The Mirrors Read online

  “What’s this have to do with not havin’ to stand in line?”

  “Like I said when we first met, in the homeless shelter of the future—by which I mean, the future from your point of view; the present and past from mine—there are no lines. Now let me finish. I thought you said you weren’t going to interrupt me.”

  “Ain’t no interruption, just a question. Here’s another: If it’s so much better in the future, why ain’t you there?”

  “It’s not as easy as just wishing to time travel. We have to find another scholar who’s traveled back to this time and stowaway in his timeship.”

  Gene smiled. He had the little guy right smack dab in his crosshairs. “See? That’s where your story don’t add up. If you’re from the future, how come you don’t have a timeship?”

  The little man shook his head. Rolled his eyes. “That’s like me asking you how come you don’t have a car.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. Once, sometime in your past … did you used to have a car?”

  “What kinda flunky do you think I am? Of course I had a car once. I’ll have one again someday, too, once I get back on my feet.”

  “Let me ask you this: Did you ever have to live out of your car?”

  “Well, sure … when things started to go downhill.”

  “Well, for awhile I had to live in my timeship.”

  “Your timeship?”

  “Okay,” the little guy fessed up. “The university’s timeship. It’s just that when my mom came down with a bad case of the cerebellum blur, I had to divert some of my student loan money to her medical care.”

  “The Sarah-what?”

  “Don’t ask. That’s the one part of the future you definitely don’t want to know. Anyway … that left me short of money for room and board at the university, so I tried to just live on the timeship in between excursions. No one really seemed to mind. Then I started taking it away for unscheduled excursions, just so nobody else would use it. I told everyone I was just trying to get extra credit. Like you, I had to be a drifter. Only instead of going from place to place, I went from time to time, saving up a little money … looking for items from one time I thought might become valuable antiques in another. Visiting the homeless shelters, too. Sometimes I told myself that I was there to do real research. And I even halfheartedly tried to make notes and discreetly record images so that I’d have something to show for my efforts, but—if I was really honest with myself—I was mostly using them to get a hot meal.”

  “So you’re expectin’ me to believe that you went from bein’ a college kid to livin’ in shelters?”

  “Well, things got really bad off when my timeship got stolen.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Well, when I sold it to a pawn store. Which, you know, is practically like being stolen. I had a buddy in another department at the university who promised to come back and get me. I thought I could sell the ship, take the earnings, and buy some gold, platinum, I don’t know, something that would hold its value until 2835. The plan was that he would then come pick me up, and I would sell the precious metals when I arrived back in 2835 and help pay for Mom’s treatment.”

  Gene nodded his head, appreciatively. “Not a bad plan, really. You’d just have to explain to the college how you lost the ship.”

  “Yeah,” the little guy agreed. “And, in my plan, I’d tell the university that it was stolen. Because, you know, practically it was.”

  “Damn straight,” Gene said. He wiped his sweating forehead with the hem of his T-shirt, revealing the jungle of hair where his belly should have been. “I mean, not that I’m sayin’ I actually believe you. Just that, if I was gonna believe you, that story would make sense.”

  They took another half-step forward.

  “So all I gotta do to is find a timeship and stowaway.”

  “I think you’re gonna be out of luck, kid. Like I said, I’ve been around here a year. And I ain’t ever seen no timeships.”

  “Of course you’ve never seen them,” the little guy said. “The historians couldn’t get very reliable records if everyone knew they were being studied. Timeships … they’re always camouflaged.”

  “Camouflaged?”

  “Yeah. Cloaking technology. All the timeships for the early twenty-first century, for example, are cloaked to look like ice cream trucks.”

  For the first time in months, Gene smiled. The idea of time-traveling ice cream trucks struck him as pleasant, even fitting, as ice cream trucks always seemed to him not quite right. Like something that had seen its heyday about forty years ago but still lingered, in an almost-creepy kind of way, into the present. “You gotta be shittin’ me. Listen … let’s say, just for a second, that I did believe you. Why bother tellin’ me all this? I mean, if you’re worried about people knowin’ they’re bein’ studied, then you just blew it, big time.”

