Moment of the Broken Covenant

By W.H. Blakley

What would you do if you got the chance to live your life over again?

Rick Deeter might just find out. Unsatisfied with his career choice and miserable with his home life, Rick knows that his current situation is a culmination of choices--some misguided, some due to his own naivety. Regardless of his motivation, he realizes that they were his decisions that brought him to this point. Then one day, on his evening commute as he laments his predicament, he says something. He thinks it's just a few rambling thoughts, but in fact, he has spoken the words of the Covenant. Now Rick has the chance to make those decisions over again. If he makes the right choices, he will get the life he has always dreamed of, but he also knows that one wrong decision will return him to the life he so desperately wants to escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798887936321

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Moment of the Broken Covenant

W.H. Blakley

Copyright © 2024 W. H. Blakley

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-88793-624-6 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-632-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Foreword

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2

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87

To my parents, for the love they gave me, the generosity

they showed me, the patience they had with me, and the

wisdom they bestowed upon me. I know they watch over

me and I hope they are proud.

If I can make

just one person laugh,

just one person cry,

just one person ponder,

just one person say, Whoa, shit,

just one person reminisce,

Just one person hug their dog,

and just one person pick up the phone,

then I will not regret my efforts.

Frith,

—W. H. Blakley

Foreword

Music plays a role in many of our lives. Some pursue it actively, whether it is playing instruments, performing, or simply delving into the works of the artists and genres they enjoy by creating music libraries or attending live events. For others, it is more passive, a background noise to keep them company while at home, at work, or driving. In any case, music has the power to affect us; it can entertain us, enlighten us, give us cause to ponder, or encourage us. It can set an atmosphere or mood. It can make us happy or sad, mark points in our lives, and bring back memories, both good and bad, that can make us laugh or cry. Music is no different to the characters in this book. As you read through, you will occasionally see a song title and artist mentioned that the characters are hearing in the storyline. At that point, if you wish, you might choose to listen to that same song on your own listening device or service while you read to better relate to the atmosphere that character is experiencing. This is only a suggestion, it is not necessary, as the story and characters will stand on their own. Either way, it is important to understand that the mention of an artist contained in these pages does not imply any endorsement or affiliation with this work. My sincerest and humblest thanks to you, the reader. Now let's get started.

1

Stop and go, stop and go, stop and go, but mostly stop, like it is now. Welcome to New Jersey, land of a billion traffic lights, and they're all red. It doesn't matter if I go balls-to-the-wall to beat the next one or pull over and wait for it to turn green; by the time I get to it, it'll be red. They seem to be timed that way. I don't know how they do it, but I believe the lights are all set so that from the point I leave all the way to my destination, they'll be red. I know, it defies the laws of synchronicity and maybe even physics somehow, but it's true. I tried finding another route to avoid the lights and was instead sandbagged by signs: stop signs, yield signs, and detour signs. My entire commute is an analogy of my life.

Of course, I might be sitting a couple lights farther down the road right now. If the fucking guy in front of me could find his fucking gas pedal! It's no use, he can't hear me, and he probably wouldn't care if he could. And the douchebag in the Hyundai on my right is no help either; he pulls up alongside me and matches my speed, boxing me in behind this. Slow fuck who doesn't know what a gas pedal does! Nope, still nothin'.

South Jersey wasn't always like this. I can remember growing up around here, riding in the car with my parents, and, later when I'd learned to drive, the roads twisting and bounding between fields of corn or past stands of gnarled pines and scrub oak trees. They were simple two-lane country roads back then, dotted by an occasional farmhouse, and that's all they needed to be to handle the volume in those days. The few traffic lights that I knew of were usually in the towns where most of the people lived. Aside from that, stop signs were enough, even to cross the state highway that passed the north edge of town.

That was before the city people came. They were eager to live the simple country lifestyle in the suburbs, and we were the suburbs. They wanted big modern houses with lush green lawns that would be the envy of their neighbors that they'd left behind, and those houses needed a place to be. A couple can work a farm their entire adulthood, raise a family, struggling the entire way to make ends meet, and in the end still be left without two nickels to rub together. So when some man in a suit pulls up their driveway and offers them more money than they've ever seen, they listen. All they have to do is sign over the deed and retire to wherever they want to go. Who could blame them? The smaller farms back east could hardly compete with huge tracts of land in the Midwest and California, so people signed. Anyone with land sold and the cornfields went away, and so did the gnarled pines and scrubby oaks, and housing developments grew in their place. But the people in the developments longed for the convenience of the nearness of everything they had in the city, so now they needed convenience stores. They wanted strip malls where they could leave their dry cleaning, buy takeout instead of cook, and purchase from shops whose names they could brag about. And with all that came more traffic. And with that traffic came a need to control it, and with that need came traffic lights, and so here I sit.

None of this is anything new; I should be used to it now. I've been making this same drive for fifteen, going on sixteen years now. Christ, where'd they go? My mother always said, It all goes by so fast, and she was right. One minute you're sitting in your friend's basement after school, listening to the album that your favorite band just released, and the next you're commuting to some bullshit job and the only place you can hear that music is on the oldies station. Kansas' Dust in the Wind is playing on the radio now. This station calls itself a classic rock station, but I was told in no uncertain terms, It doesn't matter what they call it, Dad, that's oldies music. But there was a time when it was the music, the only music, and we thought the music would last forever, just like us.

