Wait--What?!

You stand in front of the mirror of your rundown, dirty, dusty, messy house. You’re slothful, sloppy, lazy, procrastinator and a little insecure. You have all these issues you complain about to your fiancé. Will she marry you? You beg her to stay, but she disappears out the restaurant door. You sling an arm around her as you put popcorn in your mouth, but she gets up and leaves, you watching her with sad eyes and a sadder heart. You blink away tears that night as you crawl, exhausted from breathing in the almost toxic fumes from the factory you get up extra early to go to in order to get a raise.

Your younger self tells you every night, wearing a different attire every night—silk black tuxedo first, and then a violet buttoned shirt, and then a Christmas evergreen turtle-neck shirt. He, a young boy, looks at you with narrowed eyes, a shiver racing down your spine. That was you—an arrogant, smirking fool punching the teachers verbally, kicking your legs up and slamming your heels down on the desk and whipping that one bang of brunette hair out of your eyes. The principal warned you. Your mother spanked you. Your father glared at you.

You still talked back, glared fiercely at your superiors, snapped at the stupid cat purring incessantly around your chair every night while you strived in vain to complete the boring homework you didn’t have to do since you were smarter than everyone else, and ignored your own neighbors. You look at your younger self.

“I guess…” You sigh, shoving your hands into your pajama bottoms.

“Oh, shut it!” The younger you hurls. “You have no idea! Cissy’s gone.”

“Is that my fault? Did I make Cissy go? What do you mean?”

The boy’s face was pinched.

“I…” You look down, not daring to tear up. Yes, it’s you, but it’s a younger version. You remind yourself of all those bullies in books, movies and plays where they cackle at the protagonist, leaving him or her to suffer your abominations. You think of whether you really threw mud at the poor ugly glass-wearing girl or tripped the nerd on his way to science class, crushing his science fair project and causing him to go home with tears that would finally destroy his already ruined failure of a project. You try, but then you ask yourself—

“No, I didn’t do it!”

You narrow your eyes, and then widen them, your sandy eyebrows raising in disappointment. “Look—you—”

The boy in the mirror’s mustard-yellow T-shirt changed to a blood-red tuxedo with a blood red tie and a blood red shirt. Soot black pants adorned his legs. He suddenly had black sunglasses, and when he took those off, his eyes looked blood-shot, like he had been sitting in front of the TV with a blackened background of no lights on. In a pitch-black room, where the TV screamed its light, and I didn’t see anything but things happening in a box of moving characters and changing scenarios.

“So? She's gone!” The child before me slithered out his words. Ice covered them.

I nodded understandingly and walked away. The next morning, I called my fiancé. She didn’t pick up. During my lunch break at my office job, I called her again. She ignored me again. Slamming down my phone, I attracted the attention of some coworkers, but then I got up, told my boss I was sick and went home—

No, she stopped me before I could push the door away from me. I turned. “What?”

“Please, don’t go. You’re an asset here.”

I shook my head, looking right at her. She looked concerned, her lips pursed. “Okay.” She shrugged. “It’s almost Christmas. But, bye.” She disappeared into her office, head hung. Bye, no one. You—

No, I must write in first person. And past tense.  

I took a right instead of the normal left for home. Going up to her front door, I raised a fist to knock.

“Yes?” She opened the front door and then pushed the screen door open for me. I entered, telling her she didn’t have to do this. “Do what?”

“Ignore me.”

She walked away, returning with photographs of someone else with his arm around her shoulders. “See? We’re together.” She nodded, a waterfall of auburn hair seeming to agree with her as it swung forward. Turning away, I headed home. An email said I was fired. After applying for another one, I got turned away. Balling my fists, I stormed into the bathroom, ordering my younger self to emerge. He did, decked in a costume only fit for St. Patrick’s Day—a green ribbon around a black velvet top hat, an evergreen business suit and silk black pants.

What was I—a CEO back in the day? This boy’s only ten years old.

I squinted. I had hated my classes, back talking to everyone I could give a smart comment to and distracting myself with my video games at night without a thought towards homework (which was done in my mind). I laughed—how I wished for special powers so I could mentally complete my homework, pinning those answers onto the pieces of paper! But, I turned to the boy who was now wearing Valentine’s Day colors—the same attire but ruby, blood-red and rose pink. Also, rose red. Even a nice red rose tucked into his breast pocket.

“Cissy. She was my best friend. Twin sister.” His eyes filled with tears. “She could’ve been right here, decorated in such a getup!” His attire changed to a deep orange, auburn and silk black with pure white top hat on such a finely combed head. His eyes weren’t icy blue anymore. They were a soft brown—almost as brown-sugary soft as his hair.

