by Shawn Inmon
“Great. Can you be here this afternoon? Say, 3:00?”
“Sure can. I’ll be there.”
“Good. Come in, asked for Debbie. I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork, then I’ll put you to work, so don’t wear a three piece suit.”
Damn good thing, since I’ve never owned anything nicer than the powder blue leisure suit Mom bought me for my last birthday.
Joe killed a few hours cleaning up the landscaping in the front yard, then jumped in the Olds for another trip across town.
One thing’s for sure. I’ve gotten out and around more in these last few days than I did in an average year in my previous life. That’s gotta be good.
The Middle Falls Animal Shelter was a non-descript, low-slung building in an area of mostly industrial buildings. It was built with concrete blocks that were painted white, or at least had been white once upon a time. Now, the color had faded to a dingy color that would be in the “post-urban blahs” section of the color wheel.
There was a large gravel parking lot, but there were only four cars scattered around it. Joe pushed through the double glass doors that led into a small entryway. The first thing he noticed was the smell. It wasn’t purely awful, but it was a powerful smell that carried a reminder that it had been awful at one point, and could easily take a turn in that direction again. There was an under scent of dog dander and long-gone feces, masked by an industrial cleaning smell.
I guess if you work here, you get used to that smell, right? I sure do hope so.
A fortyish woman with brittle blonde hair sat behind a counter. “I see you’ve met our most prominent feature—eau de pound. We have bottles of it for sale, if you’d like some.”
“Has anyone ever bought any?”
That made the woman cackle, a laugh that started low, then turned into a phlegmy cough. When she had recovered herself, she said, “I’ll admit, we’ve never sold any. So, what can I help you with?”
“I’m Joe. Joe Hart. I called you this morning about doing some volunteer work.”
“Oh, yes. You sounded older on the phone. I wasn’t expecting another kid today.” She slapped a piece of paper on the counter. “Fill this out for me, then I’ll have all my I’s dotted, and I’ll get you started.”
Two minutes later, Joe pushed the paper back to her. She stared into his eyes, a slightly uncomfortable intimacy in a completely new acquaintance. “Tough break,” she said, pointing to the left side of her own face. “You’re a good lookin’ kid.” She shrugged, stubbed a cigarette out in an ashtray and said, “The animals won’t even notice. They only care if you like them, or feed them. Come on, then.” She stood and pushed open a heavy door.
Joe followed her down a short corridor to a large, open room lined with kennels on both sides. The noise was deafening. Every kennel had at least one dog in it, several had entire litters. They all were voicing their pleasure/annoyance/jubilance/love of barking all at the same time.
Debbie glanced over her shoulder at Joe. “I’d like to say you get used to this noise, but you never do. After you’ve been in here a few minutes, they’ll settle down, though. Come on, through here.” She led him into a small room, not much more than a closet, off to the side. She pointed to a cart with mops, disinfectant, and a trash can filled with dog food.
“Here’s what you do. Start all the way down at the far end of the kennels. There’s a laminated card on each kennel that will tell you how many scoops of food to put in each dog’s dish. I know it’s tempting to give them more food than each card calls for, but remember two things.” She held up two fingers. “One, we’re on a tight budget and can barely afford the food. And two,” she said, pointing at the trash can, “that just looks like dog food. It’s actually dog poop, because everything that goes in, comes out the other end. And one of us has to clean it up.”
“Got it,” Joe shouted over the barking, which was quieting somewhat. “What happens when all the kennels are full, but you get more dogs in?”
“First in, first out. Whichever dog’s been with us the longest gets the needle. I hate it, but unless or until the county gives us a bigger place or a bigger budget, that’s where we are. I’ll feed ‘em forever if I can, but when we get overrun, the vet comes and helps us out. I’d love to take ‘em home with me, but my man says if I bring one more stray home, he’ll keep the animal but toss me out.”
“Damn.” Joe looked at the dozens of dogs standing at attention, wagging their tails, lolling their tongues.
“This job was supposed the be done by a couple of volunteers earlier today, but I think they didn’t want to risk breaking a nail, so now it falls to you.” Debbie cast a glare at two teenage girls who were quietly sneaking down the corridor. She shook her head. “Not everyone comes here for altruistic reasons. Some people come because they got caught cutting donuts and tearing up the grass on the high school football field and get sentenced to community service. Whatever.” She focused back on Joe. “You ready? Go get ‘em.”
Joe pushed the cart to the far end of the corridor, where a gray and black, scruffy little mongrel looked up at him with happy eyes. Joe glanced at the card on the kennel—one scoop—then opened the door. The little dog didn’t jump up on him, but just stood wagging its tail happily. Joe put a scoop of food in the bowl, then filled the water bowl with a hose that ran alongside the kennels.
The dog didn’t immediately jump for the bowl, but stood smiling at Joe.
Oh. I can see how volunteers here end up like crazy cat ladies, with a hundred pets running around their house. I can’t do that though. Too much I want to get done, and a houseful of pets will only slow me down. Maybe later. For now, though, I can make their days a little better.
