Faces in Time (18 page)
Authors: Lewis E. Aleman
Tags: #Thrillers, #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #General
With irritation that can only come from an hour-long failed training endeavor with a pet in early autumn heat, his past self ignores the feline knotting itself up in its leash and looks to the loud car that has scared the animal. His eyes lust over the vehicle, an exact embodiment of the one in his dreams, and he slowly drags his gaze over it to the rude engine-revver in the driver’s seat of the classic car.
Eyes lock.
Chester
can’t pry his vision away from his past self, completely fixed on him. It’s as if he’s watching his own mirror reflection move independently of himself, disobedient, sentient, beyond reason, and peering into him.
Chester
stares at the look that he’s only seen from the inside his whole life. He is as mesmerized and shocked as someone first hearing a recording of one’s own voice. It’s the look that comes over him when he feels the most alone, the most hopeless. It’s the look that consumed him when he was institutionalized, and it now consumes his counterpart. Light turns green, and while he pulls away, he watches his side mirror as raised and curved astonishment on his past self’s face slide into an angry downward brow.
The less her surroundings touch her skin, the less trapped she feels. Her arms folded tightly and twitching across her chest are all that she wants to embrace her.
She looks out the window and over the parking lot at the darkened canal that runs behind the assisted care facility. The water is dark, poorly reflecting distant streetlights and the parking lot illumination. It looks to be as dense as syrup, but its meager current reminds her of escape.
Her ears have been glued to the news all day, hoping to hear words that she doesn’t think will come. The recapture of this escaped criminal is not likely to happen at all; she’s convinced herself that it certainly won’t come in time to save her.
She’s reminded herself all day that she is in the safest place she can be with the guard downstairs. Now she worries that picking up the double shift might not have been the great idea that it appeared to be earlier. Elise has moved since she’s seen him last, but he knows she was working at the assisted care home and that she’s likely to still be here.
More importantly, he knows how to get at her inside the work building.
Her eyebrows tense and tremble in regular pulses as she focuses on a car that has just pulled into the parking lot. Is it him already? Is he going to be stomping down her corridor, breaking into the patientless room in which she is holed up, and slamming his large hands at the back of her neck?
Lame is her breathing, staring at the moving headlights waiting to see if they’ve come for her.
The window before her is sealed and immovable; easily opened exits are dangerous in an assisted living home, especially on the second floor. As the roots of her black hair feel as electric as her frightened blue eyes, she wonders about the veracity of the shatterproof claims on the window, a two-story drop seeming more inviting than facing him cornered in this room.
Her mind goes wild, staring at the car as it makes its turn around the u-shaped parking lot. The empty spaces are plentiful in the lot, not a visitor in the complex at 11:43 p.m. As the car passes up the available spots closest to the entrance, she is unsure if she should feel relieved or further panicked.
The vehicle has a thin layer of tint on the front windows and the parking lot lights make the windshield bright and full of glare. Despite her frantic struggle, she can’t make out the driver through the hindrances. As the car passes directly in front of the second floor window that she peers out, all she can see is the driver is alone in the car and that the driver is likely to be a man.
A large man.
She watches as the car passes below the room she is holed up inside, approaching the last available parking spots, which happen to be close to the rear exit. The squeal of brakes whines, echoing her strained emotions.
The nose of the car sticks its way into the street but halts abruptly. Suddenly it jerks forward, turns right and goes back the way it came.
The physical panic fades, but her thoughts remain frenzied. Was it him scoping out the facility? Was he looking for her car? Did he pass through just to see if there was still a night guard? Or was it just someone who needed to turn around?
She has no resolution to any of the above, but she spins the questions around anyway, wearing her mind thin while gaining nothing. Aware that she’s growing weaker and that he’s gaining on her, comfort is something that she is paid to dispense but is foreign to herself.
Having calmed herself down a tiny level from intensely frenzied over immediate fatal danger back to terrified over likely death in the near future, her black hair is as unwarmed and cold as space. Her light eyes burn like a blue nebula into the darkness, like the Seven Sisters of Pleiades shining their luminance into black space, except unlike the sisters, she burns alone.
He has been working his brain tirelessly trying to think of every possible thought in the head of his past self. What could his past self have been thinking when he saw an exact replica of himself, except for a slightly more stylish haircut, sitting in his dream car mere feet away from him?
The whole event was bizarre enough for Chester even with the knowledge of how the unnatural meeting came to be. He can’t imagine how it must have felt to be his past self experiencing it without any information explaining the situation, without an answer to quench a dehydrated mind sprinting nonstop to seek an answer that might make the world make sense again.
Chester
knows his past self’s reaction was a telling one with him standing on the sidewalk, leash in hand, the anxiety and curiosity controlling his absorbing stare. Unfortunately, the last phase of the facial expression had been one of fearful anger in the passenger side mirror as the blue Chevelle pulled away.
He knows that his past self is not stupid, that he’d never try to report the incident to anyone. He’d know how crazy it would sound and the negative repercussions that it would cause.
Chester
’s pondered the possibilities for hours. The sun glows around the edges of his window shade, reminding him how long he has been spinning his wheels. At least the time’s been spent lying on his new mattress cover and pillows.