“So…?” Then I stood up straight. He was myself! Why so timid? “So you’re going to move on. Cissy’s gone. Sorry to be so harsh, but you’re going to—”

“Grow up to work an office job and see my engaged girlfriend to me go away—”

I raced out of there. I wasn’t my jerk self anymore. I returned to her house. She didn’t answer. I rang the doorbell. She unlocked the door, hissing for me to leave after turning on the front porch lights. “It’s late—”

“I’m not the same person I was in college. Or high school. Or elementary. I don’t wear those dumb clothes!”

“What dumb clothes?”

I took a huge breath. “The top hat, tuxedo, bow and business shoes like I’m an act on stage or something. I’m not.” I shook my head. “I’m just an ordinary, unemployed guy.” My hands slapped my trousers. Paint trousers. Stained with stuff. She just whispered goodnight. My goodbye hurt more than never receiving a paycheck from my boss again. Falling onto my bed, I sobbed.  

She was the only good thing that came out of my stupid life.

Stupidly boring.

I returned to my former self. “What else did I do?”

“Hm?”

“Do to deserve her ditching me.”

“Who?”

“My fiancé!” My anger quickly vaporized. “Never mind. You’re just my younger self.” I scratched my head. “Wait—how did you know you would grow up to be in an office job and almost marry a woman?”

“I see you wear your nice clothes and talk about her. You even mention—”

“You mean, you’re here the whole time?”

“Yes. You just don’t see me all the time. I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Oh! What else have I done?”

The boy thought. “Well, you stole from a candy store. Then you hurled rocks through people’s windows. Then you hated on the barking dogs, growling back at them. You wanted to be a circus ringleader. You detested the playground, preferring books to playing. When everyone else screamed, running around and calling to each other, you shoved the book closer to your face, striving in vain to shut the world out. But, alas, you couldn’t. So you decided to ignore the teachers until they called out the principal. Then the principal, tired of ordering me to get up and go to class, let you sit there. You sat there until your angry, scared parents dragged you towards the car, yelling at you to get inside the car. Then they told you they didn’t care whether that book was left there. You begged and begged—”

“I ran away to get it back.”

The boy chuckled. “Yeah!” 

I looked down. “It’s not that important. I was just a fool.” I snickered. “I’m me. Why can’t Laura see that?”

“Um…” The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. But I just want you to know I’m not you. I’m your younger self. And I always will be. So you’ll always have to be careful what you do now. Because when you’re much older, grandparent age, you’ll meet your middle-age self. And when you’re decrepit and about to die, you’ll meet your elderly self. And when you’re dying, you’ll—”

“Meet my decrepit self.”

I laughed, and he did, too. But I didn’t want to grow old alone. I wanted a someone else. Teaching middle school, I loved it, serving the school for fifty seven months (four and three-quarters months). Then I moved on to high school, hated it (3 weeks)—

You know what, I don’t need to record my life like I’m writing a diary. I’m just…

I met a few women close to my age, but each of them were dating significant others. I returned to college to better my life when it came to math and science, but I was rejected from the big ones. I went back to my former self. I felt myself returning to me again and again, but soon went about my life.

My former self revealed to me he wasn’t just my former self but someone I could trust.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” This time, he was dressed as Fourth of July. His red and blue striped tie was stupidly hilarious. I laughed out loud—

The front door slammed.

“What’s so funny?”

I turned to see Laura and a black man holding hands. He was a little shorter than she, but, like, by a millimeter. I sputtered but then straightened and said I was laughing at someone’s tie. It was complicated—they’d never believe.

“You’re weird.” The boyfriend or fiancé or whoever he was left, making me feel like I never really belonged in Laura’s life at all. Waiting for them to leave, I rushed to the door, slamming the door triumphantly, returning to myself.

“See? I didn’t care what they thought. They can slander me all they want.”

“Oh.” The boy nodded. I threw my hands up.

“Look—I need friends. I’m a man. You’re my younger self.”

After meeting my coworkers with a joyful smile and a cheery attitude, I hoped they’d be my friends.

I found myself sitting in my car during my lunch break, unable to make small talk and failing to start relationships at office parties and weekend golf tournaments, watching them walk away with each other, laughing and resurrecting memories. One day, I started singing while I was washing my hands. One of the guys stared at me, his turtleneck strangely similar to that of my own younger self’s—

“Mark.” He folded his arms. “You’re good. Like stage good. Get a job singing solos.” Then, as he walked out, I heard him comment to some of the other employees I’d do better singing on stage than in this office job. Laughter stabbed my ears, me wincing at its ugliness.

What are you going to do, cry to yourself that you’re a loser here? My inner voice hissed at me. Good at singing. Hah! Do better—

I grabbed my briefcase every morning, destined to prove myself. But I was just an early bird. Not a promotion entered my home. Is this because I was a jerk? I’m sorry, Cissy. I’m sorry!

