Story Retrograde

[Kritter]

Chapter One - Old Men

Rain was coming. The thickening mist that blew in with the stiff breeze off the Hudson warned as much. Rosy Morris pulled his jacket tighter to his chest, his other hand tapping rhythmically against his knee, a waning cigarette between his calloused fingers.

To his right, Joe Kelly leaned forward and squinted towards the bay, observing the sliver of green that was the Statue of Liberty before it dissolved into the vast dark backdrop of the New York City skyline. "This weather is for the birds," he said, reaching stiffly into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes of his own. "That tremor of yours is getting worse," he added, directing his gaze towards his friend's shaking hand. "You sure you ain't got Parkinson's or something, old man?"

"I ain't got shit," Rosy laughed, a wide smile of impossibly white teeth spreading across his black face. "And who you calling old man," he scoffed, straightening his back to peer down at the truck driver beside him. "I'm pretty sure you're older then me, aren't you?"

Joe tilted his head, studying the man. He knew Rosy worked as a security guard, but he wasn't even sure who with. There were dozens of little businesses on this pier, one of several artificial fingers that jutted out into the upper bay from Bayonne. Due to the timing of their breaks and this being the only smoking area with a bench, they'd been sitting together like this every morning for years, but he'd never really gotten to know the man. Was he younger? It was hard to tell sometimes. "I'm 67," Joe finally admitted.

"Yeah, alright. I'm 68." Rosy dropped his cigarette and slide his boot over the stub. "Guess I am the old man."

"You're both old men," a distinguished voice came from behind them. They turned in unison to watch the approach of Daniel Lombardi, who looked cultured and important in his immaculate tweed jacket and cap. "As am I, at 62. So now is the time to be eccentric, gentlemen!" he added with a flair of his hands.

"Aye, Lombardi," Joe greeted him brightly, "I haven't seen you in ages. How's the band? How long are you in port for?"

"The band is the band," Lombardi answered, waving away the question with disinterest. "We're in port until tomorrow. There's a delay. Something about a hurricane," he sniffed, pulling from his breast pocket a small elegant box of cigarillos.

Joe nodded and smiled. Daniel Lombardi was a hard read to him, and he could never be too sure if the man was serious or not. He had a transatlantic accent, used an effeminate tone and always spoke with lavish gestures. Joe would have written him off as a Liberace lover if it wasn't for the fact that the man routinely danced the tango with beautiful women as part of his cruise ship Band Leader persona.

"Ah shit, this shit again," Rosy exclaimed, lifting up his phone like they could see the small type on the screen. "They doing that large hadron collider thing again today. Here comes another time line." He shook his head with annoyance.

"Can't be any worse then the one we're in," Joe offered.

"What makes you think it does anything of the sort, you uneducated clods?" Lombardi squinted towards them both, and then he turned to face the harbor. "Look at your unwashed masses and their...pseudoscience," he shouted to the Statue of Liberty.

"Hey, I got a master's degree," Rosy growled, clearly offended.

"In history, yes I know," Lombardi said dryly. "Seth from accounting told me."

"I told you what?" Seth Cohen joined the conversation, exiting the building from behind them where the cruise ship line held their administrative offices. Dressed in the same dark blue suit as the rest of the Liberty cruise line employees, Seth always still stood out, because he was as Indian as Ghandi and he always wore a yamaka.

"That our Mr. Morris here used to be a teacher," Lombardi answered.

Joe Kelly sighed to himself as his friends continued talking. Rosy had been a teacher. He hadn't even known. He just always assumed the man was like himself, kind of unnoticed and unimportant to the outside world. Truck driver, security guard, waitress, cashier, jobs no one aspired to but that made the world go round. He had liked feeling that way, truth be told. Nothing would stop if he wasn't there, he wasn't in charge of anything, and yet there was still stores and ships that counted on him being the unseen ghost that arrived every day, Rosy had a wife too, he realized, as the man wore a wedding band. Joe had left his wife for another woman not three years into their marriage. It had been the worst mistake of his life, and in part why he was fine with becoming no one.

"Explain to me again how your Jewish," Lombardi was saying to Seth, taking unwelcome liberties with his 'eccentric' persona.

"My parents are Jewish," Seth answered, unfazed.

"And they're white," Lombardi questioned. "But you're not adopted."

"Correct," Seth said again. "Look...I know you keep saying you think I'm Indian but I'm not Indian."

Lombardi raised his eyebrows at Seth, still not buying his story. "Um, I'm really sorry to tell you this, Hadji, but, someone's not telling you the truth.

Joe stood, finished his cigarette and nodded to the others, ready to head to his truck, and then he stopped in his tracks. Something strange was on the horizon. "Um, guys," Joe's voice trembled in alarm, his breathing suddenly labored, never having seen anything like it before. "What is that?" Rosy rose to his feet, and Joe returned to join him, Lombardi and Seth on either side, as they watched a wall of what could only be described as whitish TV static roll towards them from the east.

"Part..of..the hurricane?" Lombardi questioned, his mouth hung open in confusion. The wall continued to move, obscuring objects from vision as it came, seemingly swallowing Manhattan and the bay as it raced towards their pier.

"Let's get inside," Seth suddenly gasped, putting out an arm to herd them towards his office. Whatever it was, weather phenomenon or some kind of electrical explosion, it wasn't wise to face it unsheltered. All four of them pivoted and ran, hitting the building's door just as the wall washed over them.

There was a moment where, to Rosy Morris, his movements seemed stuttered, like lag in a video game, his foot moving forward and back, forward and back. He felt pressure, like he was running into a piece of plastic wrap, unable to go forward though he pressed with all his might. He hung there, unmoving, unbreathing for a second, and then, there was a loud pop, and he was flung backwards onto the ground. He shouted out in shock and fear, unsure if he hadn't just had a stroke, his brain making a fast mental assessment of his body. And then he sat up, dusting the dirt off his hands. He was sitting in dirt. He wasn't on the dock anymore. He didn't even think he was in New Jersey anymore. He was in a jungle, surrounded by jungle, and he was wearing fatigues and carrying a pack and holding an M16. Around him, there were other men, with faces he hadn't seen in fifty years, and they all looked just as confused and perplexed as he was. "What's going on?" one of them gasped. "Oh god," Rosy whispered, his eyes rising towards the sky. "I'm in Vietnam."

 

[Kritter]

Chapter Two - Dead Men

Joe Kelly jolted to his feet. He was at a desk, in a classroom, surrounded by assorted gasps and shrieks. Joe started shaking, his thoughts spinning out of control in worry and confusion. He was in high school, most specifically, his home room in high school, Senior year. And somehow, all of them were 17. "Alright, kids, calm down, settle down. Clearly somethings...happened or gone wrong," the teacher was saying. Was his name Mr. Klein? "Let's just take our seats and I'll see if I can't find out..."the man's voice faded off as he looked towards the hallway door.

"No, no no," one of the girls started crying. "I'm not doing this shit over again. No way!"

"No, no, of course not," the teacher smoothed his hands in the air, trying to soothe her fears. "Let's just wait here till we have some...news or..." Like everyone else in the room, he started a futile search for his cell phone.

"Hey," one of the students shouted, pointing at another. "James Tumolty!! Dude, you died on 9/11."

"Yeah," the boy he was addressing looked pale and spooked, his hands trailing down his chest as if to confirm his own presence. "I did." His eyes lit suddenly, "but now I don't have!"

"This is ****ed," Joe whispered under his breath. He's always imagined what it might be like to go back in time, to relive his life and right his wrongs, but not when everyone else in the world was doing it too. And with full knowledge of the future, full knowledge of their lives. It struck him then that he didn't particularly want to go through all of life again either. He was about to retire with full benefits. He and Rosy, they'd both waited to do so. The idea of working for another fifty years. With that unpleasant thought, Joe's eyes lifted towards the calendar. It was September 23rd, 1972.

"Well, I'm not staying here," one kid said, heading for the door. He wasn't alone in that sentiment. The hallways filled with students, some crying, some embracing, some expressing anger and desperate for a stiff drink, and behind them, teachers and hall monitors, trying to reason with them like they still held some authority.

"They'll give instructions on TV," Joe reasoned to himself. "I'll go home." But which home? His condo complex wouldn't have even been built yet. It would have to be to his parents house. And his dead father would be alive. Joe hesitated, knowing how his mother grew to hate the man. Their divorce would probably come much sooner now. Like tomorrow, if not tonight.

-------

Rosy Morris stood leaning against his gun, listening to the chaos on the army radio. He took a deep breath, gaining a lungful of bittersweet nostalgia. The forest was lush, the view from the vista beautiful, and this crazy Captain with them was trying to get orders on how to proceed. "Look, let me spell this out to you," Rosy finally said. "They're gonna sign a cease-fire in like...three weeks, and we all know how this turns out in the end, so...." He shrugged, as if his point was obvious. They should be turning around and going home.

"Look yourself," the Captain growled at him. "This whole war could turn out completely differently if we do different things then we did. Going forward, this is like a whole new timeline."

"I am NOT doing this over again," Rosy shook his head. "You got to be out of your mind. Those people know Saigon is gonna fall. You think anyone's gonna stick around and wait for that?"

"I honestly don't remember how to use this radio," one of the soldiers admitted.

"No, me either, Captain," another said, holding his gun out like it was a foreign object. "Let's go. Let's just get out of here."

"You think those Viet Cong are leaving?" the Captain spat back. "No, they'll be coming. They'll be coming like nothing's changed. We wait here for orders."

The soldier who had held his gun out slowly shouldered it, pointed it at the Captain and, as the rest of the men winced in terror, he ruthlessly pulled the trigger. "Captain was killed by the enemy," he stated plainly to the rest of them. "Let's get the **** out of here."

-----

"Danny," a voice was calling, gentle and sweet. "Danny, are you okay?"

Daniel Lombardi blinked his eyes. He hadn't heard the name 'Danny' in easily fifty years. His eyes opened fully, revealing his young grade school teacher, who knelt down beside him, a dozen other children by her side. "What the..." he gasped, climbing to his feet, feeling oddly small and off-balance. He looked down at short legs and small sneakers,

"There's been some kind of fifty year time jump," his teacher explained. "You're all 12 again, but it will be okay. I'm sure we'll find a way to fix it soon, so don't be frightened."

"Mrs. Koch, you needn't mollify me," Daniel interjected. "I may look 12, but I assure you I am not."

"No, I know you're not," she said with a disarming smile. "You were unconscious though. I think you hit your head very hard when we were sent back. Will you let the school nurse take a look at you?"

