Future Imperfect

by K Ryer Breese

  She will be mine.

  Barreling through a yellow light on Seventeenth, Jimi says, “What you need to understand, Ade, is that we’re all products of our environment. The mark of a true genius, a true rebel, is someone able to not only overcome all the bullshit that’s been thrown at them, but to turn it around.”

  And with that he spins the wheel, Vauxhall gasps, and the car careens across two lanes of traffic onto Twenty-third. Jimi slows up only a little, the trees are thicker here, branches dipping down low over the street, and I can feel the coolness of them breathing out their moisture as we sprint by.

  Jimi says, “The secret of life is simple: Only you matter.”

  We left the park only an hour ago.

  Jimi handed me a beer when we got into his car and I pretended to drink it but really only sipped it. When we pulled up to Vauxhall’s house and Jimi jumped out, I got out to slide into the backseat and poured the rest of the beer out onto the lawn. Jimi was in her house long enough for me to have a good look at it.

  The house, it was where the love of my life had been sleeping, eating, showering, dreaming, crying, laughing, singing, living. I didn’t want to think of the other things she might have been doing. The house was small. Nestled between two larger houses and hidden behind blobs of shrubbery. The walkway up to the front door was cracked, the cement coming loose in large chunks here and there. I could imagine Vauxhall, the child version of her, skipping there, playing jacks, jumping rope. There were two lights on inside the house. One was clearly the living room, though the shades were pulled shut. The other, maybe a bedroom or office. In my mind it was, of course, Vauxhall’s. A single window-I imagined it had one of those little knobs you turn to wheel it open-that looked out over a quiet, dark neighborhood. I could see Vauxhall sitting at that window, her chin in her hands, watching the sun set and the clouds move in. I could see her sitting there, sighing, and wondering what the rest of her life would be like. If she’d get married and have three kids. If she’d become a doctor or an artist. I could see her with her eyes closed, the rain on her face as it splashed through the screen, breathing in slowly, inhaling the ozone and the sweetness of the soil.

  Right now, sitting behind Vauxhall, her feet up on the dashboard, toenails painted light blue and chipped, I only imagine she has her eyes closed and is breathing in the night the same way. I want so badly to put my hand on her shoulder.

  My mission here is to make us happen. To make this work.

  My mission here, and I’m totally seeing it like I’m an Army Ranger or something, is to make sure that whatever is going on between Vauxhall and Jimi and anyone else doesn’t go any further.

  My mission, outside of the Buzz, is being Vauxhall’s right hand.

  And right now, I even go to move, just a finger to touch her hair, to touch where her hair has been caught up in the seat, when she says, to me, “Jimi’s not a guru or anything. You have to take most of what he says, at least like ninety percent of it, with a truckload of salt.”

  Shouting back, I say, “I’m guessing more like one hundred percent of it.”

  Jimi, lighting a smoke, coughs. “That’s true.” He hits the brakes and brings the car to a sudden halt under a cypress tree and turns around and looks at me, narrows his eyes, “Maybe I dress it up too much. Like make it a bit too-”

  “Forced?” Vauxhall laughs.

  “I was going to say ‘intellectual.’ But anyway, definitely don’t take me too seriously, Ade. I’m bad for your health in large amounts.”

  Jimi turns back to the road, slams down on the gas, and away we go again. Vauxhall, however, turns back to me and winks. She mouths: He’s. Full. Of. It.

  I nod. I smile. I’m not sure what else I do.

  “By the way,” Jimi says, staring straight into the soul of the night, “I borrowed this car from a friend of mine. I didn’t ask him, but so long as it gets back in one piece, should be fine. Actually, he’s just a neighbor. Not technically a friend.”

  Where we stop the car is nowhere.

  It’s at the end of a dead-end street. Houses on either side, a fence in front. And beyond the fence is pretty much nothing. Just darkness. Not even the flicker of lights. Jimi halts the car and jerks the keys loose and then jumps out and walks to the fence. He lights another smoke and turns around and motions for me and Vaux to get out.

