Adrift on a Möbius Strip

By Mike Kilroy

"I think I'm hurtling through time."

Time is a stubborn bitch.

She doesn't like to be messed with. Manipulated. Pawed or groped.

Xavier Ripple tries to have his way with her. Make her bend to his will. Succumb to his time-tripping wiles.

She won't have it.

All he gets for his trouble is a knee to the nuggets.

"Time is like a placid lake and you a stone chucked into the water. You can only make a ripple, X, not a wave."

Try as he might to change the troublesome events of his past, he fails.

Every. Single. Time.

Undaunted and unable to stop his unceasing trips around the Möbius Strip, X discovers his journeys are not simply the random shambling of an aging mind near the end but have a very important purpose.

One kind act. One kind act is all it takes to change the future.

Cause and effect. The past, present and future. They all lose meaning until X can find a way to tame and woo Time.

And to make a broken world whole again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fishtail Publishing
• Release date: Apr 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781536599244

Book preview

Part I

Chapter 1

Tonight

I’M HURTLING THROUGH time.

Xavier Ripple likes to talk to his roommate in the wee hours of the night, plunged in darkness. Hard to sleep in this hell hole, what with the screaming and the caterwauling of the desperate, scared and alone.

The dude only ever answers with a snore. A shallow, wheezing snort. Then a gasp. A gargle. A mumble.

Not much of a conversationalist, this guy. It’s okay. X—that’s what everyone has ever called him—doesn’t mind. He’s just happy to have an audience and an ear.

I don’t know why it’s happening.

A loud snuffle, like one made by the football card that slapped against the spokes of X’s bike tire when he was a little boy. Then another sudden gasp. He has sleep apnea—better get that checked out. Doesn’t matter, X supposes. He’ll be dead soon.

They’ll all be dead soon.

I don’t know if it’s real.

A whistle of air, like steam escaping a hot tea kettle.

The next time I go I’m going to try to bring back proof.

X fidgets on the mattress, a spring poking into the small of his back. His hips ache. His shoulders throb. There are pangs of pain in every one of his joints. He pulls the threadbare wool blanket under his chin and closes his eyes, dreaming of a better time and a better place.

Part I

Chapter 2

Yesterday

IT’S THE REFLECTION of a young man who no longer exists. This guy is lost to history, a footnote in a vast book of existence.

His hair is thick, coal black and long, hanging down to his shoulders. He has a goatee, full and rounded. His skin is taut and sprinkled with pimples. His teeth are pearly white and straight and his gums pink.

His muscles are firm and developed and the vigor nearly gushes out of him.

Eighteen-year-old X stares back at this old and used-up X in the mirror above the dresser where he keeps his socks and shirts and jeans and shorts and the porn magazines that he jacks off to daily in his college dorm room—Dunbar Hall.

He enjoys seeing that face again and it takes him far too long to drag himself away.

X is on a mission, and he can’t be distracted.

X doesn’t know the date, but he figures it must have some significance to him. From the quiet in the usually loud and boisterous dorm—they didn’t call them the Dunbarbarians for nothing—it is probably a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.

Only a few of the Dunbarbarians stick around for the weekend. Most go home to their high school girlfriends or to the quiet and comfort of their parents’ homes as they refuel for another week of debauchery.

X always stayed; he didn’t have a high school sweetheart or a home to go back to.

X spills out into the midday sun and feels the crispness of the air. The leaves have begun to tumble off the trees, victims of the gusts of wind that howl in from the northeast and carry with it the chill of autumn. He tilts his head back. Feels the warm sunshine wash over him, tempered by the brisk breeze. It’s a combination he’s missed; it has been so long in that other life, in that other time, since he’s had the chance to experience such invigoration, and he wants to relish it.

The mission takes precedence again.

As a young man, he never wore a watch and wishes that he had now. He hasn’t long in this time—approximately ninety minutes, give or take a moment or two. He must act fast. He’s already let a good ten minutes flit away.

The buses at Kent State University never ran on time; he forgot about that troublesome detail. One finally rolls up and he climbs on, trying to remember the right stop. He looks at the map and studies the routes.

How long until I reach the Hills Plaza? he asks the driver.

Oh, about thirty minutes or so. The driver looks at him curiously. Why? Got a hot date?