Green light. Go. Any day now. I can see the next light from here, and it's red, but if we push it or if I could catch a break from this Hyundai douchebag…forty miles an hour…forty-five…fifty…fifty-five…oh, come on. The light's green, halfway there.

Why are you hitting your brake, fuckhead? The light's green! Just go! Amber light—go! Go! Go! Fuck! I knew you'd stop, you fucking asshole!

Good, another red light. Well, at least my perfect record won't be tarnished. I don't really know why I'm in such a hurry to get home, anyway; there's really nothing for me there either. I think it's more about getting as far away from work as fast as I can. My official title is operations manager in a packaging plant. If you think that sounds a little on the dull side, you're wrong; it's absolutely, mind-numbingly, fucking boring. I swear, if I could climb about two more rungs on the corporate ladder, I might be high enough to jump to my own death—and I would.

Obviously, given the choice, this isn't what I would be doing now. If I had my choice, I would be working with my hands, building or fixing—no, creating. In my youth, I had done some odd jobs around town—cutting grass, raking leaves, painting fences, whatever. I even did some work on Mr. Volkner's farm. I had fun.

I liked being outdoors and enjoyed the physicalness of it all. You can't do those kinds of things for very long without learning how to do other stuff, too, like drive a nail, run a chainsaw, or fix a lawn mower. It was just a natural progression, and looking back, it was those times when I was the most focused and the most content. I would become so absorbed, concentrating so intently that it was like the world around me would cease to exist.

Unfortunately, I was young and naive and had no idea what life and the world held. Sadly, those around me who did know never saw my latent skills as anything but hobbies. They had no earning potential, no career opportunities; I was told only a college education could offer those things. So I listened to the people I trusted. I took their advice and accepted their guidance and allowed myself to be steered into college.

It wasn't their fault; they were doing what they thought was best, and they were for someone else but not for me. In retrospect, I'm probably the only one that could have been blamed, but I was young and stupid. If only I knew then what I know now…

The light turns green, and we begin our crawl to the next red one. By now, my thoughts and this song have me depressed, and I've all but given up on escaping my Hyundai/fuckhead prison and creep along with the rest of the traffic. I found myself attending a local college, commuting from home. I never experienced dorm life, though I doubt it would have raised my enthusiasm for the experience. I'd hated school all my life and spent my freshman year trying to convince myself that college was different, but by my second year, I was pretty sure that I still wasn't enjoying myself. School is school, I told myself. It's not something to be enjoyed, it's a painful necessity, a stepping stone to being an independent, wealthy, successful adult. Besides, I didn't want to disappoint my parents. They had hopes and dreams for me, and they were putting out a good chunk of change to help them come true.

I worked throughout college doing some landscaping and working construction over the summer and as seasons allowed. I noticed that I enjoyed working those jobs, unlike college, but those jobs had no long-term earning potential or career opportunities. Those around me, including my then girlfriend, reminded me that these diversions were just temporary and that I was on my way to something much bigger and better than they could provide. Deep down inside, I believed they were wrong, but at some point, I guess I figured I'd come too far to turn back, so I soldiered on.

Everyone was proud when I graduated, and they were proud when I landed my first real job. I strived, I pushed, and I reached from one job to a better job, to promotions, always certain that it would be the next position with the next company that would make me feel the way I did when I was laying pavers and pounding nails.

Another red light. No, not a metaphorical one, I mean an actual red light that I have to sit in traffic and wait for. Eventually I got married. That's what you're supposed to do once you've proven that you're responsible and can provide financial stability, right? So I married the same girl I had begun dating in high school. The same one who had been among those who had urged me to go to college. The same one who had warned me of the folly of those menial summer jobs and encouraged me to get my degree. The same one who had hungrily inspired me to climb the corporate ladder. The same one who had written the timetable for our marriage and having children. The same one who had set our daily schedules. The same one who saw to it that everything would be just so. The same one who saw to it that we stayed ahead of the Joneses. The same one who is waiting home for me right now. The same raving, fucking, lunatic bitch that makes me wish there was a hundred-foot cliff between the next light and my driveway so I could drive off it and never have to go home and listen to her fucking, nagging voice ever again.

Everything seemed pretty normal while we were dating. We did the same things as everyone else—we went to the movies, hung out with friends, partied, went to concerts, got laid, and hit the bar scene once we were old enough. She seemed okay with me as a person, with who I was, and we had fun. And despite her feelings about the type of jobs I had when I was younger, she was always proud that I was working, and she never had a problem with me spending my money on her. That fact and her pushing me up the corporate ladder should have been the first red flags. But guys spend money on their girlfriends to impress them, and I was supposed to climb the ladder, anyway, right? I mean, everybody wants security, and isn't that what I spent four years in college preparing to do?

