K Breese - Future Imperfect

The tunnel.

The lights.

The swirl.

The darkness.

The exit.

My eyes open again to night and stars.

I know immediately it’s the future. Same waxy sheen. Black-light blues. I’m guessing it’s soon, though. Maybe weeks away. I’m not focused on anything, not expecting anything but darkness.

I’m on a beach. Maybe the north end of the Cherry Creek Reservoir.

I get the fact that it’s the same place the gruff old man on the phone mentioned.

The obscene phone caller, maybe he wasn’t just a nut.

I’m thinking now that maybe I should be worried.

Should have been stressing earlier.

Could it be he knew what would happen?

The smell is strong. Strong like a marsh. Still, I can smell the rubber on the tennis courts above the reek of water. And I home in on it like the million moths that crash through the night to the phosphorus light of the courts. I follow the rise and fall of the water. Just the sand. The soft collapse of the lake. The wind in the reeds. The buzz of insects. The moon is only a sliver, just a scythe.

What’s really weird is that I don’t feel like me.

I mean that my skin is mine. The muscles, the weight of me, it’s all the same. But inside, I’m angrier than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m seething. Furious.

My hands are fists. I’m walking to the tennis courts.

And then I’m not.

Like in a movie, there’s a jump cut. Like the reels got mixed up or the projector skipped. Suddenly I’m not walking to the tennis courts but kneeling in the sand, my knees in the cold water of the reservoir, and my hands, well, my hands are around Jimi’s neck. His face is under the water. His arms are thrashing. His legs kicking. But I’m bearing down hard. My arms out straight, locked. My fingers, they’re white from blood loss. Jimi’s face, it’s white too. His eyes are so bugged out.

There is surprisingly little noise. Just the kick of him in the sand.

Very little noise until he goes slack. His arms drop. His face stops contorting.

Me, I’m still raging.

I’m shaking. I’m so furious, so pulsing with hate, that I throw my head back and howl into the night like some kind of animal. I try to walk away and just fall over facing the lake. It’s as if there was never anyone else here but me. Just the hum of the lights, the buzz of the insects, and the slow lap of the lake. Jimi’s feet sticking up out of the water.

It’s weird, but I’m not surprised when the guy in the Mexican wrestling mask gives me a hand, helps me up. Jimi’s dad, he’s wearing a tuxedo and his mask is white. He helps me up, pats me on the back, and says, “You tried.”

I’m still shaking, ask, “Tried what?”

“To stop this. Storm’s here, Ade. It’s begun, you are almost ready.”

“Do you know the guy I just drowned? Is that what this is about?”

The luchador nods slowly. Says, “You don’t know the half of it.”

And then the vision ends.

Back to black and then white and then the now.

The road comes into focus first. The trees. The streetlights swaying.

Mom and I, we’re still on the road. Car idling. It’s late enough that no one else is nearby. We’ve hit a tree and the only sound is the steady drip of fluid from under the car and the hazard lights tick ticking. My body is vibrating from the high of the Buzz. And even though it’s a weak Buzz, it’s been so long I’m really feeling it.

Mom, next to me, is fine. Her head still bowed in prayer, hands still clasped.

The front of the car is dinged, but the tree, a thin pine, got the worst of it.

I tell Mom that we’re okay. I tell her to open her eyes. I say, “Look.”

She does it slowly, looks out into the darkness at the skinny tree I’ve made a mess of, and then over at me. She smiles, tears beading her eyelashes, and runs her hand through my hair. It comes back to her slick. Dark.

Mom says, “You’re bleeding.”

“I don’t feel it. Probably old.”

“It’s okay. We’ll get it fixed. Are you-”

I say, “I’m fine.”

She says, “I’m okay too.”

I say, “Let’s just drive home.”

Before leaving I inspect the damage and find only a few scrapes, one busted headlight, and the bumper split. Not bad. Getting back in the car is difficult because my legs are shaky. My body’s jittery with the Buzz though the infusion is slight. I put the car in reverse and as we back out into the street most of the tree comes with us. We drag this teenage fir tree down half a block before it’s cut loose.

At every intersection, every red light, I see snippets of the vision. I hear the phelgmy chuckle of the obscene phone caller, the guy who predicted this. Him telling me to avoid the reservoir. That sends so many little quakes down my spine that I look like I’m spasming for a few blocks. And, of course, I see Jimi’s face in every streetlight. His eyes in every pair of taillights.

And every time I hit the gas my stomach goes up like we’re on a log ride.

The way home, the night around us is pretty much silent, outside of the scraping of the bumper on the asphalt. Close to home there are a few scattered dog barks under the near-constant hum of the streetlamps, but I only hear the muffled screams of Jimi going under. Sometimes so loud, I jump.

When we pull in the driveway, the freaks on the porch notice and run over, but I gun the car and slip into the garage before they’re onto us. Nice thing we have a fast garage door.

Again my mom says nothing about them.

But getting out of the car, Mom asks, “Did you talk to baby Jesus?”

“No, Mom.” My heart is thudding and my head swimming still from the Buzz. It’s been a while since I’ve felt it this strong. It’s overwhelming. Like when I first tried chew and almost puked from the jolt of it.

“What did He tell you?”

“Nothing, Mom. I didn’t talk to baby Jesus.”

I realize I’m shaking. Goose bumps pebble my skin.

Mom puts her hand on my thigh and squeezes it. Just like I do when I’m mothering her. And she sighs and mumbles, “It’s fine to be humble. All comes out in the wash.”

I kiss her on the forehead before she creeps inside the house. She’s still crying when I leave. She just lets me know that she’s so proud of me for being who I am. For sticking to my guns. For my faith.

I hit the garage door button, pray I don’t hit anyone, and then jam the car into reverse and peel out. I’m guessing, just based on the sound of tires squealing, that the neighbors are all calling the cops.

A block away I call Vauxhall.

My voice, it’s shaking. Breaking.

She mentions that she’s out with Jimi, that they’re at Twist and Shout, and she asks if maybe I can meet them in front of East, just on the lawn there. She asks me if it’s okay that Jimi’s around.

And I say, “I’m guessing he’s going to want to know this anyway.”

Jimi’s leaning against a statue.

Something like a column in the middle of a fountain, only there’s no water in it. He’s leaning there as though he’s taking a break from filming. Lighting a cigarette and exhaling so slowly that the smoke just makes a cloud around his face. Of course, he’s got cowboy boots on and sunglasses and the neon lights are reflected in them as though he painted them there.

When I see Jimi, as I’m walking over across Colfax, all I can think is: Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if I killed this dude.

I mean, the guy’s a dick. Would anyone other than Vaux really mind?

Vauxhall comes walking over to me, she’s dressed in black, has a sweater on. She hugs me and then looks in my eyes like she can read me. And she can, whatever she sees it makes her bottom lip quiver. That quiver, I’ve got to admit it makes me feel good. She’s scared. She’s worried. She cares.