X smiles. Something like that.

The bus rumbles along streets he had long forgotten. He eyes the businesses with a nostalgic smile:  A flower shop; a McDonalds—he never thought he would see one of those golden arches again; a small video store that rented movies; a post office that sold stamps that were licked and placed on envelopes to send letters through snail mail; a bank with paper money. These places are all museum pieces where he comes from, relics from a forgotten and discarded time.

X finally arrives at his destination, the bus rolling to a jittering stop with squeaking brakes.

X quickly disembarks and gazes at the Hills Department Store in front of him amid other store fronts in a vast plaza: a pharmacy; another video store; a pizza place—God, does he miss pizza; a craft store.

But it’s another business he’s most interested in.

As X walks into the tattoo parlor, a young woman, her nose pierced with a chain looping from it to a ring in the lobe of her right ear, is startled.

Her hair is dyed jet black and her face powdered white, except for two streaks of pink winding down her cheeks like a crooked river from each of her blue-grey eyes. She’s very emo. A Progressive—that’s what they were called on campus: A group of men and women who look like ghosts and dress like hobos with loose shirts under leather jackets and cut-off pants that look like poorly fitted bellbottoms and combat boots for a war they will never fight.

This girl is a pretty ghost. A pretty hobo. And a sad one, too, it seems.

X is too preoccupied to hear the torment that is couched in her voice.

Can I help you? she asks, the words jittery.

I want a tattoo.

Of course you do, she says. You got one picked out?

It’s a custom job.

She nods, stands and walks him over to a chair in the back of the parlor. He sinks down into it, and she stares at him curiously. Well? she asks, perturbed.

Well, what?

Do I get to pick a body part, or are you going to tell me?

X has forgotten how this works. Oh, yeah. He puts his left arm on the rest and makes a fist. I want an X. Right here on the top of my hand.

The corner of her lip curls in disgust, her eyes narrow and her nose flares. Really? Is that it? Just an X on your hand? Really?

Yes, really, he says. Nothing fancy. Just an X. Shouldn’t take you long to do, right?

She shakes her head and purses her lips. No. Not long at all.

X stares at her as she does the job. It hurts, but not nearly as much as he anticipates. She’s so focused, so in tune with what she’s doing that X marvels in it. She looks up, noticing X’s locked gaze at her.

Can you not! she barks.

X looks away as she goes back to work.

The silence is too uncomfortable for X, so he asks, What were you crying about?

X is curious. He’s always been inquisitive and sometimes it gets him into trouble.

I wasn’t crying, she grumbles.

X points at her with his free right hand. I can tell by your face. That powder hides nothing.

She jabs the needle deeper into his hand, which makes his eyes glisten. "Why are you crying?"

Fair enough. X keeps his mouth shut until she’s done.

His hand burns, but the X is clear on his chalky skin. It is deep and dark and bold. The tattoo artist added a little flare to it, making it look like a roman numeral in a Trajan font. He hasn’t asked for such creativity, but he figures she’s an artist and he grants her license.

It’ll do the job just fine.

X thanks her and pays her, to which she just grunts, and leaves. He sits on the edge of the sidewalk, his feet planted in the fire lane, and slouches over his pulled-up knees.

A wave of nausea overcomes him and everything in his vision blurs.

He looks up as darkness creeps in from the edges. His heart flutters and sweat prickles on his forehead.

He feels a tap on the shoulder from two fingers that squeeze a cigarette. It’s the girl from the tattoo parlor, and she asks, concerned, Are you all right? before he falls over, his head banging against the rough cement of the sidewalk.

Shit, he hears her say, then nothing.

X AWAKENS, IGNORES the somersaulting of his stomach, and holds his left hand up to his face.

He blinks to clear the fogginess. He stares at the smooth skin. Makes a fist. Examines it closer, his left eye nearly touching it.

Nothing.

No tattoo.

No X.

Bupkis.

He closes his eyes tightly in deep lament.

Perhaps it is all just lucid dreams—he hopes so, anyway. The alternative is he’s fucking batshit crazy and he doesn’t need that heaped on top of all of his other problems.

