His name was Jonathan?

Here? Where is here? Or the better question, when is here? Once again I find myself trapped in a maze of my own design. A new trap every day. Sometimes I find myself in the oddest of places. Today, I’m standing out in a road nothing around me except the tumbleweeds and cactus strewn across the sand-colored landscape that surrounds me.

Ever since my first time, my only time, in that machine, I’ve found myself each day in some place I never planned to go. Place isn’t the right word; time is more correct. I’m the world’s first time traveler; as far as I know at least. And maybe it’s out of egotistical pride that I want to think that’s the case.

Frankenstein, out of ambitious need and unrestrained arrogance, created his monster hoping for glory and recognition. In the end, he himself became the monster. Like Frankenstein I too had an ambitious need and a desire to prove my ideas, maybe not for fame, but in the end, with all the money I’ve spent, I could have enjoyed some financial windfall from it. If it all worked as planned maybe that would have been possible.

Instead, I’ve created my own monster, a monster I hunt, hoping to find a way to stop it, to end its hold on me. Every day a new adventure awaits me; the constant leaps make it hard to keep track of myself and my place in this unbridled world created by my machine. Although the machine is no longer connected to my journeys it clearly was the cause.

I’ve been walking for some time now and the temperature is really starting to creep up to an almost uncomfortable heat. And finally, in the distance, I can see an obvious town in the valley miles ahead. So far, none of this looks familiar. Not everywhere I go has a connection to my life anymore. At least, I’m often unable during my limited time to figure out the linking factor. It used to be my leaps were contained to times in my life, places I’d seen or been. Slowly, jump by jump, point to point, they started losing that common thread. First one jump out of a hundred was unfitting to my experiences, now it seems just the opposite.

On this day, all this time is being wasted walking down this dusty road. Not too unusual for the start of my days but tedious none the less. Hopefully, I will have time to work on my problem. With only a day in each place and the lack of equipment to do my work it’s nearly impossible to make any forward progress. All I have is my journal in my backpack where I keep a record of my daily journeys and my work. I’ve started to record the timeframes and locations hoping one day to find a common thread, though with the substantial information so far and the complete lack of connecting tissue that may be a waste of my time.

Ahab’s hunt was an easier one than mine, though his was out of revenge over the loss of his leg to the beast. He hunted the massive White Whale across the vast ocean on his familiar boat the Pequod. The ocean was a seemingly endless area for his voyage to take him. Add to that the dimension of time and subtract from it anything familiar and that would more suitably fit my predicament.

A rumble behind me has me look back, it’s a car, thank God maybe I can get a ride. Standing to the side of the road I put out my thumb and try to look desperate and pathetic, with the hope of gaining sympathy.

Rumbling toward me is a well-kept old red convertible with a shiny chrome bumper, rounded fenders and headlights, and a tall cowl adorned with the outstretched wings of a hood ornament. It slows down as it approaches, the cloud of dust behind it catches up and partially envelopes it.

“Good morning,” a man says from the driver’s seat.

“Morning,” I reply while admiring his car.

“Not a great road to be walking down. It’s gonna be a hot one today. Jump in, let me get you out of the heat.”

“Thanks,” I reply while circling around to the other side. “You certainly keep this old—” I almost say old car when I realize he’s wearing clothes from the same timeframe. I’m somehow back in the fifties. That’s nearly seventy-five years from my origin time, the furthest point I’ve ever travelled back.

“What’s that?” he asks in my long pause.

“Oh, nothing, I thought at first this was an Oldsmobile, now I see it’s a Chevy,” I cover quickly after being inspired by the emblem on the steering wheel.

“Just picked her up today. She’s a joy to drive. A new 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air they call it. Straight out of Detroit. Figured I deserved it after all I’ve done,” he says.

I take a moment and look over his new car as it glides down the road, seemingly on a pillow of air. I’m not sure if I should ask what he’s done, it seems too personal. Looking in the back seat I see a drab green duffle bag stuffed full. “Military?”

“Yes. I got home from Korea almost a year ago. The bag was still in the trunk of the car I traded in. I haven’t really unpacked my bag yet,” he says.

