The Clerk

Markus’s head cracked and thudded against the warm pavement, sending needles down his spine and a stabbing pain through his cranium, the rest of his body crashing down right after. Mumbles and groans escaped his sneering mouth as he swore up and down, attempting to soothe the pain. Through squinted eyes, Markus could barely make out vivid pinks, blues, and yellows - an endless amount of color that cut through the night sky above him. Among the people passing by him, he counted four who looked genuinely concerned; the others barely even glanced at the young man rolling in the middle of the road. The one constant that filled his vision, however, was a palm tree towering over the bustling crowds. It swayed with the warm sea breeze - the same breeze that was just now hitting Markus’s tongue and nostrils. The taste was salty, and the smell was almost citric. Above the palm tree, buildings and signs painted in the same colors he had observed earlier were just being made out by his returning vision. Over the centuries, Markus had gotten used to the fact that his senses took a few minutes to catch up to wherever he had jumped. As he continued to roll on the blacktop, slowly returning to his normal function, a car horn blared, interrupting his observation of the city around him. 

“Hey, airhead! Get out of the damn road, “ bellowed a man with a thick Dominican accent.

The barked command cut through Markus’s daze as he rose to a kneeling position, eyebrows furled, and an eye squinted. Pushing himself up, albeit shakily, Markus waved to the man, attempting to apologize as he shuffled out of the road. The Dominican man behind the wheel returned a gesture that was not as friendly before zipping away. As the car sped off, the rumbling of a gasoline engine made itself clear.

This far back? Markus thought. 

While his head was still cloudy with a quickly fleeting pain, Markus managed to look down at his palm. The device that his older self gave him about fifty years from now had centuries' worth of scratches adorning the aluminum frame, as well as a healthy amount of duct tape and zip ties to hold everything together. A tactile humming reverberated through Markus’s hand as the ergonomic grip gently rattled. The emerald shimmer from the stone inside seeped through the clear polycarbonate pane, washing over Markus’s forearm. He clicked the glaring red button atop the ergonomic cylinder, disengaging the device - the humming trailing off alongside the green glow. Looking over each shoulder, Markus hurriedly stuffed the aluminum device into his pocket, ensuring no one spotted him doing so.

The city strip around him was bustling with music, drink, and conversation. Now that his senses had come back, Markus very quickly recognized this place: Miami. His grandfather had told him stories about his time after the Vietnam War in which he traveled the country, smoking, drinking, and partying as if his life depended on it. He ran a few shops and sold things to make ends meet before settling down with Markus’s grandmother. Miami was one of the cities that lit up the elderly man’s face when he spoke of it. Markus sat in awe, listening to his grandfather’s stories of post-war adventure, recalling that his grandfather wanted to “make up for lost time.”

Lost time, huh? Markus scoffed. Time. What a concept.

Falling in line with those around him, Markus shuffled along the sidewalk, his left hand still gripping the device he had placed in his pocket while his right twiddled a loose thread. Distractions made themselves abundantly apparent, dragging Markus’s eyes from the direction he was heading. As he peered across the strip, he saw people from every walk of life: women with hair coated in enough hairspray that it was a fire hazard, seemingly on the prowl for a potential suitor, men with the same goal were adorned with slicked-back hair, sunglasses, and pants whiter than their own teeth, people meandering around with cigarettes in one hand, alcohol in the other, enjoying the night, business people who had just gotten off of work, some with their ties tied around their heads like a bandana, hollering into the night sky like wolves, and those who clearly had power - the one’s running this fever dream. You name it, Markus saw it.

They all look so… the young man paused. 

An all too familiar whirring, ripping, and zipping sound quickly pulled Markus’s attention back to the side of the street he was walking. Maybe sixty feet ahead of the crowd he had blended himself into, two innocuous-presenting but clearly intimidating figures adorned in black trench coats and tight-fitting, pitch-black glasses stepped out of what looked like a shimmering murmur in the air and into the crowd in front of them. The only reason Markus saw it was because that was exactly the kind of portal - or “Time Tear” as the young man preferred - that the traveler had fallen out of, right onto the street next to him. Markus’s eyes widened as he hurriedly but smoothly dipped into the shop next to him. Peering over his shoulder as he did so, the two black-clad figures, one man and one woman, forced their way through the crowd, bumping and shoving, looking for the recluse named Markus.