Daniel stretched his neck, noticing for the first time the fiery pain which spread from his head down the length of his spine. "Yes," he whispered with sudden concern, grabbing out for her desperately before falling unconscious again. Somewhere in the darkness, he could hear music playing, the lively swing of his band, the applauds of the guests, women in sequined gowns, men in dark suits, smiling and happy, the clinking of champagne glasses. He loved the feeling it gave him, being their beloved band leader, night after night, cruise after cruise. But for some reason, right now, he couldn't move.

 

[moldy]

Interesting premise. I want to see where this goes.

 

[Lake Lili]

Fascinating concept! Looking forward to reading moar.
Thanks! Lili

 

[accountant]

Kritter,

Thank you for starting another very interesting story.

A.

 

[Griz3752]

Hmmm....

Need more but,no rush

When you're able Ma'am

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 3 - Old Babies

Floating pandas dangled somewhere above Seth Cohen's head. One second he'd been running from an electrical field, and the next, he was on his back, staring at a black and white menagerie, and beyond that, blue sky, complete with clouds and rainbows. His eyes struggled to focus. It wasn't sky. It was a room, painted with a colorful scenery. Bunnies in a grassy field, a deer, possibly Bambi. To his left, there were bars, like he was inside a crib. They were lowered, but still, he felt uneasy at their presence. He rolled to his side and sat up, trying to get a better view. His body was small. Very small. This is a dream, he decided.

From the doorway of the room emerged his long dead grandmother. "Oye, come here darling, my poor bubbale," she fawned, reaching down to pick him up. "I have no idea what's going on. God, what is this craziness?"

Seth wrapped his arms around his grandmother's neck. Her skin was warm, and smelled of rose scented dusting powder. He had a flashback of a memory, of his childhood, and how he loved to open the round pink porcelain Avon jar with its fluffy white powder puff that sat on the back of her toilet. Memories In her bedroom, lifting the lid of her multi-tiered jewelry box, picking up her necklaces and draping them across his fingers, examining her beautiful rings. On her dresser, her mirrored tray of perfume bottles, each on its own little doily. "Am I dead?" he finally questioned.

The woman's eyes widened. She leaned her head back to study his face. "You too, huh?" she said. "I wasn't sure if it would affect you. The neighbors are in the hallway, talking. They say we're backwards fifty years."

Seth frowned, observing his room through fresh eyes. "Are you saying I'm three," he said, noticing now that his voice, while clear, did sound like that of a child's. "I don't want to be three, I can't be three. I have a family, children. I have a grandchild on the way."

"Oh, congratulations darling," his grandmother said, lowering him back to the floor so she could clutch her hands together in praise. "Such a blessing!"

"But not now," Seth lamented. No one under 50 was even born yet here, and imagine a 51 year old, now stuck as a newborn baby. He was fortunate for his mobility at least, as he charged into the living room to turn on the TV. There was Walter Cronkite, sitting at a simple desk, reading reports as they were slid in front of him. "Senior sources from CERN control center believe the anomaly occurred following an accident with the large hadron collider," he was saying. "Whether it is possible to reverse this time skip remains to be seen, as it is estimated it will take about five to ten years for a new collider to be built, an endeavor which depends largely on how quickly technology can be brought up to date with the collective knowledge of 2022's older science and engineering community. The president is asking all relevant people who deem themselves necessary to this project to please make themselves known to any local university, and we'll arrange transportation for you to a designated facility in Washington."

And then, they cut to the President, who was mid-speech. Seth laughed, having expected a middle-aged Joe Biden to be speaking to them, but here, instead, was Richard Nixon. "Everyone knows what you did," Seth said to the image on the TV, incredulous that they would let the man speak, but Nixon was calm and decisive, speaking not about the past, but about the immediate needs of the country. "Medical personal, regardless of age, should report to their nearest local hospital, or, if accessible, the medical center of their future. We'll make sure someone helps you retrain if you don't remember 1970s equipment." Nixon continued on with authority, making eye contact with the world as best he could. "The best thing you can do right now is go where you know you'll be needed. You know best how you can help. Cashiers, get to markets, Farmers get to fields. Truck drivers get to distribution centers. Police and Firemen, get to a local station. We need to keep basic supply chains open, people fed, utilities running. And if you are uncomfortable or don't feel safe in your current home or life situation, reach out to your local elementary school administration. Since schools are somewhat unnecessary now, we're making arrangements to get temporary shelters set up in every school in America. You don't have to stay where you are. There are options. You're not stuck in your 1972 life."

"I'm three years old, Nixon," Seth shouted, "Where am I gonna go?" He turned, looking up at his grandmother with a newfound sense of despair.

"Well, you'll stay here with me, sweetheart," his grandmother said. "Come, I'll fix you some brisket."

A lump grew thick in Seth's throat. Grandma was wearing her usual house dress, her face always with a little too much make-up, a scarf tied loosely behind around her overly-coiffed hair. He remembered her always this way, here in his mother's house, in the kitchen, cleaning or cooking or watching TV, but rarely going out. She took care of him there in their riverside Manhattan townhome while his parents worked. His mother a psychiatrist, his father a podiatrist. He'd had a lovely childhood full of wonderful memories. Vacations to Disney and Cruises to the Bahamas. And he'd missed those times. He'd missed all of this. He let out his breath of despair and smiled. He was three years old and the world was his oyster.

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 4 - Young Love

Mrs. Kelly sat on the couch, leaning forward, her forearms resting against her legs, hands clasped, rocking slightly as she listened to the president on TV. Joe watched his mother with growing concern. She was stressed out of her mind. To her right, in an orange arm chair, his father sat, tight-lipped, tensed jaw, his hands in fists. "Nixon will still win the reelection," the old man said. "You watch."

Joe huffed out a laugh. "No he won't. Everyone knows. Why would he even still run at this point?"

"He won't do Watergate this time around," his father said.

"He already did," Joe pointed out. "It happened in like July. Biden should just take over right now."

"Agnew, no...." his mother paused in thought. "Gerald Ford should take over."

"Mom, Biden IS our actual president," Joe tried to argue, although he wasn't really sure Joe Biden was the man for the job. To be honest, he was actually impressed with Nixon, as the government seemed to be dealing with the problem rather swiftly and efficiently. Essentially, everyone who could still remember how to do their 1972 jobs should do them, and each town had a bulletin board now up where companies could list open positions. It was a convoluted plan, but a necessary one until a more sophisticated plan could be made. For Joe, it meant tomorrow he would be stamping prices on cans at the supermarket, as that's what he did afterschool in his Senior year.

His father leaned back in his chair, clutching the arms and stretching out his legs the way he used to do. He glanced over at Joe's mom and smiled in a sweet, sort of poignant way. Joe was surprised to see his father offer such a gentle, kind gesture, and even more surprised when his mother's eyes fluttered as she smiled back at him in kind. Sure, it was mostly nostalgia, a pleasant remembrance of better times. He knew his parents grew apart when his mother took a job, but that was in still eight years off at this point. Here, she was wearing a dress and an apron, the quintessential homemaker, the wizard with their budget, the charming hostess of dinner parties that made his father look good.

"Have you spoken to Jenny," his mother asked, redirecting her gaze towards Joe.

"I can't, Ma," Joe said honestly. It wasn't that he didn't want to, he would have loved to at least touch base, but he was disgusted and embarrassed by what he had done to his ex-wife, and to talk to her would only add another layer of shame. He'd seen her though, when he'd left the high school earlier that day. She looked so young, just a Junior now, still six years away from when Joe first approached her a bar, impressed with her pool playing prowess. Jenny had been a true dream. She played cards, threw darts, loved to bowl and go to the drive-in. Like his mother, she was good at throwing parties for his friends, but they were loud beer-swilling, chip and dip affairs for things like Birthdays and Monday Night Football. She was tall and lean with long straight blonde hair, and she'd loved him so much. Joe grimaced, feeling the stab of pain that came with that particular memory. He stood to leave the room.

"Johnny Carson is gonna come on tonight and do a thing," his father called after him.

"Yeah alright," Joe muttered, retreating to his childhood room. It was instantly familiar, with his sports banners on the walls, old model cars and airplanes on the shelves above his dresser, a well-loved erector set, GI Joes, Spirograph and Monopoly, all piled on the floor of his closet. He lied down on his bed, closed his eyes, wishing this was all a bad dream. His hand instinctively went to his pocket, looking once again for the cell phone that wasn't there. It was strange, not having access to people's up-to-the-moment tweets. He felt good though, physically. It hadn't escaped his notice that his back didn't hurt, that he wasn't overweight, that he had not yet given himself the diabetes that plagued his later years. He had all his teeth back too. There was nothing locking him in to the life he'd lived, he realized. He could, at least, do better by himself this time around.

"Joe," his father shouted. "Come on down, come watch Johnny!"

Joe stirred, realizing at some point, he must have fallen asleep. It was night, and he could smell food. He sat down at the table while his father turned on the TV.

Johnny Carson walked onto the stage. "And we're Back!" he said as his opening line, to uproarious laughter and applauds. ""You guys don't know this, we'd kept it a secret, but I was supposed to get married this morning. But it only lasted six months and cost me 20 million dollars. And you wanna guess she didn't want to call it off?" he laughed aloud. "But you can bet I did! Sorry Johanna!"

Joe chuckled along with his parents, there in their darkened living room, a plate of warm food in his lap, and for a moment he almost forgot he was once a 67-year-old man.

 

[Lake Lili]

@Kritter - Really... really well written.
I am loving what you doing with this concept.
Thanks, Lili

 

[larry_minn]

Yep if everyone knows the future. (One of them). Your advantage is much less. In a short time useless except for natural disasters.

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 5 - Confused Men

Daniel Lombardi's head was throbbing. Nurses in short white dresses were scrambling around the emergency room, trying to remember where patient files might be kept. "Someone see if you can find us some decent scrubs," one of them shouted. "I'm not wearing this...'Halloween costume'...any longer then I have to." Daniel whimpered, desperate for some comfort, completely unable to process the idea that he was 12, or how it came to be this way. All he knew was he couldn't feel his right side and for some crazy reason, the old man in the bed next to him was smoking a cigarette.

"Put that out," a nurse gasped, approaching the man. She grabbed the cigarette from his hand and ran it under a faucet while the old man scrunched up his face, "What's wrong? I can smoke. There's an ashtray right here," he said, flabbergasted. Anger flashed in the nurse's eyes. "We may be in 1972, but we're going by 2022 rules, sir," she growled. "We didn't suddenly lose fifty years of medical knowledge, only the equipment that goes with it." The man frowned, shook his head and threw his hands up in surrender. "What do I know of this future stuff. I don't even understand how you managed to bring us all back. I'm pretty sure I died in '74." The nurse nodded and softened, "I'm sorry," she said in earnest. "Smoking is banned inside businesses now."