It could be his petrified brain, knowing the end is near, trying to shield him from the paralyzing fear. Death is coming for him. At the door. Getting ready to knock. That has to have some psychological effect on a man. It has to chip away at his sanity to know his existence is about to come to an abrupt end, for no other reason than it is his time.

The powerlessness, the impotence, of such a terrible fate is the worst of all. There’s not a goddamned thing he can do about any of this.

Part I

Chapter 3

Today

XAVIER RIPPLE HAS GROWN accustomed to the screaming. About eleven o’clock it starts. Low at first—more like a soft moan. By 11:11 when the lights go out it grows into a full-blown wail.

His roommate has been here for months; X for only weeks. The grating howls, whimpers, and whines usually last for eighty-eight minutes before they mercifully stop and X can finally get to damned sleep.

It’s like clockwork. It’s like the swallows returning to Capistrano or the buzzards returning to Hinckley or some such shit. Every night. Without fail.

Except this one.

His roommate’s bed is empty.

There can only be one reason for that. Well, more than one, X supposes—the world is full of infinite possibilities. But only one is likely.

His roommate has retired.

Finally.

EACH FUCKING DAY IS the same.

Wake up at 7 o’clock.

Get served shitty food by an ugly nurse who has a mole you can’t help but stare at above the right corner of her lip. That mole has sprouted a single hair and it waves like an air dancer at one of those old car dealerships. Mesmerizing. Hypnotic.

Bathe at 7:30—if the water is running, that is.

Breakfast at 8.

A good beating at 9.

Grumbling about the way things used to be until a crappy lunch.

Meds—even though no one in this shithole really needs them—at 1.

Boredom until dinner at 5 o’clock, when another meal better served to the rats and mice and the other rodents that wander this facility is offered to their turning stomachs.

Boredom until lights out at 11:11.

Every day. The same.

X, though, knows it could be worse; He could be his roommate.

That thought doesn’t soothe X much, however. Soon, his roommate’s fate will become his. It happens to all of them. Eventually.

TODAY IS THE SAME.

Today is always the most boring day.

Except for her. She makes it a little different, and a little different is the shot of adrenalin X needs to get through another day in this perdition.

She has a peculiar smile when she looks at him.

She’s new here and X has noticed her—it’s everything he can do to not pop a boner. X always had an affinity for Asian women—one of his many proclivities—and every time she enters the room, he can’t help but set his eyes on her.

She is stunning. She is young—but who knows these days. Her dark hair is almost always up in a topknot and held in place by a hair stick, but X has occasionally glimpsed her with it down, flowing in a raven wave past her shoulders.

She never wears makeup; she doesn’t have to. She is beautiful all on her own. That’s such a rare thing, to be pretty without even trying. Usually, it takes quite a bit of effort to look appealing, but she does it so effortlessly. It makes him want to know her more.

And that beautiful smile is one of the few things he has to look forward to amid so much ugliness.

X hasn’t spoken to her, and he spends a large chunk of time each day devising a reason to approach her. He fails to come up with anything plausible—she works in one of the other wards and he’s stuck in this one.

She spends an increasing amount of time here, with the soon-to-be Goners, and he wonders why.

There’s only a smattering of Goners left in the cafeteria this long after the gruel has been served and choked down. X tries to stay here as long as he can because she’s sure to pop in. She’s like one of the buzzards coming back to Hinckley—she always arrives at around 12:57 to grab a red Jell-O.

Like clockwork she enters the cafeteria and walks to the counter. The server—a young man with a full head of hair tucked under a fishnet—already knows her habit and has a Jell-O waiting for her. X feels the pangs of jealousy, sets his jaw and glares. He knows that look the server is giving her; that asshole wants to bang her.

X’s annoyance wanes as she looks at him and smiles.

Put yer damn tongue back in yer mouth. John’s voice is grating. The skinny, foul man with a thick head of floppy hair and the sleeves of his white T-shirt rolled up to his shoulders like some sort of goddamned greaser, plops down on the seat next to X.

Shut up, X says sternly. He already wants to punch John, face taut around a square jaw with a few crow’s feet fanning out around his sunken eyes. His lids are droopy, but that’s because John never sleeps. He says he’ll sleep when he’s dead, which shouldn’t be long now.

Maybe even sooner if he keeps bothering me.