“You here to shop, kiddo?” came a deep, young, but wise voice. “We just got in the new Ratt album - vinyl and CD. Personally, not my taste, but them times are ever a-changin’, ain't they?”

Markus, peering out from around a floor-to-ceiling high shelf full of vinyl albums, curiously spun around to face the voice that had greeted him. Wide-eyed, Markus turned to look at the man. A cigar hung from his mouth, its smoke forming a cloudy helmet around his buzzed head, the only significant hair being in his eyebrows and a thick, bushy, brown beard. A pair of crocodile skin dress shoes were crossed and propped up on the glass counter.

Those shoes, they’re…

The man narrowed his eyes slightly, staring at the oddly dressed young man, his clothes not fitting any style he had seen in his thirty-odd years of living.

“Well, kid? You here to buy sum’n or not?”

Markus, momentarily forgetting about his pursuers, had to forcibly pull himself away from the shelf while returning his eyes to their natural position.

“Uh… No. I don’t think so. I just, uh…,” Markus stammered. 

His eyes, drawn to the shoes, knew who they belonged to. The shop’s walls clashed directly with the olive green of the shoes. Abstract paint splattered the walls, with countless band and artist posters to break up the monotony of clashing colors. Rows upon rows of vinyl records and CDs lined the shelves on the walls, the boxes scattered around the floor as well as the central table. Below the table was the most hideous carpet Markus had set eyes upon. Greens and purples mixed with the countless stains. Alcohol, ancient take-out food, sweat, bleach - the dingy carpet wore each stain like a badge. Markus remembered hearing about a carpet much like this one. He remembered it being quoted as “the most vile damn thing I’d walked on.”

“KID!” the desk attendant blurted out. 

He was now hunched over the glass countertop, his palms firmly planted, supporting the weight of his upper body. The fat, stubby cigar that was once hanging from the corner of his mouth was now pinched between her forefinger and middle finger. Markus shook his head vigorously.

“Apologies. It’s been an… interesting night.”

The man chuckled while sitting back down, placing the cigar back into his mouth, “Heh. Tell me about it. I could see that from a mile ‘n a half away. You been having fun with those folks down at the club down the strip, haven’t ya’?” 

The man’s mouth stretched into a smile, his beard following suit.

Markus gave the man a perplexed look.

“Oh, come on, kiddo. Young dude like you? Friday night? Middle of the summer? I know exactly what you’ve been -”

Markus winced, raising his hand to stop the man from speaking. It was almost excruciating hearing the record store owner go into detail.

Slowly opening his eyes, Markus looked closer at the man who was maybe a decade older than him. While the beard was now gray and the skin wrinkled, the same warm, caring eyes aged with years of laughter and travel looked back at the time traveler. Markus couldn’t stay for too long.

Walking toward the clerk and clearing his throat, Markus inquired, “You got a room or anything in the back I can borrow for five minutes? Bathroom? Closet? I’m running a bit short on time.”

The device in Markus’s left pocket temporarily drew his attention as it buzzed in Morse code: “Ten minutes.”

The bearded clerk nodded, pushing himself out of his stool as it creaked, the smoke lingering around his head parting. He gingerly stepped, avoiding any vile stains as he peered to his right, the glassed-in not-for-sale section mirroring back his reflection. The clerk took five more steps before leaning next to a curtained doorway, sarcastically presenting it with one hand.

“John’s back that way. Don’t take all night, kid,” he explained.

Markus nodded and thanked the man, parting the curtain as he stepped through.

As the clerk retraced his steps on his way back to the chrome stool, he heard a zipping, ripping, and whirring sound come from the bathroom. He paused momentarily, pondering whether or not to go to check on the young man who had asked to use his restroom. He shrugged and sat down, chewing lightly on the cigar.

“Ah, whatever.”

Once more, he kicked up his olive crocodile skin dress shoes onto the glass countertop, leaning back in the stool while interlacing his hands behind his head. He inhaled, then exhaled, releasing a billow of fog. His eyes peered over toward the doorway as two equally oddly dressed characters stepped into his shop.

Before the clerk opened his mouth to greet the patrons, a thought bounced around his head: Gotta say, though. That kid sure looked a bit familiar…