Joe kneeled in front of the dog he had already dubbed Scruffy in his head and scratched behind her ears. “For a homely little dog, you sure are adorable.” He gave her one last pat, then moved on to the next cage, and the next.
Halfway through the task he had to use the restroom, and so walked back out to ask Debbie where it was. As he did, he walked by what appeared to be a break room. An old table with a scarred surface sat in the middle of the room with chairs scattered around it. A pop machine stood in one corner.
Joe stuck his head into the room to see if the bathroom was there. The two girls sat with their backs to the door. He stepped inside just in time to hear the one with dark hair say, “At least he never has to worry about a mask for Halloween. That’s all taken care of for him.”
The other girl, a blonde, said, “Stop it, Jill. You’re just mean. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. When we’re done with our community service, I don’t want to see you anymore. Did you know Dad took my car away from me because of this?”
The conversation continued, but Joe didn’t hear. He backed quietly out of the room and continued to look for the bathroom. After he found it, he walked back down the corridor. He had every intention of just passing the break room by, but at the last minute, he turned in. He walked loudly, and this time the girls heard him.
He pulled out a chair across from them and sat down. He flipped his bangs back so his birthmark stood out more than usual.
The two girls had markedly different reactions. The blonde girl flushed and looked away. The raven-haired girl named Jill let a look of disgust wash over her face.
“Listen, I know you’re young,” Joe said to Jill.
“What are you, an old man?” Jill interrupted.
Joe smiled. “Good point. Sometimes I forget how young I am. Anyway, I heard what you said about me not needing a Halloween mask. I thought about not saying anything, but I just couldn’t. I know how you intended it, but I just wanted to talk to you about it.” Joe turned his head to the right, so his left eye looked directly at Jill. “This is just a birthmark, right? It’s not something I asked for, or something I got because I’m a bad person. It’s just part of the genetic lottery, and I lost on this one.”
“You. Are. A. Freak.” Jill said. “If you don’t leave us alone, I’m g
oing to tell the lady out front that you are bothering us.” A devious look crossed her face. “I might even tell her you grabbed me somewhere naughty.”
Joe shook his head a little and let his hair fall back over his face. “No problem. I’ve still got work to do. Have a good day.”
Joe stood and walked around the table and out of the room. He returned to the task at hand, feeding dog food bowls, water bowls, and cleaning up messes as he went.
Joe was finishing the last kennel, leaning down and talking to an old bulldog with sad eyes. “You look like you blinked, and somehow ended up in here, old fella. I hate to see it.”
From behind him, a voice said, “I’m Elle.”
Joe turned to find the blonde girl from the break room standing right outside the cage.
“Like the letter?”
She smiled. “No, like E-l-l-e.”
“You know, that makes a lot more sense. Nice to meet you, Elle. I’m Joe.”
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m embarrassed by the way Jill acted. I could apologize for her, but—“
Joe held his hand up. “No need. Really. But I appreciate your coming and introducing yourself. That’s a stand up thing to do.”
And, once again, I sound like an old man instead of a teenager.
Elle dimpled a little and said, “Well, I’ve got to go. Our hours are done for the day. Only 60 more to go!”
She ran down the hallway to the door as Joe watched.
A relationship’s gonna be tough. Who would be the right person for me? Elle looks too young for me. But, if I went with someone actually my own age, it would look like they were cradle robbers.
Oh well, I don’t think Elle is interested in me anyway. It’s a problem for another day.
Chapter Twelve
The next few months flew by. Debbie put him on the schedule to work three times a week at the shelter. He soon had a name for every dog and cat that came in. Debbie called him her good luck charm. From the time he had arrived, they hadn’t had to put a single animal down.
He also started attending Al-Anon meetings at 10:00 A.M. on Tuesdays. When he attended his first meeting, he had no idea what to expect. He thought he might just sit and listen to somebody lecture him, but that wasn’t the way the program worked. Everyone who came to the meeting seemed to know each other, and each one had an assigned task. One made coffee, another got the cookies out, and several others set chairs up around a long table.
The Alcoholics Anonymous group met at the same time in another room across the hall. Many couples seemed to arrive together, splitting off only when they got to their separate meetings.
There were many things Joe liked about the meetings. He didn’t have to speak if he didn’t want to, but most weeks, everyone else did. They didn’t preach at him, or even tell him what he should be doing. Instead, they all told stories from their own lives, either from the distant past, or something from that week. Joe noticed that no one ever offered advice unless someone asked for it. Often, they would conclude by saying, “In the old days, I would have handled it all wrong, but not anymore. Now, I knew how to handle it.”
Each meeting was concluded with someone saying, “The meeting’s over. Take what you like and leave the rest.” That was an appealing idea to Joe, and he did exactly that. As time passed, he opened up about living with his mother, even though he didn’t say that to him it had been decades earlier. He had learned that the average person was not ready to accept the idea of time travel.
I can’t believe how few specific memories I have of this time. Who won the World Series? I watched it, but damned if I can remember. What were the big news events of 1978? Likewise, no idea.
Finally, a thought occurred to him. He sat down at his kitchen table, wrote out a short note, sealed it in an envelope, and took it with him to his next appointment with Abigail Green.
