K Breese - Future Imperfect

Strange. And thankfully short.

And that only meant the Buzz would be really weak.

I woke up in the back of Jimi’s car with the Buzz already fading from my system.

I was in my boxers, a ratty blanket covering my legs. Vauxhall was in the front passenger seat looking down at me with worried eyes. Jimi was in the driver’s seat smoking.

Vauxhall asked, “Are you okay?” And then she punched Jimi in the arm and told him he was a dick for hitting me. She told him he could have killed me doing that. She said, “Sometimes I think you’ve completely lost your mind.”

Jimi said, “Isn’t it what he does?”

Turning to me again, Vauxhall asked, “Seriously, though, are you all right?”

I nodded, rubbed the back of my head, and felt a serious knot buried under the hair. “What the hell did you hit me with, Jimi?”

“A baseball bat,” Vauxhall said. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Ade.”

I told her I’d be fine. I’d hit myself with worse before.

She laughed uncomfortably.

“So, Jimi, why am I in my boxers?”

Jimi asked me, “What did you see?”

And that’s when I noticed he was wearing my clothes.

“Why are you wearing my clothes?”

Jimi didn’t answer. He threw his cigarette out of the window and then scratched at his chin and pulled a notebook out from the glove box. He opened the notebook, took a pen from his pocket, turned to me, smacked his lips, and asked, again, slowly, “What did you see?”

“I saw the future. I saw myself at home. Boring, really.”

Jimi asked, “How far out?”

“I don’t know. Weeks, maybe. I wasn’t focused, I wasn’t trying, and when I’m not trying I only see a little ways out. Could have been months.”

He wrote that down. Then he asked, “Can you make it sooner?”

“Make what sooner?”

“The future you see, Ade. Can you see something in, like, days?”

“Maybe, but I can’t control it. Why, Jimi? What’s-”

He shushed me and held up the notebook. On the cover, it read THE BESTIARY. Jimi said, “It’s a catalog of the worst sorts of creatures: parents.” He wasn’t laughing when he said it. He added, “My whole childhood, right here. Everything I can remember. Everything I can’t. But what happens next, after today, after next week, that seems pretty important to know too. I’m hoping you’ll help me see it?”

“I can only see my own, Jimi. I don’t think I’ll-”

That’s when I threw up. All over the back of Jimi’s car.

And then, thankfully, I blacked out. Happens. When you’ve had as many concussions as I’ve had, blacking out is almost second nature. Throwing up too.

When I woke up I was inside my house, fully dressed, lying in bed with my mom hovering over me, dabbing my head with a wet towel and singing that one hymn about being in the garden with Him.

When she saw I was awake she stopped singing. Smiled.

“Was I dressed when I got in bed?” I asked.

Mom made a funny face. An uncomfortable face. She said, “Yes, dear. Of course you were. Just like you are now. Your friends just dropped you off, said you’d… well, they said you’d had an accident. But I know…”

And then she went off to get the Revelation Book. I stayed in bed totally confused, unsure of why I was so messed up and not really certain if what I remembered happening had really, actually happened. I decided, right before falling asleep, that I needed to see Dr. Borgo again. And, for the first time in a very long time, I wondered if my future, the one my mom was so eager to chart out, could somehow be wrong.

Be totally, absolutely wrong.

But right now, sitting on the toilet, my only thought is what I’m supposed to do next; I yell for Paige to come back into the men’s room. I yell for her to help me up again. I yell, “I’m not naked or anything, you can totally come in here.”

She opens the door to the stall and says, “I never left, dumbo.”

“Can you get me out of here? Was I going to puke or something?”

“I think you had to take a leak.”

I screw up my face. “I’m totally confused. By the way, you seen Jimi or Vaux today? Were they at school?”

“No,” Paige says.

She helps me up and on our way out of the bathroom she tells me that this is officially the last time she’s going to help me like this. She tells me that even if I got totally crippled and was in a wheelchair the rest of my life she wouldn’t ever help me to the bathroom again. She says, “But I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

“You love me and you like cleaning up after me. If you didn’t, you would have nothing to bitch about. I add the spice to your life.”

Paige laughs. “Promise you won’t do your thing. At least a week off?”

Fingers crossed behind my back, I say, “Promise. By the way, did I tell you that Vauxhall is just like me? Isn’t that freaking crazy? The two of us just these beautiful, messed-up psychic beings? How-”

“Yes, Ade. You told me. I’m very happy for you and I really hope the two of you wonderful junkies have a great future together.”

“Ouch.”

Quail Telephonics

Denver, Colorado

To Whom It May Concern:

So, I’ve been getting these calls. Really it’s only been two, but they’ve been bizarre enough that I’m kind of getting stressed out about them. The first was roughly two weeks ago. Old, raspy-voiced guy on the other end of the line telling me that he saw me in a vision (!?) and that my life was in danger. Only, he didn’t seem that concerned about it. Freaked the hell out of me, if you’ll excuse my French. Wrong number, everyone said. Prank call, they told me.

But it happened again last night-Thursday, September 24-and it was the same guy. He knew my name. He said much of the same stuff as last time. That he saw me in a vision and that my life was in danger, only this time he went further, he said that what he saw scared him. Said it would be at a reservoir again. A battle royale, he said. Someone will die. He said, and I’m quoting here, that “what goes down is almost biblical.” So I started suspecting my mom had something to do with it, but that’s just paranoid thinking and I don’t want to be That Guy.

Anyway, why I’m writing is because I’m wondering if you’d be willing to help me out here. I don’t think this is anything for the cops to get involved in, but I’m hoping you can maybe track the calls. Maybe trace them for me? Caller ID it just shows up as “unknown” and star 69 doesn’t get me anything but what sounds like a fax line.

Thanks for your time. Let me know!

Ade Patience

Paige and I go to Rock Island.

It’s this dance club down on Fifteenth in LoDo and they’ve got a dark dance floor (tonight the DJ’s spinning ’80s industrial) and in the basement some pool tables and a few ragged chairs to kick your feet up in.

We head to the basement. I drink some Coke while Paige dances to one of her favorite songs, that super-annoying metal cover of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer,” and then we pulls chairs over to a corner and just sit and chat. Paige all sweaty and me with a knit cap pulled low over all my damage and Band-Aids.

It’s fun to be out just the two of us like old times.

I’ve made Paige a promise that I won’t hit my head and that I won’t try and find out what Jimi and Vauxhall are doing. “This is just us,” Paige says. “You need to take a break.”

Of course, that doesn’t stop me from proceeding to spill everything that’s been going through my head for the past few days.