  Vaux gets out slow. I get out slower.

  “So, what are we looking for?” I ask.

  Jimi takes a long drag and then pulls out his cell phone. He says, “We have one minute and twenty-two seconds. I suggest we get over the fence.”

  “’Til what?”

  He doesn’t answer, just flicks his cig into the shadows and smooth as a spider climbs up and over the fence. He is engulfed in dark. Vauxhall takes my hand, my heart hiccups at the touch. Her skin so soft, so warm, and she holds my fingers tight. Right now, I’d jump into the Grand Canyon.

  Vauxhall smiles, says, “Come on.” And she goes over the fence.

  Jimi says, “You got fifty-seven seconds, Ade.”

  I go over the fence. Not easy like Jimi. Not smooth or fast like Vaux, but I make it. On the other side, it’s just weeds and darkness. We walk. I follow the blue light of Jimi’s cell phone. I’m looking around but seeing nothing. Hearing nothing but the crunch of weeds under my shoes, the scatter of pebbles, and the rush of wind.

  Only there isn’t wind.

  Just sound.

  Jimi says, “We got twenty-two seconds, kiddos.”

  “What is that noise?” I ask.

  Jimi laughs. “Noise. Just noise.”

  And then he stops. I run into his back. He puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Just sit still. Right there. Feel that?”

  And I do. Vibrations. The earth moving beneath us like the thick bass from a lowrider. I can feel my intestines jumping. My heart fighting back with its own beat.

  “What the hell is going on, Jimi?”

  Vauxhall is not with us. She’s standing about ten feet away and I can just make her out by the faint light that at first I think’s coming from Jimi’s phone but it’s not. It’s white light and it’s getting brighter by the second. Bigger and brighter. It’s behind us. The rushing noise, it’s as loud as a building coming down.

  Jimi grabs my shoulder, holds me tight. Says, “Fifteen seconds.”

  Of course, it’s a train behind us. I hear the conductor pulling the horn down hard.

  But there is no squeal of brakes. The conductor, he’s not trying to stop.

  I’m shaking.

  Breathing out fast.

  Jimi can tell, he says, “Ten seconds, dude. Hang tight. This is going-”

  But I can’t hear the rest of what he says. The noise of the train is the noise of a thousand trains. It is the buckling of the world. It is the ripping-open of the sky. And the light, it’s like we’re floating out into the sun. I remind myself that I will live. That I’ve seen myself in the future. That nothing can happen right now.

  Jimi pushes on my shoulder.

  The train horn is the yell of a dinosaur. It shakes the air.

  There is dust in the light around us like bubbles deep underwater.

  I tell myself that I will live. I tell myself not to think that maybe the visions have been wrong. That I saw Vauxhall and she’s here now, watching me. That she’s here now and any second Jimi and I will jump out of the way.

  Only we don’t.

  The train is on our heels.

  The sound of it has turned me to jelly. I can’t feel my feet, the vibrations of it are that numbing. I’m standing on a jackhammer and Jimi, the suicidal nut job, is grinning.

  Hand on my shoulder, he pushes me down hard.

  I close my eyes ready for the impact. Ready to feel my bones shatter and ready to see myself spray off into mist. I grit my teeth. I tense up. And I count it down.

  Four…

  The light is blinding, even with my back turned. Even with my eyes closed.

  Three…

>   The rumbling has me deaf.

  Two…

  The rails whip around like snakes.

  One…

  Nothing. I open to see the train just to my left on a second track. It’s passing maybe a foot from us, maybe a half-foot from Jimi. The train rattles by and Jimi lets me go. I stand there for a few seconds, my body twitching as it comes back to life, and then collapse on the rails.

  It takes five full minutes for the train to pass. I know ’cause I time it on my cell phone. Jimi stands, looking over at me, smiling. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes shrugging. Saying things I can’t hear.

  What has me worried, though, more than the thought that Jimi almost just got me killed, is that for a few flashing seconds I actually was kind of psyched at the thought of getting the World’s Greatest Concussion.