  “Because I’m not much of a scholar anymore, am I? I’m homeless. Worse than homeless. Timeless. You think you have it bad because you drift from city to city. What do you think it’s like drifting from time to time? Trying to come up with enough money to pay for Mom’s treatment and now, also, enough money for my own legal defense. I’m pretty sure that my buddy who was supposed to come back for me … well, I’m pretty sure he—how do you say this in your time?—that he ‘snitched’ on me instead.”

  Gene’s eyes widened. In the code of the streets, wasn’t nothin’ lower than a snitch. In the code of the streets, wasn’t no one more deserving of help than a dude who’d just gotten snitched on. Gene started to feel something deep down in his gut. He knew what it was like to get snitched on. He started to feel a little guilty about making the deal for the cigarettes. He started to feel sorry for the little guy.

  “For real, you’re on the lam? Then hidin’ out here in a homeless shelter is the last thing you should do. I mean, they call the Louisville-Metro Police in here all the time to arrest people with warrants against ’em.”

  The little guy rolled his eyes. “It’s not the Louisville-Metro Police that I’m worried about.”

  Gene decided to play along. “Sure … well, um, what I mean is that the future people are studyin’ what goes on in homeless shelters, right? Which means they might have eyes here.”

  The line moved two steps forward.

  The little guy gave nervous glances to his left and his right. “No ice cream trucks. I’m safe.”

  “So you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. You need an ice cream truck to time travel back to 2835, but if the ice cream truck driver sees you, then you could get locked up.”

  “That’s where you come in.” The little guy looked at Gene all bug-eyed. “I mean, I’m scrawny but you’re not. They know me, but they don’t know you. You could give us the element of surprise, you could really knock them for a loop, then I could join in and, well—I don’t know—kick them in the testicles or something. Two guys could take over a timeship easier than one. That’s what it comes down to. And wouldn’t it be better to go someplace without lines?”

  How could it not be better in a place without lines? Right then, with his feet aching the way they were and the air itself smothering him, he felt half-tempted to help the little psycho knock over an ice cream truck, just for kicks. He’d get in the back and have a fudgsicle. Hell, even if they got caught, it might be worth it. Didn’t they keep the jail air-conditioned nowadays? Didn’t they keep it less crowded than the shelter on a white flag day? Wouldn’t he have a bed there—a shitty bed, of course, but wouldn’t it be better than a place on the floor? If he didn’t have that suspended sentence hangin’ over him, he’d do it. But the last time he’d gotten snitched on (for stealing some rich guy’s Schwinn) the judge gave him a year on the shelf. There wasn’t no fudgsicle on God’s green Earth worth that.

  He arched his back and stretched his arms. Decided to turn down the little guy’s offer without bein’ a dick about it. Decided not to call him out a
s a nutcase anymore, and just go along with him. “I dunno, dude. For real, it just seems like I’d be swappin’ one problem for another. Microchips. Drones. Nets. That disease you mentioned, the one that’s so awful you won’t even tell me about it. People throwin’ ’emselves out of flyin’ cars.”

  “Buses,” the little guy said. “Flying buses.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Anyway … you get my drift, I think. There’s never been a cool time in history to be homeless, yanno?” Gene chuckled at the thought. “It’s never been what we’d call stylish. If what you say is true, then I guess it’s also the case that it never will be, either. No matter what year you travel to, they all suck. No matter what year you travel to, seems like there’s always people livin’ on the streets. Always people like us around. You know, that’s sad as hell. Yeah, I mean, you make it sound like they tinker with things here and there, but honestly … don’t sound like much has changed. You might as well stop thinkin’ about time travelin’ and try to find satisfaction here in 2015.”

  The little guy got this look—like a balloon that suddenly lost all its air. Gene thought he might start to cry. Lord, he didn’t need that right next to him. Not with a ways left to go in the line and the sun hovering right over him like a lamp over a suspect in one of those old crime flicks.

