The Arsenal Files 8/The Arsenal Files Collection #8 (Arsenal Computer) (1996).ISO/doorware/rubyv61.zip/RUBY61-4

Text File | 1996-09-30 | 8KB | 145 lines

Copyright (c) 1996

                              FLASHBACK
                           by Michael Hahn

     I used to play the "What If" game.  You know the one:  "What if I'd
tried out for band instead of the basketball team?  What if I'd asked
Mary Sue to the prom?  What if I'd chosen a chemistry major instead of
math?"
     I used to play that game; I don't play it anymore.  I live it.  And
it all started on a business trip...

                             *     *     *

     Flying all over the country is not one of my favorite things, but some
parts of the country are at least tolerable.  Illinois was one of those
parts.  Let's face it:  I grew up there.  Going back to the Midwest on
business means I can probably take an extra day and drop in on family
and friends.  In this case, I took an extra couple of days between the
arrival of my flight in Chicago and the flight from there to Madison.
     The trip down I-57 was a familiar one.  I'd made the trip often
enough when I was downstate and my girlfriend was upstate.  It was a
night with no moon, true, but the road was familiar.
     The rented Buick Regal was a lot more comfortable than my own
ten-year-old Fiero.  I drove from O'Hare to just south of Paxton
without really noticing, and changing radio stations almost made me
miss the fogbank.  I didn't notice it until I entered it.
     It was just a few seconds, maybe a quarter of a mile, and I was
out again.  I let my breath out with a whoosh, and went back to
fiddling with the radio.  I finally found an oldies station, music from
the seventies, and glanced in the rearview mirror.  I couldn't see any
sign of the fog along the brightly-lit highway.
     Brightly-lit?  I looked up at the full moon swimming through a
cloudless sky.  I was just beginning to wonder about it when the
disc-jockey cut in.
     "It's ten o'clock here at WLRW, Champaign-Urbana, and time for a
quick look at the news.  President Carter announced today..."
     Carter?  I had a sudden urge to find a gas station.  I took the
Rantoul exit, found a Philips 66, and turned off the car.  The
News-Gazette in the rack against the station wall beckoned my
attention.  I stepped out of the car, walked to the vending machine,
and read the masthead.
     September 16, 1977.

                             *     *     *

     I sat there for about an hour, listening to the music of the
seventies and the sound of my own rushing blood.  The guy running the
gas station rapped on the window to let me know when he was closing up,
and I just nodded and smiled.
     This morning, what I thought was this morning, was a cool
September morning in Virginia.  September 16th...but the year was 1996.
In my own personal timeline, it was twelve hours later than my trip to
Dulles to catch a plane.  In this world, I wouldn't be boarding that
plane for nineteen years, more or less.
     I thought about the today I was in now, the today that (as I
glanced at my watch) was almost over.  Eleven p.m.  I might as well
have landed on another planet.  I had a car with two-thirds of a tank
of gas, the contents of my luggage, credit cards I couldn't use, and a
hundred dollars in cash that wouldn't be printed for more than ten
years.
     I drove without thinking, back to I-57, turning west on I-72.  It
took about two hours to get where I was going.  I imagined introducing
myself to my mother, here in 1977 the same age I was in 1996.  I
thought about the friends I wouldn't have until I'd crossed years and
half a continent.  I only knew one person who could help me.

                             *     *     *

     The look of college students hadn't really changed much in twenty
years; thank goodness I like to be comfortable when I travel.  My
jeans, sweater, and Reeboks didn't even get a second glance as I walked
through the dorm's foyer and up the stairs.  I turned left at the top
of the stairs, and left again as the hallway turned into the north wing
of the aging building.  As I stood in front of the door, nerving myself
to knock, the fire escape door opened at the end of the hallway.
     A grim-looking Brad Rankel pulled it shut behind him; he took two
steps before he spotted me and stopped, puzzled, his train of thought
momentarily derailed.  I stared at him, a grimness of my own evident.
     His clenched fists opened, his arms flapped weakly, and his mouth
opened and closed.  He looked impossibly young and stupid in that
moment, and I cocked an interrogatory eyebrow.  He ducked his head,
spun on his heel, and left through the fire escape door.
     I slowly let out the breath I was holding, looked at my hands.  I
was still here, it was still 1977, and I knew I wasn't in Kansas
anymore, Toto.  I rapped sharply on the door, twice, and I heard a
half-asleep voice inside the room mumble, "Just a second."
     It all came back to me then, and I had to smile.  The disheveled
teenager that answered the door was dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of
red gym shorts; he blinked owlishly at me, trying to focus without his
glasses.  "Yeah?" he asked.  "What can I do for ya?"
     "You can put on your glasses and take a good look, then invite me
in," I said, and waited.  He blinked, squinted, then cocked a quizzical
eyebrow.
     He flipped the light switch.  "Come on in," he said, motioning me
toward the chair on the other side of the partners' desk.  "You look
familiar."
     I shook my head.  "Put on your glasses and look again."
     He did.  He sat down abruptly, stared at me.  We sat there,
silent, for what seemed like an hour.  He squeaked, cleared his throat,
tried again.  "You're me," he said.  He paused.  "When are you from?"
he asked.
     The me in 1977 was a skinny, socially-inept loner, but he wasn't
stupid.  Far from it.  He didn't yet have the load of emotional
distractions the me of 1996 did.  I smiled a half-smile.  "I woke up
this morning in 1996."
     I could see the wheels turning.  I knew I couldn't tell him what
to do; he'd have to figure it out for himself.  He pursed his lips.
"Lemme pull on some jeans, and we'll go for a walk, okay?  My
roommate..."
     "Will be back shortly and very drunk," I finished for him.  "Sure.
We'll need to figure out a good explanation."

                             *     *     *

     "...so Brad was going to punch me in the face?" he asked.  We were
sitting in the front seat of the Regal, watching an occasional car pass
along College Avenue.  We'd been talking for more than an hour; we
hadn't yet gotten around to the really difficult parts yet.
     "Janie probably put him up to it.  She wasn't very happy about
getting dumped, you know." I chuckled.  "The good news is the boob's
going to dump her, too.  At least, he did in my world."
     That opened the door.  "How does this work, anyway?" he asked.
"Your memory of the events in -- he paused -- *our* life is already
different than what is happening now.  You didn't meet yourself, did
you?"
     Sharp.  "No.  And a lot of things happened to me as a result of
what happened on this night in *my* life that aren't going to happen
now in yours."
     He stared into space, stroking his nose from brow to tip.  He was
thinking, I knew; I'd traded that particular habit in on stroking my
mustache as soon as I had one more often than not.
     He turned to me, looked directly into my eyes.  "Are you happy in
1996?"
     I gazed back at him.  He nodded.  "Then let's do something
different.  We've got to get you a place to live and a job.  There's no
reason we can't share my legal identity, if we're careful.  I have a
part-time job at the bank...but you knew that.  Any idea how we can
earn enough to set you up?"
     I reached into the back seat, flipped open my briefcase. "This," I
said, pulling it out of the case, "is a notebook computer."
     We both grinned.

                              -end-