Microstory 233: Perspective Eight

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Perspective Seven

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I’m corrupt, but I’ve certainly broken a rule or two. Or three. There are some laws-slash-suggestions that are just too inconvenient—nay, impractical. Trying to follow every single one of them just wouldn’t be good for my heart—I mean, the populace. But now my superiors are asking me to keep quiet on a matter relevant to a case involving the local police. The fact is that we were investigating a suspect for an entirely separate case, and found him to be innocent. There were some things we determined based on the profile we made about him, but it’s not like we had anything definitive. We had no evidence; we only had suspicions. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t really care. The police officer who shot and killed him is not a concern of mine. I just wish the FBI would realize that I have their best interests at heart. Someday, the truth will come out. It won’t be tomorrow, it might be ten years from now, but at some point, someone is going to be in a position to catch a file that indicates what we knew and when we knew it. It would be better for them to just reveal this bit of information now and assure people that there was no way for us to stop what happened to the girl he ended up kidnapping. No law enforcement agency is responsible for preventing crime, or worse, carrying out justice on crimes that have not yet happened. But we should tell them because they need to have all the facts before they make a determination for what happens to the officer in question. I just don’t want to be the one to have to speak up about it. It would be tragically ironic if the one time I went against the bureau by doing the right thing is the one time I get caught. Well, it would be less ironic, and more annoying. Never mind. I’m just gonna let it go. But I am going to make a copy of the evidence, just so you'll at least know:

Perspective Nine

Microstory 232: Perspective Seven

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Perspective Six

As a therapist, I understand that it’s my job to be patient, unbiased, and careful. It can get pretty hard, though. One of my clients is a chronic cheater. I’ve tried to give him my best professional opinion on the matter, but in the end, he’s an adult. At some point, you just need to grow up and make the decision to stop your destructive behavior. I admit that I kind of tried a little experiment with him. I kept altering my diagnosis little by little. Each time I did, he would be able to resist his temptations for a while, but then he would regress. His brain was excellent at finding loopholes to his condition, so that he would never have to actually change his ways and commit to being a better person. When I first went to college, I had every intention of studying philosophy. I knew this upperclassman girl in high school who happened to be taking philosophy class while I was a freshman. She gave me her locker combination, and I would regularly go in and take her textbook to read ahead of time. Once I actually took the class for myself, I was a superstar, and already knew the “answers”. But then I got to college and realized that I no longer cared. I don’t know what happened in the short year between my formal introduction to the field and starting summer classes at the university, but I was done with it. I understood the value of asking questions with no answers, but I was no longer personally interested in the matter.

I spent a couple of years trying a few things; English literature, film and theatre, and even art history, the biggest cliché of all. Upon starting psychology, time was running out, and I really just needed to settle on something. It was a relatively small program, if you can believe it, so I chose to trust the devil I knew. I continued to pursue the subject in graduate school, and here I am. I considered going after the research side of the field, because I’m not a particularly warm and inviting person, but there’s too much math. I kind of have to push myself to talk to these people every day. But now I find myself trying to figure out the solution to a dilemma. After some deductive reasoning, I’ve discovered that my newest client is one of my oldest clients’ most recent extramarital affair. I suppose it was bound to happen, with statistics being what they are. Both of them are aware of some vital information regarding an ongoing case involving a kidnapping and a police shooting. The new client is an FBI agent who’s being told to hold back the evidence while the old client just overheard it, and is married to the cop involved. Suddenly I’m feeling like I should have at least kept going with philosophy for one more semester, so I would have had the opportunity to take Ethics.

Perspective Eight

Microstory 231: Perspective Six

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Perspective Five

Image courtesy of Jay Highfill.