Throughout his entire life, he’s loved puzzles and paradoxes—examining theory for faults, searching for unification of others. Without his questioning hours, he would never have discovered how to beat time. But this time, while he may be right, he’s come up with nothing useful. The one thought, the conclusion that he can’t prove wrong, is what frustrates him.
During the long hours of staring at the ceiling, the dots have spelled out his thoughts in pictographs and the shapes of letters, seeming to move and reform their alignment with the movement of his mind. Negative connect-the-dots pictures embodying the negative thoughts. A morphing Rorschach to bring his fears to life.
He knows his past self got a good look at him. The severely harsh expressions on his past self’s face gave away the emotions that would have only been stirred up by seeing himself.
He knows his past self will think about how it would be possible over and over again, not being able to let it go. He no doubt will consider that he’s gone insane. That would be a plausible solution. He’s just started a fantastic new job in a new city with a great deal of anxiety, but the lack of any other symptoms will disprove that theory, as pat as it would have been in explaining the event.
His past self will think about how time and space could be manipulated to produce two of him. He’ll consider that his counterpart must have come from the future.
Then, he’ll wonder why his future self didn’t look any older than himself. He’ll throw in the factor that he doesn’t know from how far in the future his time traveling self came from or what technology his society had prior to leaving. He’ll know the only possibility will be that the person he saw is indeed himself and from the future.
His past self will realize how dangerous one from the future could prove to be, even himself from the future. He’ll think of the power that can come from abusing the knowledge of all that will happen—how one could manipulate everyone around them by always being one step ahead. If power corrupts, what would the power over time do to someone?
The obligation will set in. Society will have to be protected.
The fabric of time will have to be held secure.
No one can come back without changing the environment one has come back to.
His past self will know that the temptation for one to abuse the knowledge of things to come could make one a dictator, be it political, social, or economic. One could usurp everything around them by knowing when to strike and where innovation and victory can be found at every turn. All of the great ideas of mankind can be claimed by one interloper, assuming a power beyond any man in history. His past self will decide that he needs to protect the world, and especially Rhonda, from his time traveling counterpart.
The past Chester will decide he has to kill his future self. Chester’s sure of it, yet he has no idea how to stop himself.
Dangerous? Sure. But, he knows his past self won’t show up.
He remembers how he spent this night all too well: fleshing out a script to add another minute and fifteen seconds of airtime and punching it up, desperately second-guessing his own jokes that garnered laughs in the writer’s room just two weeks before when he first pitched the story.
It was his first script for the show, and he spent many caffeine-filled hours in a coffee shop booth pouring over his writing, clenching his jaw which produced a migraine headache, and sweating in his tight dress shoes. Several years later when he started to become more
seclusive, he had a coffee shop booth installed in his kitchen so he could work from there. He’s certain his past self is so anxious over the script that he won’t be a factor this evening.
The only trick will be remembering how to behave with other members of the cast as they are meeting up at Omar’s house and going to the premiere in a limo. He’ll have to emulate his past level of social discomfort with his new colleagues nearly perfectly, or he’ll cause more problems for his past self on Monday at work.
He’ll have to recall exactly how he felt around each individual coworker and the group as a whole. Omar J. is going to be there, but he’s the easiest one for him to behave the same around. Chester never got over his awe of him before leaving the show and pursuing a career in technical writing. All he’ll have to do around the head honcho is act a little nervous and mostly quiet.
He’ll have to remember conversations and events that have not yet happened and keep himlf from mentioning them. Reese’s wife is still alive; he can ask about her. But, he can’t ask about Mirkwood’s little girl, Savannah, because she hasn’t been born yet. Omar J.’s new show can be asked about as it’s still in production and won’t be cancelled until next fall. And, he can’t ask about David’s wife, because he hasn’t met her yet.
Stressful and challenging it will be, but a little danger is better than another night of lonely television and stained ceiling bumps.
Attire for the event is easily obtained. The network uses the same formal attire vendor for its staff whenever they are up for an award or are going to a network sponsored event. The store is on Westwood Boulevard, and the charges will be sent to the network. He’s already on the list of approved employees with his network ID and lot pass still in his wallet.
They were surprised to see him.
Chester
had watched the other staff writers stare at his face trying to figure out what looked different, but men are rarely aware of a slight hairstyle change of one of their own. After a few minutes of Chester bantering carefully with them, they left the house of Omar J. and headed to the premiere in their shiny, yet overcrowded limo. Five of the seven staff writers going to the premiere brought dates, which was more than was planned for.
Omar sat at the back of the limo in the center seat, flanked by the two senior-most writers. With the limo packed with excited comedy writers, the ride was filled with off-the-cuff joke riffing, many being a pile-on of others taking another person’s joke one step further and then in turn being followed by someone else. In this joke harvesting, Omar spoke the most prominently, others granting him silence while he did so, which was not difficult given how funny he is.
Chester
threw in a few jokes of his own. He’s always been quite timid around Omar, but tonight he hasn’t felt as inhibited. After stirring up some of his own laughs, he decided to reign in his contributions to the conversation, not wanting to stray too far from the past Chester’s behavior that they have become accustomed.
