Category: Short Story

I took the bag out of the freezer in the hopes that it would satiate my sweetest tooth, the hankering, the guilty need, the shameful craving.

And then I forgot about it, totally spaced, completely abandoned what was for an instant my only thought. My only desire.

And now it’s all back at room temp, which I guess is fine.

There’s a reason I stash the hoard in my freezer. A couple reasons, actually. First and foremost, it’s the self control thing. Forgetting about a bag of chocolate is the healthiest thing a person can do. And all kinds of stuff gets forgotten in the freezer, it’s essentially a food grave. Or better yet, food cryosis.

• “Sleep, little bag o’ green beans, until such time as we have reached a need for supplementary greens.”
• “Rest easy, coffee cubes, we won’t need you until summer.”
• “Leftover chili, you might as well have been tossed. We’ll see you when we need that Pyrex back.”

The other reason is a flavor thing. Frozen chocolate is nice. Except maybe for those Lindt truffles, those GOTTA be at room temp, or you’re gonna lose that magical chew from the interior goo. But otherwise, Reese’s and Kisses and Snickers and such all get a special somethin’ when they’re preserved at sub-zero.

I recently had a friend inform me of the Superior S’More, wherein the noble Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup surpassed the Hershey bar as the ultimate chocolate layer in a campfire dessert. One, it’s already portioned out, no need to snap your Hershey bar in half — or sometimes it’s right under a half, which leaves you with an annoyingly oversized second piece to be divvied across your sequel s’more. Two, it’s a Reese’s. It’s like the idea of a peanut butter flavored treat lost the capitalist marketing war decades ago that might have solidified its place as the better ingredient by the fire, and we all got sucked into the idea that the boring milk chocolate bar was the right choice when you’re trying to layer the most exciting thing about building a fire in the first place. BULL. A Reese’s cup is a better chocolate on its own, and continues to be better when you add marshmallow and graham crackers. Did you think it wouldn’t?

Anyway, I left the frozen bag of chocolate out and now it ain’t frozen no more. And now it ain’t hidden neither. You know how with perishable foods you’re not supposed to refreeze something after it’s already thawed? Y’know, the time it spent outside of the freezer gave an opportunity for bacteria to grow, so now you kinda need to cook it or toss it? Well, there’s this tiny little voice in my head, screaming at the top of its lungs, telling me that the same applies to chocolate. This is bad.

Is your subconscious an asshole? I swear, try as I might to be a good person, the invisible me with a megaphone who lives around my cerebellum is a total twat, and much like Kyle at the office, it is impossible not to hear him when he says anything. Sure, Kyle can at least be put to his paces when I’ve got headphones on, but the Jabras can’t drown out the voice within. And the voice is a dickhead.

And what’s more, he’s in a corrupt position of power over all my other faculties. They love his fake news so much that he always shows up with this mob mentality fueling the tank, and poor me has to deal with everything else that they don’t give a shit about, i.e. the entire future. Stomach, you’re gonna be upset. Fat, you’re gonna swell. Brain, you’re gonna feel shame. Teeth, you’re gonna marinate in a sugary stew that apparently none of you can remember will lead to decay. Tongue. Ah, damn you tongue, you’re the biggest enabler of the bunch, you’re not gonna get hurt at all and so for you it’s all “Me me me!”

Everything’s fine now, I had 2 truffles and put the bag back in cryo.

Ok, it was 3.

“I don’t know, Bob, it isn’t moving.”

“It’s fine. Leave it alone.”

“But it’s… I can’t just leave it.”

“Sheri, leave it be.”

“But Bob, I don’t think you’re hearing me…”

“What is so serious about this thing?”

“I think it’s dead, Bob!”

“Naaaaaaaw.”

“YES. I’m being serious.”

“Noooooooo…”

“It’s not moving at all!”

“Nu-uuuuuuuuh…”

“It was moving before and now it’s not moving!”

“Oh come on, how can you tell?”

“Because I’m LOOKING at it Bob.”

“What are you some kinda expert?”

She gives him a look. Mistake, Bob.

“Alright, lemme see.”

“You don’t need to look very long, Bob, I noticed right away.”

“Yeah but I wanna be sure.”

“I AM sure, it’s dead!”

“Nooooo…”

“It’s dead! You telling me you don’t think it’s dead?”

“Just lemme, hang on, I just gotta…”

“BOB. I can’t take this, you need to do something.”

A double take at her.