My wife has been on the job for too long. She claims to be years from retirement, but she could do it now, and we would still be fine. I suppose I shouldn’t say that we would be fine. I’ve been stepping out on her off and on pretty much since our relationship began, so we haven’t ever felt truly together. I justify my actions by pretending that she knows about it, but the reality is that I have no idea if she has any idea. We got together when we were young, before being gay was socially acceptable. She was my beard at the time, but I failed to inform her of the position. It’s a bad excuse anyway, because I don’t only cheat on her with guys. I thought I might be addicted to sex, but my therapist suggests I’m really addicted to the thrill. Apparently the sex itself isn’t relevant, but I just like knowing that I could get caught at any moment. The fact that my wife owns several guns and is smart enough to know how to get rid of a body makes it that much more exciting. I didn’t know if I believed that theory, but any idea to get me to stop what I’m doing is a good one. I actually did manage to stop for almost two years, but then I met this hot young thing at a bar frequented by my wife’s colleagues, and I just couldn’t resist. I guess my therapist was right. My wife is in hearings all day after an officer-involved shooting by her partner, so I decide to meet my lover at “the usual place”. While I’m drying off after a shower, I overhear my latest fling on the phone with his superiors at the FBI. I can’t hear the whole thing, but I do learn that the suspect my wife’s partner killed was previously under investigation for sex-related crimes. I don’t hear when or why the investigation was dropped. I feel the need to tell my wife the new information, but how do I explain how I found out about it?

Perspective Seven

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 3, 2057

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“Prince Darko,” Leona said.

“Why does he call himself that?”

“He hasn’t explained it,” she replied.

“And he wants to see me?”

“He says you and he have something in common.” That can’t be good. The Cleanser said that he would be contacting him again in the next few days, not the very next day. But it would be odd to have two different nicknames anyway, so it probably isn’t The Cleanser come calling. No, but it is an unusual coincidence. They have to be wary about everyone they meet, but when a strange young man interrupts Leona’s walk with her little big brother, there is an even greater cause for concern.

“He didn’t say anything else?” Mateo asked.

“No, but he claims to be a salmon, just like us. He stressed the part about being just like us, in fact.”

“I don’t like you talking to people who come out of nowhere in the park. How the hell did he find you?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Well,” Mateo began,” send him in, and cancel my 10:30.”

“Yes sir,” Leona said, snickering.

Mateo grabbed the miniature bat from the corner while Leona opened the door and let the stranger in. Prince Darko took a look at it and said, “you don’t need that.”

Mateo did not respond, because it was an obviously stupid remark.

“May we speak alone?”

“She’s my partner. I don’t like to be away from her.”

Darko looked at Leona like he did not approve of their relationship.

“She stays, or you go. Or she stays and you go. That would be even better.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“No der,” Mateo spat. “I don’t trust anybody. But I especially don’t trust anyone who claims to be a prince.”

“I’m not actually a prince. That’s just what my mother always called me, and now that I’m a salmon, I have trouble answering to anything else.”

“You mean...” Leona started.

“Yes,” he answered before she finished her question. “The powers that be implanted the name in my brain so that I can’t use anything else, just like they do with resurrected salmon. I’m sure they get a good laugh out of it.”

“Well, Prince Darko,” Mateo said. “How can we help you?”

He was struggling to come up with the right words. “I’m your...third leg.”

“My what?” That was inappropriate.

“Of the tripod,” he clarified. “We’re a tripod. You, Leona, and I are three of a kind. I’m on your pattern.”

“Since when?”

“To be honest, I was on this pattern before you were, so technically it’s mine.”

“Where have you been?”

“It’s a big, big world,” was all he said.

“That’s not an answer,” Leona said.

“I lived in Ohio,” Prince Darko explained. “I don’t know why, but only recently did The Delegator contact me and inform me of your existence. I’ve been doing this alone for forty-five days.”

Mateo looked over to Leona who told him that he would have begun in 2012, a full two years before Mateo’s first jump. “What have you been up to then?”

“Nothing interesting. I was in my house when it happened. When I jumped back into the timestream, there was another family living there, which was a lot of fun at midnight. Fortunately, I had paid for an entire year of self-storage, so I took all my camping supplies, and I’ve been living off the land ever since.”