“My grandfather served in K—” again I pause, after all this time I’m still bad at keeping my thoughts of the past I know out of conversations. “My grandfather was in World War I. Thank you for your service,” I say, recovering from my near slip.

“Thank you for my service? Never heard that before. I guess you’re welcome would be in order. World War I, I’m no expert in history by any means, but that would have been a terrible time. He was a lucky man to come out alive,” he says. As I look more closely at him, he seems to be my own age, mid-twenties. And though he’s been home for nearly a year he still has the clean-cut hair, fresh shave, and fairly fit looks of a soldier.

“Yeah, time. It has many gifts in store for us,” I say.

“I’m sure it does. Hey, I never introduced myself. I’m David Woods,” he says, reaching his hand toward me.

David Woods? How can that be? A connection, I’ve found my connection. My father’s father, my grandfather, is sitting next to me. Why here? Why now? “Good to meet you David, I’m John,” I say, using my father’s name. It’s a lie, but it would seem odd to tell him I have the same name as him.

“What brings you to Las Cruces?”

New Mexico, that’s where they lived when they were first married. If I remember correctly, they got married just before he shipped out in 1950. They haven’t even started a family yet; my father wasn’t born until a year after he returned. “Just seemed like a good place to visit at the time.”

“So far, it’s not bad. My wife moved here after I shipped out. Her parents helped her buy a little place so when I returned we would have a home. In all honesty, I thought it was a fat chance that I’d ever return. War isn’t kind or forgiving no matter what awaits you at home, or what dreams you may have on the other side.” He’s young but he talks like an old soul. “Sorry, war will do that to a person. Make you talk and think like that. Even after a year away from it.”

“I can’t imagine,” I say. And I really can’t. I never served; I never even gave it a second thought. My dad did, he followed in his father’s footsteps. The only war I’m involved in is a war to try and regain my life, return to my time, shut this loop that has me—

“And you really don’t want to. I say avoid it if you can, there’s no value in it, especially not for the soldier,” he says. A different view than what he supposedly had as my dad was growing up. Enlisting will do you good… was purportedly one of his mottos.

He pulls the dusty car into a gas station about a mile out of town. Before getting out he asks, “Do you have a place to stay in town?”

“No, not at all.”

“Huh,” he says, climbing out of the car. He then walks from one side of the car to the other and back again. “I’ll be damned.”

“What's wrong?”

“Can’t for the life of me find the gas cap. Shoot, the dealer said something about it too.”

I get out of the car; a vague memory returns to me. Dad talked about Grandpa’s old car. I walk to the right taillight and wiggle it, nothing. Then I do the same at the left taillight and it flips open. “Voila,” I say, as if it were magic.

“Well, that settles it. You should come to our house for dinner. After all, without you I’d likely be stranded on the road forever,” he says stretching his arms wide. “We will have to tell my wife that we served together. She wouldn’t be too hip to the idea of a stranger coming for dinner.”

“I’ll accept, though I don’t like the idea of deceiving her. Maybe we can come up with a better idea,” I say, realizing as I do that looking at him is almost like looking into a mirror.

“Agreed. Let me go pay for the fuel,” he says while hanging the hose back up on its receiver.

After getting back into the car, and waiting for him to return, I’m mulling over the uniqueness of this day I’ve been handed. Are more of my trips holding similar connections? Have I missed something?

Suddenly I’m startled with a thud and gasp at the back of the car. I jerk my head back and see David sliding down the hood of the trunk. “David? You okay?” There’s no response.

I jump out of the car to check on him a man, running out from the service station, yells to me, “Is he Okay?”

We both arrive at the rear of the car and find him slumped on the cement.

“He tripped over the curb there, hit his chest on the taillight. Went down in a heap after that,” the attendant tells me.

Quickly I roll him over and place two fingers at his neck, no pulse. “Call 911,” I tell the attendant. He just stares at me with a baffled look on his face. “Call for an ambulance,” and still he looks confused. Asking him to help with CPR is probably a lost cause too. I bring two hands into the center of his chest and start a fast-paced rhythm of compressions.