  Me spinning off the front of that locomotive at a million miles an hour, can you imagine how many hundreds of years into the future I’d see?

  How crazy the Buzz would be?

  When the train finally passes, and my hearing returns, Vauxhall walks over and sits down next to me. She gives me a hug and having her close is like diving in a cool pool. And right there, my brain kind of has a freeze-frame moment. With Vauxhall’s arms around me I don’t care about the concussion that I missed. For the first time in a long, long time I actually want to be slowed down with all the other fossils around me. I want to be right here with Vauxhall in this instant.

  Vauxhall, stepping back, smiling, says, “That was the nine-twenty Rio Grande on its way to Cheyenne.”

  I ask, “Why did we just do that?”

  Jimi walks over, sits next to us. He lights another smoke, the red of it casting demon light on his face, and asks, “You close to your family, Ade?”

  “Yeah, I guess… Seriously, though, Jimi. That was the most-”

  He interrupts, “How close?”

  “I don’t know. Close. You know, I love my mom and my dad and whatever. What are you trying to ask me? Would it be something worth almost dying for?”

  Vauxhall whispers, her lips only an inch from my ear, “Just humor him.”

  Jimi says, “I don’t think you’re that close. I can tell it.”

  “Fine,” I say. “My mom’s a bit of a freak. Religious stuff. My dad, he’s in a coma.”

  Jimi nods slowly. “You’re like us. Abandoned.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No. My dad was in a car accident. He didn’t-”

  “He was a drunk, right?”

  I just stutter. “He was drinking, but he didn’t-”

  “Your dad chose the bottle over you. Worst kind of abandonment.”

  “Wasn’t like that at all, Jimi.”

  He ignores me, says, “I’ve been tracking my dad. For years, I’ve been slowly but surely, step by step, tracking him down. He left me, my mom, back when I was just a little kid. Not even two. He just up and vanished. I was able to kind of make a life for myself, able to avoid a lot of the traps other kids like me fall into. And how I did it was by keeping myself focused. Focused on one thing.”

  Vaux, whispering, says, “Ask him what the one thing was.”

  “What was the one thing, Jimi?”

  Jimi takes a drag. More drama. Drags it out. He says, “At the end of most Westerns, the good ones, the spaghetti ones, there’s always this scene where the good guy and the bad guy come face-to-face. Just mano a mano in a dusty street. Vultures overhead. Harmonica on the sound track. Tense. That’s it. Confronting my dad. The big showdown. Ka-boom.”

  I nod. Not sure what to say.

  Vauxhall, beauty at my ear, breathes, “Just make him think you’re interested.”

  Jimi tells me that his childhood was the stuff that people write bestselling memoirs about. He tells me that his mother used to torment him mercilessly and when she died he kind of felt guilty that he was so elated. He says, “It’s the past that makes us who we are, Ade. It’s not destiny, I don’t like to use that word. But your parents lay down tracks for you to follow. Most of us don’t ever get off them. Most of us don’t need to.”

  “And the train?” I ask. “Why we almost died?”

  “Metaphor. Allegory. Past sneaking up on you. I’m not sure what, but I thought it was a nice touch. Train was like ten feet from you, dude. You weren’t ever really in danger. Just thought you were.”

  Vauxhall murmurs, “He planned it out for like a week.”

  Jimi stands up, reaches out a hand, and when I take it he pulls me up. Pulls me up fast. Then he hugs me hard. Tight, the way football players do after a game. He says, “Welcome to the club, buddy. What do you want to do next?”

  I say, “Sleep.”

  Jimi laughs. “You’ll sleep when you’re dead.”

  Vauxhall stands up, puts her arm around my shoulder, and says, out loud this time, “It’s a three-day weekend. Nothing but open road out there. We have a car, lots of friends. Why don’t you come along? We won’t bite. Promise.”