But the day the trap really snapped shut was the day I said, I do. Something happened after that day. Good wasn't good enough anymore. I needed some tweaking. Friends were no longer made, they were chosen. There would be a house but not just any house—the right house in the right neighborhood. And there would be children. There seemed to be a plan in place, and I was on a need-to-know basis, but I went along with it, all the while trying to convince myself that the execution of the next stage would make our lives complete and I would be happy.

But that didn't happen. Several years and two children later, I came to realize there was something missing, namely me. The things that I wanted, the things that mattered to me, were easily dismissed. My thoughts and opinions were measured first against those of friends and neighbors, and it was important that they were harmonious and never contrary to popular thought. The me as an individual had ceased to be, faded into obscurity, and overwritten by a status quo program. Who we were, who I was were not nearly as important as who we—I—appeared to be. I looked around at the other people living in our development where every fifth house was the same. Was there anyone else who saw it? Was I the only one? Frauds! I wanted to scream. Or were they? Was everyone here really content to be just like everyone else, judged on some unwritten caste guidelines?

Everybody knows that was Kansas singing ‘Dust in the Wind' and if you're on your evening commute right now, you might be doing the same thing as these guys. Here's Supertramp and they're taking the long way home…

I started to withdraw, isolating myself from the familiar people that I realized were strangers. I was becoming lonely. I wanted a friend, a real friend, a companion that I could talk to, open up to, be honest and genuine with, someone I could be myself around. That eliminated everybody within a four-block radius in this soulless, plastic desert. I thought back to the friends we used to have, but I doubted any of them survive the standards of the current screening process. Truthfully, most of the people I used to hang with would probably take one look at me and my life now and turn and run, anyway.

So I made a suggestion: we should get a dog. House, kids, dog, white picket fence—all American. Perfect picture, right?

Who's going to take care of it?

Me.

Who's going to clean up after it?

I will.

Who's going to walk it?

Me.

Who's going to feed it?

Me. Me. Me. Me.

Oh, please. We don't need a dog. And you'd just get bored with it in a month and take it to the pound, anyways.

I just stood there kind of stunned that something that I was that serious about would be dismissed without so much as a serious conversation or any real consideration.

How about a parakeet, or is that too much too? I had suggested sarcastically.

There was a mocking face made, a shake of the head, a wave of the hand, and she walked out of the room. I was hurt and pissed. I shouldn't have been; I should have been used to it. It wasn't the first time that something mattered to me had been discarded because it didn't fit neatly into this designer lifestyle. The fact that the topic was even open to consideration or mature conversation despite my enthusiasm is what ate at me the most. I could have just gone out and got a dog or a parakeet or a dog and a parakeet, but I didn't. A dog would shed and a parakeet would chirp, and she would bitch, and, God, I'd already heard enough bitching to last two lifetimes. Besides, at that point, there was some part of me, some cheap, shallow, superficial, immature part of me that would rather carry the resentment than walk a dog or clean a bird cage, anyway.

But I was wrong. She had known how serious I was and she did understand how disappointed I was, so one day, she met me at the door as I was coming home from work and said, Say hi to Muffin! Then she shoved a Lhasa Apso in my face. Be careful what you wish for, my friends. I'd said I wanted a dog and I got a Lhasa Apso. You know what a Lhasa Apso is? It's a fucking self-propelled hair knot with a tongue. A hair knot that has to be groomed once a month. That's another expense that keeps me making this commute from hell. And best of all? Since I was the one that said dog and since I had said I would walk it, walking this damn thing was automatically my responsibility.

Walk it where?

Around the block.

Terrific. I get to go out among the very people I sought to avoid. Walk the dog? Try walk of shame. Here, hold my balls. I gotta take Muffy out. Oh, and don't forget the plastic bag; you gotta scoop up the mutt's crap and bring it home with you like it's some kind of souvenir or something. I actually looked up the Lhasa Apso's life expectancy one time, hoping for a flicker of light at the end of my dark tunnel. Apparently, they live forever.

Another slog to the next traffic light. Good little lemmings marching dutifully to the edge. And why is the right lane moving faster than the passing lane! Only in Jersey. I hope you're not coming to visit me, fuckhead! I'd hate to be stuck behind you all the way to my house! Asshole.

