Arthur Midian

I wasn’t selected by the Temporal Research Bureau as a member of the team because I was the best or the brightest. I was hand-picked to do the job because I knew how to operate under extreme forces. That’s G-force, to be more specific. There were three of us – all former Air Force or NASA.

I had extensive training inside of high-G human centrifuges and I was among the best in my class when it came to avoiding g-LOC. In layman’s terms, that means a G-force induced loss of consciousness. So while I could sit in a centrifuge, count my breaths, contract my muscles and keep the blood from rushing out of my brain at nine times Earth’s gravity, my poor classmates were repeatedly passing out. Often they would have dreams, and the techs running the show would question them in great detail. Interesting, but not the point. The point is I got to be the one to ride in the first human time machine developed by the TRB while my younger peers did not. Not bad for 48.

The eggheads who built this machine called it the TC – that’s Time Capsule, which is a really stupid name for a time machine if you ask me.

Anyway, the thing was shaped like a huge egg laid by some metallic bird that was then held over an incinerator for about a week. The exterior was so smooth; we had trouble finding the entrance when the hatches were closed. It was less pretty on the inside. Just three black seats cramped together – we didn’t even have arm rests! We shared a single panel of haptic-feedback based controls. On the bottom of the vessel, there was a trunk that could hold roughly 32 cubic feet of space. That trunk’s intended use was for storing our cloaking devices and various other time travel accoutrements such as cameras and first-aid kits. There were also three black leather containers inside which were used for bringing back any non-essential items for the TRB.

It was our mission to covertly document the past and verify certain events as true or false. Missions were need to know, with tasks ranging from collecting garbage samples near a landfill to filming footage of everyday life in the 70’s and 80’s at grocery stores or fast food joints. One time we went back to the 80’s to film the day before Thanksgiving at a Toys R Us. Boy, that was a tough one. Try not getting bowled over when a horde of children is rushing down your aisle and you’re sitting there with a camera under full camouflage. Thankfully we were never caught. The closest we ever came to it was when we  hopped back to the 60’s and we spooked a group of hikers out camped in a meadow. They probably thought we were aliens!

 We had to abort without question. Any human contact could alter future events and cause “Serious Consequences.” That’s what the technicians called it, and how the training documentation spelled it. Capital S, capital C. Hah!

I had my top-level clearance and was deeply trusted by TRB personnel, so I doubt they knew that I was planning to bring about some “Serious Consequences.” I didn’t want to go back in time to the late 2000’s to mine bitcoin or to obtain a lottery ticket’s winning numbers. I had something far more important in mind.

I grew up as a 90’s kid with my little brother Mark. We were only one year apart in age, so we did everything together. Play, explore, and also a hell of a lot of arguing. We went through many video game consoles together: NES, Sega Genesis, N64, Game Boy, you name it.. When we weren’t playing video games, we were out running in the woods behind my parents’ house by the Potomac river. 

It’s hard to say it but it’s the truth – my best years on this Earth were when Mark was still alive. 

I loved that little booger.

I remember feeling something weird in my gut at the end of that great decade. Everything was 2000’s this, new millennium that. Things felt like they were changing, and with a life of no worries, no real fears more great than the Y2K bug, I felt uneasy. What would the future bring?  Something far worse than some fake computer bug. 

Summer 2000. Mark and I were playing Goldeneye and sitting on bean bags. Mark wanted to grab some soda, and I was down for some Dew, so we headed out to fetch some. It must have been late afternoon because the traffic was picking up along route 15 and the brutal Virginia heat was fading. We crossed 15 and hopped into our favorite haunt – the local 7-11. I got my Mountain Dew and Mark of course changed his mind and opted for a large Slurpee, which he eagerly filled past the brim with all four flavors. We used to call that concoction a suicide. I paid for our drinks as he was adding the last bit of bright red cherry slush to his cup. Heading home, we passed the barber and were just about to reach the dry cleaners when it happened. 

SCREEEEEEEEEEE!

I felt a rush of hot air. A crash shook the ground and made me fall. I watched as Mark’s big Slurpee flip through the air and splattered onto the cement. How had I gotten onto the road?

It took me years to not be angry at the driver. Neurocardiogenic syncope. One minute he’s speeding along the highway in his SUV, the next he’s blacking out and pinning Mark against the side of the strip mall.

I can’t write much more about it. It hurts too much.

