The Time Tribulations

by Travis Borne

  “He’d snuck down there hundreds of times and they spoke, a lot he said, and interfaced, directly. He said although her consciousness was tainted with a purpose of the universe, as he called it, there was love and they shared it deeply on levels that blew his mind. He described it as completeness: himself having a lent and therefore licensed consciousness, and herself possessing an unlicensed consciousness; it was like bad girl meets good guy, positive meets negative, attraction on the purest level, a Big Bang punch, as he had described it to me one time. He spoke about it over and over—he’d really become a poet with words, you know. I learned English from him, and I learned it well. I learned a lot from the man—and yes, I’ll call him a man, not a bot. He deserved it—if it can even be a compliment. Rafael was truly special.

  “But anyway, when he killed her, his first love, a switch flipped. He just couldn’t go on. I knew he had deleted himself, or so I thought until you shocked the piss out of me back there. He told me how he’d do it, too, saying that he was totally unlocked, no programmatic hindrances, completely free thanks to Herald. And, he did it. The door opened to that sterile white room hundreds of feet below the city, and I met Nelman. We became friends, but I knew for sure, Rafael was no longer there.”

  “Nelman perished also, Papa,” Felix said. “He was—” Rico couldn't bring himself to describe it, now that he knew how his father—

  “No, no. Nelman, he was a good man. We played a lot of chess together, good conversation. How, what happened to him?”

  “We’d gotten him to go up, Jim and I, when the town was being attacked, hordes of drones just like you said. A mower, just like the one you described, so Jim told me… But Nelman saved Amy. He sacrificed himself for us. If it wasn’t for him none would be here right now and Old Town would already be—off.”

  Felix shook his head slowly. He put out his cigarette and put the butt in his pocket. With a deep, wheezing breath, followed by another more powerful and clean, he stood up. He said, “I’ll go.” Jon and Rico remained on the steps and looked to each other with a smile of relief. “I’ll go, only if the others will, including Rafael. All or none.”

  “That’s great,” Jon said.

  Rico stood up and met closely with his father. “The others have already agreed, pending your decision.”

  “Si, they will go?”

  “Si,” Jon replied.

  “All of us then. Pero…”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t think Rafael will be easy. Honestly, and I know Carlos, he doesn’t even know he is Rafael, and he will not leave his family behind. He is one with his family, although they aren’t real. He’ll never, not in a million years. He’d rather—?

  “He’d rather, what?” Jon asked.

  “Die again.”

  39. Plan B

  They’d discussed the intervention—after Jim finished his second day of work and before the unforgettable spaghetti dinner. The plan was simple. They’d invite Carlos to the bar for a final night out, declaring it was to be the last full night they would be staying in Old Town. Along with Carlos, just the four of them would attend: Rico, Jon, Jim, and Felix; Felix because they couldn’t keep him away. They still hadn’t mentioned Rafael to Felix, though, or the other real people, or the DCs, keeping this one thing a secret; doing so would keep unexpected variables and leaked knowledge to a minimum. Sunday night was never very busy at the saloon, an eve most stayed home with family, therefore a perfect opportunity. And that was plan A.

  But after Jim’s talk with Luisa the plan changed and he let the others know before they went to the bar, during a stop off at the hotel. Now, the three of them would follow Carlos when he got weird.

  While drying the dishes Luisa brought to mind the idiosyncrasy they’d witnessed during their first night in Old Town: after drinking Carlos falls into a thinking mood, isolates himself and many times goes out for the night, not returning until morning. Where? Luisa didn’t even know, no one did. And when the state of mind ensnares him it’s as though he’s no longer himself, a total stranger, and he never speaks of the incident afterward. And, the closer people get to him during the phase, the further he sets himself apart.

  “So, change of plans. We’re not going to tie him up,” Jim said at the hotel, buttoning up his light-teal shirt in front of the mirror. “I look like a fool,” he muttered next; he’d exchanged his dirty, blue, lending uniform for some tight Wild West apparel: burgundy slacks, top too ridiculous to describe. Jon sat on the rocker, outside on the ornate wooden balcony. “We’re going to do just the opposite, Jon. Let him go, then follow him.”

  “So where do you think he goes?”

