A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

Just as the subway doors begin to close, I rush inside seconds before the train leaves Capitol Heights station. Sitting on a cold, hard aluminum seat, I feel the weight of a dozen pair of eyes examining me. I’m scared and trembling like a leaf. I still don’t belong, and I need to figure out why.

Devious, that’s what my mother calls me. My biggest challenge at the moment is the daily battle to outmaneuver my government watchers. I realize this sounds crazy, but please, hear me out. 

I woke up as the first person ever to be taken out of a cryogenic freeze. The FBI informed me that I was a kidnap target of the Chinese and Russians. Obviously, the US government wants to keep their technology under wraps. However, I suspect the main reason the feds are monitoring me is to make sure I don’t jump off a bridge, or do anything else to embarrass big pharma and all their scientists.

They have good reason to be worried. When I woke up, I shouted “WTF” non-stop for at least a week.

It wasn’t as if I went to sleep happy with having stage four cancer. By summer 2020, the pain had become unbearable, and euthanasia seemed like an increasingly good option. The doctor proposed the new program, and being out of options, I agreed to become a human popsicle. A few days later, I said goodbye to my family and girlfriend, and that was that.

In an instant, I saw my mother standing before my eyes, looking a decade older.

After the doctors left us alone, we caught up on the major events: it was now 2026. Uncle Frank died of Covid. Kamala Harris was president. ChatGPT had solved cancer. The last one was wonderful news for me, my mom said.

“You should celebrate this new life you’ve been given,” she said, attempting to calm me down my other concerns. The psychiatrist wanted to prescribe antipsychotics, which I declined. More about this later.

After weeks of treatments at the Mayo Clinic in Fort Myers, they declared me as fit as a fiddle, as healthy as a 21-year-old, despite my passport stating I’m 27. The doctors got a laugh out of that. They say the best comedy is rooted in tragedy. I said my goodbyes, then flew back to DC to try to reclaim my old life. 

In the real world, apart from the obvious, I began paying attention to the little details. At the airport, they no longer had X-ray machines. Perhaps ChatGPT had solved terrorism too.

Back home in our DC suburb, I settled into a routine. I’d have breakfast with mom, listen to a guided meditation app for 20 minutes to calm myself, then go outside to get reacquainted with the world.

The Redbridge Cafe, which didn’t exist before, has become my home away from home. Where I feel the most comfortable. I order an oat milk latte from the barista in horn-rimmed glasses behind the counter.

It’s a big day. It’s been 6 years for me, but it feels like just a few weeks. Today, I’m meeting Beth, my girlfriend, from, you know, before.

Everyone reminds me that Beth isn’t my girlfriend anymore. She has moved on. For me, just a few weeks ago, she said, “We’ll see each other again. I’ll wait for you,” as she squeezed my hand.

When Beth enters the cafe and waves, my heart skips a beat. When she sees me, she also studies me from head to toe. Since being the first person in America to be woken from cryopreservation, everyone looks at me like some oddity or circus performer.

But I’m happy to see her. She has been cancelling every previous lunch saying it was raining, which was odd. I had to wait for a day of fine weather to arrive to Georgetown to finally meet her.

After exchanging pleasantries, and avoiding the topic of her current boyfriend, I take the opportunity to review some facts about our recent history.

“Some of my memories are a bit vague after, you know, my hibernation, so bear with me.” A lie, as I remember everything perfectly, but it gives me a chance to ask dumb questions.

“Do you remember the time we went to prom in high school?”

“No, I don’t,” Beth says.

“Or that crazy toga party at GW?!” I chuckle.

Beth’s eyes flicker with concern. “I will need to leave if this gets awkward.” She plays with her napkin, unfolding it into what could be a toga sized for a Barbie doll.

“Sorry.” I should stick to safer topics. Ones that might tell me something. “How’s your grandma doing?”

“Which one?”

“Grandma Mix. The one in Minnesota.”

“Her?! I don’t know. They’re crazy up there!”

“But, you used to visit her every Christmas.”

“Did I? I don’t remember ever saying that.”

I’ve found a discrepancy in the timeline. Am I going to disappear like those characters in the Umbrella Academy? I pinch my arm, but nothing happens. It all feels so ordinary.

“Well, we do have so much to catch up on. Is your favorite food still mac and cheese? They have a good one here.”

“Yes,” she smiles. “I’m happy you still have a few brain cells.”

“And you completed your veterinarian degree?”

“Working at Southside Veterinarian Clinic. I love animals. They’re so similar to us.”

Our lattes arrive. I take a sip, and bring up a weird topic I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, “With everything I’ve been through, lately I’ve been thinking about quantum physics, how it says there could be an alternate universe.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Like, maybe we are in a parallel universe from the real one:”

“Are you any medication or anything right now?” she asks.

“I’m fine. Never better.” I give her my warmest smile. She always likes my smile. “I’m in the news! First human ever taken out of the deep freezer. If you go out with me, you could be famous!”

“Nice try. I do have a boyfriend. I’m a vet, not an Instagrammer.”

The mention of Instagram reminds me she used to really like my sense of style. I can’t think about the right way to approach the subject without things getting awkward again. Every time I search for it into Google, I get absolutely nothing in the results. It’s like the subject simply doesn’t exist.

ChatGPT gives me plenty of info about quantum physics, however. How the world we perceive is an illusion, and that the light we see with our eyes is just an echo of things that we can’t even imagine. A cloud of possibilities exists, and what we perceive is a lottery pick from the many possible results.

I return to safe, easy topics, and we talk for what feels like an hour. Beth begins to loosen up. She’s still eyeing me as if I’m possibly deranged, but she starts to laugh at my jokes. I comment on her hair, and she tells me to keep my eyes from drifting downward.

“I always loved how I could be myself around you, without having to hide behind a mask,” she says.

“Let’s order lunch?” I suggest. This is going well. Maybe the boyfriend isn’t that serious.

“Let’s!”

“Mac & cheese, and a Caesar salad.”

“Same.”

The server types our order into his tablet.

The doctor said that I should try to eat healthy.

“And could I have my salad naked?” I ask.

“What did you say?” The server tilts his head at me in confusion.

“Naked.”

“Sorry, sir. I don’t know that word.”

“No problem. The normal way, then.”

A few minutes later, a Caesar salad arrives, drenched in dressing. In fact, it’s dressed better than everyone else in the restaurant. I push myself closer to the table. I’ve learned it’s important not to spill. 

“Now, put yourself in my shoes–” I begin, only to notice a look of confusion on Beth’s face.

A realization dawns upon me: being reborn into a world where clothes have never been invented may present more challenges than simply not getting dressed in the morning.