Time and Again: A Collection of Crazy Chronology

by Michael D. Britton

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  First thing I noticed when I woke up was the smell.

  A new-car smell had replaced the musty aged-vinyl smell of the trailer. I sat up and looked around – everything seemed just a little bit shinier, cleaner. Yet there was no smell of cleaning agents. The green curtains were brighter, the linoleum floor had a sheen I hadn’t noticed before.

  A good night’s sleep in seclusion seemed to have awakened my senses, given me a new outlook on the world around me.

  I moved through the narrow hall to the front, past the mini-kitchen, and noticed the hum of the refrigerator – the fridge that hadn’t worked since long before I’d bought the trailer. I opened it and stuck my hand in – cool air poured out around my forearm.

  Weird.

  I pushed open the front door and stepped out into the morning sun, down the black metal steps that could be retracted for towing.

  I thought the trees in this private little grove had been taller and thicker when I pulled in late in the evening, but then, I was tired last night and it was getting dark.

  I turned to go back inside and froze. Someone had applied a new coat of paint to the trailer while I slept! And it looked totally original – the same pin-striping, a nice glossy coat that was already dry.

  The trailer looked brand spanking new.

  Then I saw the truck.

  My rusty old 1978 Chevy had also been painted to look like new. Someone had switched out the license plates and put on those old yellow-on-black Oregon plates from years back, but they, too, were shiny and clean.

  I hopped in, and was struck immediately by the clean new smell and the obviously false odometer reading – only sixteen thousand miles.

  My mouth went dry and I felt sick, like I hadn’t eaten in days. I felt dizzy for a moment and laid my head down on the steering wheel.

  I needed to figure out what was going on – who was screwing with me – how they had done this.

  I jumped out of the truck, removed the jack stands from under the four corners of the trailer, and prepped it for towing by cranking the tongue jack until the tow-hitch ball supported the full weight of the Prowler.

  I pulled out onto Jacksonville Highway. The narrow two-lane road weaved eastward through the thick fir trees. As I neared Medford, I noticed they were having one of those classic car rallies they have in the summer. Lots of nice old Fords, Chevys and Chryslers, restored to mint condition.

  Yep, lots of old cars.

  But – no newer cars – like they’d been cleared from the streets.

  And some of the old west side neighborhoods had been spruced up for this weird, all-encompassing car show – new paint jobs, yards weeded and cleaned up a little.

  Then I saw the people.

  Everyone looked like they were stuck in the seventies. My heart started to race. Something was very, very wrong here.

  I clicked on the radio - maybe there was some information available.

  Oldies, oldies, oldies. Where were all my stations?

  The ads were strange, too. It was like everyone was having some kind of nostalgia trip, playing old seventies radio spots.

  By the time I got all the way downtown, it was clear that this was not just a 70s Flashback Weekend or classic car cruise.

  Everything had changed.