  “Luisa didn’t say. Said he’s been like this for as long as she can remember, that they just leave him alone. And it’s always after he’s been drinking, no other time.”

  “Sounds good. Probably a better plan than forcing him anyway, which could have backfired. And we still have tomorrow night until 10:30. If this doesn’t work out then we’ll just resort to plan A, last resort.”

  “We really need him, Jon, let’s hope. We just have to let Rico know, and maybe we’ll let Felix in on it. Let’s head on out a little early and meet up with them at Felix’s place.”

  “You got it, man. Let’s roll.”

  Rico had checked out of the hotel, Felix wouldn’t have it; his son would stay with him and his mom for the time being, no matter how short the visit was to be. It allowed Rico more than enough time to let Felix in on what was going on in the real world; he’d mentioned just about everything, except Rafael: Jim’s idea, because Felix was a blabbermouth.

  Jim and Jon arrived before 8 p.m. They headed to the bar wearing the fresh duds Felix had lent them: hand-embroidered button shirts, etcetera, Felix’s best. Rico stuck with his usual, the tan pocketed vest, but borrowed some clean blue jeans and a white undershirt.

  Jim and Jon fit in now, although the clothes fit tight: Jim as if he’d received a blast of gamma rays and was turning green, and Jon, just a little tight, like a disco dancer. For Jim it was nice to get out of the blue jumpsuit, though, which was comfy but smelled of pork. And Jon didn’t receive as many stares in comparison to his opalescent silver pants and color-changing shirt. Incognito would be an important attribute for this plan B.

  A more relaxing evening couldn’t be had elsewhere, be it real world or virtual. They purposefully lost some lucidity, trading it for mindless relaxation. Jim was an expert lender, as was Felix, and it wouldn’t take much to regain their faculties when the time came. Jim set the mental trigger: Carlos leaving the group; he knew it would pop as if an alarm was making his gray noodles red.

  Drinks went round, the five enjoyed each other’s company for a good two hours and talked, and waited, and waited, and waited some more, and a couple of DCs eventually joined them—but screw it, nothing was happening anyway. Then, it was already nearing 1 a.m.

  “Fuck it, let Felix in on it,” Jim whispered to Jon. Jon nodded, then commenced with a plan.

  “Ahhhh,” Jon said, stretching out. “I need to use the trough, how about it, Rico? Join me for some fresh air? Felix?”

  The both of them got up and went with Jon to the back.

  Jim remained with Carlos and the two DCs, and turned it up a notch—a drinking game, which he knew would give it to Carlos good. Maybe, more liquor, loads more—what else? Carlos was a little on the serious side but the liquor thus far had descended him to level: sober-Rico—at least. So, pushing the limits seemed the only thing to do.

  “Damn, must have been one hell of a piss,” Jim blurted, hopped up on his liquor as if he’d injected it.

  Felix, however, looked worried. He now knew the plan: under the Milky Way Jon and Rico had spilled it all. Jim nodded on the down low. Felix acknowledged it fully, as did Jon, and Rico.

  Game on.

  Felix possessed a new nervousness. Messin’ with Carlos. Rafael. They were about to kick the beehive, perhaps. But no one really knew what would happen. Before, Carlos
had gotten nasty—fist fights, and, a bit worse, once. So, they always just stayed away, remaining in the comfort zone: just leave him alone.

  Felix’s glass of tequila had three main stops, and he looked at it again, seeing three golden nuggets but knowing, like a professional drunk, which was the real one. It rested on the Magnus-ifficient table as if seated, wrapped with the most calloused tan fingers that could still bend, and he raised it. One, on the way up amid the ugliest, junkyard smile, two, resting on leather lips, three, now spilling like a bucket of water on a wicked witch, onto a tongue which might as well have been the end of the world, and his apostate eyes turned to Carlos as if the glass had become a mask he could hide behind. He couldn’t help it. It was that—last time.

  He remembered as if the memory had been carved into the petrified-rock section of his brain. Carlos had departed, but the DC, an old man who just couldn't seem to shut the hell up, kept badgering him. He reminded Felix of a friend from school, right here in this old pueblo, always hanging around, always trying to squeeze into his group of friends and derail plans into anything but what their group of six had in mind, and, trying to get with his woman, then 16-year-old Rosita.