“Say whaaaaaa—“

She wears a silent gasp.

“Well I’m not dealing with it mySEL. F. BOB.”

Slow turn back to the terrarium.

“You may be right…”

“Don’t make me kick your ASS Bob, it’s dead. You gotta deal with it.”

“What do you want meeee to do, Sheri?”

“Maybe some INPUT. You DOLT. It’s only been like half an hour.”

“But it’s not my FAULT.”

“Oh ho ho no you don’t, no you don’t with that shit, you’re not just some innocent bystander.”

“Are you seeeerious, nuh uh! YOU dropped the thing!”

“YOU opened the tank!”

“Whoa whoa whoa, don’t try to pin this on me, I didn’t…”

“Bob! You opened the tank!”

“Sheri opening the tank didn’t kill the damn thing! I wanted to take a look at it, I picked it up, and I handed it to you!”

“BOB YOU THREW IT AT ME.”

“HEY HEY HEY, that is NOT fair, I did NOT throw it at you.”

“You screamed! You screamed like a bitch!”

“Now that is just not fair, I really don’t appreciate that…”

“You picked it up, and it started to move, and you screamed like a little bitch girl, and you CHUCKED it at me.”

“Oh Sheri the theatrics, puh-leeez…”

“You think I’m exaggerating? You wanna hear what you sounded like? Huh?”

“Sheri don’t…”

“HUH?”

“Stop…”

She does it.

“I did NOT sound like that, that’s ridiculous.”

She does it again.

“STOP. SHERI.”

“And then you threw it at me.”

A beat, finally.

“Admit it.”

Another beat.

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“But YOU were the last one to hold it.”

“That doesn’t mean SHIT Bob. So now you gotta decide what to tell her.”

“Sheri, what?”

“What’s the story, huh?”

“Well EYE don’t know.”

“What, did we walk in from the next room and it was like that?”

“No, it…”

“Did some raccoon get in here or something and fight it?”

“Fight it?”

“Was there a freak accident with the DVD player?”

“Sheri what are you TALKING about?”

“What’s the story BAAAAHB?”

“It was ME. Good Lord Sheri, I just wanna tell her the truth.”

“Waitwaitwaitwaitwait no you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“She’ll never talk to us again.”

“Oh come on—“

“She’ll be so angry. She loves this thing.”

A moment of contemplation.

“Bob I’m serious. She’ll be so so mad.”

“But things happen, she’s gotta learn…”

“What Bob? She’s gotta learn that your parents are gonna kill the things you love?”

“Well, no, that’s not, she won’t…”

“She WILL Bob. You want to teach her that her daddy screams like a little bitch girl?”

“STOP saying that.”

“That her big strong daddy is afraid of an itsy witsy spider?”

“Itsy witsy!! It’s huge!”

“Oh it is not that big…”

“I THOUGHT…I dunno, I thought if Meredith can love it I thought maybe…”

“Bob just let the girl live her life! You don’t have to be involved in everything!”

“That’s not…I’m not trying to be involved, I’m trying to…”

“Pry?”

“No, jeez, no, I’m trying to…connect!”

“Goodness Bob, why did you have to do it while she’s not here?”

“Well what the hell were YOU doing? You egged me on!”

“So what!”

“You made me do it!”

Uproarious, maniacal laughter. For like a little bit.

“I MAAAADE you do it?”

“You told me to!”

“Yeah but I didn’t maaaaake you do shit!”

“What do you MEAN?”

“Yeah, you were being a little bitch girl and you were aaaaaasking for me to make fun of you.”

“Oh please.”

“Yes! But I didn’t make you do SHIT.”

“PICK IT UP OR I’M LEAVING YOU? Sheri. Sheri. Come on.”

“Yeah maybe that was a bit far.”

“Yes! You can’t just say something like that!”

“Come on honey, you weren’t gonna do it otherwise…”

“A-HAAA! Aren’t you glad I did it NOW? Isn’t it great that the liiiiiiittle bitch girl picked up the iiiiiitsy witsy spider NOOOOOOW. Now that it’s DEAD?”

“Look you didn’t have to do it.”

He gives her this look.

“But maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“NO. YOU SHOULDN’T. I was trying to overcome something and now look what you made me do!”

“Overcome something! Yeah well that went well, didn’t it.”

“You MADE ME. Oh my God Sheri.”

“It took a long time to die, considering.”

“Good Lord!”

“Yeah I bet it suffered.”

“Why would you SAY that?”