I know what you're probably thinking by now, that I'm a ball-less fuck. A pussy-whipped, beat-down, emasculated puss-puss. And I'd be thinking the same thing based on what I've told you so far, but it's not true. Many years ago, I went and talked with a divorce attorney. He was honest and forthright. He said he could get me a divorce. In exchange, he would take a lot of my money, and whatever money was left would be awarded to my ex in the form of alimony and child support and she would keep the house. I would get an appliance box and a lifelong stint at my dead-end shithole job. Now I'll admit to you that the money was a consideration, it has to be; anybody in that situation tells you it isn't, you call them a liar. Worse, the thought that I'd be turning over the money that I'd earned to her and that she would be spending it however the hell she saw fit was enough to make my blood boil. But no, the thing that tipped the scales for me was when he said that she would get the kids. It wasn't that I was a bad guy, he had assured me; it's just the way things worked—mothers get the kids, fathers get the shaft. I just couldn't imagine leaving them at her mercy. Subject to her twisted image of perfection, to be raised as automatons denied their own individualities and identities so they could more readily exist within the boundaries of her society's acceptability. No, I wouldn't, couldn't, force them to endure the type of life I had been living. So I stayed. I chose to, to act as some kind of counterweight to their mother's influence, some type of barrier, a filter against their mother's perpetual onslaught in search of peer-approved acceptance. I had to be there to assure them that there was another way—their way, whatever they chose it to be. That is probably the only important choice I've made in my life without anybody else's input. I traded my self-esteem, years of my life, and a measurable amount of my sanity to stay and be a champion for my children. And how'd that work out? Not real well, sure as hell not the way I wanted it to. Logan is twenty, soon to be twenty-one, recently graduated, and addicted. I'm not allowed to use that word at home; that word is taboo there. At home, he's troubled, challenged, or experiencing a difficult time. These are all catchphrases that the in crowd and pretty people use to say, We're dealing with some pretty unsavory issues that we prefer not to be made public right now so as not to damage our social standing but will openly brag about our accomplishment once we've achieved reconciliation. I say it doesn't matter whether the neighbors know or not or what they think about it. None of that will change the truth—Logan's addicted. He's an addict. He's not in school, he's unemployable, and the few valuables we have left— the ones he hasn't stolen to support his habit—are in a safe in the back of our bedroom closet. This is no way to live for any of us.

You start seeing the signs of it, and the first thing you think is, No, it can't be. God, don't let it be. Let it be a kid in his school, or even the kid next door, but please, not here. Don't make us go through this. But eventually you have to push past the denial and admit that it's real and that it is happening to you and that you have to deal with it. At least that's what I did. My wife never moved past denial. I met the problem head-on, confronting him about it. I tried to help, tried to get him into rehab, but addicts can be a slippery bunch. Many of them don't want to get clean; they just want you to embrace their addiction and accept them as they are, and to do that, they'll use your weaknesses against you. Whether it's sympathy, compassion, guilt, or embarrassment, they'll discover it, target it, and exploit it. I was having none of that; he needs help and I want him to have it, but Logan can play his mother like a kazoo. He'll cry, he'll apologize, and he'll promise. She'll downplay, she'll soften, she'll coddle, and he will find his sanctuary, his safe harbor, the place he could always run to and hide. So despite the talks, despite the arguments, despite all my efforts, he's never really going to listen to me or hear the truth (read addicted).

He pretends to pay attention, bobbing his head and nodding, but that's only until I'm out of sight, then he goes to his mother. He knows she'll give him the money for his next hit in exchange for his agreement to take his filthy habit beyond the judgmental eyes of our pristine community.

This is how it's always been, and we've never stood together where the kids were concerned. I was always expected to be the disciplinarian and I hated it, doling out rules and regulations and punishments while she acquiesced, looked the other way, and handed out pardons. Discontented children must be quieted, after all, and punishments had to be sequestered, all evidence of misbehavior erased. Unmanageable children are not conducive to a popular image.

Chloe is about five years younger than Logan and already sees things, for the most part, the way they really are. She sees Logan's problem as it is and swears she'll never be like him. She also sees her mother for what she really is, which isn't easy, she once said, "because she isn't really anything that other people don't want her to be." Chloe has created her own little world to insulate herself from this life; she has a clique of friends that don't fit in around here, and when she's not with them, she keeps to herself. Her mother buys her the makeup that she wants, allows her to choose her own hairstyle, and makes sure that when Chloe goes shopping for her alternative or New Age wardrobe, she gets only the best. So even though she quietly rebels, her mother has seen to it that she is one of the pretty people of the rebellion. Maybe Chloe doesn't even realize it, or maybe she does and she's just using her mother for all she's worth, beating her at her own game until her age buys her freedom. And secretly, I hope that's the case because I'm on Chloe's side. Out of everyone in the family, I think I have the most in common with her and could get along with her the best. I say could because she won't talk to me.

Today was her first day of high school, and she was looking forward to it. Not so much from the school point of view but from the point of view where she ends her summerlong isolation with her demented family and gets to spend more time with her friends. I know this because she slipped up a couple of times over Labor Day weekend and spoke to me, betraying her excitement. I'd love to ask her how her day went, but she doesn't talk to me unless she absolutely has to. She knows that I see things for how they really are too. I'm old enough and in a position to be able to do something about them, but I don't, and in her mind, that makes me the worst of all. I've thought about telling her the truth, explaining to her that I'm here for her and her brother because I chose to be, because I was afraid for them, not for me. But Chloe is wise beyond her years, and hers is the one opinion I'd respect in this house, and I dread the thought of her telling me that she would have respected me more if I had stayed true to myself and what I believed in and followed through with the divorce. I don't want her to tell me that I had again made the wrong choice. I want to tell her that I'm not the spineless pushover that I appear to be. I want to explain that there comes a point where a little peace and quiet are worth more than winning an argument over what color the kitchen tiles should be, but I'm not sure that even she, at her age and limited experience, could grasp the totality of it. Maybe in a few more years, after Chloe's out of college—if she chooses to go to college—I'll visit that divorce attorney again. Until then…