  The DC had been a forty-year-old man named Miguel, and like the similar gadfly, Cipriano from forever ago, too could not take no for an answer. When Carlos left, Miguel followed. And kept on. Suggestions to go party at his place became pushy, then badgering. Carlos took off running. He ran and ran, and Miguel followed—off into the pitch night. Carlos, as usual, ended up at the mercado, setting up his tent at 6 a.m. The DC, Miguel, was never seen or heard from again. So, Felix was a little apprehensive about this plan, especially because now he knew it was really Rafael, the Rafael!

  The plan was, as Jon and Rico had stated under the Milky Way, to tie him up and try to talk some sense into him. But now, something else—mysterious, sneaky, special-forces shit. They were going to follow Carlos into the desert, or wherever he went—and it gave Felix chills. If his skin wasn’t leather he’d probably manufacture some goosebumps on it.

  “Be right back, sirs,” Carlos said, standing up and stretching out. “My turn. If you’ll excuse me, I have to use the facilities.”

  After six-plus-six beers had failed to evoke Carlos’ inner loner as expected, eyes began to wander. Jim nudged Jon after Carlos turned his back and said, “Back to plan A?”

  It was now 1:30 a.m.

  “I think we should wait a little longer,” Jon replied.

  “We’ve been waiting all night! He’s gonna end up going home.” Jim nudged Rico with a flick of his head. “Go with him. You gotta piss too.”

  “We just went,” Rico said. “We let Felix in on everything.”

  But Jim insisted. “Just fucking go, man.” Rico sighed and flattened his smile, then acquiesced his way toward and out the back door, following Carlos.

  Jon pressed his lips, not seeing what else they could do—besides try and get him even more drunk. Although, save for stripping him from the serious suit, Carlos thus far didn’t seem to be getting the least bit buzzed.

  “How many does it usually take?” Jon asked Felix.

  “About four beers and some mezcal,” Felix said, “then he usually goes to the bar and stays there. If anyone gets near, or people get rowdy, then he leaves.”

  Jim questioned, “He’s had at least ten, maybe fifteen, plus tequila. Felix, are you sure? Maybe something else triggers it.”

  Felix had never put it together that it even was the alcohol, none of them, not even the two dream characters in their presence who were now flabbergasted, out of the loop and confused; they’d never probed Carlos like this. He was a thinker, simple as that and beer made him think more. Sometimes he’d morph into a loner, no big deal. But was it the beer? Or just alcohol in general, or a specific type of alcohol?

  “Come to think about it,” Felix said, putting fingers to his bristled chin, “whenever he gets into one of his moods, I remember seeing a shot in his hand. He—” Felix rotated his eyes in thought. He tapped a finger with each of his subsequent recollections, still gripping the glass in the other. “—puts the shot down—no, slams it. The smile leaves his face. He doesn’t get serious, just, sort of deflates. Then his muscles relax. As if he’d just seen a ghost and—”

  “So, that’s it,” Jon said.

  “Yo pienso, I—think so,” Felix uttered.

  “Then what’s different?”

  “It’s the mezcal.”

  “But we had mezcal Saturday night, plenty, and he was fine all night. We better think of it quick or else he’s not going to change and he’ll just head home like he did yesterday. It’s late already, probably too late!”

  “Let’s give it until two,” Jim said. “Forget the tequila, we’ll go hard on the mezcal. Now, don’t bring anything up about the future. We’ll continue to talk about memories, occurrences here in the town, jokes, the fucking banana-bread lady, anything else, fun shit, you know, to keep him wanting to even be here. If he doesn’t change by 2 a.m. then it’s back to plan A. We’ll subdue him, tie him to the fucking chair and start in on him with the sudden change of subject. And this time we won’t sugarcoat things, it’ll be blunt and very disturbing, just like the true reality of what’s really about to happen. Let’s hope that snaps him out of it.”

  “You got it,” Jon agreed. “Anytime before two, plan B, we follow him. If he changes after that, plan A it is.”

  Carlos returned to the table, followed by Rico who just shook his head slightly.

  40. The Worm

  “…and Nicole, she’s such an artist.”