“Because it’s true.”

“You’re STILL fucking with me! You have to stop!”

“Because I’m just thinking about how it KNEW.”

“Knew what?”

“That it got murdered by a liiiiiiittle bitch girl!”

“SHERI.”

Maniacal laughter times two.

“Sheri please.”

“Oh man Bob. You gotta figure out what to do with it.”

“You know what, I’m done. You figure it out. I’m just going to tell her. If you want to do something else with it, go for it.”

“Waiwaitwait Bob, no, I’m serious. We need to have our story straight.”

“I wanted to check out the spider, I picked it up, and I got freaked out and I threw it at you.”

“Jesus Bob.”

“Yeah wow that sounded so horrible when I said it out loud.”

“Yeah, no.”

“Like so horrible.”

“The truth hurts Bob.”

“I really just came in and killed Meredith’s favorite thing on purpose.”

“Well, not on purpose…”

“I picked it up on purpose!”

“You…yeah, that’s true…”

“Sheri!”

“What, you want me to lie to you right now?”

“No, I just, it’s different when you say it.”

“Bob you say that all the time, and right now, no it is NOT. Just because you can’t believe what a little bitch girl thing you did today doesn’t make it my fault for saying it.”

“I swear to God Sheri…”

“What, the little bitch girl thing?”

“YES. SHERI.”

She laughs again.

One time, I went to this bar, and it was like, really crowded. I think it was a holiday or something, I dunno. But anyway my buddy Greg was like, Yo, we gotta go to this bar. And I was like, yeah, but like that’s a different bar than we usually go to. So he was like Bro, I’m not joshin’ ya, it’s real deal legit.

So we went, and it was like boss crowded. There were a couple people outside the door even, but they were smoking cigarettes, so they were like tryna be outside I think, but then when we went inside it was like real dark. And it was so dark that I didn’t see this guy with a super dark jacket, so I like bumped into him with my shoulder and he was like Sup. But that was it, I was worried for a second but he was chill.

Anyway, the whole place was full of people. Real far away I could see this like blue light that kinda looked like maybe there was a party or something, but there were some tall guys right in front of me so I couldn’t see if like people were dancing over there.

Greg is all slippery and shit, I don’t know how he does it but I like blinked and he was waving at me from the bar over like 20 people. Sometimes I think that he pushed me into that guy so he could make an escape. But yeah, I started trying to get through the crowd and it took me like 40 seconds but I was up by Greg and he had a beer for me cuz he knows what I like.

I couldn’t be-lieve how crowded it was, like there must have been one hundred people there, maybe even one hundred and ten, they were all crowded together with bottles and cans and cups and straws all bunched up on their little alligator arms so they could drink but not have to put their arms all the way down because it was too crowded.

So I was looking over to the blue section and then this guy was like Hey, are you done? Cuz he needed to order a drink, so I moved over so he could get to the bar but I couldn’t really go anywhere because it was so crowded. I looked around and saw Greg waving at me from all the way in the blue section how did he do that. It took me so long but eventually I was over standing right by the blue section and it was super loud, like way louder than the dark part by the door, there must have been some band playing.

They were playing this super loud kinda punky rock and roll music with this girl who was singing and she wore overalls and the kick drum said BITE US! She was crazy, like jumping up and down and using the microphone like a pole vault to hold herself up in the air, I was in love. Her song went something like Take your fucking self, fake your fucking self, make your fucking self MY BITCH. And when she sang MY BITCH everybody shouted MY BITCH with her it was so awesome. The third time I was able to sing MY BITCH too, it was dope as hell.

I was like totally blown away by how many people were crowded, even up on the little stage.  There was singer girl, bassman, drummer dude, guitar guy, piano person, and an upright bass. So like a lotta stuff and shit and this singer girl was like basically spitting at the crowd they were so close, but she was sick rad. Took my heart and spun it up on her little fingy like a basketball. 

Wait, what the heck? How long have I been here?

Well, it depends on what you mean.

I mean HOW LONG have I BEEN. HERE.

See, you’re missing out on so many other questions you could be asking. You’ve only been awake for about seventeen seconds, so there you go! Seventeen seconds! And now it’s roughly twenty eight!

Fuck that!

Oh how exciting!

No, how long have I…been…present in this…location?

You mean your body or your mind?

FUCK. My…body?

Aha, well now we’re getting somewhere. Your body has been in this chamber for about six thousand years.

SIX THOUSAND YEARS?