I returned to my former self. “Where’s Cissy? I need to show her who I am. She's all I got. I'm not the boy I used to be!” I sighed. Or do I? She'll just doubt me. I've always been the jerk to her. Now, she'll never love me.

“She’s gone.”

“Where? I need to make amends. I need to make something of my life. Mean something. Forgiveness is for myself, but also from others. I want to be loved again.”

The boy took a huge breath. “I—”

“What?!” I yelled, my fists clenched. “You’re me. I’m you. I need to apologize for getting her fired from that clothing store you stole those clothes from. I need to ask her forgiveness. I can’t move on without her for—”

“No, no! She left the day I stole all these Broadway costumes. She hated that I was a thief. When I went home, ecstatic that I had all these sweet shirts and ties, she ignored me. Then, when we were at a party that night, I looked for her, but she had disappeared. Then when Mom and Dad divorced, we separated. I don’t know what happened to her.”

The boy looked guilty.

"But that's who I was. I just want Cissy. She's all I got."

I was done being lonely. I wanted someone—anyone—to be there for me.

“She left with Mom.”

“She left with Mom. Good answer!”

“Dad raised me. She lived with her forever. I don’t know where she went. But I need her—I just can’t move on because I was such a jerk. That’s why she’ll never forgive me—”

“Maybe she will.”

“You can’t say that.”

I sighed. “Look—you didn’t drive her away—”

“Yes, I did! If I was perfect, I wouldn’t have done so. She wants me perfect—”

“No one’s perfect, Mark My Words! Just go and—”

“No!”

“Fine.”

I wish he was different, not me. I wish I had a son. I wish I was married. I wished I had a…

“It’s almost Christmas.” I repeated my former boss’s words. As I strived to find Cissy, I trudged through the stupid office job. The janitor was kind, but he had left for his hometown in France just as I had begun to befriend him. I returned to my middle school job, albeit it being forty minutes away. I became fluent in French.

My former self was just a little boy—why was he even talking to me? I was almost sixty years old. I moved to the beaches of Florida, befriending many partiers. I even sang and danced, taking years of vocal lessons, soon being in choir. But I wanted to make it big—the main character in a show, or sing the best musical numbers. Not in the background—like my life has always been. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been such a jerk in the past.

I chewed on this fact. I was. But, I felt I wasn’t the same man before I had entered. I went to my former self. And scared him into telling me where Cissy was.

“California.”

I moved there. But my former self showed up. I was afraid she’d be freaked out if I talked to myself. I hid this secret from her. She found out. Laying a soft, warm hand on my own, she said, “Mark My Words, please. I forgive you. All you have to do is say ‘I’m sorry!’ Forgive yourself, and be forgiven.”       

“I know… I just—”

“Need your former self who can’t do the same thing to tell you do that which he isn’t?”

I stared at her, and then looked down, my shoulders slumping. “I guess.” Sighing, I admitted I never wanted to be those things—a thief. A disrespectful fool. I just wanted to be respected and loved. A guy being given just as he had given of himself. Not a selfish man. My past didn't need to define me. My former self didn't need to define me. I was different--not obsessed with making ends meet, really.

Please, please, agree with me. Right? 

She laughed. I struggled to smile. “Come on, it’s okay. Follow my lead!” 

She and I swiveled on our heels in unison like a choreographed couple, tipping our top hats together to our reflections. She joined me on Broadway. I smiled big, a grin overcoming my stage fright as we danced and sang all the way towards many, many shows and mini shows. The stage I had called home. The boy in the mirror smiled, a twinkle in his eye. He nodded, and left. I never saw my former self again. I was too busy growing closer to Cissy and my best friend, another woman. Cissy had stood and clapped, a smile backed by happy tears in her face, at our wedding. 

A beautiful woman and a beautiful…

Well, a beautiful sister with whom I reunited.

One day, I saw my former self. He wore Christmas colors.

I cocked my head. “Um…”

“I just want you to know I can’t find Cissy—”

“Go find her!” I ordered, and he nodded assertively.

After seeing my show a few weekends later, my wife gushed about my marvelous voice. Wrapping her into a tight hug, I whispered lovingly, “The best part was Cissy and me dancing and singing together. We held hands. She looked at me, and I at her. She threw her arms around me, a bright smile on her face. Excitement poured forth from her for our return to the stage in our next show!”

“I’m so proud of you, dear. And of Cissy, too!”

“Thanks, honey!”

I wondered. Did I reunite with my sister? I never told anyone I had met my former self. Cissy told me she met her former self. “Mark My Words, I helped her. She’s off with you.”

Relieved, I closed my eyes. And slept quietly.

My wife and I were like peanut butter and jelly. I was a sibling, a husband and soon a father. My son and I were like two peas in a pod.

Closeness I cherished.

My son joined me on stage. In the same clothes as my former self.  

But bought from a clothing store. Not stolen.