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The Wayward Cell Phone
I am just outside the Betcha Life Insurance building when the phone rings in
my jacket pocket. This is not my phone, because I don't have a cell phone.
The interviewer had a cell phone and said I would, too, because everyone who
works for Betcha Life does. He showed me his. Did I absentmindedly slip it
in my pocket? What's really strange is that I recognize the caller ID and
there are only two people whose numbers I know. One is Rudy, my buddy at
work. The other is my dance partner. My dance partner is also my life
partner, so why is she calling the interviewer?
I could just throw the phone away. He doesn't know I have it. He'll just
think he lost it and it's probably the only place he stored her number, so
that may get rid of him, especially if she thinks he didn't call back. But,
here's another thing that doesn't fit. I'm almost retired. I don't even
need another job. So what am I doing seeing this guy anyway? The whole
deal is fishy. What if this is a setup?
Maybe he does know and this is a test. He might have slipped it into my
pocket while I was concentrating on that Rubik's cube he gave me to solve.
Come to think of it, I haven't seen a Rubik's cube in decades. I must be
coming unstuck in time. In that case, I'd better hold onto the phone. It
may be the only way I have of getting back to the present. This is a
mystery. To solve it, I need to become a detective. There's a gun shop
down the street. I'd better pack some heat. Something I can get ammo for
in the past. A Colt .45 automatic should do it. The kind Mike Hammer used
to carry.
It's a nice urban Mom and Pop type operation, with hunting rifles lined up
on the wall and handguns in a glass case, the kind of place that used to
predominate the scene before the obsession with assault weapons. The guy
behind the counter reminds me of my grandfather, glasses, gray hair. The
whole scene sets me at ease.
"What can I help you with today, young fella?" he asks. The young fella
appellation gets him points right away.
"I need a pistol, something I can get bullets for in the past." I say.
He knows just what I'm looking for, pulls out a gray steel, walnut grip .45
from the display case and sets it down. "One magazine or two?" he asks, as
easy as if it were lumps of sugar in a cup of coffee.
I slide the receiver back into the locked position and check the chamber.
Empty. Then I ease the hammer forward and assess the balance of the piece.
"Nice."
"That should do you back to 1911. If you go back that far, your parents
won't have met yet. Looks like you've used one before."
"I carried one in the Marines. Do you get many requests like this?"
"Maybe one a month." He took a box of fifty rounds off the shelf and a
shoulder holster and set them down next to the hardware. "I need a picture
ID and a major credit card or cash."
I fished the plastic out of my wallet and he filled out the paperwork. "Is
there a waiting period?" I asked.
He shook his head, "No. You won't be coming back."
"Any advice on how I get to the past?"
"Try the travel agency down the street, but first stop at the men's store.
Get yourself a trench coat and a fedora."
I follow his advice. I like the black leather trench coat, but I know it
won't fit in if I go back too far, so I settle on the traditional London
Fog. I choose a gray fedora and pinch it at the front so that when I wear
it pushed back on my head the brim bends down over my eyes.
When I walk into the travel agency, the woman at the desk looks up and draws
in her breath. It is like no travel agency I've ever seen before. Instead
of colorful posters of holiday destinations on the wall, there is a single
black-and-white pop art spiral that is mesmerizing and vertiginous to look
at. The room and the woman herself are shades of gray. The blinds are
drawn and the sunlight through the slats casts a chiaroscuro grid work over
the scene.
"How far do you want to go?" she asks with her eyelids lowered to half mast,
a smirk on her lips, and honey on her tongue.
"Just what do you mean by that?" I inquire.
"Whatever you want it to mean, handsome. I'm your personal travel agent.
I'll take you as far as you want to go."
"I'd like to go back a week for now, to when I started lining up interviews,
but with an option to add destinations as the need arises."
"Oh, I'm sure the need will arise," she says, making out the ticket. "I'll
need a picture ID and a major credit card. Look at the picture on the
wall."
No sooner does she hand me the ticket, than my head starts swirling and I am
free falling into the spiral. I have to hold onto my hat, so it doesn't
blow away.
Her voice follows me down the vortex. "Look for me at your destination."
John A. Ward was born on Staten
Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to
Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio
running, writing and living with his dance partner. Links to his work can
be found at Blog.
Email: John A. Ward
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