Haven’t you never seen a Jap before? John asks, chuckling.

Not where I come from.

She’s a pretty Jap. I’d do her.

X shoots John a scowl and the man raises his hands in contrition. Hey, now, man. I know she’s outta my league. I’m just funnin’ ya. I know you got a thing for her. Go for it, man. You’re a good-looking dude. Full head of hair—a little gray, though. Strong jaw. Good eyes. They say the eyes are the window to the soul or somethin’. You just might have a chance.

Shut. Up.

John slaps X on the back and stands. Hey, she’s comin’. Don’t jizz in yer pants before she gets here.

John goes ... to wherever John goes. X couldn’t care less anyway, but particularly now as she quickly approaches. He doesn’t even notice she’s carrying a cup of red Jell-O in each hand until she sits down across from him.

Xavier Ripple, right?

X can’t speak. He wants to speak—he has words and everything to say—but they just won’t come out. It’s the unexpectedness of it all. The shock. The bewilderment that she is here, now, sitting in front of him, offering him a Jell-O.

She places the Jell-O cup on the table and slides it to him. He grabs it nervously and struggles to pull the plastic top off the infernal thing. Why do they have to be so fucking difficult?

Here, she says softly, reaching out and carefully pulling the Jell-O away from his trembling hands. I’ll get it for you.

With speed and stunning dexterity, she removes the film and hands it back to X. He nods and pops the slightest of smiles as he digs his spoon into the red Jell-O and takes a bite.

He realizes as the gelatin slides down his throat that he hasn’t answered her question yet.

Yes, he blurts.

Her brows knit together. Yes what?

Yes ... um. I’m Xavier. Xavier Ripple.

She smiles and holds out her hand. I’m Dr. Tokemi Kobayashi. A handshake? How old-fashioned. He reaches out and places his right hand into hers. She has a firm grip, which belies the softness and smoothness of her skin. He feels lightheaded.

He wonders if she senses what she’s doing to him. It’s been so long since he’s felt this way, and even though it’s inappropriate on so many levels and futile, he can’t help it. He feels like he once did, a long time ago. Virile and strong and ready to take on the world. In a way, it’s a loathsome feeling what she’s doing to him and he quickly yanks his hand away and stares into his Jell-O.

She’s talking again, but X can’t focus on what she’s saying. He does hear a slight dialect, the diphthong of a few vowels—a New York accent. Possibly Long Island. Most likely Brooklyn.

She stops talking and concern washes over her face.

Are you okay? 

X nods and a half-smile ticks up from the corner of his mouth. Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry. It’s just— His head bows and his eyes fix on his empty Jell-O cup as he pokes the plastic rim with the rounded edge of his spoon.

You don’t have to explain. Her hand brushes his.

X looks up at her. He’s never seen a Jap this close. He cringes at the thought of calling her a Jap—such an ugly slur. But ugly is the currency of the day and he’s sure she’s been called worse. He wonders why a woman like her has come to work in a place like this.

Tokemi notices him ogling her and she crosses her arms on her chest. She shoots a playful scowl in his direction. What? Never seen a Japanese woman before?

X stammers before finally pushing out a few contrite words. Not in a long time. I’m ... I’m sorry.

Tokemi laughs and slaps his hand. It’s okay. I get it all the time.

Do you need something from me? X asks. Tokemi’s dark eyes light up peculiarly and she smiles again. It’s her turn to ogle him now. She examines him almost as if he’s a specimen under a jar, her gaze following the curves of his facial features, down to his broad shoulders under the collared, gray fleece they’re all required to wear. He fidgets in his chair.

Tokemi’s smile dissolves and a frown replaces it. I’m sorry. I’m doing it to you. It’s just... She pauses, staring at him again. It’s just I can’t believe you’re ninety-nine years old.

Part I

Chapter 4

Tomorrow

X IS GOING TO ENJOY this night. At least he’d have one alone in this closet of a room.

Lodging here in Hell is tight. Men packed into cubby holes with only the bare necessities, waiting to retire, watching the ceaseless ticking of the clock, time waning, toward the end.

And the end is near for all of them.