Daniel vaguely remembered an ambulance ride, a teen in a doctors coat, a child trying to figure out the x-ray machine controls, and someone saying Nixon was pulling out of Vietnam. None of it made any sense. He tried to call to the nurse, but his mouth was numb. "Hep me...peas," was the most he could muster.

"Mr. Lombardi," the woman said, coming to his side. "As best we can tell, you have a brain injury, and you're suffering from Hemiplegia, do you know what that is?"

"Some kind of stroke?" he mumbled.

"No, although similar the way it affects your body. But without an MRI machine, we really can't tell the extent. The doctor said he doesn't think it's too bad though. In a couple of weeks, with some physical therapy, you'll probably get feeling back. I hate to expediate you like this, but...is there someone we can call for you? Family or friends? We have a phone book."

"Liberty Cruise Lines in Bayonne," Daniel said, feeling around with his left hand for his cell phone.

"Oh boy," the nurse frowned. "Mr. Lombardi, do you know where you are right now?"

"New Jersey," he responded as if the answer was obvious.

"No, you're in California, hon. Do you remember where you lived in 1972?"

"With my parents. In San Diego."

"Right, and you're at Mercy Medical. Would you like me to call your parents?" she questioned, pulling out a notebook and pencil.

"No," Daniel said sharply, shuddering at the thought. "No, I don't talk to them anymore."

"Okay, we'll have one of the van drivers get you to the local school then. There's beds and volunteers there. It's the best we can do right now."

"Hey, check this out!" one of the nurses called from the hallway. "1972 Biden is at the Whitehouse with the democrats, they're demanding he take over." The women started to gather around the TV, then quickly backed away as an ambulance driver ran up the hallway towards them. "Clear a few bays," he shouted, "We've got three more attempted suicides coming in."

Daniel closed his eyes at the mention of suicide, fighting off the unwelcomed memory of standing atop the Coronado Bridge, crying in choking sobs in the pitch black of night, cold gusts of wind whipping against his varsity band jacket. He straddled the concrete divider between him and bay below, hearing his father's hateful voice echo in his head. "Get out, you little faggot. I'm not gonna have some little gay faggot living in my house. Get out." But an angel came to save him that night, slowing and stopping as she passed him in a bright yellow Cadillac Seville. She was wearing high heels, a skimpy sequined dress and white fur wrap, and she held a long cigarette in her hand as she stumbled towards him, clearly inebriated.

"Baby, no no no," she said, putting her arms around him and coaxing him back to the shoulder. "Whatever you're thinking of doing, no. Oh and you're so young too," she fretted, examining his face. "Come with me, we'll find you some help. Come." Daniel smiled, remembering her, the way she spoke and the way she moved. He'd based so much of who he became on her, her mannerisms and her eccentricities. Lola Rae Parker, her name was. She'd allowed him to stay in her guest house, introduced him to a friend at Arthur Murray dance studios, helped him get his first job. And if he was understanding things right, if this was somehow 1972, she'd be alive and well. "Lola," he broke himself out of his haze, calling out to the nurse. "Lola Rae Parker, Hollywood, California. That's who you can call for me."

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 6 - Woke Men

"Name," the 5-year-old boy in front of Rosy held a hand-written checklist in his hands. On his shirt, there was a sticker that read "I'm 55." It helped.

"Roosevelt Morris," Rosy answered, lifting his eyes towards the transport plane that sat on the runway in the distance. He was eager to leave, but uneasy, as he had no idea what came next. Although he wasn't sure it mattered. Time travel had just become a reality. And no one was talking about it. 'I should have studied physics,' he lamented to himself. It had, after all, been his overwhelming interest since he'd first started watching videos about quantum mechanics. The possibility of dimensions, the nature of consciousness, the fact that reality could be a simulation. All of it fascinated him.

"Any idea what comes after this?" the soldier behind him asked.

Rosy turned, observing a fellow black man who seemed vaguely familiar. He grinned apologetically as he glanced down at the man's name tag. "Buck Washington, what's up my friend? Man, how could I forget?" There was the foggiest memory of boot camp, and of a shouting drill sergeant who called them 'President Roosevelt' and 'President Washington' respectively. How that sliver of a memory, which went unvisited for fifty years, could have sat dormant in the clump of cells that made up his mind only to pop out at the sight of a name just helped fuel his beliefs. Our brains were just receivers for our thoughts. Consciousness, to Rosy, clearly resided elsewhere. Whether that was Aliens, God, dark matter, the universe experiencing itself, all those things had seemed possible to him at one point or another. But one thing was clear to him now. It wasn't just 'pseudoscience' anymore.

"I have no idea," Rosy said honestly. "I'm not even sure we have to stay in the army anymore. I already done did my time."

"Same brother," Buck nodded, reaching his hand into his pocket and coming up empty-handed. "Damn I miss my phone," he said. "I was gonna get your number."

Rosy briefly clasped a hand to the man's shoulder. "It was good to see you again," he said dismissively, then turned to lift his pack. He didn't want to 'catch up' with these guys or talk about old times. His mind was so expanded, his thoughts so far out in the stratosphere, he couldn't even begin to fit in with the sleeping sheep that surrounded him. He needed a shaman or a guru or something. His brow lifted at that thought. There was a guy. A self-proclaimed Maharishi or something, out in the Nevada desert.

"Hey boss," he said, pulling aside the officer who seemed to be in charge. "Are any of these planes going to Nellis?" It didn't matter where he was supposed to go or where the army wanted to send him. Half the world didn't care anymore. Everything had been so haphazard the last few days, it was clear they were all just treading water. The market spiked dramatically as people dove deep into IBM and anything they could remember from in the future, the economy boomed as consumers shopped, driven on by what they perceived to be dirt cheap prices on apartments, food, clothing, and home goods. They were all mixed up, with their 2022 mindset in a 1972 world. It was the argument that Nixon made while demanding to be left in office. Pretty much everyone over 40 was 'walking dead,' they had no idea what 2022 was like, and there had been a lot of very radical changes since they'd left the earth. He'd been watching the news reports about Kissinger trying to negotiate between young Biden and the Republicans. And he'd seen the picture of Biden's wife Neilla standing beside him, their infant daughter Naomi in her arms, while far stage right, a marginalized Jill Biden stood awkwardly by. It was an impossible transition in an upside-down world. Nothing about the coming weeks was going to be easy.

Once in the air, Rosy relaxed, allowing himself some self-reflection. He'd met his wife in '78, had three daughters who gave him seven grandchildren. He had loved his wife, but somehow, right now, he felt no inclination to seek her out. It was nice to have some freedom...to feel some control over his life. If his life was even real. If this all wasn't just an illusion. He laid back his head and closed his eyes. Maybe now he could find some answers.

 

[Kritter]

"I need to see them, please," Seth begged, coaxing his reluctant Grandmother into the elevator at the 20-floor apartment building two blocks up the street. He understood her discomfort, and he would have come alone if not for people's concerned looks at seeing a three-year-old walking the streets of New York alone, even knowing as they did. "You don't have to look," he said, trying to alleviate her old world superstition.

The elevator opened on the 20th floor. Seth walked with determination towards the stairs that led to the rooftop. His grandmother came just far enough to help him with the door, then crossed her arms and shook her head. He proceeded up slowly alone, now wrestling with his own unease. But you couldn't see them from his home or his street, and he had to get it out of the way. He reached the roof and turned his eyes south, to the World Trade Center's shining twin towers, and then his legs buckled and he spent a few minutes sobbing on his knees, his hands clasped to his forehead in in prayer, needing God's comfort more in that moment then he ever had in his life. The sight of it was gut-wrenching.

Home helped ease the anguish of that sight, as his brothers, Noah, now 6 and Jacob, now 8, were in full childhood mode, loudly talking over each other with various ideas and schemes for making money. Jacob was making a list. "We need to buy the following stocks as soon as they come on the market," he started. "Microsoft, Amazon..."

"You realize everyone else will be buying them too," Seth said dryly.

"Hell, Microsoft probably won't even launch," Noah said. "IBM developed that operating system first. They'll just put it out themselves."

"I'm sure patents still count for something." Seth said, tired of the topic of conversation. It was the same ideas he'd heard from everyone, the first stupid thing that came into every person's mind the second they'd arrived in the 70s.

Jacob held up the New York Times. "Did you see they arrested David Berkowitz? That Son of Sam guy? He hasn't even done the crimes yet. It doesn't make any sense."

"It makes perfect sense," Seth snapped.

"Shut up, talking baby," his brother said. "You gonna leave people in jail too? The ones who already served their time?"

"No, of course not," Seth responded.

"So you're letting them back out in their prime?" Noah asked.

"God, no, it's too much of a paradox," Seth said, holding his little head. "I can't..."

While his brothers continued plotting, Seth retreated to his room. It was nice to be so little, no one questioned your need for a nap. He lied down and stared at a mirror on his wall, studying his face, the warm tone of his skin, his dark hair and eyebrows, recognizing only hints of himself in his small features. "I'm in here," he whispered. "This is me." It hurt his brain to contemplate. Lombardi's words now badgered him, as he lifted his eyes to a photo of on the wall, taken at a party the month before. His brother's were both much fairer then him. For some reason, he hadn't thought much of it before, as his grandparents were from Russia and Poland, and many Israeli and Eastern European men had his warm coloring, but after scrutinizing his little self, he could sort of see it now. "You have a birth certificate though," he reasoned with himself. "But what if Mom had an affair and didn't tell anyone?" Seth shook his head to clear that thought as his grandmother entered the room.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently, coming to sit next to him.

He leaned against her chest and let her cradle him in her arms. "Grandma," he said, trying to ease his existential dread, "What happened to you when you died? Do you remember anything about it?"

"Oh yes," she said. "Two beautiful glowing men appeared in the corner of my room. I pointed them out to the nurse, but she couldn't see them. Then I remember, I was looking down at an old woman laying on my bed, and I was worried because she wasn't breathing. I could see through the walls, through the ceiling even, and I realized the old woman was me. And I thought, 'Oh! I'm dead!'"

Seth smiled at her story in spite of himself, and continued to listen transfixed.