My lawn is immaculate. The grass is lush and green. The shrubbery is trimmed symmetrically. The flowers are planted evenly. The beds are edged crisply, and the mulch is fresh. And I hate it, every bit of it. Every blade of grass, every bulb, every blossom, every annual, every perennial. Every pass I make with my well-sharpened mower makes me want to scream. It's not that I hate doing it; I like doing this stuff, or I used to, anyway, and still might if it weren't for what it represents. Like Chloe, I've created my own little world to run away to where I can be alone. No one bothers me out here. My wife won't say a word as long as our lawn is the greenest on the street. Logan can't trade tulips or begonias for a fix, and Chloe has no interest in leaving her world to visit mine, so I get left alone. All alone with my thoughts, my opinions, my imagination to how things might have been. I have all the coolest tools, including a snowblower. When I'm not using them, I'm maintaining them, anything to distance me from my life and family. I think that's what bothers me so much about it; I'm not doing what I love because I love doing it anymore, but I do it to keep my mind from my misery, and knowing that fills me with resentment for the things I love(d).

I liken it to the couple that's trying to have a baby. Every guy likes sex, wants sex, but doesn't want to be scheduled for it. What he loves becomes a chore. He's not having sex because he wants to get laid, but he's having it as a means to an end (i.e., pregnancy). I imagine the guy would finally be relieved when he finally gets his old lady knocked up so he can twist the cap off a beer and relax without having anything planned. I wonder when—or if—sex will be fun for him again.

The neighbors all think it's because I like working in the yard, and so does my wife. None of them see it, not even her. It's nothing sudden, nothing abrupt. It's just a subtle push off the dock, and eventually the current catches you and carries you away until you are far away, alone and isolated. I like to tell myself that there's a difference between surrender and resolution, but even I know that in the end, they lead to the same place. And by the time you arrive at that place, you look around and realize it's not where you want to be. You never wanted to be there and you damn sure didn't plan on ending up there. And it's not your fault. You were young and idealistic. The roads and paths that stretched before you in your youth weren't labeled; there were no signs pointing us toward Fame and Fortune, Financial Security, Rewarding Career, Love, or Spiritual Fulfillment. Likewise, the warning signs didn't always appear at the head of the path either; Destitution, Despair, or Turn Around and Go Back While You Can would have surely helped. But there were none, so we picked a path based on what we could see from our limited vantage point and set off. Unfortunately, it's not until you've followed it for a while that you realize you're not going where you hoped to. Like I said, it's not sudden or abrupt; it's subtle, a little swerve here, a little drift there. You know you've strayed off course, but the universe takes a little of this and, in exchange, gives you a little of that. Eh, you figure, no big deal, you can live with that. Pretty soon the universe comes to visit again, offering a little something in exchange for your further divergence from your path. Then one day, you find yourself at a job you don't like with a title you never knew existed. This isn't what you said you wanted to be when you grew up, but your finances and your responsibilities kind of have you stuck, so you stick with it and try to make the best of it. You put on a couple pounds and notice your hairline retreating. You'll go on a diet after the holidays, and you're pretty confident you can rock that comb-over. Your old lady doesn't pay much attention to you anymore (so it doesn't really matter if that diet works or not), but at least there are fewer interruptions while you're watching the game. Then your kids don't listen anymore. Why should they? They know it all, and you're stupid. Kids today, right?

See? It's gradual, a little bit at a time, always just one more thing, so you can accept it and let it go. But if there was some way of knowing that by following this path you would wake up one day pigeonholed in a dead-end job, seventy pounds overweight, balding, with more hair growing out of your ears than your daughter leaves in the shower drain, to find that your wife's been sleeping with the neighbor that never gave your ladder back, and that Fuck you, lardass is now what passes as Good morning from your kids, you would have taken a different route. See what I mean? It sneaks up on you. It's not always your fault. You did what you thought was best, you followed one of life's paths, but one of life's paths didn't follow your plans.

And it's usually when you get to that point that you realize you're trapped. That's right, I'll say it again, trapped. You're stuck, caught between your obligations and your responsibilities. Yeah, yeah, I know, land of the free, home of the brave, land of opportunity and all that good stuff. And it is, you can jump paths, you can start anew, but here's the trick: you can't jump parallel, oh, no, no, no. You can't just change lanes and pick up where you left off; you've got to return to start, and that's going to require some sacrifices. Your livelihood, your income, your big house, one (or more) of your cars, and that's all fine with you, but by now, you've probably got a wife or a husband or SO, maybe kids, so now you've got to break it to them. "Okay, so here's the deal, we're gonna move really far away, trade in our nice car for a clunker, pull you kids out of a school that you're used to, sell our big house, move into a yurt, and eat a lot of ramen noodles." All so you can what, open your own business? Pursue your dreams? Become an author? Yeah, sure, let me know how that goes for you. (And take a video, I'm dying to watch.)