Hang on, I’m getting a message.

SIX THOUSAND?

Yes, ok, I’ve just been reminded to tell you that your Earth years equate to about twelve years here.

Heavy breathing.

So based on your Earth-year frame of reference, it’s only been about five hundred Earth years.

Breathing intensifies.

Is this a problem?

YOU.

I beg your pardon?

Where…

Aha, you are now wondering where this chamber is located?

YES.

Well, that’s pretty straightforward. You’re inside a vacuum-sealed de-radiation chamber on Exelon-7.

Death stares.

I take it from your blood pressure that you are dissatisfied with this response.

Dissatisfied…

I had been led to believe that Earth-folk benefit greatly from the statement of objective fact.

Bewildered chuckle.

It’s working!

NO it’s not working, I want to know who the hell told you THAT?

That we are on Exelon-7?

That humans like FACTS. Because I can tell you right now that that is some buuuuuuullshit.

Bullshit?

Bullshit!

This I do not know.

I guess you’re asking the questions now! Bullshit! Caca! Doo doo! Fucking…bullshit!

Your explanation is lacking.

It means it’s not fucking TRUE. Humans are full of shit, and they are only happy when you feed them shit! Which I think YOU’RE doing to me, because I’m in some…radiation…thing…on fucking…Exelon 7? What even is that?

Exelon 7 is a moon of Jupiter II.

Outright laughter.

I must make note of your humorous response.

Wait wait wait, I’ve been in this…thing…for 500 years?

That IS correct!

How am I alive?

What a great question! I’ve been anticipating it. Your body has sustained life due to an infusion of Fungal Marvels 8 and 15, discovered right here on Exelon-7.

Looking down for the first time. What the…

The prolonged exposure has had remarkable success in rejuvenating your body’s essential protein deposits.

Screams of horror.

Your reaction is not dissimilar to others in your subject group.

What the fuck has happened to me?

Like I said, Fungal Marvels 8 and 15 have been applied to various internal organs as a means of resuscitating your brain’s electrical activity.

That doesn’t make any fucking SENSE.

I see, but it does. It’s the primary purpose of this outpost.

This…outpost?

Research developments on Exelon-7 have seen great financial investment after the discovery of certain Fungal Marvels some three hundred and seventy-seven Earth years ago.

Three hundred…

And seventy-seven, if my conversion is correct.

But you said I’ve been here for 500 years.

That is also correct.

What was I doing before the…Fungus?

Fungal Marvels.

Yeah, Fungal Marvels. You said those are why I’m alive?

That is also correct.

Was I dead?

Since the development of our Organization, we have ceased to use the word Dead.

What…

But for your colloquial understanding, yes. Your body ceased to exhibit life.

Heaviest breathing.

I see once again your blood pressure is rising, I’m going to administer a…

I was fucking DEAD?

Like I said, we don’t…

DON’T GIVE ME THAT SHIT. How was I dead?

It’s probably best that we save this question for another time.

NUH UH. YOU TELL ME.

I refuse.

YOU TELL ME RIGHT NOW.

For the sake of your physical and mental well-being, it has been decided that the objective fact behind your question will be revealed at a later time.

Nonono come on, man, you can’t keep something like that from me!

I’ll make note that you said this! Because yes, I can. Your observation about objective facts becomes apparent already. Is this the “bullshit?”

No I mean, like, it’s really not cool to keep that a secret!

Aha, very good, I’ll bear that in mind. Goodnight.

Goodnight? What does that mean goodn…

Near-instant snoring.    

You know, I don’t think you’re really in it to win it. If you were, you’d be up earlier. You’d be watching less stupid ass YouTube videos. You’d probably be smoking less too, but you know what, none of that bothers me. What bothers me is the way you talk about it, like you’re the pinnacle of commitment, like you’re the boss, on his way to achieving greatness. But I think you’re full of it. You don’t say anything that I haven’t heard before from some schmuck who thinks he’s got the world at his fingertips, and acts like he doesn’t have to do anything to win the game. But you do. You gotta practice, and you gotta compete, and you gotta feel like every second that you’re not fighting the good fight that you’re gonna lose it all. Nothing is free, you hear me? You hear what I’m trying to say?

I guess.

I feel like you’re not listening, like you tuned me out the second I started speaking. Like you think what I got to say isn’t as important or as valuable as whatever the hell daydream you’re wandering around in, like I don’t really know what I’m talking about so why should you listen to me. But you know what, I know a couple things. I’ve been through the ringer a few times, I’ve figured out what it means to get knocked down and struggle to get back up again, to rediscover what it’s like to stand on my own two feet. I know a thing or two.