"Then I was in a very dark space, but I wasn't afraid. I felt peaceful, calm and warm, and you know how they say you see a light? Well, I did! I saw the light, and it floated me very very fast, up past the earth, past all the galaxies, past the universe, and then I was in a nice green field and there was a man, an extremely kind man in a shining white robe, who welcomed me there, and I felt incredible love in his presence." His grandmother lowered her voice to a whisper. "I think he was Jesus Christ."

"What," Seth sat up straight and stared into her eyes, looking for any hint of insanity.

"Yes," she whispered again. "But don't tell your mother, I don't want her to be upset."

"Well...," Seth started and stopped, unsure of what even to say. "What made you think....did he say anything?"

"Yes, he was happy to see me," she smiled. "He showed me a movie of my life, and then my parents came to greet me. It was really very nice. I think I was preparing to live another life, and then, Poof!" she threw her hands up in the air, "I was back here."

"Another life?" Seth's eyes bulged. "What?? Grandma, you've got like three religions in there."

"You asked, I answered," she said plainly. "Now what can I make you for dinner?"

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 8 - Mature Children

Ghostly tendrils of smoke hung in the air at Sonny's Bar & Grill. Joe hesitated at the door. He'd had his very first cigarette in that bar, and because he hadn't had one yet, he'd only had to fight the mental addiction. The smell of it took him back though, to a few great years of drinking there on Wednesday and Friday nights. The Wednesdays were the dart league, a skill he learned from playing with his dad in the basement of their cozy suburban home. His dad had taught him a lot of things. How to fix cars, how to build a birdhouse with wood, how to make a go-cart, how to bottle up your feelings and drown them out with a six pack of Bud every night. Joe turned away from the door at that thought, motivated by his strong resolve to live a better life.

"Joe Kelly, hey man, come back, come back!" one of his old friends called from inside. "Don't leave. Come have a drink!"

"No, man," Joe said, looking over his shoulder. "I don't really want to start drinking."

"What does it matter?" his friend called back. "They're just gonna rebuild that collider soon and send us all back to the future. Hell, nothing we're doing matters right now. We probably won't even remember this."

A sense of panic raced through Joe's body in a terrifying wave. He shuddered at that thought, chilled by a sensation he'd never experienced before. "Is that true?" he questioned to the cool night sky. "Does all of this not matter?" He hadn't even thought of it before, and now he had to wonder.

"Even if it does," a familiar female voice sassed out. "One drink ain't gonna hurt you."

Joe peered back in the doorway, recognizing Jenny's voice but unsure of how to proceed. 'She sounded friendly,' his brain reasoned. 'She's glad to see you.' Still, he stood like a deer in headlights, waiting to see if she smiled or chucked a cue ball at his head. Jenny stood the same way, staring back. She lifted one eyebrow in inquisition.

"Jenny," he said her name in greeting with monotone restraint, and yet he could hear his whole aching heart pour into that name. He took a slow step inside the bar, letting the door close behind him. "How uh...how are you doing?"

"Well, some quack scientists erased half of my life, but other then that I'm okay," she said, half serious, half in jest. She motioned towards a booth. "Wanna sit? Catch up?"

"Sure," he answered, removing his baseball cap and gesturing to the bar for a beer. Jenny smiled the same poignant smile he'd seen his father give his mom, and yet he couldn't bring himself to smile back. She looked so young, all of 16-years-old, not that the bars cared since the reversal. He'd forgotten how blue her eyes were and the tiny dusting of freckles across her nose. He realized he was staring, and looked down at his hands, struck by an overwhelming sense of shame.

"Don't look that way," she said, waiting until he looked back and staring deep into his eyes. "I'm not saying I'm not still mad, but I completely understand now. You know how when you get older, you can look back at yourself more objectively? Well, I did. I looked back and saw every stupid thing I'd done wrong. Joe...the truth is, when we got married, I thought you'd stop drinking and partying and raising hell. I know all those things were tolerable to me when we first met, but I started to hate how you weren't maturing out of it, and instead of saying something, I just got mad. And somehow, in my dumb brain, I thought you knew what was wrong. But looking back I realized, how could you? You married me because I liked all those things, when in reality, I was nothing like that. I was just trying to get you to like me. Everything about me was just a big lie."

Joe gave an incredulous laugh. "What are you saying? You loved partying!"

"No," she shook her head. "I really didn't."

Joe rubbed his hands across his head, leaving them to pull at the hair on the back of his neck. "I thought something was off," he said. "I remember, the way you'd lost your smile."

Jenny nodded, then lowered her eyes. "I gave you so much hell for your affair, but really....I was glad to have a way to get out without looking bad. I just wasn't happy anymore. I'm a terrible person, Joe," she said.

"No," Joe reached across the table and clasped her hands. "No, you weren't that at all. I should have seen it, I should have cared. You're right, I was immature."

Jenny tilted her head with a slow seductive lowering and raising of her eyes. "You know what's funny," she said, "Now you seem very mature."

"Well," Joe laughed, "there's a reason for that." His heart felt pleasantly warmed, fueled by the addition of 'Precious and Few' playing on the Juke Box across the room. While she started to tell him about her life, he ran her scenario over and over in his head, realizing now how often she'd tried to slow his thirst for craziness and pull him into adulthood, and how annoying he had found that. He'd left her for a hardcore party girl, then had his life flung in reverse, as his new gal continued being wild and loud while he grew tired of that life. It was like he and Jenny had both been just a few years out of step. But not now. Now, maybe things could be different. They could start off on the same page.

His ruminations were broken by the sound of a beer bottle being smashed against the wall. Another flew across the room and broke a window. "Nothing matters!!" someone shouted from the bar, and everyone started whooping and cheering.

Joe tensed, not wanting to hear that thought. This couldn't be nothing. This new reality they were living in had to have its own future. It had to. "Let's get out of here," he said to Jenny, throwing his last few dollars on the bar.

 

[larry_minn]

Ok this is getting thought provoking. Knowing your mistakes, thinking you know the future…

 

[RememberGoliad]

Good story. Going off into left field here with this comment, but here goes: The butterflies have no memories, and do not have any mental struggle about flapping their wings differently. NOTHING is predestined in a back-to-the-past leap, not with humans' abilities to remember and reason (wrong or right, THAT is the key)

Interesting reading, I'm enjoying it. Thank you for posting it!

 

[Catshooter]

This is an excellent story, with a very original plot line! Lots of time travel stories around but I've never seen one like this. I really like it.

It's really good to have you back in the saddle Critter, thank you.

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 9 - Broken Men

Lola Rae Parker wasn't happy. It took her nearly three hours to drive down to San Diego from her Hollywood home, between the traffic and her lack of map knowledge after years of GPS, and now she had a helpless invalid on her hands. While she felt nothing but pity for the 18-year-old Daniel Lombardi, the 12-year-old version of him was a little too much like having a kid, and Lola never cared for that kind of lifestyle. "I don't know what I can really do for you," Lola had told him. "I don't have time to be looking after..."

"I'm 62," Daniel cut her off. "I don't need babysitting." But that wasn't entirely true. He couldn't move the right side of his body. He needed actual care. "It's okay," he adjusted his tone, trying to sound more understanding. "Can you just help me get into a rehab?"

"A rehab, baby," she'd nearly choked with laughter. "I thought I was the only one with a drug problem."

"No, a hospital rehab, Lola, where they help you to walk again," Daniel growled, his tone already lost to frustration.

Lola turned her head to the pathetic boy half-slumped in her passenger seat, knowing he didn't have anyplace else to go. "Well, we'll get you set up in the guest house tonight and I'll see what I can do tomorrow."

"Thank you," Daniel mumbled, feeling both grateful and glum. Her cold reception had blindsided him. He'd expected the amazing woman who saved him, but this Lola was clearly feeling put-upon. 'Timing is everything,' he thought to himself. Some people change a lot in the course of of their lifetimes. He'd changed too, the first lifetime around. High school had been hell on him, with cruel, relentless bullies and indifferent teachers leaving him an emotional wreck of a teen. But the instructor at Arthur Murray taught him more then just the Foxtrot and Tango. He taught him showmanship, confidence, class and poise. Daniel loved the feeling of leading his partner, of having control over both her and his audience, and feeling their admiration. That admiration was a feeling he continued to pursue and crave his entire life. He closed his eyes, gliding through a dance in his mind, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, wondering if he'd ever be able to move his right leg again.

As the sun was starting to rise, Lola pulled off Sunset Boulevard and onto her tree-lined street. Her guest house was a small apartment meant for the maid, but despite its white walls and sparse furnishings, Daniel had always found it perfect. She helped him hobble to the bedroom, then returned to stock his fridge with a half bottle of Coca Cola and some pretzels. "We'll shop tomorrow," she said. "Will you be okay?"

'No,' Daniel's internal voice shouted, 'I can't even stand. How am I gonna use the bathroom or get to the kitchen?' but "Yes, thank you, I'll be fine," was all he could muster. He turned on the TV for some comfort after she left, hoping to sleep until mid-day, but he found himself watching it instead, interested in seeing how the world was dealing with this horrible event.

The TV news had done a poll, asking viewers to vote on how they thought the Biden / Nixon presidency should be decided, and in typical 2022 style, the #1 answer was 'boxing match,' followed by a sound bite of little boys with signs chanting 'boxing match, boxing match' on the Whitehouse lawn. There was actual talk of allowing new nominees for the November election, with the Republicans now talking of running Ronald Reagan to help bolster their position. Daniel turned the channel. He saw Billy Graham and immediately went to turn again, but stopped, curious to hear his thoughts.

"People think this is an act of man, an act of science," Billy was saying. "But this is not an act of man. Man does not turn back the hands of time. Only God himself has that power. And he's taken us back to this time for a reason. A time with no internet, no school shootings, no parading of immorality, no war hungry media trying to divide us along lines of color. Remember, the ground at the foot of the cross is level, and we, all men and all women, must stand there shoulder to shoulder, and never allow Satan this foothold ever again."

Daniel shook his head. A return to a more innocent time, fine, but 'parading immorality' was a direct shot at homosexuality, and it had been awhile since he'd let a preacher make him feel broken or unclean. He'd fought that demon more times then he could count, but he let it go when he grew into a man. His life hadn't really started until he'd met his real first lover, a man who played in a band on a Disney cruise ship. If the Mickey Mouse crowd knew what went on under under those decks, they'd have a stroke. Daniel meant to amuse himself but he whimpered at that thought. He had hoped he'd start to feel some numbness, pins and needles or vague sensation in his arm and leg, but from his brain's point of view, they didn't even exist. He was truly broken now. What kind of life could he even have if he couldn't retrace those steps?

Daniel turned off the TV and laid there, staring up at the ceiling in that empty white bedroom, feeling cold, alone and lost.

