bent over a piece of poster board. An array of colored pens were spread out in front of him.
This is tougher than I thought it was going to be. I’ve seen these logos thousands of times, but since they only exist in the future, all I’ve got is my memory.
He had already drawn three logos—Amazon, with its little smiley face connecting A to Z—Google, and Apple Computers. He was finishing the fourth, and toughest one, Starbucks. He looked at it with a tilt of his head.
Not perfect. But, perfect is the enemy of done, and I definitely want to be done with this project.
Across the top of the poster, he had drawn large, block letters that said, “Do You Remember These?”
The first item on his time travel to-do list had been, “See if there are other people like me.” He had considered different strategies for ascertaining this. He rejected the idea of walking up to strangers and asking them if they knew what happened on September 11, 2001. That’s a ticket to the loony bin, for sure. For a time, he considered taking out a full page ad in the Middle Falls Times, predicting a few events he knew were coming, but he decided against that, too.
Word would spread that some kid in Oregon was able to see the future, and the next thing I know, guys in dark suits and wearing earpieces would show up and drag me to Area 51 or something. No thank you, please.
Instead, he had settled on this strategy. Choose some images that anyone who had been alive after 1995 would be likely to know, and display it somewhere. He had chosen the Middle Falls Library, and had reserved one of their meeting rooms every Tuesday afternoon at 3:00 for the next few months.
The first Tuesday in January, he checked in with the librarian a little before 3:00. She showed him to the room and unlocked the door. “What’s your group about?”
Should have expected that one!
“Umm, it’s for people who read Science Fiction books. I’m just trying to get the group started, though, so I don’t know if anyone will show up for it.”
“That’s perfectly fine. The room is yours until 4:00, then the Locked Room Mystery Readers are having their mon
thly meeting.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Joe said as the librarian bustled away. He set up the wooden easel outside the door and carefully placed his poster on it.
“And now, we wait,” he mumbled. He went inside, flipped the lights on and saw that the room was mostly empty. There was a single table in the middle of the room, and several stacks of chairs at the back. He grabbed one of the chairs off the stacks and sat down at the far side of the table.
It was a typical western Oregon January day outside, so Joe sat and watched the swirling winds and blowing leaves in the parking lot for a few minutes. He glanced up at the clock. 3:07.
Well, I didn’t expect to set up and have people beating down my door, did I? For all I know, there might be a million time travelers in the world, but maybe they are hesitant to reveal themselves. How would I react if I saw a sign like this?
Joe grabbed his backpack, pulled his copy of Foundation and Empire by Asimov out, and became lost in the book.
He was rousted from his reverie when a middle-aged woman poked her head into the room and said, “Hello?”
Oh, wow, that was fast after all!
“Hello,” Joe said with a friendly smile.
“I’m Midge Parker. We’ve got the room next. Just wanted to see if you were done in here.”
“Ah.” Joe looked at the clock once again and saw that the hour had flown by while he read. “Of course. Can I help you set up?”
“Thank you! That would be wonderful. Did your meeting end early?”
“Kind of. It wasn’t a great turnout,” Joe said as he followed Midge’s lead. He began unstacking chairs and arranging them in a row.
“I don’t recognize any of those pictures you have on your poster out there? Should I?”
“No, not really. It’s kind of a science fiction thing.”
“Oh, I see. We are mystery readers. We all read the same book each month, then discuss it here. Well, that, and Mary Ellen brings us all treats. Sometimes I think that is the bigger draw. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like. Do you like mysteries?”