One of the tape compositor ladies, a blur, stopped in front of me and chirped out “Doyoufeelallright, Frank?”
“Justa headacheI’llbeokay,” I twittered back.
I looked at the clock again.
The sweep-hand stopped. I looked back into the linotype room.
People moved around like John Paul Stapp on the Sonic Wind rocket sled.
I looked at the clock again. The second hand moved backwards.
And then the world blurred all out of focus and part of me left the clanging clattering linotypes behind.
I looked around the part of town I could see. (What was I doing downtown? Wasn’t I at work?) The place looked like it did around 1962. The carpet shop was still in business—it had failed a few months before JFK was shot. Hamburgers were still four for a dollar on the menus outside the cafes. The theater was showing Horror Chamber of Dr. Faustus and The Manster, which was a 1962 double feature. Hosey the usher was leaving in his ’58 Chevy; he quit working at the theater in 1964, I know. I had a feeling that if I walked one block north and four blocks west I could look in the window of a house and see myself reading a book or doing homework. I sure didn’t want to do that.
Then the plant manager was in front of me. “Hey! You’ve got a backspill on #5, that crappy old bastard and #3’s quit reading tape.”
“Sorry.” I said “I just got a splitting headache for a minute. Got any aspirin?” I asked, taking the galley off #5.
“Go ask one of the women who’s having her period,” he said “I just took all the aspirin in the place. The publisher’s all over my ass this week. Why I don’t know. I robbed the first aid kit, don’t go there.”
“That would have been my next stop,” I said. I brushed a cooled line of lead off the keyboard and from the seat and up the back of the caster chair in front of the linotype. I closed the machine back up and started it up, and went over and pounded on the reader box of #3. It chattered away.
For a while I was too busy to think about what had happened.
* * *
“Feeling a little weird?” asked my sister, this time on a regular phone.
“What the hell happened?”
“Talk to this man,” she said.
She put on some professor whose name I didn’t catch.
He asked me some questions. I told him the answers. He said he was sending a questionnaire. My sister came back on.
“I think they think I gave you a bad dream 2000 miles away,” she said. “That would be a big cheese deal to them.”
“What do you think?” I asked. “I saw Hosey.”
“Either way, you would have done that,” she said.
“What do you mean, either way? Why are you involving me? Is this fun?”
“Because,” she said, “ You’re my brother and I love you.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I said. “Why don’t you mess with someone you don’t like? Who’s that guy who left you in Grand Prairie to walk home at 5 a.m.?”
“I killed him with a mental lightning bolt yesterday,” she said. Then, “Just kidding.
“Well, I’m glad you’re just kidding, because I just shit my pants. I don’t want to ever feel like I did last night, again, ever. It was creepy.”
“Of course it was creepy,” she said. “We’re working at the frontiers of science here.”
“Are you on the frontiers of science there,” I asked “Or . . .”
She finished the sentence with me “. . . are we just pulling our puds?” She laughed. “I don’t have a clue. They’re trying to figure out how to do this scientifically. They may have to fly you in.”
“No, thanks!” I said. “ I’ve got a life to live. I’m actually dating a real-live girl. I’m also working myself to death. I don’t have time for hot dates with Ouija boards, or whatever you’re doing there. Include me out.”
She laughed again. “We’ll see.”
“No you won’t! Don’t do this to me. I’m . . .”
There was a dial tone.
So the second time I knew what was happening. I was at home. I felt the distancing effect; the speeding up of everything around, except the kitchen clock. It was the kind where parts of numbers flipped down, an analog readout. It slowed to a crawl. The thin metal strips the numbers were painted on took a real long time before they flipped down.
A bird rocketed through the yard. The neighbor’s dog was a beige blur. I could barely move. My stomach churned like when I was on the Mad Octopus at the Texas State Fair. The clock hung between 10:29 and 10:30. Then it was 10:29. 10:28 10:27. Then the readout turned into a high whining flutter.
This time everything was bigger. Don’t ask me why. I was at my favorite drugstore, the one next to the theater. The drugstore was at the corner of Division (the Highway) and Center Street. I glanced at a newspaper. June 17, 1956. If memory serves, I would have been over in Alabama at the time, so I wouldn’t be running into myself. I reached in my pocket and looked at my change. Half of it hadn’t been minted yet. (How was that possible?) The guy at the register ignored me—he’d seen me a million times and I wasn’t one of the kids he had to give The Hairy Eyeball to. When I came in, I came to buy.
I looked at the funny book rack. Everything except the Dell Comics had the Comics Code Seal on them, which meant they’d go to Nice Heaven. No zombies, no monsters, no blood, no Blackhawks fighting the Commies, who used stuff that melts tanks, people—everything but wood. No vampires “saaaaking your blaaad.” Dullsville. I picked up a Mad magazine, which was no longer a comic book, so it wouldn’t be under the Comics Code, but had turned into a 25¢—What, me cheap?—magazine. It had a Kelly Freas cover of Alfred E. Neumann.
I fished out a 1952 quarter and put it down by the register. There wasn’t any sales tax in Texas yet. Fifty years later, we would be paying more than New York City.