Some have months, like X. Some have weeks. Some, though, only have days. Those are the ones X feels the sorriest for. He doesn’t even have to ask them how much time they have left; he can see it in their scared eyes, welling with tears; he can read it on their solemn faces, worn and whittled by worry and dread; he can tell by their slumped shoulders and their shuffling gait as they walk like zombies through the halls, and by the way they eat slowly and very little.

And by the way they have surrendered.

X wonders if he’ll get like that one day. He grits his teeth at the thought.

No, that’ll never be me.

It is almost eleven o’clock and a smile crosses X’s lips. He doesn’t have to hear Moaning Mark bawl his way to sleep. He’s gone now; part of X misses him, though. He was a good roommate in that he never talked to X. Not even once. If it weren’t for his loud cries at night, X would have thought him mute.

X pats his pillow to make it nice and fluffy—well, as fluffy as these government-issued pancakes disguised as pillows can be. He rests his head on it and waits for lights out.

His sleep will be glorious.

He closes his eyes.

They shoot open at the sound of heavy feet.

John.

Hey, rommie!

X plants his face in his palms as John plops himself down on the corner of X’s bed.

Well? John asks.

X spreads his fingers just enough to see John’s giddy smile.

Well what?

Who is she? John asks in a whisper, even though there is no one else around.

X scowls at him—that look seems to be the default when it comes to their interactions. Tokemi Kobayashi.

John howls. Really? That’s her name?

She’s a doctor.

Well, duh.

She’s different.

Sure, she’s different, John says, slapping X hard on the back. She’s a Jap.

I wish you’d quit calling her that! The sternness of X’s raised voice causes John to back away slightly and that smug look on his pompous face to evaporate.

Jesus, John says, pushing himself up from the mattress. I see how this’s gonna be.

John sulks to his bed on the other side of the small room, pulls the blanket down in one, quick, angry motion and begins fiddling, adjusting the sheets, punching the pillow, smoothing out the blanket. X feels pangs of guilt as he watches. He tries to resist it, but he can’t.

John, I’m sorry.

John peers over his shoulder and smiles. No sweat.

Once John’s bed is to his liking, he crawls onto it and sits with his legs crossed under him. He stares across the ten feet between them, a modest smile creasing his face.

John knows something—he gets that look when he thinks he has a juicy tidbit of gossip, but usually it’s just a stupid fact that everyone knows already like the cafeteria will be serving shit tomorrow.

John wants X to ask him before he spills it, but X resists. X wants to see how long John will sit there with that stupid grin on his stupid face.

He doesn’t get a chance to find out. A voice, distorted by static, screeches over the intercom. 11:11. Lights out!

And then darkness.

X will have to learn the news tomorrow.

He hears John ruffling under the covers.

Goodnight, X, he says softly.

Goodnight, John Boy, X replies, cracking a smile.

X AWAKENS ABRUPTLY. Heart pounding. Cold sweat on his neck. He’s nauseous but it soon passes.

The room spins, but it’s not the room he expects to see. His eyes meet wallpaper in the dim light of a morning. Football players in brightly colored uniforms, some running, some throwing, some catching, are scattered on the powder blue landscape of the wallpaper.

He scans his surroundings. A telescope sits in front of a window, the shades drawn. Green shag carpet. A Nerf basketball hoop fastened to the top of a closet door.

He listens. The rattle of the outside drier vent in the gusting wind. The clicking of the metal baseboard heater as it gets hot. The moaning of the foundation settling.

Then a woman’s voice cries out, Get up, Xavier!

X throws his bare feet over the side of the bed and onto the carpet. He curls his toes. He hasn’t felt the sensation of shag carpet on his feet in more than sixty years.

He stands, notices the toenails on his small feet are free of fungus, then snaps around and sees his reflection in the mirror that rests above a large hutch dresser pushed against the wall. He’s a young boy, ten probably. Yes, ten is about right. This was his bedroom at that age in rural Ohio. He races to the window and looks outside to see about five inches of fresh snow covering a sprawling back yard. It’s still snowing and the howling wind pushes the flakes sideways.

Xavier! I’m not gonna call you again!

X sees the slippers his grandma crocheted for him resting near his feet. They look like white sneakers, complete with red shoelaces.

This is so real.

X figures this is probably another tremendously lucid dream.

