The Five Times I Met Myself

by James L. Rubart

  “Where is he?”

  “Take a wild guess.” Shelly tilted her head to the left.

  Brock motioned to the side with his thumb. “I think I’ll just walk around instead of going through your house.”

  “Have fun.”

  Brock strolled around the side of his brother’s home, across the lush grass, and down the slight incline that led to the back of Ron’s sprawling estate. His property was just shy of ten acres—at least till the bank came and took it away—and the backyard took up nine and a half. And of those, eight were used for three short, immaculate par-three golf holes.

  The scent of freshly cut grass surrounded Brock. A hint of wind off the lake toyed with the flags. Ron waved with a golf club, then turned back to focus on the ball teed up at his feet. He drew the club back, made a full turn of his shoulders, then started slowly back down, accelerating as the club got closer to the ball. Then thwack! The white orb rocketed off the tee toward the green 125 yards away. Brock hadn’t seen many smoother swings than Ron’s. Ron teed up another ball as Brock reached his brother.

  Ron motioned toward the ball. “Care to hit a few with me?”

  “Hardly.” Brock scoffed. “Even with those lessons you bought me a few years back, I’ve never come close to figuring out this game.”

  “So what? Doesn’t mean you can’t get out on the course with me. Have some fun.”

  “It’s not fun.”

  “What isn’t fun? Having to put a leash on your ego because I’m better than you at golf? Admitting that you’ll never, ever beat me?”

  “Not now, Ron.”

  His brother turned and gazed into his eyes. “I’m just saying someday I’d love to play a round of golf with you. Share the experience. Not as competitors. Just as brothers.”

  “Yeah, sure. Maybe in our next life.”

  Ron turned back and sighed. Then he loosened his grip for a second, regripped, and sent another TaylorMade golf ball skyward. It seemed to hang in the air longer than physics said it should, then dropped from the sky and settled fifteen yards to the right of the pin.

  “Nice.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with my swing.” Ron kicked the grass. “Everything’s headed to the right these days.”

  “That wasn’t a good shot?”

  Ron shook his head, a little smile playing on his lips. “I know, I should loosen up about it. But golf does that to you. That little voice in your head says, ‘I can get better’ and you’re never satisfied.”

  “Why didn’t you ever try to turn pro?”

  “Real pro?”

  “Yeah. You’re amazingly good.”

  “But not amazingly great.” Ron teed up another ball, and seconds later it soared toward the green. It stopped five yards away.

  “The pros are so far beyond me. I’d get on the courses they play and maybe come away after four rounds of my best golf five over par. Meanwhile, the winning score would be sixteen or seventeen under. Plus the amateur tournaments have a purity to them that the cash tourneys don’t.”

  “Like Bobby Jones.”

  “Something like that.” Ron grimaced.

  “We need to talk about the signing, Ron.”

  Ron pointed at the three-tiered putting green dotted with eight tiny flags in the center of his spread. “Let’s talk and putt at the same time.”

  They strolled the twenty yards to Ron’s putting green in silence. When they reached the fringe, Brock said, “I think I have a way to fix things.”

  “We’ve been over this.”

  “Give me the weekend.”

  “Today. Four o’clock. We sign.”

  “I have a plan that will let us keep the company. We won’t have to sell.”

  “Enlighten me, then.” Ron folded his arms. “What’s the plan?”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Yes, you can.” Ron put his hands on his hips. “If I’m going to make an excuse, I want to know why I’m making it. Every delay puts more power in the buyers’ hands. And just in case you’ve forgotten, Dad gave me fifty-one percent of this company. This is not a democracy. If I have to sign without you, I will.”

  “That will make things more complicated for you.”

  “Which is why I’ll give you the weekend as long as you tell me your plan.”

  “Trust me.” Brock eased over to the fringe of the putting green. “I truly can’t explain it.”

  “Then trust me, I’m signing this afternoon.”