“Just like that?” Mateo asked suspiciously. You realized what was going on within one day, which is not yet a pattern, and took the opportunity to start a new life. How could you have known that it was going to happen again?”

“I didn’t. I just...needed somewhere to live, and my tent was already there. It was only after I jumped again that I discovered my timeslipping wasn’t going away.”

Mateo looked to Leona again who only shrugged her shoulders. His story was believable enough, but it was still weird that they had not yet heard of him before. Why did the powers that be wait to bring them together? “Why did the powers that be wait to bring us together?”

“I was told that you were busy running for your lives. I guess they didn’t want to interrupt that.”

“You seemed to have been told a lot. How long was your conversation with the Delegator?”

“Look, I understand that you need to feel me out and size me up, but I’m just telling you what I know. I’m not here to hurt you, or step on anyone’s toes. I’m just trying to keep my head down and do what I’m told.”

“That’s not really our style,” Leona said. “We question everything, and we resist.”

“That’s fine,” Prince Darko said with some excitement. “When I say I do what I’m told, I’m referring to you. Tell me what to do. This is your show.”

“Please wait outside,” Leona told him dismissively. “We need to discuss your application.”

“Very well,” Prince Darko said humbly, with a bow.

“Hope for the best, plan for the worst,” Mateo argued after the stranger had gone.

“Never do anything without having an answer for why,” Leona argued back.

“Never assume you already have the whole story.”

“Never be surprised.”

“Treat everyone you meet with respect.”

“Do not relinquish control of your own life.”

She had a point there. He had no answer to it. “Um...pack the essentials?”

“Did you hear what he said about it being midnight?”

“Yeah, he jumps at the same time we do, which would make sense.”

“No,” Leona complained. “He’s from Ohio. Midnight there is eleven o’clock for us. He’s not on our pattern.”

“So, he’s an hour early. He can’t control that. What exactly is the problem?”

“Don’t you think, if the powers that be wanted him to be part of the group, they would have us on the exact same schedule?”

“Since when do we do something “just cuz the powers say so”.

“That’s a good point,” Leona said hesitantly. “I guess.”

“I feel something for him,” Mateo said. “It’s the same feeling I had when I first met Danica. I think we may be related.”

“Funny that didn’t work when you were dating your sister, Frida.”

“We’re not gonna talk about that!” Mateo yelled, likely loud enough for Prince Darko to hear.

“Whatever.” Leona crossed her arms like a little child.

“Darko is a Croatian name,” Mateo said. “Just like Daria, just like Mario, just like Danica, and just like Mateo.”

She closed her eyelids softly and shook her head slightly. “I suppose I didn’t know that. That would be another odd coincidence. And I imagine, if you two are related, it’s not out of the realm of possibility for the powers that be to keep you apart, just for funsies.”

Mateo stuck his head out the door and looked down the hall to Prince Darko. “Hey, are we related?”

“I am the illegitimate son of Mario Matic.”

Without saying anything else, Mario pulled himself back through the doorway. “Well, there you go. That was easy.”

“Why didn’t he say that when he was pleading his case?”

“Why’s the sky blue? Why does it always fall butter side down?”

“Light scatter and half spin,” Leona said, like he was a dummy for not knowing the answers.

“We’re letting him into our group,” Mateo said, taking charge. “And we’re going to see where it goes. “Treat everyone you meet with respect,” he repeated.

“I sure hope you’re right,” Leona said in a cautious voice.

“If he kills us and where’s our skin, then that’s life. I’m seventy-one years old.”

She scoffed and shook her head. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Were I you,” Mateo said to her lovingly.