I'm sitting, waiting for another light to turn green (you see the pattern by now, right?). I hear a low rumble, it grows closer until I can feel the rumble trembling through my Lexus. I glance over to the left turn lane just as a Dodge Challenger slides up next to me. It's one of the new ones. It's black with twin red stripes on the hood. Tinted windows. Chrome wheels. My heart skips a beat just looking at it. God, what I wouldn't give for one of those. Don't get me wrong, my Lexus IS 250 is a good car—practical, reliable—and the nebula gray pearl is an attractive color. It fits in with the neighborhood and looks proper in the driveway, but it's not one of those.

I brought up the topic of a Challenger once. What for? It's ugly. I had pointed out otherwise and got laughed at. Well, if you can afford one with your Christmas bonus, be my guest. But don't expect me to go anywhere with you, I wouldn't want to be seen in that car. Really? You wouldn't? Well, hell, we can add that to the list of the car's available features then, can't we?

The left turn light changes green, the Challenger rumbles, and its sleek lines glide away—like so many of my dreams. Fuck. Where did they all go? They were all so close once, now…it all goes by so fast.

Moving again. I had choices, I just didn't know which ones were the right ones at the time. But if I could go back knowing what I know now, I would do things different, way different. Starting with a girl in the cafeteria. I can't tell you her name, I never knew what it was. I can't even tell you what grade she was in, and she literally only spoke two words to me and they were the same word, rahs, She had said it twice. She was about to pull out an empty chair next to me when two cheerleaders pushed their way down the cramped aisle. She waited until they had passed, gave them a nonflattering look, then turned to me and said, Rahs. Cheerleaders, rah-rahs? Rahs? Get it? I didn't, so I said, Huh? (because that's how smooth I was back then). She repeated, Rahs. And that's all she ever said to me, but I can still see her standing there, sandy blond hair, unstyled, falling needle-straight on either side of her face. She wore little or no makeup; she didn't need to, she was just that pretty, a natural kind of beauty that can't be bought at a makeup counter. And I never forgot her eyes; they were as deep blue as an autumn sky. I never said anything more to her either, probably because I was too dumbfounded to believe that anyone so pretty would talk to me to begin with. But she didn't carry herself as if she was; she seemed as down to earth as she was attractive, and maybe that's what's stuck with me about her all these years, how real, how genuine she was. Yeah, that moment would be one of the first of many changes I would make if I had it to do all over again. I promise you this: if I could go back knowing what I know now, I sure as hell wouldn't let myself end up back here at this moment in time.

The Hyundai douchebag is long gone by now. He's probably already home sipping an ice-cold beer while I'm still creeping along behind Grand Master Fuckhead because I can't catch enough of a break from the right lane as it speeds past us, until…

Finally! The guy next to me is turning into Chick-fil-A, and that leaves an opening for me. Looks like I'm not going to be following you all the way home after all, fuckhead. I hit my blinker, swerve to the right, and stand on the gas. My Lexus doesn't accelerate like a Challenger, but—

Crash! The horrible kind that you don't just hear from outside your body, but you feel it inside your body, the kind of sound that's only caused by an automobile accident. My guts are jolted, my bones shudder. My vision is blurred, spinning.

I feel a shower of shattered glass spray me; still, I won't believe it's me, can't believe it's me. This isn't happening! This isn't happening to me! How? What happened? What did I do? I didn't see anything! Please! This isn't happening! There are tires screeching and metal grinding. I see blood… Oh God, is that mine? I'm sliding at a strange angle and I can't steer. The world outside the car rushes past at such a strange trajectory that I can't get my eyes to focus.

Everything is blurring past the fractured windshield and blown-out window. I can't make anything out. I can hear the groan of metal ripping, shearing away, and above it all, I can hear someone screaming. Who's screaming? Oh no! I think it's me! Pain! Oh God, so much pain! More pain than I've ever felt before! Too much! Pain so intense I can't even tell where it's coming from! I can't take it! Oh God, I'm afraid! Please make it stop!

Then…

2

Blackness. Not nothingness, I know, because I'm aware. I'm lying down, and something is covering me. I'm warm, comfortable, and my heart is racing, but my muscles are relaxed. Best of all, there's no pain. God, there was so much pain. How did it go away so fast? Voices, more than one. Male and female, I can distinguish that, but I can't tell what they're saying. I wrinkle my eyelids, flutter my eyes open, then quickly squint them shut against the light. There! I saw red lights! Taillights maybe? Or the lights atop an ambulance? I squeeze my eyes shut tight and steel myself against the brightness, then pop my eyes open again, concentrating on those red lights. They're not lights after all but digital numbers—on their side. What happened? No, they're not on their side, I am. I lift my head and blink my eyes into focus until I can make them out clearly: 6:46. It's the time on a digital clock radio, that's where the voices are coming from.