He sat down in the overstuffed couch in her office and handed the envelope across to her.
“What’s this? You’ve still got three week’s credit built up.”
“That’s not a check. I know that when I came in here, telling you I thought I was a time traveler, you thought I was crazy.”
Abigail looked somewhat exasperated, but slightly amused. “’Crazy’ is really a word I don’t toss around a lot.”
“Right. Okay, then. Then maybe you thought I was using this whole story as some way to evade something I didn’t really want to talk about. Or, maybe it was just a distraction to keep from thinking about my problems. I don’t know. For some reason, though, it bugs me that I can’t find a way to convince you of the truth. So, I think that envelope will do it.”
“How so?”
“I wrote down something that there should be no way I could know. My memory isn’t all that great, so I couldn’t write the exact date that it happens, but I remember it was after Mom died, but before Christmas that same year. So, I thought I’d give it to you now. You keep it somewhere safe, and one of these sessions, I’ll ask you to open it up.”
Abigail stared levelly at him for several seconds. “All right. We can do that. But for now, tell me about your week.”
JOE MANAGED TO FILL his weekdays, but he still found himself with time on his hands on weekends. He went to movies at the Pickwick every Saturday. He got a kick out of seeing movies like Saturday Night Fever, Grease, or Animal House in theaters again. He had once had them all on VHS, and eventually DVD, but nothing beat the experience of seeing them in a crowded theater, with people who reacted in all the right places.
Still, that left him many hours to fill, and he did so by working on his house. It had never been the loveliest house, but he set about making it shine as much as he could. He put a new gutter system up, repaired the flashing around the chimney, and finally decided to paint the whole exterior.
By early fall, he had checked off every item on his house to-do list, He walked around the outside, admiring the neat flower beds, the fresh paint, and the overall sense of order that had come over the house. A thought hit him out of nowhere.
I should sell this house.
In his previous life, he had never considered such a thing. The house had been his Fortress of Solitude. He had closed the door to the outside world and retreated into the safety and comfort of the familiar walls.
All of which is why he wanted to sell the house now. He loved it, and would never set a torch to it, of course, but selling it would serve as a symbolic cutting of ties with his previous life.
Joe contacted a local real estate agent in early October. She told him that the conventional wisdom was that it was better to wait until the spring, when the daffodils would be blooming. Would he be interested in calling her in March?
He was not, so instead, he called another realty office. When he told this new agent about his desire to sell his house, her first question was, “When can I come take a look at it, so I can prepare a market analysis for you?”
Much better.
Joe met with her that very afternoon, and she brought him a market analysis the next day. She told him that the market was a little slow, because high interest rates were dragging the market down, but because of all the work he had done, she thought she could get him $45,000.
Joe called the bank to see what his mortgage balance was. $7,200.
He called the agent and told her to market the home at $42,000.
He got an offer before Halloween and had to be out of the house by his birthday, December 1st.
That gave him many new projects. He had to find a new place to live, and he wanted to downsize and simplify his belongings. He ended up donating more than half his belongings, and all his furniture, to St. Vincent de Paul. He moved into a small, one-bedroom apartment at the River Crest Apartments the last weekend of November.
His one splurge was a new bedroom and living room set from Coleman’s Furniture. He wanted a clean break from his past.
The craziness of selling the house and getting moved to his new place took up all of Joe’s attentio
n, but even so, he still caught a stray newscast here and there. One story that was unavoidable during that time was the murder of Congressman Leo Ryan and the mass suicide in Jonestown, Guyana.
At Joe’s next appointment with Abigail, he asked her if she had the envelope he had given her months before.
“Of course. Still sealed.”
“Can you get it and open it?”
“Joe, you’ve made so much progress over the last six months, I thought maybe you were ready to leave all this behind.”
“If you’ll just open it, I’ll never mention it again, unless you want to ask me questions.”
Abigail excused herself and went into another part of the house. A few minutes later, she returned with the envelope.
“Perfect. Can you open it and read it?”
Abigail sighed, but, using a letter opener she carried with her, she slit the envelope open and took the single sheet of notebook paper out.
“Will you read it out loud?”
Abigail nodded, adjusted her glasses, and read.
“I can’t remember the exact date, because aside from dates like the attack on Pearl Harbor, or the day Kennedy was assassinated, or a few events that will happen in the future, I just don’t remember specific dates. I do remember that this happened sometime around Thanksgiving the year my mom died, so that’s coming up soon.”
Abigail shifted in her seat, as if she was reading ahead and was surprised by what she saw.
“A U.S. Congressman name Leo Ryan is going to lead a delegation to look into charges that a man named Jim Jones is running some sort of cult and holding people hostage in a makeshift encampment called Jonestown, in Guyana. Mr. Ryan and others in his entourage will be shot and killed as they are boarding their plane to return home. Jim Jones will then lead his followers in a mass murder/suicide. I can’t remember exactly how many are killed, but it’s hundreds. He will use a poisoned drink to kill them. It will introduce a new phrase into the language—“drink the Kool-Aid”—even though it wasn’t actually Kool-Aid that was used. That’s all I can remember about it, but that should be enough.”