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 10 - Wise Men

Nevada was hot. Dust irritated Rosy's eyes, crusted in his nostrils, tasted like grit on his lips. He fidgeted, desperately wanted to strip off his fatigues, but he didn't dare lose his military advantage. He'd used the Nellis facilities to shower and catch a decent meal, and now he was on a McDonnel Douglas transport, watching endless miles of desert and mountains spread out beneath him. The transport, he believed, was an act of God, as he'd wanted to get to Indian Springs and that's where this one was heading. The air force facility at Indian Springs was tiny though, and this plane was filled with white men in suits. Not army, not air force. Some kind of government think tank, he guessed.

At the security checkpoint, when asked his business, he responded the same as the soldier in front of him. "I'm part of the dig crew." It sounded like a nightmare task, whatever that was, but Indian Springs was also home to the man he was looking for, the Maharishi Bagdi. In 2022, his videos were part of Rosy's YouTube algorithm, and he frequently found himself revisiting the man's mind-expanding lectures on consciousness.

Behind him, could hear the low drone of multiple conversations. Rosy turned to the young soldier beside him. "Who are those guys," he whispered, nodding to the suited men over his shoulder.

"They came in on a plane from D.C.," the young man answered. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"D.C.," Rosy repeated, weighing the importance of that location. "I hope they're working on reversing this shit."

"I hope they're not," the soldier said. "I hope they never fix it at all. I'm having the best time of my life."

"Digging ditches?"

"Hells yes, brother," the young man said. "My old life sucked, you have no idea. I don't ever wanna go back."

Rosy leaned his head back, contemplating the soldier's words. There were times he himself would have liked a do-over of his life, but for the most part, he'd been happy, both with his job and his wife. He'd taken full advantage of the education the army afforded him, wanting to be a teacher, believing he could help make a difference. He loved learning, and he had the overwhelming support of his parents and siblings, all of whom were proud of his accomplishments in a poor neighborhood that didn't often see college graduates. He'd met his wife, Star, at church, and together they walked with God, but over the years he'd lost his religion in favor of scientific reason. Lately though, science and God had started to realign, and he found himself reborn in the spirit. He was God's to do with as he liked now, and the good Lord had his back. Rosy felt sure of it.

The sound of the engine powering down drew Rosy's thoughts back to the present. The airfield was chaotic, with transports haphazardly parked along its parameter, as if it had seen more action then usual. Rosy slipped away to the men's room, hoping to be forgotten. He'd return, since he'd committed to the work, but not before he met with this guru. Indian Springs was less a town, and more a smattering of mobile homes and a handful of personal residences. He had no idea what the 1972 Maharishi would be like, but the man's mind would still be the same, lost in deep transcendental meditation.

He crossed over the highway and onto their main street. The temperature on the local casino sign read 96 degrees. A pack of hungry stray dogs followed behind him as he searched for the guru's mobile home. It wasn't hard to find. Camped out in front of the Maharishi Bagdi's abode there was easily forty people. An Indian woman in a saree walked among them, handing out bottles of water and fried vegetable patties. Rosy laid down his pack and sat, finally stripping down to his t-shirt, awaiting the man's appearance.

Twenty minutes later, the now young Maharishi appeared in the doorway. "Hello," he said, waving his hand, before sitting cross-legged on his porch. "Now we know. Now we see," he said, "The whole universe is the expression of consciousness. It's no coincidence there's a statue of Shiva at CERN. This supreme being is also the god of yoga and meditation. So you see, they know. By distorting the earth's magnetic field, they've distorted the vibrations that make up our reality. They cannot reverse this. It cannot be done. Not by them. Only by concentrating our collective consciousness can we bring these waves back into alignment."

For a moment, Rosy was reminded of Lombardi's pseudoscience dig, but only because he wasn't sure he agreed with the Maharishi. If they'd distorted waves, they could undistort them. He wanted to believe, because there seemed no possible way in his mind that you'd get enough human beings on the same page to meditate them back in place. There was just far too many naysayers in the world.

A curly-haired blonde woman sitting next to Rosy leaned towards him and whispered, "Are you with the army?"

"Yes," Rosy whispered back.

"Have you been out to where they're working?"

Rosy narrowed his eyes at the woman. She looked like the typical 'woo-woo,' wearing big dangly earrings and a dozen beaded necklaces. "Where they're working?" he repeated in question.

"On the new collider," she whispered back. Her finger pointed north, towards the mountains in the distance. Rosy focused on that direction, his mouth slightly agape, his brain making fast geographic calculations as to what was over that way. More desert, mountains, desert, mountains, desert. And then, Yucca Flat and Groom Lake.

"I'm dying to know what's going on out there," the lady said.

"Yeah, me too," Rosy said, rising to his feet. He grabbed up his pack and started back to the base, leaving the Maharishi mid-sentence.

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 11 - Lost Boys

Severely hindered by his age and size, three-year-old Seth Cohen found himself mainly glued to the TV. There was a time, in his young adulthood, where he despised TV, and thought ill of anyone who watched it. He and his wife, while not orthodox, were ultra-conservative at the start, and they took their religion seriously. They'd observed the Sabbath and dietary ordinances, and most of their daily pursuits outside of work centered around their synagogue, their political work, and their community. He realized, looking back, their social status had been a daily driving force too, because when they moved to New Jersey to be closer to his work, his wife worked overtime name-dropping to new neighbors which important Rabbis they knew, how many times they'd been to Israel, from what exclusive shop in the city she bought her expensive wigs, and which yeshivas and summer camps they'd sent their boys to. He smiled to himself, remembering how exhausting she said she found it, joking God was testing her in her playful, good-natured way. He was glad when, in 2002, she agreed to attend a reformed synagogue with him. It was a modern thing to do, and a lot of their friends had done it, so it didn't feel so scandalous, and his wife was much happier as a result.

'And you were much happier too,' his brain reminded him, although it shamed him to admit it. In truth, he'd never really felt a spiritual connection to his religion. He enjoyed the traditions, the history, the music, and the closeness with his family and relatives, but he'd never truly felt God's presence. His mother used to say half of her friends were closet atheists, so it didn't really bother him much when he decided he was one too. There was no George Burns or white-haired bearded man sitting on the throne in the sky. It struck him now that if his father was actually Indian, it might just not be in his blood. Although his mother was certainly his mother, and in Judaism, that's where the bloodline lied.

Seth's passing thoughts of religion were quickly tossed aside as Tom Brokaw brought out Carl Sagan to talk more about 'The Reversal.' During the day they'd had on specialist after specialist, discussing the science, the engineering, the problems involved with updating technology, but it was the 'young' middle-aged Carl Sagan's appearance that really caught his attention.

"Because our mental knowledge is still intact, we can leapfrog decades of laboratory science," Sagan said, "But rewriting all the software, the years and years of coding, for making things like electron microscopes and microprocessors, that's going to take some time. We're throwing all the manpower we can at this though. I don't think three to five years is an unreasonable estimate at this time."

"We've been hearing from people, just people on the street, who are wondering," Tom Brokaw said, "Is it possible the military already has some of these stuff?"

Sagan smiled his thin lipped smile. "Well, anything is possible. I guess that just remains to be seen."

"One last question, Mr. Sagan. I know we can't be sure, but hypothesize if you will," Tom said, "If scientists can fix this reversal, if they can take us back into the future, will it be the future of this reality, or will we just snap back to where we left off and forget all of this ever happened?"

"I'll try to give you my best upbeat guess," Sagan responded, widening his smile. "You know I died, unfortunately, in 1996, but my friends have kindly updated me on twenty-five years of scientific knowledge. So here's what I believe. We will each go to the future where our consciousness desires to go."

"So you're saying there could be two distinct timelines?" Tom questioned.

"You know, there's a very serious and popular 'Many-Worlds Theory' in which there already is billions and billions of timelines," Carl said. "So I say don't be afraid. Keep the faith that you'll get exactly the future that you hope for. And I'll hope for the one where I'm still alive!"

"Great," Seth muttered to himself. He walked back into his bedroom and stared into the mirror again, feeling alienated from his reflection. "Well," he asked the little boy staring back, "What future do you want?" But he couldn't even come up with an answer, because he wasn't in the position to change anything about his life even if he wanted to. "This is stupid," he almost shouted. "This is the stupidest, dumbest shit ever!"

"You're depressed," his very astute mother said as she stopped to peer in his door. "Do you want to see one of therapists at my practice? I could set you up with someone. I understand, Seth, really. You're in a very difficult situation, being a man inside a child's body. That's an enormous challenge. Let me bring you in with me tomorrow for a little while. Meet with Doctor Engel. It couldn't hurt."

He wanted to say no. To act insulted or put-off, to dare suggest he was having a mental breakdown, but he couldn't deny he'd been having a serious identity crisis since the moment he popped up in a baby's room. He didn't know who he was, and not just because of his age. Because the child staring at him in the mirror wasn't the little Jewish boy he'd remembered himself to be.

"Damn you Lombardi," he whispered under his breath, before responding to his mother. "Okay."

 

[WiWatcher]

I can see the need for some schools and teachers in this world, as there will be those that were still young and alive in 1972 but died before they finishing elementary or high school. Next, would there not be a few people pulling "Minority Report" type vigilante actions based on future crimes? Also what about the poor souls that are still in utero? For me 1/2 of my previous job was not invented yet with the equipment years out, and I would still be too young and small to do the other half. Very interesting premise.

 

[Lake Lili]

I would have been 5-yrs old and just started JK if this had happened. My grandmother would have died two months earlier but my grandfather would have still been alive (he died New Years Eve 1972) and my youngest two cousins would have just been born. Interesting to think how I would have rearranged my life going forward. I think I see a writing prompt using my own life... hmmm... totally fascinated by the premis and what you have done here @Kritter ! Thanks!
Lili

 

[MMWW]

Very interesting. Thank you.

 

[Catshooter]

Fifty years? I'd've been 19. Oh, man, bring it on!!!

 

[Freebirde]

I would have been 15, just after the diving injury that led to my arthritis in my left knee. Cascading effect leading to arthritis in my other knee, hands, wrist, and both hips as I stressed other parts to make-up for losses as they piled up.

 

[Kritter]

It would be fun, when I finish this, for anyone who wants to to write their own little mini-story of what happened to them or their character portrayal during the Reversal. Let's plan on it!

 

[RememberGoliad]

It would be fun, when I finish this, for anyone who wants to to write their own little mini-story of what happened to them or their character portrayal during the Reversal. Let's plan on it!

