Eleven-year-old
Martin had nothing to do on his day off from school. So he
sat alone in his room, doodling in his diary and watching
talk shows, since it was too early for cartoons. The particular
topic today was “What would you say if you could go back
and tell your fifteen-year-old self one thing?”
Every forty- and
fifty-year old confessed some regret or mistake. Half of
them broke down in tears. One balding, grizzled man even
looked like him.
“I wish I knew
my future,” Martin said to himself. He wrote down If
I read this in the future and someone’s invented a time machine,
I’ll be alone on June 22nd, he looked at the clock, 1:45
PM.
*FLASH*
A man with a receding
hairline appeared at the foot of his bed, wearing a green-collared
shirt and black pants. His arrival was accompanied by a loud
whirring noise coming from a black box on his arm. The man
had a bigger nose and a saggy face, but Martin knew he was
looking at his future self.
“Oh my god, it
worked. It worked,” the man said as he adjusted his box.
“Jesus,” Martin
said. “Are you…?”
“I’m you, yes.
From the future. You must have just written…” Older Martin
pointed to the diary.
“…From a time
machine?”
“Yes. I don’t
have much time. I took a lot of risks to get here.”
Martin managed
to nod, mouth hanging open.
Older Martin said, “Okay,
first thing, ask out Michelle. She really digs you. No matter
how scared or shy you are. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.”
“Who’s Michelle?”
“College. Freshman
year. She lives in Sutherland Dorm. Second, invest in Giga—Write
this down!” Older Martin barked.
Young Martin started
writing furiously.
“Invest in Gigawire,
YorkMark, and Torama.”
“Those are companies?”
“Yes, and don’t
bother buying those collectible comic books. They’re worth
nothing. And Mom throws them out when you go to college anyway.”
“What college
do I go to?” Young Martin asked.
“Cantrell. And
that’s another thing. You’ve got to get your grades up. In
tenth grade, study really hard. I mean it. Maybe you could’ve
gone to a better school if you hadn’t gotten angsty and goofed
off.”
As Martin scribbled,
he realized this man, who he would become, wasn’t very pleasant.
He continued, “And
quit hanging out with those friends by the stairwell all
the time. They’re losers. They’ll just get you into trouble.”
*FLASH*
Another man appeared
in the room next to older Martin. He wore a shiny blue jumpsuit
and looked identical, but with more hair and freckles. “Good,” he
said, “I’m not too late.” He was holding a black device in
front of him like bike handlebars.
“Who are you?” Older
Martin said.
“I’m you. Well,
I’m the you that you become,” he pointed at young
Martin, “After you’re done with your speech. Your temporal
bubble must be protecting you from disappearing. Listen,” he
addressed young Martin, “That thing with Michelle. Don’t
do it. Or, if you do, wear condoms.”
“Condoms?” Green-suited
older Martin said, aghast.
“I swear to god,
she’s crazy. It won’t be worth it. And pull your money out
of the stock market before the ‘Jefferson-Pershing’ incident.”
Young Martin started
writing again at breakneck speed. “What’s that?” he said.
“You’ll know it
when it comes. Also, while I’m at it, don’t buy a Honda Gaia.
They’re terrible.”
“Is that a car?” young
Martin asked.
“Sort of,” blue-suited
Martin-of-the-future said.
*FLASH*
Now a man wearing
a light periwinkle suit, partially ripped at one sleeve,
stood before him. He took his glass helmet off. “Did you
just tell him about Michelle?”
Blue-suited Martin
nodded, jaw gaping.
“Okay, I don’t
know how bad she is, but she can’t be as bad as Amber.”
“Amber?” young
Martin and blue-suited Martin said at the same time.
*FLASH*
A Martin wearing
a futuristic visor and tight clothes said, “Amber? Try Fred.”
“Fred?” All the
Martins chorused.
Green-suited Martin
said, “I hope that’s a nickname.”
The older Martins
started talking at once, asking questions and demanding to
know what had happened that necessitated so many return trips.
Young Martin couldn’t understand what they were saying.
*FLASH*
A Martin in a
pink and gray dress said, “Listen, ignore all these guys.
There’s something—”
“What’s with your
clothes?” young Martin said, his tongue out in disgust.
“It’s the fashion.
Something’s going to happen on November 26, 2017. And you
can stop it. I’ve already got a plan for you. Write this
down.”
*FLASH*
A Martin wearing
a tight-fitting white one-piece with rings floating above
his head said, “Dude, your plan sucks. You can’t—”
*FLASH*
A Martin wearing
all black with his hair slicked back said, “Kill them all.
Kill everyone in the world. None of them deserve to live.”
*FLASH*
A man appeared
with a gray cat’s head and yellow eyes. A white orb floated
between his hands like he was holding it.
“Oh my god,” young
Martin said, “What—”
“Yes, this is
me. There is much to explain. All of the preceding has been
irrelevant.”
*FLASH*
“Você precisa
de compreender. Se você conserva o líder da claque, você excepto
omundo.” said the recently arrived Martin with dark skin
and a black box around his neck.
“What did he say?” one
of the future Martins said.
Now the room was
full of Martins, arguing and bickering with each other, pointing
fingers, yelling like a U.N. debate. Young Martin covered
his ears.
His eye caught
the line in his notebook with the date and time. He tore
the page out, ripped it up, and threw it away.
All the Martins
looked up, startled. In a single bright light, they blinked
out of existence.
Martin held his
breath. Thirty seconds passed, but nothing happened. When
he was sure the quiet had returned, he got up, turned off
the TV, and got a soda.
