I haven’t received a letter in over a week, so I’ve been rereading the first two. A lot. Too much. I decided to limit myself to once a day, and so of course I’ve already read them twice this morning. And since I’ve broken the rule, I’ll undoubtedly read them again tonight. And at lunch. Man, I’ve got to get a grip. It makes me feel a bit manic when I read them so much, and mania doesn’t help me hide all this from my wife. It’s bad enough that I think I’m losing my mind. The last thing I need is for her to agree. I can handle this. I will not make this the center of my life.
Of course, the more I push it out of the center, the more it becomes the only thing I focus on and the center follows it. I don’t know how many times I caught myself Friday vacuuming the same patch of corner carpet again and again, like a malfunctioning robot caught in a short-circuit. Bump bump bump my vacuum against the same three feet of baseboard while I try to puzzle out what a Phlubbalubbanator might do, what the hell it means to ridiculously fixate, if time-traveling underwear that collapses and expands one’s subatomic structure does any lasting damage to Spacedude and the Astronuts. Are the underwear lead-lined to protect from radiation? Would that matter? Boxer or brief? And how does one test them? Do I send white lab rat testes through time, then check them with a Geiger counter? How do I feel, ethically, about my responsibility for all these potentially ball-less rats? Or does my future me even give a shit about our ethical or testicular integrity? That thought sends me into a bit of a panic. I thought I’d always have my sex-drive, but what if I lose it and I suddenly don’t care about sacrificing the Balledwin Brothers to science? And that’s when I come back to the world and realize that I’ve not only been vacuuming the same swath of carpet for five minutes, I’ve cupped my hand protectively over my crotch, have had it there for god knows how long. Not the best pose for a janitor to be caught in, right? Fondling himself with a look of panic on his face?
Luckily, no one’s seen me yet. I think. Although would I know? One of the professors gave me a strange glance as she was passing earlier in the week. I’d stopped myself mumbling aloud a moment before: how stupid do I think I am, Barbie Helmets and toaster coils and a pair of Hanes, I must think I’m a CHILD, I’m not—and I didn’t know if she’d heard me, so I smiled and mumbled an apology I hoped was unnecessary. Then I went to my closet and had a quiet fit of swearing.
I’m almost always home alone for lunch, so I get to freak out a little in private. I decided to read them aloud Friday, for the first time, really. And that was when I noticed it. It had been there the whole time, but it hadn’t registered till I heard myself say it.
In the second letter, the heading above February 10th reads: TIME VOYAGE: 46. I stopped after I read it aloud, flipped back to the first letter to make sure. 45 trips between the two. What were those about? And then I saw the thing that has come to bother me most. The CURRENT DATE of each trip. May 22nd, 2033.
I said aloud to myself: “I took 45 voyages through time in one day? Come on! How stupid do I think I am?”
That’s when I heard a loud -POP- from the kitchen, then a prolonged crash as half the stuff on our island hit the floor. My first thought was that my wife was home, so I scooped the letters together and stuffed them under the couch cushions. I stood and walked down the east hall to the kitchen, saw the mess on the floor, knives and magazines and bread. I made the sighing sound she hates so much (breathy and loud, with a little death rattle at the end for flavor), then said “Hey, honey, what happened?” I heard the creek of the floorboards in the living room. Then another -POP! No crash that time.
I walked the circuit of hall back out to the living room, expected to see my wife opening tennis ball canisters, Pringles cans, something to explain that weird, airless clap. There was no one. But there was a blue envelope in the middle of the coffee table. With the answer to my question scrawled in black on the outside.
Letter Number Three:
Oh man. The Tigger and Pooh shoes on the wrong feet. I remember why I did that. Tigger was my left shoe, but my right foot was my favorite. It felt like a betrayal to wear him on my left foot. Left foot was for Pooh.
I couldn’t explain to Mom when she asked me why they were always on the wrong feet. She kept telling me that the curves of the soles should match the curves of my feet. I knew that. I knew she must think I was stupid. But I also knew it wouldn’t matter if I told her why. The world made rules for shoes without concern for my opinion, and the world condemned Tigger to the left shoe. Mom clucked her tongue and tied them tight to the correct feet. Pooh gloated from my right toe: Told you so. That tubby little fucker.
My future/psychotic self is right. I’m in. I’m going to start attaching toaster coils to some old undies tomorrow at lunchtime. And I’m not going to fight the urge to think about this anymore. The other 4, 995 square feet of carpet be damned! I’ve got to vacuum the corner for an hour and figure out why I take 45 voyages through time on the same day, why it’s even possible. I’ve got to know what it means that I’ve been writing these letters to my selves at all. How many selves this might mean there have been. Future selves writing to past selves, who in the future write to past selves, who in the future . . . jesus.
Tomorrow. I’m giving up. Time to fixate. Ridiculously.
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