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Overwritten: Confused and Grumpy (Part II)

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Brian and I make some big decisions. If I’ve been given a second chance at life then I have a responsibility to go full force. College was nice the first time around, but it didn’t really help me in the end. One thing I do know is what companies are going to succeed and when. Sort of. I don’t exactly have perfect recall, so it’s not like I can invest in a company and sell it off the day before it makes a big dip. I also feel the need to keep myself particularly anonymous, in case Horace Reaver or his sponsor realize that they weren’t the only ones who went back in time. Instead, it’s my job to tell Brian what stocks to buy, and give him by best estimate as to when to sell them. Everything is in his name. Lincoln Rutherford is nobody.

While we’re living off of our investments, we move to Kansas and try to keep tabs on Horace Reaver. Our families are shocked by our massive shifts in lifestyles, but the money I send to my parents on a weekly basis is enough to keep them from asking too many questions. I assure them that it has nothing to do with guns or drugs, and they consider that to be a satisfactory answer. It’s fairly easy to convince them since there is a paper trail, and I’m not lying. We don’t do anything too big because, again, we don’t want to raise suspicion. The IRS and the FTC are threats to us as well. As far as we can tell, Reaver isn’t killing anybody. But then again, he’s just a kid at this point in the timeline. He does check himself into a mental institution, but we don’t quite know why.

After a few months of being completely confused and grumpy about sometimes having the knowledge of two conflicting outcomes of events, Brian makes a suggestion. I start to keep a journal, and even later publish my writings to a public blog, under the guise of fictional stories. I write down anything and everything I remember from the alternate timeline, so that when this timeline overwrites my memories, I have some reference to go back to. I half believe the timey-wimey ball will erase my stories from the web just because, but it keeps rolling and leaves me alone. I spend a not insignificant amount of time rereading my own work after the memories in question have left me. The stories feel like just that; stories. They don’t seem real to me, and I barely recall even writing them down. It’s like another person’s life, but everything he does is what I would do. This gives reliable ol’ Brian yet another bright idea. Since my memory loss is giving me a fair amount of stress, he helps me check myself into the same mental institution as Horace Reaver. This allows me to get a closer look while also hopefully actually helping me feel better. Again, it’s not like I’m lying.

“My name’s Kyle,” a man several years older than me says with his hand outstretched, like we’re meeting for a business lunch.

“Lincoln.”

“You don’t like to talk in group.”

“No.”

“You’re losing memories?”

“I am.”

“I think there’s something more to it.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Kyle eyes me curiously. “I’m just gonna throw something out there. Know that I’m a lawyer, and I can tell when you’re lying. So it doesn’t matter how you answer. I’ll know the truth from your reaction; your microexpressions.”

“Give it a shot,” I say, trying to sound as cool as possible. Does he know?

“Are you a time traveler?” He does, what the hell?

“No.”

He smiles and lifts his head in understanding.

I take a chance, “I mean, yes. How did you know?”

“I’ve seen it before.”

“How do you know they weren’t lying?”

“No, I mean I literally saw it. A few years ago, my friend disappeared before my eyes in a cemetery. I just saw him about a week ago. He came to prove that he’s still alive and well. But I can tell that he’s the same.”

“What do you mean he’s the same?” I repeat.

“I mean for me it’s been years, but I can tell that it’s only been a few days for him, not because he hasn’t aged, but because he hasn’t grown. He’s been skipping time. I don’t know why since I’m not in his circle of trust, but he’s not my concern. I only used him as a template so that when a second guy told me that he was in a similar condition, it just confirmed it. Time travel is real. That second traveler actually lives here.”

“Horace Reaver,” I say.

“He’s talked to you too,” he says, only half as a question.

“As far as I know, he does not know about me. I would appreciate it if you kept me to yourself. It’s possible I was sent back with him to keep him in line.”

“Why would he need that?”

“He killed people in the future.”

“So you’re not having memory problems?” Kyle asks, not as worried about learning that his little friend is a murder.

“No, I am,” I clarify. “But my memories of 2038 have yet to be overwritten, so they’re still there. I know what he is, and I have to stop him.”

“We can do that together. As long as it means you’re not planning on killing him.”