  The little guy balled up his fists. Suddenly, his bronze tan had a red tint to it. “Oh, yeah? Well, I guess there’s never been a cool place to be homeless, either. Did you ever think about that, Einstein? Chicago didn’t work out for you, apparently. Neither did Buffalo. Maybe there’s no perfect place to be homeless. No matter what city you travel to, they all suck. No matter what city you travel to, seems like there’s always people living on the streets. Always people like us around. Maybe each city tinkers a little with the way they treat the homeless, but it’s basically all the same … basically, it all sucks! Maybe, the way I see it, your drifting around space is every bit as futile as my drifting around time!” He flung the box of smokes at Gene’s belly. “Here, I’m a man of my word. I’ve said my piece. Take the Chesterfields!”

  The line moved two steps, and for a long time afterward they both stood in awkward silence. Neither, now, had the energy or desire for words. Sweat trickled down their cheeks and chests and ass-cracks. A gust of hellish wind kicked up, sending a blast of oven-hot air and the smell of piss into their faces. About ten feet ahead of them, a young guy in a wheelchair started to cry for his mother.

  Yet they did not flee nor did they falter. When chimes played “Turkey in the Straw” on the speakers of a passing white truck, they both cast their glance to the ground as though chastened. As the Doppler effect took over, warping the music like water going down a drain, they let it go. They both now knew that no matter where they went in space or time, things would never be much better. So they kept walking in silence, toward the stuffy, stinking coolness of the Mission.

  The Company Town

  About two weeks after Mom’s funeral, Dad loaded up a moving van and drove us north to the company town. In between puffs on his cigarette, he tried to get me to go to sleep. “The trip will go faster that way,” he said.

  “But I don’t want to leave Louisville,” I whined. “Indiana’s dumb. Meghan and Cheyenne are going to start middle school without me.”

  He let out a sigh and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He looked as if he was on the verge of another crying jag, but knew he couldn’t give into it because he was driving.

  I turned on my side and tried to act as though I was taking a nap. I kept my eyes half-open, though, so I could glance at the shopping mall and Chuck E. Cheese’s and skating rink I was leaving behind. I wanted a last look at each of them. I didn’t want our van to cross the bridge into southern Indiana. I suspected that the only things to see out the window there were dumb truck stops, dumb junkyards, and dumb cows. At least, that’s what Meghan and Cheyenne had told me when I gave them the bad news.

  But cross we did. I spotted a dented, dingy sign welcoming us to our new state. A heaviness settled in my throat as I considered the fact that the entire Ohio River now stood between me and Mom’s grave. Why were we just leaving her there? The whole thing felt disloyal. Having seen all I cared to see of Indiana for the day, I decided I preferred sleep. I closed my eyes completely, this time napping for real.

  By the time I woke, night had fallen. The van was making an awkward, too-crazy-a-curve exit off the Interstate and I could hear all our boxes shifting and flopping around in the back. I looked out the window and tried to find the moon, but couldn’t. Plenty of streetlamps brightened the roadside, though. Moths fluttered around them and into them, over and over. Much of this light made it into the van, but some of it didn’t. I turned my head toward Dad and thought I noticed his cheeks were moist.

  “You’re up?” he asked. He sounded as if he’d accidentally let me glimpse something I wasn’t supposed to see. “Why don’t you get a little more sleep?”

  I fidgeted in my seat. Looked out the window and saw a long, squat, red brick building. A white sign with black lettering announced it as PISTOL STORAGE. Similar buildings lined both sides of the road, adorned with signs revealing them to be ROPE STORAGE and PILL STORAGE.

  I pointed to the latter. “Looks as though they’re ready in case the whole town gets sick,” I said, noting the building’s size.

  Dad just bit his lip the way he always did when he was trying to find a way to tell me something he knew I wouldn’t like. Then he changed the subject. “Okay, let’s find a motel.”

