Chances Aren't (12 page)

We turn the corner at the end of the tunnel and step into building four, which was built sometime in the mid-sixties. Suddenly a loud explosion rocks the building, the lights flicker on and off, and I raise my hands up in an effort to steady myself. Seconds later the lights in the building go out completely, but the floor still feels like it's moving.

"William?" I ask.

He doesn't reply.

I wait while struggling to keep my balance then it’s over— the shaking subsides, the lights come on and I find I cannot see clearly. Everything's blurry; all I see are shapes and shadows. "What's going on?"

"We're here," he says.

I see a figure standing near me who I think is William and I reach out for him. "I can't see."

"Really?"

"Yes, I think you blinded me. Some angel you are. What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

"Oh, I, uh," he says and I feel his hands on my arm. "Let me think a minute."

"Great. This is just great," I mutter.

"Do you wear contacts?"

"Yeah."

"Take them out."

I remove my right lens and closing my left eye, I find I can see pretty well. "Thank God." After removing the other lens, I blink my eyes a few times and smile as things comes into focus. Everything looks so out of place; the racking is different and there are two warehouse workers dressed in clothes that don't look right, don't fit with what I know. I shake my head and take it all in.

William stands next to me and when my eyes meet his, he simply smiles back at me. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"What."

"We're actually here."

I grimace, confused before turning around and looking back to where the tunnel entrance should be. It's not there and I blink several times. The only thing there is a solid cinder block wall. I turn to William and he's wearing a silly grin.

I rush to a door to the right of where the tunnel should be and push it open; ignoring the emergency exit warning sign in the process. The alarm that should be blaring isn't. The sunlight blasts me in the face and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the poorly lit warehouse. Shielding my eyes, I look across the valley to where the building I work in should be and it's not there either. Instead heavy machinery rolls through a flat piece of undeveloped land. My gaze moves in to the green edge of the valley then to the stream below.

I turn to William, giving my eyes a moment to adjust back to the low building's light, and I'm speechless. I feel different as well. I'm not me, or I'm not the same guy I was just moments before. With my hand I feel my stomach and it's flat. No longer is there the pouch of a forty-five year old man. I can feel the hard young muscles under my skin.

Gone is the scar where I sliced my hand open cutting wallpaper ten years ago. Grinning widely, I think this is pretty fucking cool. This is big. I take a deep breath. Raising my gaze to William, I notice he's looking at three large men heading our way and they don't look happy. William steps toward me. "I think we should get out of here."

Nodding, I follow him through the emergency exit just as one of the men rushing over shouts, "Hey, stop right there."

"Hurry," William says as he sprints ahead of me.

I take off after him, my young legs carrying me easily at his pace. I feel my pants slipping off my trim waist and take hold of the waist band, pulling them up. We move down into the valley, with the sounds of the construction equipment fading away as we head toward the road and the front of the old building.

Standing in the parking lot catching our breath, I run my hands through my hair and it's all there, every last strand. Thick and full, my receding hairline is gone. It's amazing how much you don't realize you miss your hair; you lose it so gradually that the impact of the loss is, well, lost on you. But getting it back all at once, is a complete shock to your system. I can do nothing except smile. My mind quickly flies through all the other signs of aging that have surely now been reversed. I'm desperate to look at my face in a mirror. I'm sure the bags under my eyes are gone, the lines, the wrinkles. Then my thinking goes south, I'm hoping my equipment is functioning like it used to. Don't get me wrong, it still works or should I say worked in the future or whatever, wait I didn't say that right. I'm confused as to what tense I should be using about where I came from three minutes ago— that, in and of itself, seems like a weird thing to ponder. My head is spinning.

I take a deep breath through my young lungs. "So, how do I look?"

"What?" William replies, confused.

"How do I look?"

"Um, younger." William smiles. "Welcome to July third, nineteen eighty eight."

"Dude, this is going to be amazing. I don't know how to thank you."

"No thanks are necessary. Just make the most of this. You've been given a gift that most people can only dream about. Don't waste it."

"I won't." I exhale deeply. "There is no way I will screw it up this time. No way."

"And try not to be such a moody asshole this time."

"What?" I look at him, insulted.

"I told you I've been briefed."

"Okay, all right." I look across the road to where the post office and Wal-Mart used to be and they are not there. They've been replaced with a gas station and beyond that nothing but trees. Turning back toward the building, I spot the parking lot full of cars from the nineteen eighties. I shake my head, shit this is wild.

William puts on a serious expression. "So, good luck."

"Wait, that’s it?"

"For me it is."

"What should I do now?"

He shrugs. "You need to figure the rest of this out on your own."

"Okay." I take a moment to think. "I guess I need to get to College Park."

"I guess you do. Your shift starts at six."

"Shit, how—"

"You'd better get moving since it's a little after three."

"Wait, aren’t you going to get me there?"

He shakes his head no.

"Can't you just blink your eyes and, you know…" I fold my arms in front of me like I Dream of Jeannie and blink. "... work some magic?"

He glares at me.

"Seriously, you can't get me there?" I ask.

"I can't spend any more time with you. I've got other things I need to be doing."

"Like what?"

"That's classified."

"Classified? How can that be—"

"Remember what I said about being an asshole."

"Oh, yeah, sorry."

"Remember don't waste this opportunity."

I nod as he turns and walks away, heading back toward the trees.