“My friend says that you can’t kill Hitler.”

“He’s as bad as Hitler?”

“No,” I say, holding back a terrible laugh. “It’s just an expression. If I tried stopping him before he becomes what he becomes, then I could end up being the one who makes him what he becomes. So for now, I’m just going to watch.”

“He has big ideas about the future, Lincoln,” Kyle admits. “He doesn’t want to take over the world, but he wants to make it a better place. Whether he’s capable of this is yet to be seen, but he certainly believes that to be his destiny.”

“I see.”

“Since you apparently know what he turns into, should I stop him? Should I crush his dreams?”

I think about this for a moment. Brian says that Hitler's Time Travel Exemption Act is not to be taken so literally. If time doesn’t want you to do something, then you won’t be able to do it. One thing to keep in mind is that Reaver is in the same boat. He knows the same things as me, if not more. He’s apparently already shown an interest in doing things differently. Perhaps his entire goal is to prevent his own murders by making his life better, so he’s not necessarily fated to become a maniac. There’s a chance to save him, but I have to be in it for the long haul. No single moment makes someone who they are. This is going to be a fulltime job, and I’m going to need help. Kyle is perfect, because I don’t have to convince him of the truth. I just need to stay with him, and make sure that we’re making the right decisions. But from behind the scenes. It is absolutely imperative that Horace Reaver know nothing of my involvement, or the plan fails; whatever that plan may turn out to be. “Foster his dreams,” I say, almost like an order.

“How’s that now? He wants to build a multi-billion dollar conglomerate. Are we sure that’s wise?”

“All the better. He wasn’t a billionaire in the original timeline, and that’s the one where he kills people. I was never familiar enough with the case to fully understand his motivations, but if he’s rich, maybe that’ll be enough. At the very least, we’ve stepped on a number of butterflies by helping him. We must diverge from the other timeline as much as possible. I understand this now.” I grow very serious and start pointing my finger at Kyle. “But you have to stay with him. You have to make him a better person. Don’t give yourself away, but don’t slack off. Give him what he needs, even if he doesn’t know what that is.”

“What are you going to do?”

I shrug. “I’m going to do what I already know. I’m going to become a security guard. And if he ever does build that conglomerate, I’ll be the first in line to apply.”

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Microstory 230: Perspective Five

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Perspective Four

Ever since that movie came out, I haven’t been able to crankily say that I’m too old for this ish. I thought it applied back then but now, I really, actually, truly am too old. For some reason, when I first became a cop, I didn’t think I would be doing it my whole life. Most people make a career out of this, or maybe they make a lateral move to private security, but it ain’t no steppin’ stone, that’s for sure. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I’ve been doubting my life choices for years now. I’m not gonna lie and say that I was one day from retirement, or some poetic nonsense like that. I’m still years away. Thanks, Obama! That was a joke; I voted for him twice, and I’d vote for him again if I could. And it’s not just because I’m black. I’m a woman too, and I seriously considered the platforms of the candidates before voting, despite what the republicans claim about “the black vote”. In fact, were it not for Palin, John McCain would have been a serious contender during my mind’s inner debate. But maybe that’s just the result of me having trouble focusing on one thing for too long; hence, this paragraph right here. I was assigned to be the partner of yet another rookie recently. I go through them like candy, not because I can’t get along with them, but because the bosses consider me to the best at training new officers. I kind of feel like a foster mother, always temporary until something better comes along. But I’m happy to do it, and I’m proud when one of my former little birds goes on to do something great. This one’s tough, though. He took to the job immediately, evidently a grand departure from his history of starting but never following through on new projects. He’s eager to learn and willing to take on the boring tasks, like paperwork. He doesn’t complain, and he doesn’t automatically think he knows what’s best. No, what makes this difficult is that he was just involved in a shooting. Many law enforcement officers spend their whole careers never firing their weapon in the field, like me. The fact that it happened to him so early is suspicious, at best. I fully intend to stay on this side and show the department my support and trust in him, but I worry it won’t be enough. I wasn’t on the scene at the time, nor was anyone else left alive. He has a long road ahead of him, and I guess for once I’m glad retirement isn’t in my near future, so I can keep fostering him.