After a full minute, I decide to give him a couple puffs of air. The attendant has disappeared, hopefully he’s calling for some help. Good thing too I’m pretty sure he would wonder why I’m kissing this man. After two full breaths I recenter my hands on his chest. After only a dozen more compressions Davids eyes pop open.

“Stop—stop. What are you doing?” he asks confused.

“You fell and hit your chest. It stopped your heart,” I state as a matter of fact. “I was trying to start your heart back up.” Not thinking the moniker CPR would mean anything to him.

“That would explain why my chest hurts. But it looks like it worked,” he says propping himself up on an elbow. “Thank you. Well, I guess we have a much better reason to invite you to dinner now. She can’t possibly frown at the idea of eating dinner with the man that just saved my life.”

“Probably not,” I reply.

“Oh my god, he’s alive?” the attendant says arriving back at the pump. “I called the hospital; they said to get him there as soon as possible.”

“Well thank you. I don’t think we need to go that direction now,” David says, rising from the ground and rubbing his chest, “I’m feeling pretty good. This curb here nearly took me out.” He gives the curb a little kick.

Once back in the car it’s only a few more miles until we’re at his home. When the new car rolls up the driveway a very pregnant woman, my grandmother, comes out to see the new vehicle.

“I was starting to worry about you?” she says at first. Then, upon seeing me, she moves directly to her new question. “David? Who’s this?”

“Cynthia, this is John. He was out on the highway this morning and I gave him a ride into town.”

“That’s nice,” she responds still looking like she needs an answer.

“Well, we were at Bills service station, and he saved my life. Thought we could at least offer him dinner tonight.”

“Saved your life? Really?”

After recanting the entire story to his lovely wife, my grandmother, she had no qualms about my presence in their home. In fact, she insists. “I already have a big roast and some vegetables in the oven. More than enough.”

The inside of the house is charming and fitting of the two people I have just met and have always known. “What a wonderful house,” I say, “And the food smells delicious.”

“You know David, if I didn’t know better, I would say John could be your twin brother,” she adds over dinner.

“Huh, I didn’t notice. Now that you mention it though, he could,” my grandfather says. “I mean he is a good-looking man,” he adds with a smile.

They offered me a place to wash up and we sat and made some small talk for the next couple hours. Cynthia even offered me a cold beer and a bite after my constantly rumbling stomach alerted her to my needs.

“Cynthia, when are you due?” I ask near the end of the meal.

“Actually, any day now, and I can’t wait. I’m so excited, I mean we are so excited to welcome a baby into our lives.”

“Is it a boy or girl?” I ask next. And with that they both look at me perplexed. “I mean, are you hoping for a boy or girl?”

“Oh,” Cynthia starts, “I would love a boy. And David wants a girl.”

“I’ll take either, I’m just eager to start that new chapter. Cynthia’s going to be a great Mom,” David adds.

“Have you decided on any names?” I continue with more obvious questions, after all what do you discuss with two people that will one day be your grandparents. You certainly can’t lead with any of that.

“We were thinking if it’s a girl, Lola after my mother,” Cynthia says. “And if it’s a boy we were planning on David, it’s a good name.”

“It is a good name, but in light of today, after my near-death experience, I think John is a good name as well.”

“Johnathan David Woods, I like it,” Cynthia says.

My dad’s name is actually Jonathan? Huh, I never knew.

It’s my grandmother that invites me to stay the night, “Unless you have some other place to be,” she adds.

I would love nothing more than to stay with these two. To wake up and spend another day with them and the day after too. I would like nothing more than to meet my father after he’s born. However, at nine eleven each morning, the same time as my first trip, I’m moved to somewhere else. “I can stay the night, but I do have to head out early. I hope that doesn’t bother you?” I answer.

“No, not at all, I’ll have breakfast ready at seven. Will that work?” she asks.

“That will be perfect,” I say. And for the first time in years, I’ll be spending it in a house with family. Even though they don’t know it.

I may be a version of Dr. Frankenstein or Captain Ahab but tonight I’ll be with family. Hopefully I have future journeys that bring me back here.