Yeah, I know.

Yeah, you know. Sure. But there’s a difference between knowing and just saying you know, you know?

I guess?

What are you trying to do, huh? You wanna make me shut up? You want me to go away? You want me to leave you alone so you can get back to whatever the hell you’re doing in here, like I’m interrupting some important meeting, like you gotta get back to business, like the second I leave here you’re NOT just gonna go back to trolling Reddit and commenting on some other asshole’s comment about some OTHER asshole’s comment, right?

Uh…

You want me to go? Because that’s the difference here, I’m waiting for you to hear me and then get to WORK, like, MAKE something, doesn’t matter what, just stop consuming and consuming every second of the day. Take the potential that’s sitting somewhere in there and spark it up, learn what it feels like to turn nothing into SOMEthing.

Can I have that toilet paper please?

Deep in the darkest bluest ocean trench there once lay a single urchin. His name was Ben.

“Hi.”

Ben wasn’t always the first choice for social company.

“That’s right!”

He got made fun of a lot for his awful spines.

“They’re very sharp.”

 The other sea-dwelling creatures often pretended they didn’t know his name.

“Wanda calls me Tyler.”

But one day, Ben had a big idea.

“Fuck this place!”

Ben took his little urchin spines that everybody hated so much and he packed up all his deep-sea belongings and set out for somewhere better.

But first he had to say goodbye to Ma.

“MAAAAAA.”

Ma was also an urchin, obviously. She was proud of her spines.

“WHAAAAT.”

Ben stood before her, covered in his belongings, each skewered on a separate spine.

“Ma, I’m goin’.”

“Bring a snack.”

And with that, he took a big about-face and marched his lil’ urchin ass out the door.

Ben took a train. The kind of train that apparently exists down at the bottom of the ocean, stop asking questions.

After a long time out on the rails, Ben came across a new place. A new home. A refuge, from all the slightly socially-awkward interactions he’d accumulated back at the Ol’ Trench that clung to him like cellophane.

“I’m here!”

It was also a Trench, he wasn’t like tryin’ to go to Miami or some shit, he just didn’t like being bullied by Wendy. But this Trench had a Plaza.

He waved goodbye to the Conductor Fish, who gave him a big fishy thumbs up! Aw yeah! And then he scooched himself off the train.

The Plaza surrounded him, all the hustle and bustle of deep sea life, Neon signs, unabashed carnivorous hunting, street performers, the works. Ben tried to breathe it all in.

“Hey, watch it bub.”

A little shelled critter he didn’t recognize had careened off his spines, the armor deflecting his understated barbs.

“Sorry!”

Ben wandered the Plaza, taking in the sights and sounds, but not the smells. It kinda smelled like shit.

Off at the far end of the courtyard, he spotted her.

Van.

Van was also an urchin. I dunno, call it a lack of creativity, I just think it makes the most sense. Boy urchin, girl urchin, it’s fine.

She was sharp, he could tell, oh yeah. Something about the way she just kinda stood still there in the light of the neon “OPEN 24/7” sign, created this aura around her, Ben was captivated. He found himself sliding in her direction and didn’t notice the Souvlaki Stand right beside him.

“Heeeeey, I’m woikin’ here!”

Ben came to, and somehow Van left his mind.

Souvlaki Steve was there in front of him, holding a Pita in one hand, and in the other, the most fantastic pair of tongs Ben had ever seen.

I mean seriously, he couldn’t believe it. Ben had always appreciated spatulas and even carving knives, but he knew there was nothing more effective for clamping down on something that’s too hot to hold in your bare hand than a pair of tongs, and these were like really nice.

Souvlaki Steve wielded his tongs with precision, with grace. He would never stuff a pita without a perfect pinch of souvlaki steak. Ben watched him jab it into the vat of shaven meats and nestle it into the sauced pita without even breaking a sweat.

“Whoa.”

“Oh yeah motherfucker.”

Spotlight on Souvlaki Steve. The world drifted away. Ben could tell something extraordinary was happening. What was once day had become night, the sun (yeah whatever, bottom of the ocean, sue me) was overtaken by instant darkness, except for Steve, stuffing pitas in the limelight, with an audience of Ben.

“Could I get one o’ those buns?”