  From Ron’s perspective, there was no reason to wait. They had a deal that would keep them from total disaster. But a ten-cents-on-the-dollar buyout wasn’t much of a solution.

  Yes, waiting another day always gave room for the buyers to change their minds or decide to squeeze Black Fedora harder. But it was more about Ron lording his fifty-one percent over Brock’s head. It was about winning, just as it had always been between them.

  “Okay.” Brock opened his hands in resignation. “Here’s my plan. I’m going to convince my younger self to go to business school so that when 1989 rolls around, Dad will give fifty-one percent of this company to me instead of to you. That way you never fly the Black Fedora plane into the tarmac at five hundred miles per hour, and we won’t even be having this discussion.”

  “Funny.” Ron gave a mock smile. “You still on that kick that you could have run this company better than me?” Ron’s head fell back and he gave a bitter laugh. “I would like to have seen you try. We’d have been working in a bowling alley store a year after dad died if you’d taken control.”

  “Really.”

  “You develop coffee flavors, Brock!” Ron tossed his putter ten yards to the right. “You work on marketing campaigns. You schmooze with our buyers and give wonderful media interviews. Those skills have helped make us both a very comfortable living, but those skills are not the same needed to navigate the world of business. You’d have been chewed up so badly there wouldn’t be anything to spit out.”

  “The natural ability is there.”

  “So you want to take over now? In the fifty-ninth second of the eleventh hour? Yeah, why not, Brock? I’ll give you your extra time, even if you won’t tell me what your plan is, just because I want to watch you implode.” Ron yanked off his golf glove and shoved it into his back pocket. “You want the reality? Just between you and me?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I want. Your version of reality.”

  “Dad saw the truth from the time we were kids. All growing up. Then in our twenties when we started working here. He watched us! He knew you didn’t have the skills to run Black Fedora. I did. So he chose me. And you’ve hated him and me ever since.”

  It would have been far less painful if Ron had slugged him in the gut. Brock went quiet and fought to keep his emotions from spilling over.

  “Dad was blind.” Brock tried to breathe steady. “He never truly saw my gifts, never saw me for who I am. Never believed in me the way he believed in you. It wasn’t fun being the black sheep.”

  Ron’s face softened. “Yes, he chose me to run the company. It doesn’t mean he didn’t love you.”

  “I agree. It just means he loved me less.”

  “Don’t believe that lie, Brockie.” Ron’s voice was quiet.

  Brock blinked. Ron’s childhood name for Brock. Ron hadn’t called him that for years. It was his brother’s way of reaching out, but too much had passed between them.

  “I gotta go.” Brock shifted his weight but Ron held up his hand.

  “I think there’s more to say.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Why? Because the conversation had already ripped off too many layers of Brock’s heart. Brock turned his face toward the sky. The clouds had covered the sun completely and a light rain began to fall.

  “I gotta go.” He strode off the green across the backyard toward his car.

  Ron caught up to Brock, then stepped around in front of him. The hard veneer had returned. “You need to
face this. Need to know how Dad truly felt about you. Yes, he and I were closer than you two, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “Let it go, Ron. This is over.”

  “No, we’re not done.” Ron jabbed a finger at Brock. “Talk to me. I know it’s been years for us, but we are flesh and blood. Why won’t you believe Dad loved you?”

  “You want to break me down? Want some true confession time? Fine. You’re right, Dad breaking my heart is exactly what this is all about.”

  Ron shifted his weight and Brock could tell his brother was fighting to stay kind. “Okay. I get it. Like I said, he and I were closer.”

  “Closer? He and I were never anything but worlds apart.”

  Ron continued as if he hadn’t heard Brock. “And yes, he wasn’t the greatest dad when we were younger. But think about his past. He’s an only child. His mom says to his father, ‘Leave him alone, he’s mine. And then Dad’s physically and emotionally abused by her? No siblings. No cousins. No one but our psycho grandmother to teach him about life? He’s in his midthirties on the outside but a little boy on the inside, trying to raise us without a clue how to do it. Can’t you comprehend that? Emotionally he was younger than we were.”