He pads barefoot down the narrow hallway and into the living room. His father sits in a recliner, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip as he stares blankly at the television. A laugh track rings out, but his father doesn’t even chuckle.

X realizes why; he’s hung over.

Pots clang in the kitchen, which makes his father reach up with his right hand and slowly rub his temple.

Xavier, come here! his mother commands.

X walks around the corner and into the kitchen. His mother is wearing a long, white robe, the cuffs and the hem soiled with ground-in dirt and grime. She’s a slight women, barely any meat on her bones, and she nearly disappears under the voluminous fabric. She flips a few eggs in the pan and shoots X a stern look.

Set the table! she barks.

X gets on his tiptoes and opens the cabinet closest to the dining room. He reaches up and grabs three plates and walks them to the table. He returns to the kitchen, opens the drawer under the counter next to the sink and pulls out three forks and three knives.

A strange sensation overwhelms him. A feeling he has been here before, that the events of this morning aren’t just a random dream, but a memory.

He stares at a fork and runs his soft fingers over the prongs. He looks back at his mother and then at his father, who pounds out his cigarette in the ashtray, grabs another from a pack, presses it between his thin lips that are nearly buried under a bushy beard and lights it.

X walks briskly into the dining room, setting the table just like his mother likes. If the forks and the knives and the plates aren’t precisely where they’re supposed to be, his mother will be cross and will yell at him.

Or worse.

X sits down, his feet barely scraping the green shag carpet. His mother slides a spatula under some of the scrambled eggs and slops them onto X’s plate. She does the same onto his father’s plate, which sits at the head of a small, rectangle table with legs that fold open and closed. Then, what little is left of the eggs, she scoops onto her plate.

His father wobbles into the kitchen; he’s inebriated already—or still. When X was even younger than he is now—in this time—he thought his father had a balance condition because he was always teetering and swaying. X came to realize later that his father’s staggering was because he was almost always shitface drunk.

Joe Ripple was a raging alcoholic.

X can see that even more clearly now.

The eggs taste like he remembers them. Fluffy. Perfect. As he finishes them off, he is hit again with the sensation that all of this has happened before and that this is not a mere dream or some sort of psychotic break.

The sights, the sounds, the feel and smells and textures of everything are too detailed to be a figment of his aging mind.

You’re drunk again, aren’t you? X’s mother asks his father sternly.

His father doesn’t answer and instead takes another swig of his doctored coffee.

You pissed on the floor again by the washer, she growls. What time did you get home? Two o’clock? Three?

He doesn’t answer. He drains the last of his spiked coffee, grabs the Camels from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, pulls one out with his teeth and lights it, blowing a plume of smoke into her face.

I’m done, Joe. I’m done. She stands angrily, collects the plates, and tosses them loudly into the sink.

X’s heart thrums in his chest.

Jesus Christ, this is the morning.

His father takes another long drag and blows out a large billow of smoke through his mouth and nose. X coughs and watches the anger simmer inside of his father, getting hotter and hotter, nearing its boiling point. Then his dad stands quickly, the chair toppling behind him with a crash. A vein throbs in his forehead. X knows that vein well; it’s the vein that pulses whenever his father is mad and prone to violence.

X throws himself between his dad and the kitchen. His father stops, peering down at him as a plume of smoke escapes his mouth.

What are you doing? His words are slurred.

Don’t do it.

Do what?

His father places his thick hand on X’s shoulder and pushes him. X loses his balance and falls to the floor, his elbow crashing against the worn path in the carpet.

His mother yells, Don’t you put your hands on him!

I’ll do what I want! X’s father rarely raises his voice, but when he does, it carries great force. It always scared X and it scares him now.

Get out! Get out! Get out! his mother yells. I’m sick and tired of this. Every night you come home drunk.

A slap. The red imprint of fingers on his mother’s face.

She stomps down the hallway and crashes into the bedroom. Soon, she emerges, precariously balancing two dresser drawers full of clothes in her arms. She makes her way to the front door and, after a struggle, opens it and tosses the drawers outside into a snow drift.

White T-shirts and white briefs swirls in the wind. A strong gust picks up a pair of jeans and flings them against the blue Ford Pinto parked in the driveway.

X’s mother pounds her way back into the bedroom and his father follows.

Muffled voices. A scream.

X wets his pajamas.