My life went downhill from there. I suffered depression and anxiety with survivors guilt to boot. I lost my brother and best friend. I tried to fill the black void in my soul with drugs and alcohol. I felt like it helped me, but it never really did.

So. 

I did what I had to.

I started plotting. I began collecting cash from the 80’s and 90’s, spending over $100,000 of 2036 money for a pile of 20^th century cash. 

I had it all planned out. On our next mission to the year 2000, I would  separate myself from my team and live off the cash that I stashed in one of the black boxes in the TC’s trunk and wait until that fateful day in July, making only small purchases as needed. I didn’t consider how I would get back. I imagined that if I saved Mark, the Universe would correct itself and I would wake up in the summer of 2000, walking along route 15.  Back to the glory days!

But my luck was against me. I was notified by higher command that it was to be our team’s final mission. It felt like a dumbbell dropped onto my chest. I ripped open the report in a frenzy to check the date. My heart was beating maniacally. I wondered if this is what that SUV driver felt before he blacked out. When I read the destination in the report, I almost did just that.

October 2, 1986 0700 Hours, Location: 2 Miles west of Harpers Ferry, WV

1986?!

My mission to save my brother had failed before it had even begun. 

I went through the motions preparing for our last temporal jump. I thought about the thousands of dollars of cash sitting in my locker, unused. More importantly, I thought about Mark.

The next day, we boarded the TC and started the centrifuge protocol. I was so distraught that I couldn’t keep track of my breathing or contractions. The intense acceleration made me pass out for the first time in years. 

I woke up to Terry, one of my crew, yelling in my face, asking me if I was alright. I nodded, but I wasn’t alright. When I blacked out, I had a dream about that big Slurpee cup sitting on the cement, with red cherry slush oozing out onto the hot black road.  And I don’t know, it just happened. I grabbed my camouflaging kit, activated it, and sprinted off into a thick patch of heather and brambles. I heard my team shouting furiously after me, but I didn’t even look back.

I spent the next 14 years waiting for somebody from the TRB to deal with me. A time traveler going AWOL was the biggest threat to the Bureau. I disposed of the camouflage unit. I was afraid one day I would go to bed and wake up with a bullet in my head when one of the agents tracked the device’s location. 

I managed to pick up odd jobs here and there. Moving furniture, landscaping, basically anything I could do and get paid for in cash. That work is hard but it gets a hell of a lot harder the older you get. Coming back to 1986, two years before I was even born, I was already 48. By the time the new millennium rolled around again, I was in my early 60’s.

It was very strange experiencing the 90’s again. Paying cash to an actual human being is something we have lost in 2036. We have sadly lost a lot of human connection in our time. 

I spent most of my years in California living as a vagrant around the Santa Monica boardwalk. I appreciated the year-round reasonable weather and the friendly people. By the time 2000 rolled around though, I had to head to Virginia.

Living as a vagrant for 14 years, I had lots of time to think. I realized it wouldn’t be the wisest choice to approach two kids to stop them from going to the 7-11 that day. If two adolescents wouldn’t listen to their parents all that well, how was I going to get them to listen to some grimy old creep?

 I decided I needed to stop the SUV driver. So, the morning of the vehicular homicide, I headed over to his house, which was really an oversized McMansion north of Leesburg. I had spent the last of my cash heading east from California, so I ended up having to walk the four miles north along 15 to get to him. My knees were aching and severe pain in one of my molars told me I would need to have it extracted one way or another. But none of that mattered then. I sweated along the highway until I reached his place. 

No cars out front. Dammit! What if he had already left?! Or what if he had never even left his house like he said in his police interviews? I felt a panic attack beckoning. I would have to live through the day of my brother dying not once but twice. All the rage at this man that I had thought I had shed came back at me at once. What right did he have to not be here right now?!

Then I heard it. A  loud whirring sound. I turned and saw the bloated SUV pulling into the neighborhood. I darted out of sight. Hiding behind the Japanese silver grass lining his garage I waited until I felt certain he had gone inside his house.

Rushing around the corner and wiping sweat out of my eyes, I pulled out my pocket knife and punctured all four of his tires. Before leaving, I carved some choice expletives into the side of the vehicle and gasped my way back to the highway. Another wave of panic hit me. What if he has another car and still hits Mark? Would the Universe make it happen no matter what I did? I walked along 15 south until a man in a pickup truck offered me a lift, which I gratefully accepted. 

I had forgotten how trusting folks used to be back in the day.