Souvlaki Steve, drenched in drama, soaking in the light, spoke through the mist, with a reverberant echo that stretched beyond the walls of the Plaza.

“Yeah buddy I got your bun right here.”

Without batting an eye, Souvlaki Steve flashed out with his tongs and pinched exactly $4.57 off one of Ben’s skewer spines.

Instantly, the light of day returned, the fever dream cut short at Souvlaki Steve’s receipt of his due compensation.

“Here ya go!”

The pita outstretched across the stand, Ben’s eyes grew wide, wide as, like, they were fuckin’ big. He took the pita, ate it in one bite, and that was the end of that.

By the time Ben returned his attention to Van at the other end of the Plaza, stock still beside the “OPEN 24/7” sign, she had already been approached by another urchin from out of town who was instantly in love with her and had wooed her into spending their lives together living it up in the Big City.

Ben tried to remember the flavor of his Souvlaki. He struggled to recall if he’d actually enjoyed it or if something really weird had just happened with that Souvlaki Steve guy.

“How did I know his name?”

I tried to make the call almost a dozen times before I could hang on past the third ring. They said this would happen. I’m sure they learned pretty quickly that the company policy of only charging for answered calls would keep skittish customers like myself from feeling like I’d blown a bunch of money on nothing.

It was meant to feel like any other phone call: just open the app, put in the exact date and time, and enter the phone number like normal. Clearly all the complex processing was happening in some server somewhere, but all I needed was a regular ol’ data plan.

My therapist begged me not to do this. I mean, maybe “beg” is a bit heavy, but she wasn’t shy about her deep philosophical belief that this was a bad thing in just about every way; bad for the callers, bad for the recipients, bad for the universe writ large. She said it was a kind of “dwelling”, that it was antithetical to the process of moving on and letting go, that making just one of these calls would have unforeseen consequences that outweighed the potential benefits by a kiloton.

Evelyn, on the other hand, was the reason I’d even considered this in the first place. She said it was the greatest decision of her life, and now she was making two or three calls a week. Truth be told, it was just about all she wanted to talk about these days. Which I get. I think.

The day I made the call is honestly a little hard to remember at this point. I think maybe I was standing at the kitchen counter, like I’d just made a coffee or something and figured I’d give it a go? 

It rang and rang and the sound of the ringing surprised me, it took me back. I knew exactly what day to call, it was very meticulous. I know my hand was trembling, I think I put in an earpiece so I could put the phone down. Which he couldn’t do. He?

The fourth ring was a milestone for me, and the closer I got to having to speak the more treacherous the first words seemed. But finally, an answer.

“Hello?”

He sounded very different than I expected.

They were very clear in their language that I should think of him as him. As someone else. They said it was vital to my understanding of what was happening, and how it might affect me and the world around me. They said that if it was “me”, I’d have some recollection of the call, that it would be some kind of loop playing out, but they insisted this was different. The technology depended on a reality in which this is the first “time” the call is happening, that nothing about my life could be changed, avoided, amended, it’s not like that. It’s just a call.

My throat shut. There weren’t any words to say now. I had so many. So much that I had practiced in the mirror, so much time I’d invested to prepare, and it all crashed.

I know that time has its way with all of us, but you don’t usually get faced with your own unwound entropy in action, no, in an interaction.

“Hello?”

I don’t know if it had been three or thirty seconds but the repetition slapped me to consciousness. “Uh yeah, hi! Is this…Arthur?”

“Yeeeeees?”

“Um, wow, you sound different than I remember.”

“Uuuh who is this?”

This was the hard part, the thing they always mentioned in the documentation about the process: you can tell the truth. You don’t have to pretend you’re some made up uncle in the U.P. who hasn’t been in touch for ten years, you can just be honest. It was basically the biggest selling point.

“Well this is gonna sound crazy, but I’m you. I’m calling from the future.”

Now I’d had about a hundred nightmares of this exact moment, the silence, the rejection. I’d heard about this. The company obviously tries not to make a big deal out of the possibility but you know how people get online, there was no shortage of negative outcomes.

I thought I could hear him breathing for a moment, like he was about to speak but couldn’t find the words. They also talked about this, about how to help get past this.

“It’s ok, I know it’s crazy. It’s pretty crazy for me too.”

“But how could…”

“Can I prove it to you?”

I tried so hard to imagine what this moment would be like for him, what he must be thinking, what I would have been thinking if it were…me? Because it…was? But not exactly.

“Is this a prank?”