Wow. I'm gonna have to think on that. See, I was widowed in '93 but saw my current wife in '85 at a gas station near Joliet, Ill., while I was traveling. Waved at her through the windshield of the car she was sitting in at a different gas pump, and never forgot that face.

We actually met in 1997, on AOL, and I flew up from south Texas to meet her. Pulled into that same gas station to fill up, she waited in the rental car for me to go in and pay. When I walked out of the gas station, I was hit HARD by deja vu....and come to find out that was the same gas station and same pump her Mom ALWAYS used if it was available. That's when I knew I'd seen her before.

Now, the dilemma is.... I was married in 1985 when I saw her the first time a marriage that ended with her suicide in 1993. Knowing then what I know now, my first impulse when I read your post quoted above was to avoid the first marriage altogether. BUT.... four wonderful kids and by extension three fantastic grandkids came from my first marriage. See where the conundrum is going? I know that as an eight-year-old with my 58 years of life in my head, I'd be headed for my current wife by hook or by crook, immediately.

There's LOTS more to the thinkin' part of this exercise than noted above, just from the very narrow aspect of one person's experience, choices, and choices at road forks. I'll be thinking about it, but won't do much more than that until you carry your story to its conclusion.

I generally read for entertainment, and very few authors give me something to really think about. You, Kritter, have accomplished that. Thank you!

 

[Catshooter]

Man o' man, there's sooooooooooooooooooooo many things I'd either do differntly, or not do at all.

Boy, what a rabbit hole to go down!

 

[workhorse]

So many different ways things could change. Not going to college for one as it never really improved my wages. Wouldn’t have met my wife our children would have never happened grands would have never existed. Would definitely mess up the space time continuum.

 

[accountant]

Hi Kritter,

I love the concept of this story. There are so many complexities that it boggles the mind.
Not just our personal lives but overall.
For example, the people who were incarcerated in 1972, would they all be allowed to be released since they know they served their time during the original timeline.
And what about the people on death row who were executed? Do they get executed again or be released?
And let's not forget the people who were murdered between 1972 and 2022. Since they know that in the original timeline they would be murdered and they would know the murderer, how would they or the authorities deal with these future crimes.

Then there's the fun side. If someone with a photographic memory recalls the winning lottery numbers for multiple draws, could they just win them all or would the numbers drawn change?

Layers....like an onion.

A.

 

[WiWatcher]

It would be impossible for anyone to remember all the small details of their life from 50 years ago. Just thinking about 1972, where I was in life, what resources were available, having to live at the old place with my patents and sibs, did we have 1 or 2 cars at the time (and with 6 people knowing how to drive, ouch). Even to the point of remembering high school locker combinations (that is where I would be). Would future marriages be considered valid? The sudden loss of children and grandchildren would be devastating. The whole world would be physiological basket cases.

 

[Lake Lili]

@Kritter - You know how we Canadian are about our hockey... one of the seminal historic events in Canadian history had just taken place... Between September 2nd-28th, 1972, The Summit Series took place, with the final game taking place in Moscow and Paul Henderson scoring the winning goal. I remember sitting in our school library watching it on TV. You popped us right back into the celebration of that win.

CORRECTION... just went back and read the date again September 23, 1972... PRETTY PLEASE @Kritter
6th of the 8 game Sept 24th Canada won 3-2 over Russia,
7th game of the 8 was Sept 26th Canada won 4-3 over Russia with Paul Henderson scoring the winning goal,
8th and final on Sept 28th with Canada winning 6-5 over Russian and please let Paul Henderson still score the golden goal to take the Series.
@Griz3752 ... a little support here!

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 12 - Suspicious Men

Dawn crept upwards with rose and amber bands, illuminating the space behind Manhattan's dark skyline. Joe rubbed his eyes, trying to identify the blackish fog that floated above the city, before realizing it was pollution. He hadn't seen that haze in so long, he had forgotten it used to exist. He stretched his back, turning his head to Jenny, who had fallen asleep against his shoulder as they sat chatting in his pickup truck on the Liberty Pier in Bayonne. It was crazy to think just five days ago he was a miserable old man, driving a truck on that pier, and now he sat there as an ecstatic teenager rejoicing in the feeling of new love. Jenny was everything he'd ever wanted as the old man that he was. She stirred, turned her head to him and smiled into his eyes.

"Let's get some breakfast," he said, before rethinking the offer in multiple steps. He had no money on him, but he had some in the bank, but he didn't have his ATM card, but there weren't any ATMS anyway, but he could just go inside the bank, but his bank didn't exist, and the money he had in there was still in 2022. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and displayed the empty fold. "Or I can make you breakfast," he offered, "At my folks house. My mom would be overjoyed to see you."

"I can pay for breakfast," she laughed, pulling a ten dollar bill from her purse. Joe lagged a moment, before remembering breakfast now was maybe $6 for two people.

The diner was crowded with blue collar workers. Men in well-worn jeans with flannel shirts, talking to their friends aloud, wanting everyone to know their opinions. They wanted their old jobs back, even if it meant adjusting their 2022 salaries. The government was rushing out proficiency tests to compensate for people's claims of degrees along with a more streamline voucher system for well known people to vouch for their 2022 collogues. For Joe, the problem was more complicated, as the company he drove for wasn't hiring. The big carriers were though. "You know, I could drive long haul if I could take you with me," he said. "We could travel the country, see all the sights, have it as a memory together when we go back to being old."

"Don't believe none of that," the man at the table next to them rudely interjected. "You seen that Carl Sagan interview? All his 'future is your choice' stuff is just a bunch of bullshit. We'll go right back to the old one. None of this matters. They just don't want people to freak out and stop doing stuff to keep us going until then. I say what we should do is stop those men from building a new collider. Redoing life would be a 'win win' for me. What do we have to lose?"

"They won't stop," a waitress said, stopping to pour Joe's coffee. "Because they know we'd never let them gain so much control this time around."

"Maybe it won't even work," Jenny said hopefully, reaching across the table to clasp Joe's hand. "I'd love to drive with you cross country."

"You sure?" Joe said with a teasing voice. "I don't wanna find out later you were just trying to make me like you."

She smacked at his hand playfully. "It's been a dream of mine for ages, traveling around the country in an RV. So what if it's a truck. It'll just be extra cozy. I wanna go, Joe! Please!"

Joe smiled, beyond ecstatic with the way his new life was playing out. The future was full of possibilities. They could save up and get their own truck, then in a few years, they'd settle down and have a family, Everything in this reality was already changing. Mark Hamill was saying he refused to refilm Star Wars, the Oilers beat the Dolphins the day before, ending their undefeated season, and the Canadian Hockey team chose to wear helmets for their last game of the Olympics, although Henderson, even double-covered, still managed to score his golden goal.

"We all just have to band together and stop them," Joe heard a random customer say.

"Kinda hard to do when it's in Switzerland," Joe lamented, although he agreed with the man.

"I don't know about that. I got a friend in Vegas says his friends have been seeing boring machines and heavy equipment moving all around that 'Area 51' highway out there. Whole convoys of them, they say. What do you wanna bet they're gonna try and build it right out there?"

"And how do you plan on fighting the military?" Joe said, then clamped down on his lips, hating the vision that flashed in his head, because it only took one guy in a silo to disagree with another reversal.

 

[Griz3752]

@Kritter - You know how we Canadian are about our hockey... one of the seminal historic events in Canadian history had just taken place... Between September 2nd-28th, 1972, The Summit Series took place, with the final game taking place in Moscow and Paul Henderson scoring the winning goal. I remember sitting in our school library watching it on TV. You popped us right back into the celebration of that win.

CORRECTION... just went back and read the date again September 23, 1972... PRETTY PLEASE @Kritter
6th of the 8 game Sept 24th Canada won 3-2 over Russia,
7th game of the 8 was Sept 26th Canada won 4-3 over Russia with Paul Henderson scoring the winning goal,
8th and final on Sept 28th with Canada winning 6-5 over Russian and please let Paul Henderson still score the golden goal to take the Series.
@Griz3752 ... a little support here!

No support required from me Ms Lili - facts are facts and I think his Game & Series winners are etched forever in the Canadian ethos.

Having said that, I'm probably one of the few Canucks who isn't rabid about Hockey.

Well, unless we're talking about what I think was the bench mark play epitomising everything Hockey Night in Canada railed and ranted about since F. Hewitt first yelled "He shoots! He Scores!!" until they retired Don Cherry (and his, shall we say, somewhat 'flamboyant' wardrobe.)

May 10: Orr's iconic goal wins Stanley Cup for Bruins in 1970

THIS DATE IN HISTORY: MAY 10The Boston Bruins experience the highest of highs and the lowest of lows, exactly nine years apart.

www.nhl.com

Just my opinion - all y'all are entitled to yours.

 

[Kritter]

Sun filtered in the window of Daniel's bedroom, making his head pulse with pain. He pulled the pillow over his head, trying to ignore the nausea and dizziness he'd struggled with all day. Sleeping was his only real escape from this nightmare, but he couldn't even crack a grin at the irony. The sound of the front door opening filled him with momentary hope. Hope for help to the bathroom, hope for a meal, hope for some sympathy, but instead it was two strange man in gray work clothes.

"Yo," one man offered in brief greeting. "Lola wants us to bring you to the rehab place."

"Fine," Daniel said, trying to push himself upright, but before he'd moved an inch, one man grabbed his wrists and the other grabbed his ankles, lifting him like an old rolled-up rug to be tossed out with the garbage. He struggled to remain upright as they dumped him into the backseat of a car, then reached for an found no seatbelt. "Where's Lola?" he asked, scanning the back of her house, catching her face as it backed away from the living room window. It hurt him, knowing she didn't even care to say goodbye, but then she'd always been a user, surrounding herself with interesting people to keep from being bored. And he was anything but interesting now.

They drove miles in heavy traffic, behind cars and trucks which bellowed out puffs of leaded smoke. Billboard crews were out by the dozens, changing signs to reflect the new normal. Sears was rushing to update their style lines, but of course they still had great home goods, Kinko's reminded folks they were FedEx and promised they could still overnight your package, and then there were the political ads. Reagan / Ford, who the Republicans felt could bring stability and prosperity in this confused times vs Biden / Gore, who the democrats believed could start attacking climate change early.

"Reagan's gonna win by a landslide," the driver said as they passed, lifting a Styrofoam cup of coffee to his lips. The other man just nodded in silent agreement.

It didn't escape Daniel's attention they'd snubbed Barack Obama, but then the world was full of old and dead people, who were not exactly his most driven supporters. The absence of Gen X and Millennials had changed the world's demographics. People thought 'youngsters' would be clamoring for electronics, forgetting there was no young people, and it was actually big companies and local businesses that were begging for 2022 technology.

