Catch a Ride

A Story by Tom Bombidail

Past, present, future; what does it matter when they all seem to bleed together?

A cold wind blows over a sleeping body. Eyes open on a clouded sky. He shivers and stirs. Seconds later he feels his bed move. The tires below grab the road. Intruders have his wheel. His fingers interlock over the edge. His fists pound down on the windshield. Cracks spiderweb over a pair of thieves line of vision. A foot presses down on a gas pedal and throws the groggy man from his bed.

Blood splatters on asphalt and his world goes black for a moment. Red pain obstructs his thoughts and for the briefest of length of time ends them. His eyes open a second time. Instead of blue skies, he sees mangrove trees and water. A beat up tent to his back and a canal to his front, 'The hell happened?'

It doesn't take long for him to make it to a road. It connects to US 1. He's on an island, an island connected to other islands through one long highway. 'I must be dreaming,' he surmises.

This bit of road looks familiar. It's Tavernier. He used to live here years ago. The pizza place passes him by, and the church, and the farm. Each step takes him closer to his old residence, closer to the Key Colony.

To his surprise, his father's cobalt blue Chevy still sits in a car port. His mother's Prius right next to it.

'This is different,' he thinks to himself, 'I should be awake by now. I'm never this lucid this long.' He finally musters up the courage to wrap his fist against his parent's door. A man answers, he looks just like his father, except he doesn't have as many lines in his face, or as many gray hairs.

"Dad?" he asks, uncertain if it is his father. He's heard of doppelgangers before.

"You look like s**t, Michael," replies the man. He's right. His hair's dirty and matted, it reaches down past his shoulders. His clothes ripped and torn. "You've only been gone a week and you look like you aged ten years," his father leans against the doorway and sighs,"Come inside and get something to eat."

Mike's stomach gurgles on cue. Father and son break bread. He strains to remember the details of his life in the keys. Just a few hours ago he woke nearly a thousand miles to the west, but now he's back east and if he's to believe the tags on most cars he passed on the way there he's lost time.

Between mouthfuls of food Michael notices a calendar over his dad's shoulder. It's the middle of winter, which lines up with when he was thrown from the car, but the year is about four off.

Mike sets his fork down next to a scraped clean plate, "I need to tell you something that's not going to make a lot of sense."

He recounts his days prior to being thrown from his Jeep. How it was his home and had been for a solid year. Finally, he comes to his last memory before being transported back to the Keys. The memory of his death, of his skull cracking wide open.

A long awkward silence passes between he and his father. Eventually, the older man runs a few fingers through his already thinning hair and lets out a sigh, "Have you been doing that over the counter s**t again? You're f*****g delusional."

Mike nods. That's exactly the reaction he expected, "Call my number." Before his father begins to even thumb the area code he adds, "Don't tell me I'm here. I'm not sure what I'll do."

His father looks into his son's eyes. They're not as bright as he remembers from the last time he walked out of his house. On the third ring someone picks up, "Michael..."

The two have a brief conversation. The person on the other end sounds tired. If Mike remembers right, he'd been up for a day and a half, "We love you, come home"

They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. Finally, Mike breaks the silence, "I should have about an hour. I was trying to sleep under that movie theater." Another long pause, his father's left speechless, "Got a pen and some paper?"

Michael jots down a long list of his rights and his wrongs. A short story of his life starting from his current present in the Keys all the way to his old present in his home town. He ends his message with different companies to buy stock in like any time traveler would, "Feel free to use those picks yourself. You'll be able to make a small fortune with them."

He pulls a chair up to the edge of his parent's balcony and lights up a cigarette. The scenery is beautiful. His father's boat rocks and bobs next to the deck. Rays stream down on wood and cast oranges over the sky.

A closed fist knocks on wood downstairs. Michael's bright eyes greet his father, and he passes his son a folded piece of loose leaf paper, "Don't read it yet. There's someone upstairs you need to meet."

At first, Michael only sees someone's head of curly hair from behind and smoke rising from the figure's hand. The stranger gets up, and Michael's confronted with a mirror image, "Is this a joke?"

The older Michael forces a chuckle, "No joke. I just knew you wouldn't believe that note came from you because, well, I am you." He reaches toward his left sleeve and lifts it, revealing the burn scar he gave himself at sixteen, "See?"

"I must still be high," exhales his younger self as he sinks to the floor.

"You are, but I'm real," he walks to himself and stretches out a hand to take hold of. The younger man doesn't seem to notice and stays stationary. His eyes blur over, "I can't say I blame you. Everything I have to say is in that note. I suggest you read it because the alternative's becoming me. And I die young."

The older Michael shuffles downstairs. Before he can get to the door he feels his father's hand on his shoulder, "You're not dead yet."

He turns around to see tears rolling down the face of his father. He's human. He feels tears well up in his own eyes, "I got here by dying." He and his father embrace. Tear drops stain both their clothes. Mike knows only one of him can be in the same world. He's already had his chance.

A long pier stretches out to the ocean, to the Atlantic side. A tired Michael cradles a heavy stone between his hands. It's tied to a rope, which is tied to his neck. He takes one last long look at the sun before it disappears over the horizon. His fingers slip, the stone drops, and he's pulled into deep blue water. Long matted curly hair disappears beneath the waves. His final thought, 'Be better. Be better than I was.'