  Brock scowled. “I get it, but it doesn’t change what he did to me. You weren’t as old. It didn’t affect you anywhere close to the same degree.”

  “I know his nervous breakdown did serious damage to you. But give him some credit. He beat the illness. He got his mind back and started living out the things he was hearing at church. Made a commitment to the Person instead of the institution and lived for God the rest of his life. Major life shift, or don’t you remember?”

  “Remember? Do I remember?” Brock snorted. “You really truly don’t understand, do you, Ronnie? Being two years older meant I saw and went through things that didn’t even touch you. I had to be strong for you. For Mom. I shielded you when the bombs went off all around us.”

  Ron rubbed his face. “I’ve never really thought about that. But still—”

  “Nope.” Brock walked around Ron and strode away. “There’s no but still, there’s only changing the past.”

  “You do that, Brock. Change the past. Go have a great conversation with yourself. But Monday you’re coming back to the land of reality and we’re signing the papers.”

  Chapter 23

  Brock wove through traffic toward home as he tried to squash the dread rising in his throat. He had no option: he had to dream tonight and find his younger self. Convince him to go to business school.

  He pushed the thoughts from his mind and tried to concentrate on his upcoming dinner with Karissa. Out to dinner. Not at home. He’d suggested it as a way to reconnect, put some wind in the sails. Earlier in the day when he’d talked her into the dinner she’d been aloof, more than usual, and he’d thought the dinner suggestion would do the opposite. He couldn’t make sense of it.

  Ten minutes later he jogged toward Cutters, which overlooked the sound just west of Pike Place Market. Brock scrunched up his shoulders to keep the rain from running down the back of his neck and glanced at the sky. Patches of blue were visible between the rain clouds. The sun might still break out in time for reds and golds to be splashed over the Olympic Mountains.

  He stepped into the crab house and glanced around the lobby. Karissa wasn’t there. Probably already at their table. But as he was halfway to the restaurant’s front desk, she emerged from the ladies’ room. Were her eyes red? Hard to tell in the muted light. She spotted him and blinked multiple times as they approached each other.

  “Hi.” He leaned forward to give her a kiss and she offered him her cheek.

  “Hi.” She gave him a weak smile.

  The maître d’s feet slid along the carpet right up to them. He nodded. “I can show you to your table.”

  “You ready to sit down?”

  She shook her head. “Not really hungry. Are you?”

  He hadn’t thought about it, but now that he did, Brock realized he was famished. He’d skipped lunch, and breakfast had been coffee and a bagel smeared with strawberry cream cheese.

  He smiled. “No, I’m good.”

  “Don’t lie, Brock. You do it too much as it is.”

  “Fine. I’m hungry.” He lowered his voice. “Your turn. Is this a conversation we want to have in a restaurant, or in private?”

  Karissa hesitated for only a moment. “Private.”

  Brock turned to the maître d’, apologized for the last-second cancellation, and offered to pay a bit of restitution, but the man refused.

  When they reached the street, Brock motioned to the right. “Rain has stopped. How ’bout we walk down to the waterfront?”

  “I was thinking Golden Gardens.”

  “Okay. Do you want to drive together?”

  Karissa shook her head again. “Let’s meet there.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  All the way to the park, Brock fought the feeling of dread swirling around him. The fifteen minutes it took to get there felt like hours. Finally they reached the park and Brock pulled in next to Karissa’s Honda and got out. She already stood ten feet in front of her car. Neither of them spoke till they’d reached the end of the park and settled onto a green bench that was still dry enough to sit on and looked out on the water.

  “I have to talk to you about something,” she said.

  He gazed at her hair, the curve of her ears, her petite nose, her olive skin. And her eyes, which he’d lost himself in from the first day they’d met. Karissa blinked and glanced furtively at him, then pulled on her earlobe. “I can’t do it anymore.”