Daniel didn't even miss his phone, as he never had need to speak to anyone outside of his ship. He'd worked hard for thirty years to become the band leader on the Liberty Voyager. He'd played, danced, and acted his heart out to charm audiences and crewmates, making sure he'd imprint a positive memory of himself on every soul he met. His entire life had played out on 1,000 feet of space, surrounded by blue skies and water. It was a vision he hung on to as the men pulled up to the rehab, lifted him in to a wheelchair, and rolled him into an orange and brown waiting room, where he sat, alone and unattended, for nearly forty minutes while the women there processed his paperwork.

"Sorry," the attendant said. "Everything's a mess right now. We spoke to your parents and you are still covered under their insurance. Your Dad,..." she started, taking one knee in front of him to be down on his level, "Your Dad said to tell you they missed you, and you could come home if you wanted. If you'd prefer..."

"No," Daniel cut her off. "I would not prefer. He had over forty years to say it. He probably went to hell when he died. That's why he's saying that now."

The attendant winced and lifted her hands, showing she wasn't going to push that discussion any further. She started wheeling him to his room. "You'll have physical therapy every day, occupational therapy three days a week, and we also have a recreation director, so you'll have some time for fun too. Puzzles, games...

Daniel leaned his head back to look at her, thinking she could see the absolute hatred of that idea in his eyes, but she only smiled back at him. "It'll be good for you," she posited. "Our food here is pretty good too, although our food service manager is eight and had to bring in step stools to reach the cabinets. They're trying to ban 'kid adults' from jobs now over safety reasons, but until they do, we have him."

Another sparse, white room became his new home, with a curtain that hide a roommate. Daniel debated saying hello. In this new space, he felt torn between using his friendly, eccentric persona, or just being the annoyed sarcastic snob he really was. If he used his persona, he'd be bound to it. If he acted himself, he'd be miserable and hated.

"Hey," the voice on the other side of the curtain came. "Nice to have a roommate. There's been nothing but garbage on this TV. And just four channels, can you believe it?"

Daniel pictured himself getting out of bed, walking to the man's TV, lifting it up over his head and smashing it violently on the ground, dusting his hands and saying 'Problem solved.' Instead he put on his best 'gay voice' and said, "I don't supposed Ru Paul's Drag Race is on any of those channels?"

There was a long stretch of silence. "Uh no," the roommate finally answered back with a fading voice. "Nothing like that." It was the last time the man spoke to him that week which suited Daniel just fine.

 

[Kritter]

The common area of Nellis where Rosy waited on a transport to his work assignment had rows of chairs all facing a small, wall-mounted TV. The screen, maybe 18" in size, seemed so tiny now, he had to squint just to see the headline. He could read it though, because it was in all caps. "O.J. DID'T DO IT!" And there was a 13-year-old Nicole Brown Simpson in a 20 second clip saying, "The assailant was masked but I recognized his eyes, his build and his voice, and it was clearly Jason."

"O.J.'s son, Jason? And there was only the one person?" the reporter asked.

"Yes, only one," she responded.

Then they cut to a panel which had been quickly assembled to discuss this new information. "Could Nicole be lying to protect O.J.?" one of them asked.

"Really?" Rosy growled out loud. "Even with her telling you, you still wanna blame O.J.?" He turned to the older soldier sitting next to him. "Can you believe this?"

"That's nothing," the soldier said, standing to turn the channel. "Check this out." It was another reality come to this new reality. News films of people rioting in supermarkets over massive check out lines and food shortages. "Coming soon to a city near you," the older soldier said. "What do you wanna bet they roll out martial law soon?"

Rosy leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin with his hand. The world was falling apart. The 'nothing matters' crowd had gotten in people's heads. Somehow he thought they'd avoid this panic, but they were in a whirlpool, and now the non-swimmers were climbing on the swimmers heads, and no amount of government promises that we'd all adjust was helping against the threat of drowning.

"We need to get this shit turned back fast," Rosy said in a low, serious tone.

"That's why..." the soldier nodded towards the growing crews that were lining up for work beside them, implying the military had the same concern. "They know."

"Rosy Morris?" one of the administrators called from a side room. "Are you Rosy?" she asked as Rosy stood. "There's a phone call for you."

Rosy moved towards her slowly, unsure of who could be calling him. His mother perhaps, or...he swallowed at the thought, Star. He walked to the phone she pointed to and picked up the receiver.

"You seriously didn't even think to call me," Star's voice came angrily from the other side. "You realize we just lost our children, our grandchildren, our home, our whole lives? I near cried myself to death, but I told myself, 'Hang on, hang on Star! Rosy will call! Rosy will get home from Vietnam and he will call and make everything alright. I waited this whole week. So where was that call, old man, or did you forget me that fast?"

Rosy hung his head, feeling the weight of her words, but he didn't want to leave just yet. He had to talk his way out of this one fast. "I'm sorry, baby," he spoke gently. "This time change thing was so sudden and confusing, I wasn't sure who knew what or when," he lied, "I thought you might not know me yet, and I didn't want to mess up anything about our future by calling you sooner. I don't want anything to interfere with what we have."

He could hear Star's audible sigh through the static on the line. "Alright," she finally said. "Well call me. Call me every day and let me know what you're doing." Her voice started to crack. "I miss you baby."

"I miss you too," he said, grateful for his work group being called to the plane. "I have to go, I'll call you soon. Love you."

Rosy lifted his pack and hustled to the line, hyper aware that he didn't have the papers that the rest of the men were producing. He couldn't even really make out what they said, other then they had a Top Secret heading.

"Your papers," a exhausted-looking lieutenant asked him.

"I don't get my clearance for another four months," he lied with a smile. "But they told me go ahead."

"Who told you?" the lieutenant asked suspiciously.

Rosy hesitated, before giving a quick visual sweep of the room around him, which was packed with both army and air force men. "Well, it was a man here but I don't see him anymore."

"What was your assignment," the lieutenant asked.

"Dig crew," he responded.

The man looked Rosy over then give a half-hearted shrug, his face displaying the fact that he just didn't care anymore. He swung his head in the direction of the transport.

"Thanks," Rosy smiled and moved on, his heart beating in wild relief and fresh anticipation. He had a theory in his mind that they'd be helping to build the collider, and he prayed that his next stop would be the covert runaway at Area 51.

 

[Kritter]

Debbie Reynold's 'Tammy' was playing in the elevator as Seth ascended with his mother to her office. He'd forgotten what it was like to hear 50s music. No vocoders and electronic sounds, just her genuine sweet voice and the pureness of the orchestra. He couldn't even pinpoint the time when 50s music seemingly dissolved into the ether, but it was nice to have it back for a moment. The doors opened, and they exited into a world of wood paneling, green metal desks and orange chairs.

Seth's mother tried to take his hand. He waved it off for the fifth time that day, forgiving the action since he was small and it was certainly encoded in motherhood to protect and lead your child, but it still made his fingers curl into fists in irritation. He followed her to the reception area, his eyes drifting up to the photo that hung on the wall, one he'd seen before when he visited her practice in his childhood. He stopped in his tracks, staring up at it.

Even from his low vantage point, he could see the setting and faces. It was the practice's employees and their spouses, stood side by side at a holiday party. "When was this?" he asked his mother, who had stopped in her tracks with him.

She looked at the photo, then back to Seth, her hand reaching up to clutch the pearls on her neck, the color washing from her face. "Why do you ask?"

Seth felt an odd rush of emotion at that look. She was concerned. And he'd asked because in the photo, his mother stood next to an Indian coworker and his wife. The wife, he vaguely remembered, was an old friend of his mothers, although the woman had died before he was born. Seth turned from the photo, found the nearest chair, and pushed it against the wall, so he could stand on it and get a closer look. He had thought, at first, that perhaps this was the man his mother had an affair with, but in the corner, in fine print, he could see the date, December 1968. It was two months before he was born, but in the photo, the Indian woman was very pregnant, and his mother clearly was not.

"When were you going to tell me?" Seth asked, feeling a sudden melancholy at this entirely new scenario. "When were you going to tell me I was adopted?"

His mother took a step forward to examine the photo herself. "We'll talk in my office," she whispered, aware that clients were filtering in. Seth nodded, raised his arms, and allowed her to help him down from the chair. He followed behind her, tears already welling up from some deep hurt spot inside him.

"I'm sorry. I was not expecting this today," his mother said as she sat down at her desk, tears of her own now brimming in her eyes. "But maybe you'll understand. I know you've seen pictures of Anjali and I in our youth. She was my dearest friend. We grew up together. We shared a dorm room in college. She was the best friend I ever had."

Seth listened, remembering the old black and white photos she spoke of. Of the two girls holding dolls with a hopscotch board behind them on the pavement. There was one where they were on bicycles, and one where they were mutually holding a kitten. While his mother's voice continued, his whole world faded for a minute, until all he could hear was his own breath, and all he could see was her fuzzy outline against the light that filtered in the window behind her.

"She and Anil, her husband, were in a car accident the week before you were due. Anil died on impact, and Anjali was seriously wounded. They delivered you by emergency. She asked me to take you as her dying words."

"But I have a birth certificate," he whispered, like that could somehow negate this devastating news.

His mother took a sharp breath in. "We paid the nurse to change it," she said. "It was easier to do back then."

Seth couldn't even lift his eyes to look at her after that. His anger and anguish both rose in equal parts, the gall of having been lied to in such a way, mixed with the powerful and instant mourning for a mother and father he'd never known. He stood, wanting to leave her office and run for miles and miles, to never have to see her again. But he was in a three year old body, with three year old legs and a three year old's line of credit. Instead he ran to the elevator, pressed the highest floor he could. He'd go to the roof. He'd jump, expecting one of two results. He'd go to heaven, see his parents, then move on to another life, like his grandmother said she did, or he'd pop back out in 2022 and remember none of this. Both seemed preferable in the moment.

He closed his eyes, picturing his wife with her gentle smile and demeanor. "Seth," she said in his imagination. "Don't be a meshuggeneh!" The elevator door opened and he stepped out, looking for a sign for the stairwell.

 

[Kritter]

Fresh air blew in the open windows of Joe's semi truck. Jenny was smiling, the wind whipping her long hair, her bare feet propped up on the dashboard. Layla was playing on the radio, full blast, and they both were singing along. Before them, the open highway, behind them, the depression of Bayonne, a place neither one of them had left the first time around. Joe had stayed in his youth, because he felt safe and comfortable being near his friends and the local bars, but now he couldn't escape fast enough. He and Jenny had made a pact, never to start drinking or touch a cigarette. Never to use a credit card or buy stupid things. They'd live clean and healthy, always stay fit, keep a budget and invest.