“No no no, I promise you this is real as could be, and I’m not trying to scare you. I know things are crazy right now.”

“I just don’t understand…”

“May… I ask you a couple questions.”

“…like what?”

“Well, uh, ok. Can I ask how you’re doing right now?”

“What do you mean?”

“How are you? Has anybody asked you that today?”

“Uh…yeah, my mom asked me that a little while ago, but…”

“Buddy is your dad in the hospital right now?”

A silence. Then he said,  “You kinda sound like him.”

He made me smirk. “No man, you sound a lot like him, and that’s not gonna stop.”

Another silence, this time a little longer, a little different.

“How are you calling me?”

“Uuuh, that’s really hard for me to say. I am calling you through…an app on my phone that lets me call any phone number on any specific day in time.”

“Yo what?”

I couldn’t not laugh; hearing it out loud made it sound so insane, but here it was, working. Just like all the ads. “Yeah! Isn’t that crazy?”

“Ok hold on, I’m not trying to like grill you, but…”

“You need proof.”

“I mean, yeah, I…what you just said sounds insane, but I could believe it.”

“But it could also equally be bullshit, absolutely.”

“Right, you can’t think I’m just not gonna ask questions…”

“Yeah, for sure, I get you,” I said. So casual? Is that weird?

“How old are you?”

“Uh…. I’m 38.”

“On shit, you’re not that old!”

“You’re goddamn right.”

“So like…this time travel shit is gonna happen, like, soon?”

This is not on the agenda, but they said to be truthful, I guess. “Yeah, well, I hadn’t thought…ok, so there was an AI revolution in 2028. I can tell you all the…details? But I’m not an expert at all, I’m honestly just a customer. I don’t know how it works, but you gotta believe that if you’re skeptical right now, I’m utterly convinced.”

“Do you remember this conversation?”

“I…don’t, and it’s hard to say why. I think we live on different timelines or something? Some multiverse shit they discovered when quantum computers really went mainstream about…two years ago?”

“Yo.”

“Yeah, I’m telling you, we’re both going through this right now.”

“Why did you call me today?”

The gravity of the situation returned. “Well, I knew…”

“You knew about Dad.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Uh…I’m in the theater.”

“Where?”

“At school.”

“Oh dude, what time is it?”

“I think it’s like 5:30. It’s been pretty quiet in here.”

“Yeah, no rehearsal?”

“Wrong season.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

“Yeah, damn. So it was your birthday last week too?”

“Uhhh, yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

By this point I had made it to the sofa. This was not what I expected. I came with this plan, and it wasn’t working. This was so…easy? So friendly, like we were buds. I felt…I don’t know, it’s weird. The way that I felt right then was…seen? But of course I did, it’s like having somebody else tell you your own thoughts, that validation was…shocking.

“How is Dad?”

“Uh…yeah, he’s ok. He’s still in the hospital, it’s been a bit but he’s doing a lot better. I think they said it was a stroke, but it was like not that straightforward for some reason? I don’t really know. But yeah. We have so much food in the house. Hitchcock people went crazy.”

“Oh yeeeeah, I remember that. It’s weird, I feel like now I wouldn’t be able to eat any of that stuff.”

“Wait what?”

I wasn’t sure how much to divulge, but I guess I was opening up.

“You’re probably gonna be surprised to hear this, but I’ve been vegan for about four years.”

“Wait really?”

“Yeah, I cut out meat and dairy first, but then there was a massive bird flu pandemic, and it just became necessary to cut out everything else for long enough that I didn’t miss it.”

“That’s CRAZY.”

“It IS fuckin crazy. But I can’t believe that we all took so long to see it.”

“I don’t get it.”

“No no no, don’t worry about it, I don’t want to preach to you, look. This stuff can’t be changed. I don’t know how this call works but the long and short of it is that I’m not trying to warn you, or convince you to do anything. You just live your life. I’m nervous to tell you too much stuff about the future because—“

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He definitely had that anger I recognized. Still recognize.

“Yeah, the point is…”

“The point? There’s a point?”

“Look, no, that’s not what I mean. I can’t…change your life, I can’t…stop Dad from falling. I can’t make you break up with Katie sooner, I can’t tell you to start coding right away, it doesn’t make a difference. I can’t rescue you from the shit. I can’t stop you from fucking up again and again because that’s not how this works. But I can talk to you. You have to live YOUR life. I already lived that part of mine.”