Perspective Six

Microstory 229: Perspective Four

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Perspective Three

When I was a child, I wanted to be a scientist. In fifth grade, I caught wind of this branch of science called biochemistry. I latched onto it, not because I had any clue as to what that meant, but because it sounded sophisticated and impressive. Flash forward three years later and I’m failing science class. And wouldn’t you know it, it’s all due to the chemistry section. I had this idea of science in my head, but I didn’t have any aptitude for it. I just kept deluding myself into thinking that I’ll eventually be able to figure it out, and things will just work themselves into place. That was a terrifying moment, looking at the grades hung up on the wall of the hallway. What was I going to do with my life now? I had no clue, but I was determined to find my passion...just as soon as I spent a bunch of years aimless and wasteful. I barely graduated from high school, and had to drop out of college, partially due to money constraints, but also because I was an idiot. I kept myself up with minimum wage temp jobs for a few more years. During my free time, I started taking whatever continuing education program I could find at the community college. Web development, plumbing, EMT training; it was all nice to know, but nothing came of it. I even took a few airplane flying lessons, but didn’t quite have the scratch for it. One day, my mom was forcing me to get all my crap out of her house when I stumbled upon a book. It was dedicated to my grade school years. There were report cards, some of my best assignments, and yearbook photos. Each year also listed what I wanted to be when I grew up. Every year since preschool, I listed policeman. It wasn’t until fourth grade that I changed my answer to some kind of science professional. It was a child’s dream, no better (if not worse) than scientist, but nothing else was working, so I might as well give it a shot. I’m not a month out of the academy when I’m sent out to track down an alleged kidnapper. Finding him is surprisingly easy, and I do everything right, following all protocols. But he’s not well in the head, and after a bunch of nonsense about losing his teenage infant daughter, he insists on blitzing me. I have no choice but to shoot him dead. Maybe I should have worked harder in photography class.

Perspective Five

Microstory 228: Perspective Three

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Perspective Two

I’m still not sure if this was a good idea or not. After I won the lottery, a part of me wanted to do something practical; to invest in my future. Another part of me wanted to do something fun, something spontaneous, something stupid. These two halves of my heart collided and compromised on some farmland. I don’t know what I was thinking, though. After taxes, I only earned a few hundred thousand dollars, and it’s not like I had any experience. I spent my whole life in the city, with my dream of living in the country being created when I was a child and my parents convinced me that my dog went to live on a farm. Even after growing out of that lie, I still yearned for “fresh air”. Whatever that means, I’ve yet to be impressed. I bought some land with a halfway decent barn. All I needed to do was commission a tiny home, build a fence, plant some crops, lease some equipment, find some animals, and learn how to do everything. Easy. Of course, it wasn’t. I hired an extra hand, but I’m not able to pay him much because I’ve yet to turn a profit, and I’m nearly out of my winnings. The only good thing about this plan was that, even though people knew I was a lottery winner, I didn’t seem like a winner to them. The number of people who asked me for handouts were few and far between, especially once they found out that I wasn’t exactly a millionaire. Today, I’m rather grateful for my decision, and almost think God might have had something to do with putting me here. Sure, I’ve been placed in quite a bit of danger, but now this girl who has literally run into my life has a fighting chance. She’s either in late middle school or early high school. She’s been dressed up in one of those terribly unflattering gowns they used to put on babies for photographs two centuries ago. She’s obviously malnourished and exhausted. With barely a thought to consequences, I call the police and tell them what I know. I then take the girl out to my truck and drive off, because there’s no other farm for miles, and this will be the first place the kidnapper looks. I knew there was something off about that guy. A woman can always tell.

Perspective Four