I looked at the theater marquee when I stepped outside. Bottom of the Bottle and Bandido—one with Joseph Cotten and Richard Egan, the other with Glenn Ford and Gilbert Roland. I’d seen them later, bored by the first except for a storm scene, and liked the second because there were lots of explosions and Browning .50 caliber machine guns. Nothing for me there.
I walked down toward Main Street.
There was a swooping sensation and a flutter of light and I was back home.
The analog readout on the clock clicked to 10:30 a.m.
I went to the coin shop. I went to my doctor’s office. I went to a couple of other places. I actually had to lie a couple of times, and I used one friendship badly, only they didn’t know, but I did.
Then I found the second letter my sister had sent me from North Carolina and got the phone number of the lab. I called it the next morning. It took awhile but they finally got Ethel to the phone.
“Feeling okay?” she asked.
“Hell no,” I said. “I’m not having any fun. At least let me have fun. Two days from now give me an hallucination about Alabama. In the summer. I want to at least see if the fishing is as good as I remember it.”
“So it is written,” she said, imitating Yul Brynner in The Ten Commandments, “So it shall be done.”
I knew it really didn’t matter, but I kept my old fiberglass spinning rod with its Johnson Century spinning reel, and my old My Buddy tackle box as near me as I could the next two days. Inside the tackle box with all the other crap were three new double-hook rigged rubber eels, cheep as piss in 1969, but they cost $1.00 each in 1950s money when they’d first come out.
This time I was almost ready for it and didn’t panic when the thing came on. I rode it out like the log flume ride out at Six Flags Over Texas; and when the clock outside the college classroom started jumping backwards, I didn’t even get woozy. I closed my eyes and made the jump myself.
I was at the Big Pond and had
made a cast. A 2-lb bass had taken the rubber eel. The Big Pond was even bigger than I remembered (although I knew it was only 4 acres.) I got the bass in and put it on a stringer with its 11 big clamps and swivels between each clamp on the chain. I put the bass out about two feet in the water and put the clamp on the end of the stringer around a willow root.
Then I cast again, and the biggest bass I had ever had took it. There was a swirl in the water the size of a #5 washtub and I set the hook.
I had him on for maybe 30 seconds. He jumped in the shallow water as I reeled. He must have weighed ten pounds. When he came down there was a splash like a cow had fallen into the pond.
Then the rubber eel came sailing lazily out of the middle of the commotion, and the line went slack in a backflowing arc. It (probably she) had thrown the hook.
There was a big V-wake heading for deeper water when the bass realized it was free.
I was pissed off at myself. I picked up the stringer with the 2-lb bass (which now didn’t look as large as it had 5 minutes ago) and my tackle box, and started off over the hill back toward my grandparent’s house.
I walked through the back gate, with its plowshare counterweight on the chain which kept it closed. I took the fish off the stringer and eased it into the 75 gallon rain barrel, where it started to swim along with a catfish my uncle had caught at the Little Pond yesterday. In the summer, there was usually a fishfry every Friday. We got serious about fishing on Thursdays. By Friday there would be 15 or 20 fish in the barrel, from small bluegills to a few crappie to a bunch of bass and catfish. On Fridays my uncle would get off early, start cleaning fish, heating up a cast-iron pot full of lard over a charcoal fire, and making up batter for the fish and hush- puppies. Then, after my grandfather came in, ten or eleven of us would eat until we fell over.
Later the cooled fish-grease would be used to make dogbread for my grandfather’s hounds. You didn’t waste much in Alabama in those days.
I washed my hands off at the outside faucet and went through the long hail from the back door, being quiet, as the only sound in the house was of SuZan, the black lady who cooked for my grandmother, starting to make lunch. I looked into the front room and saw my grandmother sleeping on the main bed.
I went out onto the verandah. I’d taken stuff out of the tackle box in the back hall, when I’d leaned my fishing rod up against a bureau, where I kept it ready to go all summer.
I was eating from a box of Domino® sugar cubes when I came out. My sister was in one of the Adirondack-type wooden chairs, reading a Katy Keene comic book; the kind where the girl-readers sent in drawings of dresses and sunsuits they’d designed for Katy. The artist redrew them when they chose yours for a story, and they ran your name and address printed beside it so other Katy Keene fans could write you. (Few people know it, but that’s how the Internet started.)
She must have been five or six, before she got sick. She was like a sparkle of light in a dark world.
“Back already?” she asked. “Quitter.”
“I lost the biggest fish of my life,” I said. “I tried to horse it in. I should have let it horse me, but kept control, as the great A.J. McClane says in Field and Stream,” I said. “I am truly disappointed in my fishing abilities for the first time in a long time.”
“Papaw’ll whip your ass if he finds out you lost that big fish he’s been trying to catch,” she said. “He would have gone in after it, if he ever had it on.” He would have, too. “Yeah, but he’s a cane-pole fisherman, the best there ever was, but it was too shallow there for him to get his minnow in there with a pole. It was by that old stump in the shallow end.” Then I held up the sugar-cube box.