That silence came back, re-gestating. The years between us seemed to stretch further apart like stars in an expanding universe, with swelling vacuums in between. I had gone too far. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t the way.

“Who’s Katie?”

Oh man, he really had no idea.

“Look, I don’t even know if it’s all going to play out the same for you, but I know that right now you feel really fucking lonely.”

He was silent, and it hurt so much, because I finally understood how much it had always hurt to be on the receiving end. But I knew he was trying to decide what to say: ruminating on whether the words he was bursting to release would help or hurt; would the repressed thought bound right behind his lips go too far; would the fear that his heart couldn’t speak truly ever go away?

“Hey what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know! I’m…this is the most fucked up thing that’s ever happened, and it’s happening RIGHT NOW.”

“Yeah I know I know, I didn’t call to make this harder for you, I…”

“So why did you call? Was this just for you? To make you feel better after you’ve already been through the shit?”

“No, please, that’s not it at all. The shit is the best part. If I told you all the secrets, you’d just follow the road map, but you wouldn’t live.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Yes it does, and I can only tell you that in hindsight. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I’m calling to tell YOU that. I’ve been dreaming that I could see the light for the first time again. The dark time is a necessary step, everything without it is meaningless. It’s what makes you.”

The silent refrain. Processing.

“This is terrible though. I feel so helpless.”

“Are you still at the theater?”

“Yeah, I haven’t moved.”

“Go outside.”

I was sitting up now, electricity in my hands. I was there with him, walking uphill to the back of the auditorium, leaning on the door handle with a forearm, shouldering into the hallway, bee-lining it for the glass portal outside.

“Ok. I’m here.”

“Breathe.”

Breathe.

I said, “You don’t ever have to be alone.”

I could hear my heart, and his breath. Slow.

“Can you call again?”

It usually starts with somebody saying something, a bit of dialogue already in progress.

Something like, “Teri, you’re not listening, this is important to me.”

Or, “Uuuuuuh I think he went that way, but that was like an hour ago.”

Or, “If I wanted you to know where I’ve been I would’ve told you.”

But this time it started with silence. The scene was already well underway, but Marla and Grace didn’t have anything to say.

They’d both been sitting in their respective dining chairs for about ten, fifteen minutes, not a word uttered, each intently focused on the other. Eyes locked.

Grace could see the moisture in Marla’s eyes, but she knew how dry her contacts could get, so she wasn’t ready to lay the blame on any potential emotional turmoil. Not yet.

Marla’s fountain pen rested across her middle finger and thumb, her index finger hooked over the top. She often held it like this, soaking in the placebo effect of writing, without the writing part.

She loved that pen. It had accompanied dozens of book signings, and she’d even gone viral at one point for dipping the tip into her little ink pot before making her mark — her signature signature, if you will.

The air had thickened, like invisible smoke, too heavy to breathe, too dense to break the tension with something stupid like words.

Grace hated that pen. She couldn’t really explain why, but she internally characterized her distaste as the same kind of resentment you might feel toward someone who keeps their childhood teddy bear at arm’s length, despite being well beyond the expected years. The pen was a security blanket, a crutch for discomfort, and it made Grace feel something that here they were, together, in the home they built, and something was happening under the hood that glued that obnoxious, outdated pen to her partner’s hand.

And still, no talk.

Marla’s stories often imagined a future that she liked to call “Post Tech”, where humans had progressed far enough so as not to need the devices we all rely on today. But of course there was tech, it was just biological modifications that could connect a person’s brain to the Net directly, so nothing external was necessary. No desktops, no phones, no screens. This is where Marla dreamed of being, where her curiosities about Grace’s mind could be investigated beyond words, where the neurological activity of emotions could be directly shared, without losing anything to translation. No need for words, never again.

But here am I, shackled to the present, where words comprise the entire utility belt of understanding, and I carry the lens to the place where Marla wishes to go.

Interestingly enough, Marla isn’t welcome inside Grace’s mind. They’d been together for over twelve years, seen all the clichéd ups and downs, weathered many storms. They were good. Naturally, Grace read everything Marla had ever published, dating back to all the silly periodicals in the Harvard Gazette that Marla kept in that oversized portfolio in the attic. She’d climbed up one January with the Christmas Lights and literally stumbled upon the old folio. Before she knew it she’d lost two hours to the deep dive on Marla’s past, feeling somewhat naughty for having discovered the works on her own, and more intimate for reasons she struggled to describe.

Words were not Grace’s thing.