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.