The company Joe chose to drive for was both paying well, and was known to turn a blind eye to road companions. Jenny shouted out with joy each time they passed a classic Mustang, Firebird, Camaro, Corvette Stingray, and she'd wave at every Volkswagen Beetle and Pinto. On occasion, Joe felt pangs of surrealism, fearing this was somehow a Twilight Zone dream, as it felt too much like heaven to be believed. He imagined his old dock friends, each living with this new perfection, an image which made him smile. Colleges were opening up again for people wishing to pursue a new major. The army was being mobilized to help with unrest in the cities, and the government was making sure no one was going hungry.

"Well sure," Jenny said when she read the news, "They can print and spend now because when we get rubber-banded back to the future it will be somebody else's problem."

"But not ours," Joe reassured her. "We'll have money in the bank and our nice RV parked in some cute RV park."

"And a dog. I want a big old dog!" Jenny said. "A St. Bernard!"

"And our St. Bernard," Joe emphatically agreed.

They pulled on to Highway 81, heading for I-40, bound for Oklahoma City, passing long military convoys every couple of miles. Even with the music and sunshine their wake, he could see Jenny's face grow long at the sight of them. She turned to Joe with a frown. It was a feeling he'd had himself, that things could quickly go south. The world just felt a little out of control. "Worst comes to worst," he said, "We'll head off to the mountains, and just camp out until they get people all calmed down."

Jenny nodded, but the fear still lingered in her eyes. It was the murmurings of other truckers at the truck stops that ate at them both. That the reason the government wasn't bothering with rushing to get new satellites out into orbit or starting up a new internet was because their only future was returning to 2022. They just didn't grasp that even with knowledge, building all the parts took time, and even knowing, as Joe did, that that was the true reason, he too felt more anxious with each day that passed, that they were just killing dead time.

What's worse was seeing the all the big machinery being carted down the highway. In all his years of driving, he'd never seen so many bulldozers, cranes and excavators being moved in such a large fashion. He half wanted to try to sabotage them, if it was true they were building a collider here. It seemed so pointless to him, to take away what could be a fresh new future, just because people were having trouble adjusting to it at the start.

They chose to stop in a bar that night, played Pong and split a six-pack, then got a hotel room instead of sleeping in the truck, and laid in bed in each others arms, watching a special on the psychological impact of The Reversal, that ended with footage of police trying to talk a three-year-old down from a rooftop.

 

[Kritter]

Chapter 17 - Star Man (forgot to title the last five chapters blurgh)

Ronald Reagan was president. Nothing about that news surprised Rosy. Even when speaking with his fellow black soldiers, their memories were short on the idea of welfare queens and racial poverty, and long on six years of economic prosperity, even though it never actually 'trickled down' to their communities. These same bastards who intentionally flooded their neighborhoods with drugs, then declared a 'war on drugs,' all for the money, sold arms to Iran for hostages while saying they would never negotiate with terrorists, these were the guys they wanted. Those his own age had no real idea they'd have to fight all those old fights again against this aged 'undead' population that now walked amongst them. And he didn't want to have to explain it. The future of this new 1972 would not at all be like the one he'd left behind, and it frightened him how many ways a new one could go wrong.

He stopped his frustrated musings to wipe mud from his hands, then stood and climbed to the top of a dirt pile, trying once again to get a lay of the land they dug in. He was in the yucca flats, he was relatively sure of that. Digging in what was probably radioactive dirt, although it wouldn't matter if they could return to the future. But there was machinery digging the six mile track that would hold the new collider a half mile to their north. What they'd been digging here, he wasn't sure. Bunkers of some kind, he thought.

Another soldier climbed up next to him, wiping the sweat from his brow. "They originally wanted this thing to be fifty-four miles long," the man said. "Fifty-four miles. Heard they went with six to save time, but save time for what? If you can reverse this all with six miles, why'd they talk fifty-four to start with? And if you can't do it with six, then what are we even doing?"

"I don't think they're sure," Rosy said, trying to remember the offending Hadron Collider's length. Was it fifteen miles? More? The 'save time for what' part, though, that he believed he understood. In the month since he'd found himself dumped in the jungles of Vietnam, he'd seen the country's confidence level rise and fall multiple times as humanity waivered between their 'can-do' resolve and pure and utter panic. Because for most people, they'd lost a lifetime of wealth accumulation, cars and homes they'd worked hard for, wives and children that had been everything to them, and because so many people were trying to change things about their lives, things were going wrong for a lot of them.

Rosy swallowed at the thought of family, struck hard and sudden by the strong emotion it brought. He hadn't allowed himself to think on his three daughters or his grandkids, and now he had to turn away from the other man to wipe tears from his eyes. Danielle, his oldest, had lived closest to them, and her three boys were always in his house. This would be the time of the year they'd come over to watch the Giants, and then he'd throw them a football around in the yard, and maybe make a bonfire if it grew cold enough. Jasmine, his youngest, had two twin girls, who had both just started walking. Star loved to dress and pose them around the house and post their photos on Instagram. He missed them so much in that moment, he almost fell to his knees in despair. He had to go back to that future or there was nothing for him now.

"Lunch time," a foreman shouted. "Take a break, boys."

Rosy nodded, his eyes lifting up towards God. He would work until his back broke to get this collider up and running, but for right now, a sandwich and an icy cold grape soda sounded sublime. They rode back to camp in the back of a cargo truck, passing the old military buildings which were being revamped for the on-sight engineers and scientists. They were buildings Rosy had gotten to know just by drifting on to the work site, trying to overhear any discussions that might pertain to the actual reversal. How it happened, how they planned to fix it. The day before, he'd also pocketed one of their employee work badges in the lunch room, and helped himself to a lab coat from a hanger in a back office. Because he felt he knew an aspect to this that some scientists refused to entertain, and if it came down to needing some spiritual consciousness in the mix, he wanted to be ready.

He noticed though, recently, there had been additional security added. There were too many leaks of information getting out to the public, and from what he'd heard, anyone out here was going to have to stay out here till the end now. Plus, he'd been told, they'd be shutting down the soldier's mail and phone calls. Inside the cafeteria, he went straight to the food line, then settled at a desk in the hallway that had a phone, so he could speak to his wife one last time.

 

[Kritter]

Soft, jazzy style piano music drifted soothingly into the halls of the Beverly Hills Rehab center. On occasion, Daniel missed a key or slowed the tempo to let his right hand catch up, but being able to play at all lifted his soul. Piano wasn't even his thing. He'd learned to play long after he had mastered Trumpet and Clarinet, and only because he knew cruise audiences loved piano entertainers. He'd emulate Liberace and Victor Borge in sequined suits with a big, toothy smile he'd practiced in front of a mirrors. But here in private, without the need to act, he found himself melting into the music, aglow with a new found sense of tranquility and peace. And well-deserved, he believed, because he'd worked hard to regain control of his body and strengthen his mental health. It took a month, but things were going well. He still needed help walking, but he could move his leg of his own free will, and his arm and hand, while numb, were almost back to full functionality.

He was on the road to a full recovery, but there was a roadblock up ahead that he hadn't figured out how to get around yet. The nurse had circled the date on his calendar his insurance was willing to pay to, and that date had come and gone. It was Lola who was footing the bill for him now, but her check was only good until the end of that week and he knew another wouldn't be forthcoming. He dreaded having to call her, but it was that or his parents, and he would rather starve then accept a dime from them

"Daniel, really, I can't help you anymore," was her terse immediate response.

"What about Stefan? Can you call him?" he asked, hoping his old Arthur Murray instructor might find it in his heart to let him use his couch for awhile. There was a long pause while she weighed his request.

"Alright," she finally said. "I'll try."

There was a click and the line went dead. Daniel removed the phone from his ear and stared at the receiver. She'd hung up on him, just like that. He'd forgotten what it sounded like to be dismissed by phone. He pushed the slight out of his mind, and tried to calculate in his head what age Stefan would be now. The man was in his forties when they met, so mid-thirties maybe? He found the dates and ages confusing, in part due to his brain function still recovering from a concussion, and in part due to some inner angry part of himself that just hated to do it. Regardless, he knew, he had to pack, because two days was still two days.

Stefan arrived late the next day, having called an hour beforehand. He arrived wearing a polyester jumpsuit with an ascot, and he had a 70s-style mustache by choice, as Daniel was sure any sane person would have shaved it off by now. His style was strange and off-putting considering there was already modern clothing in the stores. And he greeted Daniel with a smile and a wink, saying "Hey there, little man."

The car ride back to Stefan's apartment was uncomfortable. Stefan opened with questions about his life on the cruise ship that were peppered with innuendo. "Did the boys in the band enjoy playing with you?" he'd asked. "I'll bet you handled a lot of instruments!" Daniel responded with a weak fake laugh, hating being stuck in a position where he had to be grateful for someone's help. If he'd been the eighteen-year-old that Stefan had first met, circumstances might have been different, but he was an old man in a twelve-year-old's body, and the questions were creeping him out. He was already on a high-alert defensive when they arrived and the man pushed his wheelchair past the couch and straight into his bedroom.

"What are you doing?" Daniel gasped.

"I thought you'd be happier in here with me," Stefan said with an attempt at a disarming wink. "I mean, what are houseguests for?"

Daniel scowled, turned his wheelchair and wheeled himself back towards the door.

"Aw don't be like that sweetie," the man said, chasing behind him. "It's me, remember? And we both know you're not really some an innocent preteen boy inside that cute preteen boy body."

"Get away from me!" Daniel shouted, shoving violently at Stefan, nearly falling out of his chair in the process. He steadied himself and, using all his adrenaline-fueled might, exited on his own, rolling out onto a dimly lit street just as a hard rain started to fall. He wasn't even sure what town he was in, as they'd traveled thirty minutes in the dark, but he could see only apartment buildings in every direction. The bag that dangled from the back of his chair held just one change of clothes and a blanket the rehab had provided. He had no money, and no one left to call for some.

He shivered as the rain began to dampen his hair and back, remembering how it felt to feel worthless. "And homeless," he reminded himself. But he tried not to think of suicide this time, as he'd already fought that battle before. "The schools," he thought, and brightened a moment. "There's shelters I can go to." From his bag, he pulled the blanket and put it over his head and shoulders and started wheeling himself towards the brightest thing he saw in the distance. A neon pizza sign.