Letter Number Seven

              I went up to Fort Wayne to visit my mom and help her paint a couple of rooms this last weekend.  We painted the great room, foyer and hall on Friday night.  Mom found this new recipe online for homemade Moon Pies, and I had one after dinner.  Oh, man.  There’s a reason I have to battle my weight, and it’s not all Hashimoto’s Syndrome.  So I made a rule: no more Moon Pies at Mom’s house.  Especially when it’s too cold to run the next morning.

              So, on Saturday Mom had to work from 8am till noon.  We’d established that I would take the morning off to sleep-in and when she got home we would move her bedroom furniture and paint in there.  Instead, I got up at 8:15 and did it myself.  I finished painting her bedroom by 11:45 and was washing brushes and rollers at the sink, scraping at a crust of paint in the rolling pan with my thumb nail when I heard a familiar –POP—from the bedroom.  I dropped the paint pan into the sink and bolted through the dining room and great room, arrived at my mom’s bedroom doorway just as the second –POP—happened and a little burst of displaced air ruffled my hair.

              At the foot of Mom’s bed lay a blue rectangle.  Letter Number Seven:

              I vaguely recall those dandelions.  And the TV commercial I imagined myself making.  I’d just seen a car commercial the night before, and when I saw all those dandelions I just started selling them to a camera I imagined rising up above me, looking down, like the commercial for the car lot.  But I don’t remember thinking anything about god.

              Future Me is right about two things: first, that I am skeptical; and second, that rules are made to be broken.  I ate another Moon Pie as soon as I was done reading the letter.  Nothing like getting permission from your older self to break the rules.

              I’ve been pretty good lately.  I deserve it.  I’ve been running, lifting weights.  I surprise-painted Mom’s bedroom.  And I’ve been diligently (and secretly) sewing toaster-coils to a pair of underwear for two weeks now.  I think they’ll be ready for a test run in another week.

Letter Number Six

Since receiving Letter Number Five my days have become twitchier as I imagine every corner I approach is the one around which a Future Me is waiting in sabotage.  Every flash of black or shift in shadow at the edge of my periphery that I might have ignored before is now a reason to stop what I’m doing and go investigate, try to sneak up on one of my future selves and get him before he gets me, as if I could fool someone who’s already done everything I’m doing.  Who apparently maintains statistics.  But it’s impossible not to think I can catch him, isn’t it?  So I keep trying.

Friday morning, while moving some furniture into a banquet room, I heard a shuffling sound come from the kitchen.  It was only 6:30am, catering never arrives until 8 at the earliest.  I snuck over to the kitchen door, peeked over the lower edge of the tiny window.  All the lights were off in there, but I heard another shuffling sound and I thought what caterer is working in the dark and I threw open the door and cried out “CAUGHT YOU!” as I flipped the light switch.

The new Arts secretary let out a tiny scream and threw her tuna fish sandwich and bottle of diet cola straight up into the air.  After a moment of stunned silence, we began to apologize simultaneously; she wasn’t sure she was allowed to use the catering refrigerator, I thought she was someone else, we both laughed.  She picked up her sandwich and I retrieved her soda from where it had rolled to a stop.  I assured her it was fine to use the fridge and told her my name was Craig.

She paused.  Pursed her lips and pointed at me.  “Craig . . . Parker?”  I nodded.  “I have a letter for you.  It’s on my desk.”

I followed her on numb legs I hoped weren’t visibly shaking.  As she walked out to her desk, she continued: “It’s funny, I could’ve sworn it wasn’t there when I set my purse down, but then I went to take an aspirin, came back and it was right there.”

Then we were at her desk; the familiar blue rectangle glowing against the mahogany in the light from her computer monitor.  She walked around and picked it up.

“Such an odd color, you’d think I’d have noticed –“ she paused.  “Who’s Captain Spelunky and His Sack Lunch?”

I felt my face grow hot.  “Friend,” I said.  “Jokes, stupid . . . sorry.  And thanks.”  I began to back away, kept alternately apologizing and thanking her until she said “No problem, really,” and gave a little shoulder-height wave.  I turned and hurried to my closet where, once the door was closed, I could tremble and swear in private as I opened and read Letter Number Six.

The only thing I can think of worse than getting drunk with a crowd of Me of various ages is having to look at my own fat ass jiggling in a conga line in front of me.  Man, I must have been drunk.  I hate being naked in front of people.  Although, I guess if it was only me . . . not so bad, maybe?