Ten minutes later, I was at the strip mall where Mark had died.

I stood outside, not sure what to do. I looked at the display on the local bank across the street. Ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit. 4:30PM. I found a bench next to some pay phones and sat down. I waited.

About a half hour passed before I saw them. Two snot nosed kids about to enter their teen years ambled up the road, laughing and spitting onto the sidewalk. My heart skipped a few beats. I looked at Mark and my 12-year-old self. I wondered what they were talking about. They both looked up at me as they passed and smiled politely. I smiled back.

As the two boys entered the convenience store, I stood up and walked to the entrance. Mark didn’t have long to live if the Universe kept things as they were.

The boys emerged. I asked Mark what his drink was, pretending I had never seen a Slurpee  before. Younger Me looked cautiously at me but Mark happily went on describing his drink and the four ingredients. Mountain Dew, Pina Colada, Cherry, and Coke. Yuck. I tried to stall for more time. I asked them when they would go back to school. I asked them if they knew my non-existent grandson who went to their school. Finally, Younger Me grabbed Mark by the shoulder and said that they’d better get home. And so I let them go. 

I closed my eyes and surrendered myself to whatever the Universe would let happen. 

I waited for the crash of three tons of aluminum and plastic on brick.

It never came.

I opened my eyes and saw the two boys crossing 15. I saw Mark stumble and fall down the embankment leading to his neighborhood and spill his Slurpee. I saw Younger Me help him back up as Mark scowled and looked down at his empty cup.

My heart soared.

But why was I still here? I had done something major to the temporal continuum. I should have shot right out of my body back into the year 2000. It should have been me walking there with Mark.

But no. I watched the Younger Me put his arm around Mark. Alive Mark.

I tried thinking hard. Did anything change on my end? Did I suddenly have memories of growing up with Mark, going to high school and maybe even college together? 

Sadly, no.

Like I said, they didn’t select me for these missions because I was the brightest or most knowledgeable. My understanding of physics and the time space continuum in general is rather rudimentary. Are there more universes than one, with every decision we make spawning another vast universe?

Will we ever know?

If I hadn’t saved Mark in my timeline, at least I’d saved Mark in another one. And another version of me got to enjoy growing up together with him as a brother.

And you know what? I’m ok with that.

You are out with your family having a picnic at the park.

The sky is a happy shade of blue. Lazy whipped cream clouds glide above.

You take a sip of your beer. It’s a cold and bitter India Pale Ale – your favorite.

Your wife is smiling at you. You smile back. She is beautiful with the sun’s glow shining on her dark, curly hair and her pale skin.  

Now your kids have run off for some play. You remember the days when you could rush off and have fun like that right after eating. With the thought, a twinge in your back reminds you that you are getting older.

Your daughter is chasing her younger brother down by a narrow creek bed.

The smell of barbecue fills the air from neighboring picnickers.

A shriek pierces your ears. You stand up.

“Moooooom!  Daaaaad!”

You feel your heart leap in your chest.

Then, the sound of laughter.

You turn to your wife. She smiles. She knows you always worry.

“Come heeeere!”

You and your wife head off to where your children call you from. You try to keep smiling to calm yourself down. Nothing is the matter. You’ve got a very minor heart condition that freaks you out on occasion. Deep down you know nothing is wrong, but that doesn’t stop you from worrying.

Everything is fine.

As you crest the hill, you see your children holding something black.

“Heyooo! Look what we found!”

Your kids turn toward you and rush up to you.

A small box turtle lies in your daughter’s grasp, the shy critter’s head withdrawn into its body.

“Come on now, Maddie, you should put that poor thing back. You’re scaring it!”

“Okay mom, ugh,” your daughter replies. You wonder if this is an early sign of what is to come. Teenage attitude – your colleagues at the office warned you repeatedly what lies ahead.

You feel something slam into your abdomen. You look down. Your son is looking up and smiling, his arms wrapped around you.

“I love you, daddy!” Your heart melts.

With that, he runs back up the hill. “Can’t beat me to the car Maddie!”

Your wife laughs. “Well I guess we know who Joe’s favorite is. What am I, chopped liver?”

You look down at the turtle that your sister put back into the creek. It has begun crawling again.

Your daughter is running back up the hill.

As you follow your children back up, you think about how you have a wonderful life.

