Between Reality

Jack’s eyes snap open, and he scans the room. He looks at the Heavy Metal concert posters on the wall, the chipped Swedish desk, the tape cassettes strewn about it; he sees an oscillating fan with sticky notes flapping. The place smells of nauseating incense and he can hear synthesizer tunes from the next room.

Wait a minute, he thinks.

Through his lethargic state, somewhere strange and somewhere very wrong had penetrated his heavy lids. He shook his head in disbelief and rubbed his face to make sure it wasn’t a dream. Flipping over on the bed, he sees the red digital numbers of an alarm clock and a green rotary phone on the floor, with its line leading outside the doorway. With frantic glancing around, he attempts to resolve the sight of his one-bedroom apartment from 1986.

What the hell is going on and how did he get here?

“Hello?” he calls out, getting no response.

He isn’t sure if he is drunk or lost his sanity. Grabbing a framed photograph from the nightstand of his younger family, it appeared real, as did his current slimmer self. With no time to examine his youthful form, he rolls out of bed, his feet touching the rough texture of ancient carpeting.

Noise flowing in from the open window beckoned him. He crosses over to it and yanks up the blinds, flooding the room with buttery sunlight. Down in the street, blocky and angular cars of the day with shiny chrome bumpers sit stationary in heavy blue smoke. Horns honk as commuters jaywalk and rush to their jobs. It’s like he never left.

A newspaper on his dresser headlined Halley’s Comet and The Hand of God. The date confirmed his psychosis. June 24, 1986. In wonder, he ventures into the living room, wallowing in the sight of his old stuff. Despite his joy at seeing his belongings, one question soared through his throbbing head: How had he gotten here? He had to figure it out.

After hurriedly changing into a dirty pair of jeans and a stretched band t-shirt, he tied the frayed laces of his Chucks and stepped out.

Like a mule following a carrot, Jack wandered his neighborhood, lost in a reverie. He didn’t care how surreal it was; he’s excited to be here. Parking his dilemma, he downloaded his sightseeing requests in his mind and absorbed the rest of the day.

On the sidewalk, people with tall spray-bombed hair and sizeable clothing elbowed for space amongst each other. Lollypop stripy umbrellas protected newsstands; vendors bartered with pedestrians, selling roasted chestnuts and hot dogs, their scents joining car exhaust. In front of the greatest diner, he paused in the entryway before stepping in, smelling the coffee and burnt grease. He recollected the inebriated late-night hours with his friends, all of them destroying plates of cheeseburgers and gravy fries. This sort of recklessness was long gone.

He strolled down the block and came upon a video store with a signboard selling SKIP THE REWIND in big orangey letters. He walked in and found himself surrounded by regimental shelving of VHS tapes. This could all fit on one stick, he thought.

The screwed-up look on the face of the twenty-something girl behind the counter didn’t take her eyes off him.

“Hey, you don’t say hello?” the shaggy-haired girl asks in a bad Valley Girl twang.

“Oh yeah, hey, sorry…”

I don’t have a clue who she is. Tanya?

“…I’ve got a lot going on these days?” Jack says.

Seeing the name badge, Linda, he remembers her.

“I forgive youuuu,” she says giggling, but then tries being serious. “You know you still have some returns…”

She is not going to let me go.

“…but don’t worry, I won’t charge you any late fees because you’re my fave,” she says, with her eyes locking on his and twirling her shaggy hair between the bubble gum chews.

“Ahh…right…thanks,” Jack says. “I’ll get you those later today.” I must get out of here—the city awaits, he thinks, looking for an escape.

Jack looks at his bare wrist, and says, “Damn, I’m late, Linda…I gotta jet.”

A “See you later” chased him out the door as he sped towards his beloved arcade around the corner, Cinema Land.

At the arcade's grubby window, he stood wide-eyed, absorbing the flashing within and the electronic sounds streaming out of the wedged door. Stepping up to the counter to pay, the old owner he hadn’t seen in 38 years grunted. With a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and the ash about to fall, he asks Jack, “Here again, huh?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says, sliding over five bucks. The man gave him a peculiar look while pressing the stamp painfully hard into the top of his hand. A wet, inky red happy face stared back.

Blowing on his hand, he entered the place. It smelled the same: locker room and popcorn. Along the walls were rows of vintage video games. The screens flickering with pixelated images revived the thousands of hours he had obliterated scores, and the money in his wallet. At his favorite pinball machine, he could not resist the urge to plunge the silver ball and send it flying. With every flip and ring of the bells, his perception of belonging in the past intensified.

As the sun grew low, he left the arcade and the leering eyes of the strange owner. Facts continued to wrestle for his attention, so for the first time in hours, he needed to surrender to his future self.

Worn out, he finally made his way back home. Entering his apartment, his search for answers resumed. Each corner and crevice held the promise of unraveling the truth behind his inexplicable journey. With no luck and feeling frustrated, he sat down on his futon sofa and sifted through piles of bills and junk mail on the coffee table. What’s this? A light blue crumpled piece of paper: A & B BIKE COURIERS - PAY ADVICE. A giant bell clanged between his ears.

With a glance into the hallway at his bike resting against the wall, his heart skipped a beat. A flood of memories surged inside his head, of a life that had been in a place so far away. He walked over to the bike and the instant he touched it, an array of scenes came rushing toward him, so that he couldn't see anything else. Once again, he is riding, the pressure of the pedals along the bottoms of his feet pushing him in traffic. Crowded avenues, the whirl of the tires on the road, the horns blaring, the throngs of people—all mixed in a wistful hold—until it all came crashing down.

Newer scenes materialized—brakes screeching, soaring into midair, the sound of bones breaking against metal. He recalled the pain, the terror, the sensation of utter weakness. An overwhelming wave of emotions battered him, leaving him staggering in disbelief as he fought with reality. The implications of the discovery roll over him in tumultuous waves.

Then the horrible images slip away as abruptly as they had emerged; he inhaled quickly, struggling for balance while he recovered. Had any of his time travel occurred? 1986, that wonderful year—was it nothing more than a roving delusional dream too long preoccupied with his past?

Like a building’s shadow under a passing cloud, the area around him dissolved. The harsh brain zap yanked him from a tender hug, tossing him into a frenzy of unease. In shimmering luminosity and a web of electronic hallucinations, his cocoon explodes. Signals of strange vibrations assault his anesthetic, emergence from a trip of unreal scenes into a tiny, bright space. The line between the two time periods ceases, leaving the hibernation and adventure behind.

Forcing his eyelids open, his pupils constrict in response to the sudden influx of light, and he blinks rapidly to adapt to the radiant glow. He notices a presence in the room. People in white clothing hurry nearby his hospital bed, and family faces have concern and relief as they watch him wake from what seems like an eternity of sleep. He realizes his time travel to the past was just a prophetic vision but he’s glad to know he’s returned to whenever that is.

His mother squeezes his hand softly, a gentle grin on her face. As he watches her thumb run across the back of his hand, he glimpses red stain on his skin.