  “But you told Aunt Susan that we had a place to—”

  “Never mind what I told Aunt Susan. Just do your old man a favor and keep an eye out for someplace to stay.”

  We drove beyond the well-lit warehouse district and into a shadowy block littered with deserted storefronts and one or two places that looked as if they might have been bars. On the side of an old brick house there was a flickering red neon sign that said INFORMATION. I pointed it out to Dad.

  “Atta girl,” he said. He pulled the moving van toward the curb with his left hand while tousling my curls with his right. Part of his palm rested on my forehead. It felt sweaty. “Okay now, let’s do this.”

  I’d looked forward to getting out of the van. I needed to stretch my legs. But the moment my nostrils hit the company town’s sour air, I dry heaved.

  Dad coughed and tried to pass it off as a giggle. “Getting sick, eh? You’re just nervous about seeing your new town, ain’tcha?”

  I held my breath and rushed inside, tramping through the lobby’s thick, maroon carpet to join Dad at the counter. A pale, wrinkled lady stood behind it. She had dark circles under her eyes and her scraggly gray hair looked as though it hadn’t been combed in months.

  “Where’s the nearest place to stay for the night?”

  Her voice cracked when she spoke. “That information’s for authorized personnel only. May I see your identification please?”

  “I’m sorry … maybe you misunderstood. I just need directions to a motel.”

  “Sir, I asked for your identification. No ID, no directions.”

  Dad paused as though considering his options, then retrieved his driver’s license and pushed it toward her.

  Her face scrunched up into something that I think was supposed to be a smirk. “I’m sorry, sir. This just won’t do. I meant, company identification.”

  Underneath the counter, Dad’s hand started to tremble. “I’m … well I’m between jobs right now.”

  She began typing something into a computer. “I see.

  Here for business reasons, I take it? A potential customer?”

  “Yes, here to make a purchase.”

  “For you and your daughter?”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice, but I could still hear him. “Of course for both of us. The girl’s mother just died. You don’t think I’d leave her all alone, do you? I was thinking we’d do it with a garage. That way we could both do
it at the same time for one price. It’d be, well, you know, easier than some of the other ways, too.”

  “All the methods are easy here. Relatively speaking, I mean. That’s the whole point. Once you make the purchase, there’s no need to work up the courage. If I may for a moment be frank, the company specializes in a clientele of cowards. Too many folks just want to play Hamlet. But once you make the purchase, the company takes it from there. The company makes things happen. For example: on the morning of the event, they sedate you so you don’t try to run. You know, in case you change your mind. A sedation fee is included with each and every method.”

  Dad’s voice began to quiver. “Even the g-garage? That doesn’t make sense. It’s just … I mean, the exhaust carries with it all the sedation we’ll need.”

  The lady shook her head. “Potential customers tend to come here rather out of sorts. If you don’t mind me speaking plainly, sir, you have come here out of sorts. Sedation is required for each and every method. Therefore, a sedation fee is automatically added to each and every method.”

  Dad ran his fingers over his stubble. If he’d had a full beard it would have looked like he was stroking it thoughtfully. He would have looked wise. But he didn’t have a beard. He only had about two weeks’ growth. “You care to tell me what other expenses didn’t make it onto the website?”

  “I can assure you, sir, that all the fees are enumerated quite specifically online. These are the rules. The rules for everyone. Is it possible that you were, perhaps, not of the most sound mind when perusing our web page?”

  He began searching his pants for his pack of Camels. “So basically we drove all the way up here from Louisville for nothing.”

  “My word, not at all! I can’t think of a single customer who’s been able to pay for the service out of pocket. Even with credit cards.”

  Dad tilted his head like a confused dog. “Beg pardon?”

  The woman leaned over to her side. She retrieved a plastic three-ring binder, flipped past a few of the dividers until she reached the section she wanted, and pushed down to break the metal rings apart. They let out a loud snap. Then she took a bunch of papers out.