  “She is. I saw her artwork on the fridge,” Jim replied. “She’s talented for sure.”

  “We had Rafael over for dinner the other night,” Carlos added. “You met him, right, Jim? Four rows back, take a right, third booth in—he’s the town painter. Anyway, he saw Nicole’s most recent art and was blown away, so asked her for a few. He framed them up with smaller versions of the frames he uses for his art…”

  Carlos went on about her, and each of his four kids. Each had a very special talent, so he described. And he did the exact opposite of what they were expecting—what they needed for plan B; he did a whole lot of talking, and only about his family. He continued, “…anyway, she’ll be setting up a booth in the mercado next weekend. Magnus carved her some special frames too, and she’s ready to sell her artwork. Luisa is going to help her—” He looked to Jim. “Sure could use you, Jim. Sure you won’t stay another week?”

  “Carlos, you know this isn’t—” Jim paused, looked up at the clock. After all the talk, the liquor seeming to do the opposite in contrast to its supposed purpose, his head hurt. That clock, with its ornately carved circular frame—Magnus, he thought, and also he thought, seeing it was 1:50 a.m.—plan A.

  “What is it, Jim?” Carlos asked.

  “Ah, it’s nothing. But I’m really sorry, Carlos, I can’t st—” Then he spotted it: the worm at the bottom of Carlos’ shot glass. Carlos held the glass to his lips, smiled, and downed it. He gulped at the worm, wincing a little. “You got the worm, Carlos.”

  The others noticed. Felix’s mind lit up, his muscles tensed and a ghostly slap punched his decent-sized chin, stealing the warmth from his organic bank-vault of a farmhouse of a face. Felix glanced over to the other two bottles of mezcal they’d almost finished, and by chance the worms were still there.

  “So, I—did.” Carlos slammed the shot onto the table, hard enough to snap Rico out of a head-bobbing stupor. Jon, who wasn’t as wasted as poor Rico, jolted. They looked at each other as Carlos’ face went flat. His smile fell. His color went from a light olive tan, to just light with no olive. His head wobbled and his eyes went loose. “Excuse me, please, I must—” Carlos got up and lumbered to the bar. He pulled out a stool as if he’d suddenly become a bitter old man, and fell onto it. He grabbed his face and ran his fingers from forehead to neck, staring at himself in the mirror. The bartender, Simon, had been reading a paperback
novel and drinking a cup of coffee under the ornately framed two-foot-diameter clock centering the bar. As if he knew, or per habit—he simply moved his stool toward the end of the bar and continued reading, then nonchalantly took a sip of his drink.

  The four of them huddled close and sobriety, a dagger from Siberia—slash that, from Andromeda—stabbed each! One, two, three, four, straight into spines, three inches above the ass; and the electricity went up, up, into necks, into brains: sobering, shocking, holy shit this is it! Eyes went wide and the two DCs became dolts, wondering, “Que chingados?”

  Jim felt a nervous shit brewing, but tightened up, took a deep breath and solidified.

  Felix went dead serious, becoming a turncoat to the chiflado they knew, but quickly found his courage, plucking it from beneath years of complacency and being laidback, just-existing.

  Rico gaped and gulped, but readied himself; now it was as if he could brave the stinkiest freezer in the world, shirt on or off, undaunted—suck that stench! He nodded to Jim.

  “What now?” Jon whispered. Felix downed a full shot of mezcal, reached over and grabbed Jon’s, then downed it too.

  “Okay, looks like this is it,” Jim whispered in return. “We have to work together. Here’s the plan. Felix, get your truck ready and wait. We’ll follow him, but at a distance. I hope you got that damn muffler fixed.”

  “I did, chicle and duct tape, much quieter, even fixed first gear.”

  “That’s great. Now, if Carlos goes for his truck we’ll need to follow the dust trail using moonlight. No headlights, stay at least a quarter mile back. If he only walks or runs we’ll follow on foot.”

  “But, he’s still there,” Rico said. “Not going anywhere.”

  “That’s where you come in,” Jim replied. “Rico, get closer to him, and when I give the go ahead, we roll. Just casually sit next to him, it should aggravate him a little and hopefully provoke him to move. Jon and I will tail him when he goes outside. Then head to your father’s truck. Join him and wait.”