Your mind wanders to current events and to what the future holds for your children. A good number of people these days think it’s better to not even have kids because of climate change. Even more important – were we entering World War III? After what happened in Moscow last night, you can’t help but wonder if this was really finally it. You feel your chest tightening as you recall just how close you live to Washington D.C.

You curse yourself. “I can never feel truly happy, even on a beautiful day like this with the people I love the most.”

No – All the terror in the world, all the evils committed throughout history by evil men – none of it can make you unhappy today.

You hear a tremendous CRASH. What the hell was that noise?

A breeze has picked up. A hot air pierces the wind.

As you finally reach the top of the hill, you see your children back by your picnic bench under the large elm tree.

You smile at them. They are smiling back.

Another crash. Someone is screaming. Another crash. To your right, along the horizon, you see a red mushroom blooming.

You turn to your wife. Her deep brown eyes confirm your fear.

A flash of light, then you are nothing.

There’s a man outside.
He’s lounging next to a cardboard sign.
The caked words scrawled on the sign look like they were pressed with a hooker’s lipstick.
I can barely read the words.

It is beginning to rain.

The man’s beard is white. Drops of rain are falling in it. He doesn’t seem bothered.

His hands are splayed to the heavens, beckoning to some unseen, unresponsive gods.

His lips are carved into a wild smile. His eyes are open like he’s just seen a ghost or had a heart attack.

The man is still outside. His eyes are black with sorrow. He does not care about the rain.

When I talk to the old man, he does not bother answering me.

The sky is growing dark. The heavens are opening up with a torrential downpour.

The old man does not move, nor does he complain. I ask him why he is still here.
He doesn’t tell me.

I reach into his pockets and find four dollars and thirty two cents, half a bottle of Jack, a sealed chocolate bar that has melted, and an ID. This man is 68 years old according to his drivers license. He does not mind and continues to smile at me.

I shout at the man to get up. He needs to get off my property, but he does not respond. He does not blink, nor does he breathe.
I put his money back into his inner jacket pocket, wiping his blood from where I stabbed him six times as I do so.

“Will work for food,” I read his crappy sign to myself. What a joke. How can he work when he is too lazy to even stand up and get off my property?

The creepy old man does not leave. I will keep you updated…

The first time I saw the clown, I must have been six or seven years old.

He’s the stereotypical type, with a few odd quirks here and there. Big red nose, ripe like a fat cherry tomato. An off-color orange hair, like a moldering old pumpkin. Face a pale white, the flesh the color of a dead body that’s been underwater for far too long. Eyes painted black, the eyes themselves appearing even darker. But the scariest thing of all was always that smile. The smile he would make with just his mouth. Maniacal, with no true joy in it. The lips painted crimson, the teeth immaculately white.

When I first saw him, it was at the Cornwall County Fair. I remember turning from my cotton candy and laughing with my brother Brett to my right and seeing the clown There he stood with his large, goofy red shoes and a set of variety colored balloons in his left hand. And in his right hand, a white gloved hand that slowly lowered and began to beckon me. And that smile. Carnivorous.

I shook it off and continued to the Merry-Go-Round. And then, again, while riding on one of the small white ponies of the Merry-Go-Round, there he was. Every time I would make a full 360, he was standing there, balloons in one hand, beckoning with the other. Every time I went around, he would release a balloon. And his grin. It got wider and wider with each lap.

I went home with my brother shortly afterward.

That night, I had terrifying dreams of that clown. He was staring at me and smiling with those empty eyes. I imagined his teeth would turn from dull and soft pearly whites to monstrous fangs, ready to draw blood. And from his left hand, balloons lifting off into the white sky.

It has been almost 30 years since the last time I have seen him. But like an old forgotten nightmare, there he was in my back yard yesterday evening as I was finishing one of my Lucky Strike cigarettes. There he was, pointing at me, laughing. Smiling, as if we were old best friends.

I saw he had his damned balloons again. Only this time there were only three left. He turned to look at the balloons when he saw I had noticed them. He released a yellow one. Then a green one. He turned back to me with a mock “Oops!” expression, and continued with his silent laughter.

I tossed the Lucky Strike in the ash trash and quickly backed into my house, closing off the sliding door with the safety latch.

I didn’t see him tonight, but I am waiting. I’ve polished off the last of my Ancient Age bourbon and I am waiting. I don’t know what he wants or why he continues to torment me. I feel there is no escape for me though.

I am mostly just afraid of what will happen when he gets rid of that last fucking balloon. And why can I only see him?