Now, as the limo pulls in front of the grand theater, he can see the flashes of cameras, the poking of microphones over the press barricade, and the movement of all the people. Something about it reminds him of Mardi Gras back home.
He’s been to these events before, but those events that he’s been to haven’t happened yet. The past Chester has yet to attend one. He’s not worried about pretending for this to be his first time because the glamorous, over-produced clamor of a premiere is something that piques one’s interest and senses every time.
The Hollywood premiere is the epitome of hyperbole, following the belief that the way to make someone believe your hype is by convincing the person that everyone else believes the hype is true. Once one thinks everyone else loves an item, it takes a strong will to not concede along with them.
Fashion often follows the same guidelines of non-objectively following the flow of perceived greatness, but it usually takes a bit longer for the individual to declare the trend was bad. It produces the never-ending phenomena of
I can’t believe I used to dress like that
. For Chester, he’s never experienced it as he has stayed away from flashy clothing, keeping to simple styles that are not conspicuous. He’s also been lonely.
At a premiere, a large portion of the masses in attendance are those who have a personal vestment in whether the movie is wonderful or not—the actors and actresses, the director, studio execs, producers, their families, and obsequious entourages. Their response is protectively over-positive—their acclaim has been decided before the first scene plays. It usually takes a few hours or days to realize that the film wasn’t that great after viewing it at a gala premiere.
Omar opens the door. As he steps out, there is a silent murmuring. A few people call out his name, and he grants them a smile and a wave.
As the first writer steps out following Omar, there is murmuring but no one calls out.
As the next few writers step out of the limo, the murmuring grows quieter.
By the time Chester exits the vehicle, the murmuring has stopped.
The lane in front of Chester is red carpeted with a press barricade on the left and a wall of promotional materials on the right. The wall of promotion includes framed versions of the official movie posters—one as big as a billboard, stills from the movie, and various props.
Omar talks with a handful of older reporters near the barricade a few yards down the red carpeted lane. The rest of the reporters look past their limo to one that has not opened its doors yet, waiting to take the place of the writers’ limo.
As Chester makes his way to where Omar stands, the conversation with the reporters ends with a, “Great to see you guys.”
Omar’s hand lands on Chester’s shoulder. Chester’s not sure if it is a polite way to end the conversation with the older reporters or if it is a friendly gesture.
Omar leans in and says, “You’re a funny guy, Chaz. Glad to have you on the staff.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Never saw you relax like that in the limo. You’ve got good presence.”
Chester smiles.
“How’s that script you’re working on? Figured you’d be punching it up this weekend.”
“It’s good. I mean…it’s where I want it to be. Can’t wait to hear what the room thinks of it on Monday.”
“Great, Chaz, great. You know most new writers are a nervous wreck.”
“Yeah, actually I’ve been one too.”
“Glad to see you relaxing toni—”
Omar’s last word is cut off by a loud voice near the press barricade to their left, “What do you mean I’m not important enough for a picture? What gives you the right to be so damn rude? You stopped me and asked who I was—I didn’t ask you to take my picture!”
A shrugging shoulder is the only response from a man with a microphone in his hand and two cameramen beside him.
The irate man standing on the red carpet continues, “I may not be a movie star, but every word that you love that comes out of the actors’ mouths was written by me.”
“No offense, but I’d love to watch Simona read the dictionary as long as she’s wearin’ one of those skimpy outfits from the movie,” snickering from behind the barricade.
Omar steps beside the angry writer and waves his hand in front of the reporter’s laughing face. He leans in and talks to the man; his laughter stops. The reporter nods his head listening to Omar. Then the newsman smiles and nods his head again, saying something to Omar that Chester can’t hear.
Grabbing the upset writer by the shoulder, Omar s, “Oh, I’ve been waiting to see you; come with me. It’s very important that you meet someone.”
The writer looks confused but follows on Omar’s left. Chester keeps in step on his right.
“Thought you could use a save there. You can’t let these vultures get to you. They just want the shots that’ll make them money. Don’t take it personally; they can’t make any money off us.”
“You’re Omar J. Sobelsk, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. Forgive me for not knowing your name yet.”
“It’s Gary. Gary Leemer.”
“Congratulations on your movie, Gary. It’s a big accomplishment.”
“Thanks.”
“Look, Gary, I’ve been in this business a long time—movies, TV. Can I give you some advice?”
“Sure,” says Gary with a bit of hesitation.
“Don’t give those guys a quote or a clip of you losing your temper. They’ve never cared about taking my pictures either; they probably never will. And, they are rude. You’ve got a right to be upset with a comment like that. You worked just as hard as anyone else on this film. It’s your idea—your creativity that got it started in the first place. We’re just not the draw that the cast are.”
Gary nods, and Omar continues, “Best to smile when they’re rude and curse them out on the inside.”
Gary smiles.
“That jerk won’t be quoting you; I took care of that. So, shake it off and have a great evening. I’ve heard good things about your movie. That’s why we took the whole staff with us tonight.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s an honor coming from you.”
The director, who is talking to a small group of reporters near the barricade, calls Gary over to him.
