In Times Like These (3 page)

“And tell her what?” Blake asks. “That we got shocked by a phantom, self-repairing power line? I think we’re better off not trying to convince people of that one, till we know what’s going on.”

Francesca stands up. “Fine, but I’m walking in back so none of you guys look at my butt.”

“You can’t see anything. You’re fine,” Carson replies from behind her.

“Hey, stop looking!” Francesca shoos Carson in front of her.

Blake smiles and looks over at me.
“You okay, man? You look dazed.”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just trying to figure out what on
earth happened to us.”

We walk to the street and
turn east.

“I’m so pissed about my car!” Carson spouts. “I had my iPod in there, and all my stuff for work.
My wallet’s in there, my phone . . .”

“Who would steal all of our cars? And how wou
ld no one notice five people lying on the ground all night, or notice and not say anything?” Blake asks.

A couple cars pass us and we get out of the way.
Something about the cars. What am I missing?

“These people are all staring at us funny. I know I’m looking smoking hot
, rocking these grass clippings in my hair, but seriously, what’s their deal?” Francesca says.

“Smoking hot in the literal sense today,” Carson adds.

“Ha ha. Shut up, Carson.”

“Well it’s true. And you smell like a charcoal briquette. You should really market that scent.”

Francesca scowls back. “At least smelling odd is a change of pace for me, electrocution had to improve your B.O.”

“That’s just real man smell.” Carson smiles. “You never used to mind it before.”

“Before. Oh, before that night you left me sitting at home on our date night so you could go drink with the girls’ swim team?” Francesca says. “That before?”

“You always bring that up. We weren’t even serious,” Carson says. “And I told you, it was a fundraiser. They needed help.”

Francesca turns and faces him, stopping them in the road. “It was our two month anniversary. And no legitimate fundraiser involves belly-button Jello shots.” Blake looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I smile and we keep walking ahead. “But you’re right, Carson, it wasn’t serious, because you never take anything seriously,” Francesca continues.

“Hey. Don’t take out your frustration about
this out on me,” Carson says. “I didn’t ask you to come to the game.”

“I’m still going to blame you, Carson,” Francesca fumes. “We probably only got struck by lightning because God is smiting you for being a jerk!” She turns and grabs Robbie’s arm and keeps walking.

“You got electrocuted too,” Carson says. “So what does that make you?”

Francesca ignores him. I decide to interject. “Hey guys, when do you think the Ford Tempo came out?”

“The car?” Robbie asks. “I don’t know. Late eighties maybe? Early nineties?”

“I’d say mid-eighties,” Carson contributes, trotting to catch up and escape Francesca’s fury.

“Do they still make them?”

“I don’t think so,” Robbie says. “Why?”

“That car back in the parking lot was a Tempo, but it was in pristine shape, like it was brand new. I was just thinking how long it’s been since I’ve seen a car like that new. All the cars that have been driving by us and the ones we’ve been walking past have been older models too.”

We look around at the cars parked in driveways and on the street. A line of three cars is ahead of us on the right. As we approach, Robbie speaks up. “Yeah, these are all older cars.
That last one is a Datsun 280Z. Those are definitely older. My brother used to have a ’78, till he wrecked it.”

As I wa
lk around the first car, a Dodge Aries, my mind is wrestling with what I’m beginning to suspect. I look in the windows and notice the radio
.
“This thing has an original stereo. Not even a tape deck.”

“Dude, this one’s registration is a little out of date, wouldn’t you say?” Carson comments from the back of the next car, a slightly battered Ply
mouth Duster. “It says June of ’86.”

“This one is December ’
85,” Blake adds from the rear of the Datsun.

I look at the silver Datsun with its black vent fins and my mind flashes back to the blonde on the newscast.
“Next thing you know, they’ll be rolling out a Delorean.”

Delorean. Tempo. Mom-jeans.

“Shiiiit,” I blurt out, drawing out the syllable as I look at the license plate of the Aries.

“What is it?” Francesca inquires.

“Francesca, go look at the license plate of the car in that driveway.” I gesture across the street to a Volkswagen Beetle under a carport.

“What am I looking for?” Francesca asks, as she walks over to the car.

“The registration sticker on the license plate. What does the date say?”

“July ’
86,” she calls out when she reaches it.

It can’t be. But what el
se would make any sense of this.
“Guys, I hate to tell you this, but I think we might be in the eighties.”

“What?” Francesca exclaims. “What?”

It sounds even crazier out loud.

“Ha. That’s funny,” Carson says. He looks at my face. “Wait, are you being serious?”

Everyone stops moving.

“There have to be plenty of other explanations,” Robbie says.

“What are the odds that four cars on the same street would have registration stickers from 1986?” I contend.

“Yeah that’s weird, I’ll give you that, but that doesn’t mean we’re in the eighties,” Robbie says.

“Look. Today, before I got to the game, I caught a little bit of this thing on the news. They said there was an experiment going on in town. I wasn’t paying that close of attention but they were talking about something they were trying to make travel through time. I didn’t think anything of it till we saw all these cars. But now that I’m looking at it,”—I gesture to our surroundings—“Does any of this look like it belongs in 2009?”

No one speaks for a moment as we look around.

“Are you saying we’re part of an experiment?” Francesca asks.

“I don’t know, I’m just saying what I heard. They were doing something weird. They called it the something society. Time Society or something like that.”