Standing still for a moment, I take stock of my situation. I pat my pockets and feel my car keys in one side and my cell phone in the other. I pull out the key fob to my 2012 Mini Cooper, midlife crisis car and head toward my assigned parking space. Part of me is expecting to see my car there, but of course it is not. I pull out my cell phone. It's an iPhone 5 and I push the button to bring it to life and punch in my security code. It powers up, and for some reason I'm not surprised. The power meter shows 59%, but the signal strength bar is completely blank. Now, for some reason this surprises me. I'm not thinking all that clearly for obvious reasons. I touch my email icon and it displays a "no connection available" message.

"Okay," I mumble to myself slipping the phone back into my pocket.

I pull out my wallet and look inside. Everything is as I remember it. My driver's license, credit cards with their 2015 expiration dates and forty eight dollars in cash— the bills marked series 2009. This could be a problem.

I desperately want to find a mirror and jerk off. Wait, that came out wrong— I don't want to watch myself jerk off in a mirror, I want to check my current looks and separately I want to perform one of my, hell, most guy's favorite activities but with my new, or should I say old, and improved equipment. Both those items need to wait; I've got more pressing things to deal with, specifically getting my ass to College Park in less than three hours. It could easily be a two-hour drive the day before a national holiday in rush-hour traffic.

I walk toward the front of the building. Ahead of me is a nervous looking guy in his mid-twenties walking through the front door. I follow him in. He heads to the guard desk and says, "I have an interview with Greg Marshal. I'm Tim Watkins."

"Please have a seat."

I smile. This is my chance.

Picking up the phone, the guard dials a number. "Mr. Marshal, Tim Watkins is down here." When he hangs up the phone, he turns his attention to the young guy. "He'll be right down."

The guard makes eye contact with me. I stammer, "Um, I'm here to pick someone up. They're coming soon."

He nods and returns his eyes to something on the desk. Sitting down in a chair next to Tim, I wait. Minutes later a man appears from around the corner, smiling with his hand extended. "Tim, good to meet you."

I recognize Greg instantly. He must be about forty and looks pretty good for his age. Tim rises up and puts out his hand. The two meet in the center of the lobby and shake.

I don't make a move to stand or say anything. I just sit there as if Greg will somehow recognize me, smile and rush over to shoot the shit. Ridiculous, I know, but give me a break, I'm new at this time travel crap.

Heading toward the hall with Tim following, Greg asks, "Did you have any trouble finding us?"

Finally coming to my senses, I spring up from the chair and loudly say, "Greg."

Turning, Greg gives me a wide-eyed look but doesn't say anything.

"Greg." I repeat as I walk toward him.

He moves to meet me in the center of the lobby, giving me a confused look. "Yes."

"Can I speak to you for a few minutes? It's—"

"If you're applying for the job, you can drop your resume off at H.R. and we'll give you a call."

I shake my head. "No, I'm not applying for a job."

"Look, if you're selling something then—"

"No, I really just need a few minutes of your time."

He sighs, looks at his watch before glancing at Tim then returning to me. "Okay, wait here. After this interview I'll meet you here."

"Okay…" I reply without thinking.

Greg turns and heads away.

I say way too loudly, "It really can't wait."

Without looking, Greg says, "Sorry." He walks down the hall with Tim behind him.

Rushing after him, I step past the guard desk. "Greg, this is important."

The guard rises up from his seat. "Hey, stop."

Greg turns to me and sighs, waiting.

"Um, I'm… Tracey Barnes is, is… she's my mother." I pull that lie out of my ass and lift my palms up putting on my best pleading expression. The guard reaches me and grabs me by the arm.

A smile flashes across Greg's face. He approaches me and waves the guard away. "It's okay."

After releasing my arm, the guard heads back to his desk.

Greg's smile is brighter still. "How is she? I haven't seen her in a long time."

"She's great."

"Look, I'd love to chat, but can you wait? I'll be down in thirty minutes."

Waving my finger at him to draw him closer, I give him a sympathetic look. He leans in and I whisper, "I hate to break this to you this way, right here, but uh, I'm… your son."

His eyes shoot wide open as he moves back a step. "What?"

"She told me about you… when you guys dated and I'm your son."

He runs his fingers through his hair and gazes at me speechless. Closing his eyes, he slumps against the wall.

I look around and see both Tim and the guard eying me confused. I return a hesitant smile before focusing back on Greg. "Is there somewhere we could talk?"

"Huh?" He opens his eyes and appears as though he might pass out.

"Can we talk somewhere?"

"Yeah, okay."

I'm sitting in Greg's office in front of his desk. He's behind it nervously tapping a pen against the arm of his chair. On his desk is a huge personal computer. I shake my head and comment, "God, how old is that thing?"

"What thing?"

"The computer."

"It just came out." He scoffs. "It has a 20 megabyte hard drive."

"Oh, wow, yeah sorry. It's really nice. I'm not sure what I'm—"

Sighing, he leans forward in his chair and looks me in the eye. "So, Tracey Barnes…"

"Yep."

"How old are you?"

I pause thinking for a moment. Wait, how old was I in nineteen eighty eight? My eyes widen. "I'm twenty one."

Now he pauses with the gears seemingly turning in his head. Suddenly, he frowns. "I dated Tracey in sixty nine so if you were my son, you'd have to be closer to eighteen. What is this shit?"

Holding my hands up apologetically, I explain, "Um, look, no, I'm not your son, but…"

"How do you know about Tracey?"