And who is this “you” I talk about, as in “I gave you a hug . . . ?”  Is he talking about me?  August 1^st, 2012.  I guess I can make that.  Am I supposed to reserve the Community Center for this party?  I hope there’s not a deposit.

And another thing, that poem.  It’s clearly about my wife.  Why do I miss her so much?  Why don’t I just go home?  And, for that matter, where in the hell do I sleep?  If the current date never goes beyond May 22^nd, 2033, where . . . or, I guess, when – do I go to bed?  Shit!  Will this ever stop getting more confusing? 

87.65919 years.  I don’t know whether to be comforted or frightened by the thought that this year, my 38^th, will literally be mid-life for me.  Fuck.  Is this my crisis?  A psychotic episode?  Why couldn’t I just buy a sports car I can’t afford and dye the gray out of my beard?!

Oh, wait.  I just did the math.  38 X 2 = 76.  Not 87.  And I'm supposed to understand the mathematics of time travel?  I'd better work on multiplication first.  Baby steps, right?

I think the Universe may be in quite a bit of trouble with me mucking around with its mechanics.

Letter Number Five

I spent the weekend finishing with the garage.  Future Me was right; my wife was amazed.  In fact, she was suspicious for several days.  I think she was expecting me to ask for a big favor.  Every time I’d approach her about something, she’d immediately drop her head, furrow her brow and wait for me to drop the bomb.  I could see her mentally prepare to roll her eyes every time.  It was pretty gratifying to then ask if she needed help carrying laundry up from the basement or if she wanted me to fill her gas tank while I was out, and watch her blink a surprised expression onto her face, smile and say yes, or no, or who the hell are you, what have you done with my husband, and can you keep him there?

So, by Sunday afternoon I was done.  We ate dinner, put the girls to bed, then started to watch the Oscars.  At about 8:45, I sat up on the couch and told my wife I’d forgotten to pick up my prescription and needed to run out and get it.  She told me she’d let me know what I’d missed and I walked out the door.

Kohl’s always closes at 6pm on Sundays.  So I thought 8:45 was pretty safe.  I drove around to the back of the store, pulled up to the dumpster, fully expecting it would be padlocked shut.  It wasn’t.  I killed my headlights and engine, got out.  I looked around, saw no one and threw open the dumpster lid, shined my flashlight down inside.  Lots of boxes, plastic shipping wrap, a couple of bags of paper and there, underneath it all, mannequin limbs, torsos, and buttocks.  Jesus, they must have restocked the whole store.  I looked around again, saw no one, put the little flashlight in my teeth and lifted myself up onto the edge, tilted slowly forward and fell face-first inside, legs kicking uselessly.  I rolled over, found my footing, turned on the light and started throwing the crotch-sections of mannequins out of the dumpster.  I’d gotten about 6 and stood up with the last two, my head just above the metal lip, when the purple, blue and red of police strobes popped alight.  I turned to look towards my car and was blinded by a sudden spotlight.  I dropped instinctively back down, swearing under my breath.

There was the quick “WHOOP, WHOOP,” of the siren when they use it like a warning, then a voice over a mega-phone: “Come on out, son, we’ve got the dumpster surrounded.  Hands where we can see ‘em.” 

Fuck, I thought, how the hell am I going to explain this to Jen?  I stood up, raised my hands, dropped the last two crotches I was still holding and turned towards the light.  “Come on out, slow now.”  I put my hands on the lip, hoisted myself up again, thought too late about how I’d ended up before, tilted slowly forward, legs flailing, and flipped forward out of the dumpster, completing the flip and hitting the ground on my ass.  There was the immediate sound of laughter, from three or four places around me, followed immediately by the sound of several strange POP! sounds happening in quick succession.  After a stunned second with my hand up to shield my eyes from the spotlight, I knew what had happened.  I screamed: “God damn it!”  I stood and walked to my car, turned off the spot that had been clamped to my driver’s window, and saw by the light of the bubble strobes still turning on my car’s roof the blue envelope stuck under my windshield wiper.

Letter Number Five:

Well, that explains the multiple voices laughing at me as I got out of the dumpster, doesn’t it?  Jesus, as if there weren’t enough of me already.  And am I really supposed to look forward to all this hazing I’m apparently going to subject my younger selves to?  Man.  I got one thing right, at least: my future self is a Dick.