…might want to put a light jacket on the kids for their walk to the bus stop…, the woman's voice is saying. …midseventies this afternoon with just a passing cloud…

I glance around at familiar surroundings; I know this place and breathe a sign of relief, but I'm still disoriented. I throw the covers off, kick my feet out, and sit up on the edge of the bed all in one motion. Bed? I look down as if to be sure it's really there. I make cones out of my fingers and press down on the mattress, then bounce my ass on it a couple of times to reassure myself it's real. I make a cone out of the fingers on my right hand and press them against the wall above the headboard. It's solid, real, cool, not cold or warm, just room temperature. Of course, it's room temperature, it is the room, stupid. That thought amuses me, and I almost chuckle. But I'm more relieved than anything. These sensations are real, this is real. I let go a sigh of relief. The dream, it seemed so real. I was driving, me, my own car no less, and there was an accident. An awful accident. I heard the crash inside me. I was scared, and the pain…oh God, pain like I could never imagine. How does one dream pain, anyway? I shake the remnants of the dream from my mind.

Thanks, Trish. It's going to be a beautiful day, get out there and enjoy it, the male voice says. Here's some Norman Greenbaum to get you started.

As Spirit in the Sky begins to play, I pick the clock radio up and examine it, turning it over, looking at it from all sides. I'm intrigued by it, but why now? I set it back down on the dresser and glance in the mirror. The face staring back at me catches me off guard. It's me, of course, but not what I expected. What else could I have expected? I stare at my reflection, trying to figure out what's missing, what's so different from what I did expect. Hair. Boy, that's a lot of hair. Why would that seem so unusual? It was there yesterday, and it sure as hell didn't grow that long overnight. Yesterday.

A soft knock from behind me, and I turn to see the bedroom door swing open just enough for a woman to lean her head in. It's my mother, and that puzzles me. Who did I expect it would be?

Good morning, she says with a smile.

Good morning, I say back, still perplexed as to why the sight of her surprises me.

I just wanted to make sure you were up, you don't want to be late.

Late?

For school, it's the first day, she explains in her pleasant tone.

School? I feel the word as much as hear it. I hate school, why wasn't I prepared for this?

Yeah, sorry, summer's all gone. It all goes by so fast, doesn't it?

Sure does, I reply numbly. First day of school? That's the ultimate downer for me. I should have known this, how is it taking me by surprise?

Better get a move on, my mother urges, got to be at the bus stop by seven thirty.

A wave of panic surges through me. The bus stop…the bus stop…why can't I remember? The bus stop is…where?

Out front of the pharmacy, same as last year.

Oh yeah, that's right, okay. I stumble through the words. I know where the pharmacy is, and the bus stop was always there, so why couldn't I remember that until now?

Mom nods and retreats, pulling the door quietly shut behind her. I stand up. School? Fuck, I hate school, but I've got to get dressed, got to get ready. I start around the foot of the bed, taking careful note of the fixtures and knickknacks in the room—my room. I stop and look up at the Boris Vallejo fantasy poster, the one with the barbarian and the scantily clad slave girl that my mother doesn't approve of. It strikes me the same way everything else seems to—familiar and yet not. I recognize everything, and everything is right where it's supposed to be, but it's like I have to be reminded of it. The nightmare must have had more impact on me that I had imagined. I must still be more shaken by it than I realize. Maybe the impact even knocked one of my screws loose.

I shake my head and open the closet. Shirts and pants, all on appropriate hangers. It might be my closet, in my room, but it's in my parents' house, and it won't be messy, that's been made clear. I take stock of my options for pants—a pair of jeans, something made of twill, and two pairs of corduroys. Corduroys? I lift a pair off the closet rod and stare at them. Why do I not—

Another soft knock at the door, and my mother's face reappears. Your father said you can… She must see the look on my face and changes gears, What's wrong?

Corduroy?

You picked them out.

I did?

When I took you school shopping. She sounds almost hurt. You said you liked them.

I must have misunderstood you. I can't remember going clothes shopping or picking out the pants and still can't figure out why I so don't want them. I replace the hanger back on the rod. You were saying about Dad?

He said you can take your phone to school, but don't dare use it in class.

My phone?

Why, your cell phone, she says in a tone that tells me I'm being silly.

I glance over to the dresser where the phone sits next to the clock radio. Oh, okay, cool. No, I won't—use it in class, I mean.

Mom smiles and withdraws again, pulling the door shut behind her. I walk back around the bed, pick the device up—it's a simple flip phone. Strange, I knew right where to look for it, even though I didn't notice it while I was examining the clock radio. I tumble it in my hand, then bounce my hand up and down as though checking its fit and weight. It feels familiar and still…foreign. I open it and it displays: 7:01 a.m., Thursday, September 10, 1981. As I stare at it, there's something about the last number, 1981.

7:01 a.m., now 7:02 a.m. Fuck! I rip open a drawer of white underwear briefs and freeze. Tighty-whities. As bad as the corduroys—no, worse—but again, what was I expecting? My thinking is so disjointed; it must be that fucking nightmare, but there's no time to work it out now, gotta move. Tighty-whities it is. Jeans, T-shirt, sweat socks, sneakers, cell phone. There's still something…no time. I rush out of my room and down the hall, looking at all the pictures on the walls as if for the first time only; it's not the first time. I know who all these people are, ancestors and relatives, and I can name all the places in the photos.