  Of course I say yes. Mostly I want to be around Vauxhall. But part of me also wants to be around Jimi. I’m not sure why. After tonight, after finding out he’s touching the girl I’ve been writing about for years, I should be head-butting him into unconsciousness. The guy’s an asshole and like a lot of assholes he’s also just crazy enough to be wildly entertaining.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Vauxhall jumps. Giggles so sweetly I can’t help but break out grinning.

  “We’ll leave tomorrow, after school,” Jimi says.

  And I think it’s funny that these two actually care about going to school.

  “What do you have in mind?” I ask.

  Jimi says, “Really, I only have two modes: vengeance and party. And, in a twisted way, I think one just leads to the other. It’s party time.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ONE

  Professor Susan Graham

  Department of Experimental Physics

  University of Colorado, Boulder

  Professor Graham,

  A family friend of mine, Dr. Reginald Borgo, suggested I get in touch with you about a certain school project I’m working on. I’m a junior at Mantlo in Denver, so it’s nothing major. Not a dissertation or anything! (I’ll admit it’s an attempt to salvage my grade, but it’s a long, ugly story.)

  Anyway, this thing I’m doing (a “thought experiment”) is about seeing the future. I realize that’s such an old sci-fi movie deal, and probably a standard for Physics 101, but I’m really trying to add a few new wrinkles to the idea and wonder if you might be able to help me flesh some of them out better.

  Dr. Borgo suggested I just lay out the hypothetical, so here’s the gist: I’ve got this “subject” who can see the future, only he/she can only see it when he/she is unconscious. The future the subject sees can be way off in the future or very near-this depends on a kind of focusing, but is not really important. Let’s say that our subject, when he/she looks out into the distant future, sees only good stuff. I mean, he/she sees himself/herself living a very normal, enjoyable life totally devoid of brain damage (from repeated concussions (the whole knocking-out thing) and having succeeded in his/her work despite not being a very good student (getting kicked out of school three times, suspended on a monthly basis, etc). Oh, and the future can’t be changed. What he sees happens. Always. So, that’s the “thought experiment.”

  I’ve got three guesses on how the future winds up so cheery:

  1. He/she isn’t really seeing the future (though this is frequently contradicted by those times when he/she sees the near future and it comes true, down to the letter).

  2. He/she is really seeing the future and everything just worked out right for the subject-e.g., the whole “concussions are really terrible for you over the long run” thing was exaggerated. Also, that school-at least high school-isn’t as necessary as everyone seems to think. College too.

  3. He/she is really seeing the future only something big happened to change it. Like divine intervention.

  What do you
think? Am I missing some variables here?

  Sorry for the long letter and thanks again, in advance, for you help.

  Sincerely,

  Ade Patience

  TWO

  What I am is dead tired.

  Dead. Tired.

  The good thing about having a mom who only thinks about the future you, the one she knows will be successful, is that the you right now isn’t nearly as important. The me right now is almost extraneous. According to the future I’ve seen, not getting good grades isn’t such a big thing. Not having perfect attendance is par for the course.

  I’m literally lying on a desk when Paige finds me.

  Not lying there with my head on the desk. My head cradled in my arms. No, I’m lying on my back, my eyes shut, and I’m pretty sure I’m snoring something gnarly when Paige shakes me awake.

  I sit up groggy and first thing I notice is everyone else is gone. Fourth period, speech, and the classroom is now empty. I missed the whole thing. Whatever it was we were discussing.

  “Time is it?” I ask, trying to get a crick out of my neck.

  Paige just shakes her head at me.

  “Seriously, though. Is school over or…?”

  “You only missed lunch.”

  I swing my feet over the edge of the table, stretch. “What’s funny,” I say, “is that I don’t think I’ve been this delirious after a concussion. This is like, it’s like being the most wasted ever.”

  My best friend, head still shaking, she tells me I’m pathetic. She tells me that if I was a true friend I would consider limiting myself to just the concussion. She says, “Real friends, they don’t keep adding on damage. Real friends know where to quit.”

  “Did I mention the thing about Vauxhall and… you know?”

  “Yes. Several times already. Makes perfect sense.”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Both of you’re junkies.”