How To Go Back in Time Book One: Chapter Six

I stomped my cigarette out. We had pulled into the bar and found it to be an utter wasteland.
Come to think of it, everything in this town was an utter wasteland. Thirty-five-thousand people and
yet there were still ghosts. The highway on ramp was just down the street. A couple people whizzed by
in their shitboxes.
There was a single light above the doorway that buzzed and attracted flies. The glow cast
shadows onto the trees like they were background pieces. For a second I thought that I was in a play.
Like nothing was real. A simple blink of reality. Then back to normal.
I had picked James up from the station. He was a little pissed off as he had an argument with
Paul. Something about Paul being egotistical—I don’t know, he just seemed tense. Therefore, he was
even more eager to go drinking. Therefore, he suggested it first.
I stepped through the door and found the inside to be equally empty. There were a couple people
sitting at the bar, one at a booth. The bartender was nowhere to be found. In the corner, sat a jukebox
playing soft jazz. Chet Baker.
He came back to the counter and I ordered drinks. A pitcher of beer and some tequila. I went
and sat down, and then lit a cigarette.
“You smoke so much, dude…”
“What? It’s an addiction.”
“How many packs? Two?”
“Yeah.”
“And how many years?”
“…Since I was twelve.”
His eyes went wide, and he gasped. “Jesus Christ, your lungs must look…”
I chucked. “Like wet, shriveled up newspaper?”
“Yeah! That!”
“I’m planning to quit, you know.”
“When?”
“Whenever I know that I can deal with the fallout of that decision, and not bite somebody’s head
off. Trust me, I need my addictions right now.”
James paused for a moment. He looked over at the shot glasses, and then back at me with a
stare. “Is that why you got tequila? I mean—tequila? Really?”
“I have a cure for that, if you’re worried about the hangover. Lime juice, carrots, and green tea.”
“That doesn’t work.”
“It does. It’s part of my morning routine. Each morning, I step outside for a smoke and a drink,
and the fog gets lifted away.”
James stared at the shots and grimaced. He tightened his reach, and grabbed them. He slammed
the shot down on the counter and wiped his mouth. “Tastes like lighter fluid.” He said.
* * *
“Okay, okay, that guy over there!” James said, pointing. The man in question wore a diamond
chain, ripped jeans, and a band T-shirt. Well-groomed, just shaved. 49ers Beanie.
“Oh, please, ten different kids all across town.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“Look at him. You can tell by his eyes he’s happy, just fulfilled. His legs aren’t tense so he’s
relaxed. Now he’s talking to someone, and doing most of the talking—that tells me he’s confident.”
James sat back with awe on his face. He set the glass of beer down on the table with a clink. A
few drops spilled out. “I should become an FBI Agent. God damn.”
I laughed and said, “Trust me, not as glamorous as it looks. Even with being an orphan, and
moving around, I had a 4.0 GPA. Then two weeks after graduating, I enlisted in the marines. Did specops there—so the FBI wanted me. Sounds all fun and dandy, right?”
“Yeah. Completely.”
“My SAC was this elderly man for two years—and believe me, I’m being nice. In the beginning,
I wasn’t allowed to do shit. There was more red-tape than the military, seriously. I had to quit weed
because of the weekly drug tests. There’s paperwork for everything. I don’t even decide my schedule,
dude.” I solemnly sat back and gave the thousand-yard stare. “And it disrupts my life. I have no
stability. Wife and kids? Say goodbye to that. I have a lot of sex, I guess.”
“But you make a lot of money.”
I smiled. “Sure. I make a lot of money.”
James shrugged and set his glass down. “I don’t know, it sounds like a pretty good job if I’m
already working for the police.”
* * *
“You ever think about how weird shoes are?” James said. He had asked to bum a cigarette a few
minutes ago. Of course, I obliged.
By now, people were starting to shuffle out of the bar. There was less noise. More quiet.
I stared blankly into my glass. It was still a little frosty, and you could see my finger prints.
“What?”
“I mean, think about it. They’re shoes. Clothes for your feet.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” I giggled and mumbled, “Shoes for your feet…”
We fell into a silence. James rested his head on the table to stop himself from puking. It was the
only position he could lay in that wouldn’t make him nauseous. He would’ve kept his eyes open, but
they were too heavy.
I put out my cigarette in the tray, and tried counting the butts. “One, two, three… five, six—wait,
no. One, three—fuck.”
James lifted his head up and said, “There’s eight in there,” and then laid back down.
“Eight? Jesus Christ…”
“Yeah. Maybe you should quit.”
I sat up, and steadied myself. “You ever hear of Viktor Frankl?” Above our heads, the light
flickered.
“Vikter Fronkl?”
“No.” I said. “Say it with me, vik.”
“Vik.”
“Tor.”
“Tor.”
“Frankl.”
“Frankl.”
“Viktor Frankl.”
“Vikman Fronkl.”
I sighed and said, “Alright, you don’t need to know his name. That’s fine. But I wanna tell you
something, um, something incredibly important about him. Something of great—“
“…Yeah?”
“Basically, this guy lived through the holocaust, and he realized that the only thing a human can
really do is decide their own meaning. Decide how they deal and perceive—uh, things.”
For the first time in twenty minutes, James lifted his head up. His eyes had a glimmer to them.
Like he had been just been struck by a beautiful force. “So, it’s like… stoicism but fucked up.”
“Yeah. Man—I can’t imagine living through that.”
“Jesus…”
“But, really, I think it’s kind of beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
“Yeah, how if you master yourself your unstoppable. You’re basically, kind of a God. Nothing
can topple your, uh, your castle.”
“Irwin…”
“Yeah?”
“What are we gonna do about the case.”
“What do you mean?”
“This shit isn’t normal for this town. Two murders happening in two weeks? The fact that there’s
maybe a second killer? It’s terrifying!”
I laid my head down. “Yeah, I don’t like it either.” Though I was thinking that I’d never seen a
case like this, I decided not to speak. It would only spook.
“You know what I’m gonna do now?” James said.
“What?”
“I’m gonna get back into painting. Like, oils and shit. They take forever to dry, but it always
creates such a nice texture. Like a dream on canvas.”
“Why?”
James locked eyes with me, and mumbled, “So I don’t feel scared anymore.”
I solemnly nodded. “And what do you like to paint?”
“Abstract landscapes.”