“This is crazy,” Blake says. “There’s no way we’re in 1986! Let’s get off this street and figure out where we are. Four cars on a street having old stickers doesn’t mean we’re in the eighties, or being experimented on. Something is wrong here and we just need to find out what it is.” He turns and reads the street sign on the corner. “Look. We’re on Thirteenth Avenue. Mallory’s house is only a couple blocks over. We’ll go there and we can sort out what happened to us. She can give us a ride to the hospital too if we need it. We’re obviously just having some sort of group hallucination or something.”

I look at him and consider what he must be thinking, and then decide to stop arguing. Blake walks away with determined strides. I linger behind for a few moments
, then follow reluctantly. I catch up to Robbie and say quietly, “I hope I’m wrong about this, but if I’m right, this could be a really bad idea.” Robbie gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t respond.

We walk in silence for the next three blocks, only casting occasional glances at the cars and houses we pass. I notice that Blake is not even looking at any more of the cars, but directing his attention straight ahead, as if hoping to avoid any additional oddities in this day. I keep watching for things that would only exist in 2009. I scan yard decorations and patio furniture, check bumper stickers and even glance in
backyards for signs of a Powerwheels car, or anything I know was not invented yet in the eighties. I spot a few more eighties registration stickers. Everything about the neighborhood seems either authentically dated or impressively retro. The whole experience is surreal. My conclusion of being in the eighties seems like a ridiculous guess and I don’t actually want to believe it myself. I feel that at any moment a more plausible explanation will prove me wrong and I’ll be able to laugh along with how outrageous my suggestion was.

The only sound is the clacking of Carson and Blake’s softball cleats on the sidewalk and the steady slapping of the flip-flops worn by the rest of us. When we reach Mallory’s house, Blake pauses briefly to consider a car that I don’t recognize parked in the driveway. He then proceeds to the front door and rings the doorbell. I join him on the porch.

The awnings on the windows have changed color to a brilliant blue, and a number of children’s toys are strewn in the yard, along with a Big Wheel tricycle. The gutters of the house still have Christmas lights strung along them. Not getting any response from the bell, Blake pounds on the front door. A few moments later, Mrs. Watson opens it, looking younger than I’ve ever seen her. She smiles pleasantly and takes a brief look at Blake and me on her porch, then glances at the others standing on her front lawn.

“Hello
, Mrs. Watson . . .” Blake begins, obviously shaken by her youthfulness and lack of recognition of any of us. “I’m looking . . . is Mallory here?”

“Mallory?” Mrs. Watson responds with a confused expression. “She’s sleeping
. I just put her down for a nap. I’m sorry, who are you?”

Blake stares at her as if willing her
to recognize him. “I’m Bla—”

“Pardon me,” I interject. “I think we have the wrong house. I’m sorry to bother you Ma’am.” The words feel strange coming out.
I think she’s younger than me
. I grab Blake by the arm to pull him off the porch. Blake looks awkwardly at Mrs. Watson, at a loss for words. She gives us a half-smile and watches me turn Blake around before she closes the door.

Francesca walks to Blake and holds his other arm. Carson and Robbie follow us back onto the sidewalk, where we stand in silence for a moment. Blake is staring, shell-shocked, into space. A middle-aged man with a Labrador walks around us and begins to walk away
, when Robbie calls out to him, “Excuse me, sir?” The man turns. “I’m sorry, but do you happen to know the date today?”

“It’s the twenty-ninth,” the man replies.

“Of . . . June?”

“December.” T
he man looks at Robbie curiously now. He turns and continues walking a few more steps before Carson calls out to him this time.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but could you tell us the year?”

The man looks as if he’s going to say something sarcastic, but seeing the seriousness of all of our faces, he simply replies, “1985.” And continues walking.

It’s true.

No one says anything for a minute as we look at our surroundings with a new sense of wonder. Francesca finally breaks the silence. “It’s no wonder I’m cold. It’s freaking December.” Robbie rubs Francesca’s bare arms, which indeed have goose bumps on them, though the temperature can’t be much lower than seventy.

“This is the weirdest day of my life.” Carson holds his hands to his head.

“I call bullshit,” Robbie says. “That guy was in on it.”

“You saw Mrs. Watson,” I say.

“I never really met her before.” Robbie crosses his arms. “Maybe she got a facelift.”

“We’re in the eighties.” Francesca points her finger toward two kids walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. “No little kids are brave enough to dress like that in 2009.”

The two boys are wearing T-shirts and high cut running shorts with stripes down the sides. One has a pair of blue striped tube socks stretched almost to his knees. The other has the same socks in red. Both have backpacks and one is carrying a basketball under his right arm.

“Hey
, kid!” Francesca yells. She walks across the street toward them. The two stop short on the sidewalk, unsure of what to make of this young Latina woman headed their direction. I follow her out of curiosity. The boys look to be elementary school age.

“How old are you kid?” Francesca addresses the taller one in the blue socks. The boys exchange unsure glances. “You’re not in trouble or anything. I just have a couple questions for you.”

“I’m ten,” the boy replies.

“I’m ten and a half,” the shorter boy chimes in.

“What’s your favorite band?” Francesca says, still addressing the tall boy.

“I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t even have to be a favorite. Just name a band you like.”

It’s the shorter boy who responds. “John’s mom doesn’t let him listen to much, but I like Springsteen.”

“I can listen to stuff!” The tall boy shoves his friend’s shoulder. “Remember, it was me who got that one album from my brother when I slept over at your house.”

“That was Wham
. That doesn’t count.”

Francesca turns to me. “See? They know about Springsteen and Wham. No ten year-old in 2009
knows Wham.” She nods to the shorter kid and heads back to the others.

“Was that it?” t
he tall boy asks me.

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, guys.”