Into the bathroom, take a leak, put the seat down, brush my teeth, and—holy fuck, that's a lot of hair. I brush it, and it does what it wants. I wet it, and it does what it wants. I soak it, now it's soaking and doing what it wants. Why can't I do this? Why can't I remember how to do this? Remember? Didn't I just do this…

Rick, it's getting late, my mother calls out the two-minute warning. Fuck it, no time—on to plan B. Back to my room, pluck my red Agway hat off its peg. Faded, dirty, sweat-stained, it's always been my favorite. I situate it on my head, taming my hair (so much hair!) for now. Back down the hall to the kitchen so I can give Mom a kiss goodbye.

What are you wearing that for? she asks of my hat.

Bad hair day, gotta go. A peck on the cheek and I'm out the door and into the cool morning dampness. I make my way up the lane, but something's still tugging at me. Everywhere I look, everything seems to be right and in its right place, but something's still not right. Everything is familiar to me, but it's as if I don't know that; rather, I'm being reminded of it, but I can't seem to remember. Remember what? What am I trying to remember? What have I forgotten? Everything is exactly where it should be, the way it should be—except me. Why can't I seem to remember anything I've done over the last few days, anywhere I've been? Why can't I remember going school shopping with Mom? How could I forget how to brush my hair? How could I possibly have forgotten that today was the first day of school? Could that dream have really fucked me up so bad that I can't even remember what I was doing yesterday? Why doesn't anything remind me of what I was doing yesterday? What was I doing yesterday? Last day before school, I was probably moping in my room. But then I would have been listening to music, right? What was I listening to? I can't recall. Maybe I went fishing? Or went for a bike ride? Unlikely, I wouldn't have tried fooling myself into believing it was just another day. Besides, I can't conjure any images associated with me doing either one.

I check my phone: 7:16 a.m. My phone, that's another thing—why do I feel so…I don't know what…about this phone? Now it's really starting to bother me. What was I doing yesterday? I close my eyes as I walk, letting my mind travel back. What time did I get up yesterday? I don't remember. What did I do yesterday morning after I got up? I can't recall. Think! Chicken! I had chicken for lunch. My eyes pop open, and I let go a little sigh. Chicken, I say out loud, relieved. I had chicken for lunch. Chicken breast fillets in barbecue sauce, slow-cooked so the sauce would thicken and stick to the fillets. I cooked it. I cooked it? I stop walking and let my vision blur, allowing my eyes to phase into my memory. Yes, I cooked the chicken. I can see me putting it in the oven, opening the door periodically to check its progress. But that wasn't our oven. I wheel around and look back at my house as if I'll be able to see through the walls and watch a video replay of me in the kitchen. It was leftovers, I ate it out of a storage container. I look down to see my hands indicating the size of the container. It had a red lid. I sat…at a desk? I was relieved no one bothered me so I could listen to the lunchtime request hour on the radio. My heart is beating faster now, my breathing is shallow and quick. Why? What's there? I…I, ah… I'm tugging at my bottom lip with my thumb and forefinger but hardly notice. The sun was out, it was sunny… It made the inside of the car hot when I got in it. The car! I drove a car…in traffic, lots of traffic, stop and go, stop and go. Kansas was on the radio. I'm staring into the abyss, my eyes are unfocused, but I can see… A Hyundai! I unconsciously point with my right hand. He won't move…and…a Challenger. My left hand points at it as my chest begins to heave, my breathing increases. A black one with red stripes… Supertramp is on the radio, then there's a break in traffic, an opening, and I take it, and… Then it hits me all at once—again? The horrible sound, the bone-crushing jolt, the pain. They all catch in my throat, and I utter them as a squeaky moan. The accident.

The world begins to spin, swirling around me. I see my house pass my field of vision, it circles around and passes by again and again, along with all the other houses, lawns, and trees. The morning air cools the sweat on my forehead as it wooshes around me. I steady myself and try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. I want to raise my hands, and they rise in front of me. I want to turn them over, and they flip front to back, back to front. I stare at them, waiting for them to fade away, but they don't; they're real. My body is real, I'm real. I'm lucid. So if this isn't a dream and that wasn't a dream… Then it hits me, everything, all at once, like a breaker wave crushing ashore, and I realize, My name is Richard Edward Deeter, I'm fifty years old, and I was killed in a car accident thirty-four years from today.

Or at least I think I was.

3

I stood stone-still in the morning quiet with the universe roaring in my ears. I can't describe how overwhelming it was trying to grasp the possibilities of two realities. I could say, Imagine you were this and then woke up as that, or imagine you were there and then woke up here, but it just wouldn't compare. Just trying to comprehend the concept was making me dizzy and physically sick to my stomach. No, it can't be, I told myself. Pick one, but I couldn't. I was clearly in one reality while harboring the very real and explicit memories of a future/past reality. How? How could it be? It couldn't; this was the kind of thing you saw in movies, read in books, and yet there I was. The car crash, it must have something to do with the car crash. Was I dead? Was this heaven or Purgatory or, worse, hell? I replayed the crash in my mind, the sounds, the fear, the pain, but it offered no answers. I kept thinking, kept scouring my memory bank, and then it came to me: the words. The last words I spoke before the accident, If I could go back knowing what I know now, I sure as hell wouldn't let myself end up back here at this moment in time. And that was enough? That's all it took to get me back