  Brock’s hands went cold. It didn’t take a genius to know where this was going. “Do what?”

  “I need some time.”

  “I don’t under— You’re not serious, are you?” But he knew she was deadly serious.

  “This is harder than I thought it would be. Way harder.” Tears pooled in her eyes.

  “We can work this out, Karissa.”

  “I’m sure we can.” Karissa took his hands. “I’m not saying I want a divorce, just some time.”

  “What does that mean?” A boulder dropped into Brock’s stomach.

  “I want a separation.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks. Karissa stood and walked to the edge of the sand. She slumped forward as small sobs escaped. He didn’t speak. Finally she turned and came back to him, her cheeks wet.

  “Why?” Brock tried to breathe steadily. “I don’t understand.”

  “I need you to decide if you want us, Brock.”

  “What are you saying? Of course I do.”

  She bit her lower lip and gave infinitesimal shakes of her head. “No. First, you want to save Black Fedora and continue to rule the coffee world. Second, you want to beat Ron. I come third, Tyson comes fourth. I need you to decide if you can make your family first.”

  “It’s not true. You and Tyson come first.”

  “You need to go.” She snatched her purse off the park bench. “I need to go.”

  Karissa spun and scurried to her car and slipped inside. Her brake lights flashed red as she exited the parking lot, and in that instant a resolve exploded inside Brock and filled him. He would dream that night, and in it, he would fix everything.

  Chapter 24

  AUGUST 1987

  Brock pulled off the headphones connected to his Walkman cassette player, spun, and glanced behind him. No one stared at him from anywhere on the vast expanse of grass in Bothell’s Blyth Park. No one lurked in the shadows behind the line of Douglas fir trees that stood where the lawn met the forest with their gaze fixed on his movements. But it felt like it. What was his problem?

  None of the dozen people spread out on the thick grass having picnics and throwing Frisbees in the late May sunshine were the least interested in him—unless Brock counted the golden Lab that cocked his head and looked quizzically in his direction. Brock turned back to his Seattle Times, focused on the sports section, and
tried to ignore the sensation of someone watching that continued to pepper his mind.

  Looked like the Seahawks’ schedule would be a decent one in the fall. As long as Knox figured out how to get Dave Krieg to quit fumbling and Largent kept hauling in passes. With Curt Warner slicing through defenses, the Hawks had a good chance of finishing near the top of the AFC West.

  There it was again, the feeling that eyes were zeroed in on the back of his head. He concentrated, trying to picture in his mind the exact spot behind him where the feeling came from. Center. No, a little left of center. Close by? No. It came from behind the trees, past the swing set and near the trail that wound through the forest to the east.

  He closed his eyes and tried to keep from laughing. This was ridiculous. Who had the ability to figure out the spot where a nonexistent person stared at him? It was all in his head. But the image of a person who stood two hundred yards behind him, shielded between two hemlock trees, stayed burned into his mind’s eye.

  Brock dropped his paper, whirled, and fixed his gaze on the spot he’d seen in his mind. Yes. There! Movement. He stood, squinted, and this time hit pay dirt. Was it him? Yes. It was the guy who claimed to be an older version of himself. Now the guy was stalking him? He rose to his feet and strode toward Future Brock.

  Brock stood between two hemlock trees on the edge of the lawn and stared at his younger self. There were so many things he wanted to tell himself, but he couldn’t say too much. If he really could influence his present by talking to himself in the past, he needed to choose his words carefully.

  The solution was simple—get himself to go to business school instead of getting a post-grad marketing degree—but convincing his younger self he had to go wouldn’t be easy.

  Young Brock whirled and stared directly at him before Brock had time to react. He’d been spotted. Time to engage. He walked out from behind the trees and toward his younger version, who had risen and came toward him. His younger self stopped when they were five yards apart.

  “Why are you stalking me?”

  “I wasn’t. I’m not.”

  “So hiding behind a tree, staring at people, is normal behavior in the future?”