“Look what I found,” I said.
“Where’d you get those?”
“In the old chiffarobe.”
“SuZan’ll beat your butt if she finds you filchin’ sugar from her kitchen.”
“Probably some of Aunt Noni’s for her tea. She probably bought it during the Coolidge Administration and forgot about it.” Aunt Noni was the only person I knew in Alabama who drank only one cup of coffee in the morning, and then drank only tea, iced or hot, the rest of the day.
“Gimme some,” said Ethel.
“What’s the magic word?”
“Please and thank you.”
I moved the box so she took the ones I wanted her to. She made a face. “God, that stuff is old,” she said.
“I told you they was,” I said.
“Gimme more. Please,” she said. “Those are better.” Then: “I’ve read this Katy Keene about to death. Wanna play croquet til you get up your nerve to go back and try to catch that fish before Papaw gets home?”
“Sure,” I said. “But that fish will have a sore jaw til tomorrow. He’ll be real careful what he bites the rest of the day. I won’t be able to tempt him again until tomorrow.”
We started playing croquet. I had quite the little run there, making it to the middle wicket from the first tap. Then my sister came out of the starting double wicket and I could tell she was intent on hitting my ball, then getting to send me off down the hill. We had a rule that if you were knocked out of bounds, you could put the bail back in a mallet-head length from where it went out. But if you hit it hard enough, the ball went out of bounds, over the gravel parking area, down the long driveway, all the way down the hill and out onto Alabama Highway 12. You had to haul your ass all the way down the dirt drive, dodge the traffic, retrieve the ball from your cousin’s front yard and climb all the way back up to the croquet grounds to put your ball back into play.
My sister tapped my ball at the end of a long shot. She placed her ball against it, and put her foot on top of her croquet ball. She lined up her shot. She took a practice tap to make sure she had the right murderous swing.
“Hey!” I said. “My ball moved! That counts as your shot!”
“Does not!” she yelled.
“Yes it does!” I yelled.
“Take your next shot! That counted!” I added
“It did not!” she screamed.
“You children be quiet!” my grandmother yelled from her bed of pain.
About that time was when Ethel hit me between the eyes with the green-striped croquet mallet; I kneecapped her with the blue croquet ball, and, with a smile on my swelling face as I heard the screen door open and close, I went away from there.
This time I felt like I had been beaten with more than a mallet wielded by a six-year-old. I felt like I’d been stoned by a crowd and left for dead. I was dehydrated. My right foot hurt like a bastard, and mucus was dripping from my nose. I’m pretty sure the crowds in the hall as classes let out noticed—they gave me a wide berth, like I was a big ugly rock in the path of migrating salmon.
I got home as quickly as I could, cutting History of the Totalitarian State 405, which was usually one of my favorites.
I called the lab long distance. Nobody could find my sister. Maybe it was her day off. I called the Motel 6 (“We’ll have to send someone to knock on the door,” the manager said. This was before the Motel 6’s had phones in the room, and they were only 8 dollars a night. After awhile there was some yelling, then I heard a big book open. “Nobody’s in that room, and nobody’s registered by her name,” the manager said. “Thank you for calling Motel 6.” Then he hung up.)
Maybe she’d come back to Dallas. I called her number there.
“Hello,” said somebody nice.
“Is Ethel there?”
“Ethel?”
“Yeah, Ethel.”
“Oh. That must have been Joanie’s old roommate.”
I’d met Joanie once. “Put Joanie on, please?” I asked.
She was in, and took the phone.
“Joanie? Hi. This is Franklin—Bubba—Ethel’s brother.”
“Yeah?”
“I can’t get ahold of her in North Carolina.”
“Why would you be calling her there, honey?”
“’Cause that’s where she was the last two weeks.”
“I don’t know about that. But she moved out of here four months ago. I got a number for her but she’s never there. The phone just rings and rings. If you happen to catch her, tell her she still owes me 4 dollars and 31 cents on that last electric bill. I’m workin’ mostly days now, and I ain’t waitin’ around two hours to see her. She can leave it with Steve; he’ll see I get it.”
“Steve. Work. $4,” I mumbled.
She gave me the number. The prefix meant south Oak Cliff, a suburb that had been eaten by Dallas.
I dialed it.
“Ethel?”
“Who is this? What the hell you want? I just worked a double shift.”
“It’s Bubba,” I said.
“Brother? I haven’t heard from you in a month of Sundays.”
“No wonder. You’re in North Carolina; you come back without telling me; you didn’t tell me you’d moved out from Joanie’s . . .”
“What the hell you mean North Carolina?! I been pullin’ double shifts for three solid weeks—I ain’t had a day off since September 26th. I ain’t never been to North Carolina in my life.”
“OK. First, Joanie says you owe her $4.31 on the electric bill . . .”
“$4.31,” she said, like she was writing it down. “I’ll be so glad when I pay her so she’ll shut up.”
“Okay. Let’s start over. how’s your leg?”
“Which leg?”
“Your left leg. The polio leg. Just the one that’s given you trouble for 15 years. That’s which leg.”
Things Will Never Be the Same Page 39