Glitch

"Hey! Sir! Wake up! This is the last stop. Its quittin' time and I get to go home to my Shirley... You gotta get off the bus, sir."

But I can't remember getting on the bus. I get off anyway before my mind is aware enough to ask the driver questions concerning my whereabouts. I stand there staring up at him from the ground, watching as the panels to the door give a sharp, ear-twitching squeak while swinging shut. The driver pulls off, spewing exhaust fumes around me. My eyes follow the bus until it turns the corner, leaving my sight.

I have my watch. It can't tell me where I am, but it does tell me the time. 10:24 pm.

I find myself in what looks like the downtown area of a small city, completely baffled by the nice cars parked on both sides of the street.

And there's laughter.

I hear it coming from one of the storefronts along this side of the street.

I begin walking toward the sounds in hopes of gathering some sort of understanding.

The noise is coming from a bar. Several patrons outside of it gesture with lit cigarettes. One of them raises his voice to another about hating his job. My eyes meet with some of theirs. The contact is brief. They're too involved in their conversation to notice the confusion my face has to be showing.

I walk up to the glass entrance door and push it open. There's upbeat music playing but not loud enough to overpower bells clanging against door. The sound quickly alerts a dozen or so people inside that someone just walked in. Me.

A few are sitting at the bar. Others are mingling about or sitting at tables scattered throughout the somewhat dimly lit space with vertigo-inducing wallpaper. I understand the stares. They've never seen me before.

One look around, and it's obvious I'm overdressed. It's definitely warm out. So again, I understand the stares. I'm wearing a white, button-down shirt with a grey dinner jacket, black dress pants, black shoes. Everyone else is wearing less. Shorts and tank tops. Summer attire. I drive my eyes away from them and see a barstool begging me to sit for a drink.

I look straight ahead at nothing in particular, distracted by my own reasons, hoping my thoughts will drown out the chatter that resumed after I took a seat.

Towards the other end of the bar, the bartender polishes glasses. I can tell he's fighting the urge to look at me. I'm sure he wishes I weren't here.

The feeling is mutual.

He continues to stall, chatting with possible regulars who have already been taken care of.

Finally, I see him approaching in my peripheral.

"What can I get you?" he says, dropping the towel on the counter below the bar top.

"A shot and a beer. Southern Comfort and a miller lite if you have it." I say, keeping my eyes wandering instead of on him.

"Southern comfort, yes. Miller lite, no. We do have Bud lite on draft, though."

"Yeah, I'll take those."

"Coming right up."

He returns with the items and drops the tab at the same time, which tells me he's hoping I leave afterwards.

But I have growing questions that I haven't quite figured out how to approach. I toss back the shot without blinking. The burn lingers. I welcome it.

My world feels out of tune. I begin to study the unfamiliar atmosphere around me...

There are multiple TV screens all set to different channels I don't recognize. There are brands of liquor on the rails I've never heard of.

I notice that almost everyone has a gadget. Some are using their fingers on the front surface. Some seem to be talking to it. Like a phone.

The bartender approaches again, returning for the towel. He notices the lost look on my face.

"You're not from around here, are you? You look like you just lost your house in a fire or something. You alright?...if you need anything else, let me know."

"Sorry. I'm just caught up on a few things... I'll take another Southern Comfort. This time on the rocks." I say, giving him direct eye contact for the first time."

He nods and heads away, snagging the tab as he goes.

My mind feels stuck in a fog, unable to make sense of anything. The very last thing I remember is sealing three envelopes at work. I left there in a rush to mail them and woke up on a bus.

Now I'm here.

I need to make a call. I get up from my stool and walk towards the other end where people are standing talking.

"Excuse me, is there a payphone in here or nearby?"

I'm met with playful, sort of mocking looks. The stares and silence continue until a man with a blue bandana tied around his forehead breaks out into laughter. A few others join in.

"Wait a minute guys... I think he's serious." a young, blond woman says, intrigued by my question. "Are you being serious?"

"Well, yeah. I need to make a call."

"Don't you have a phone? Where's your phone?" she asks, expecting a quick answer.

"Yeah, I have a phone at home. Everyone has."

"Not a landline. Where is your cell phone?"

Cell phone?

I don't know what she means. She holds up her gadget and points the face at me. All I see are colorful squares with words written on them on a glossy screen. It's far from resembling a phone.

She knows...I hope she knows I am still in the dark. My mind wonders about what kind of sick joke I'm in the middle of. It hasn't been amusing from the start. I turn back to the bar and see the bartender looking at me. He also seems to be waiting for me to respond.

I don't have an answer for them. But then I see something familiar out of focus behind his left shoulder. My eyes shift to look at it. The sight instantly jars me, creating a tidal wave of shock.

This can't be! This has to be some kind of elaborate prank. I walk closer to the bar, never taking my eyes off it.

"What is that?" I say to the bartender, pointing behind him.

"Uh... That, my friend is a calendar."

"I know it's a calendar. Why does it say 2019?"

"Because... that's the year we are in?" he says, hunching his shoulders, eyes darting towards others to make sure someone else is listening.

"No fucking way! Who put you guys up to this shit? Okay, assholes you got me. Jokes over! Now tell me who's behind all this."

"Looks like we got ourselves a whacko." the guy with the bandana says, prompting more stares.

"Um...we don't know what you're talking about. I'm gonna have to ask you to take your seat. No need to make a scene." the bartender says.

"I'll kick him out if you want me too." bandana man says, walking closer to me with clenched fists.

"Jace! What are you doing, man? Step back. I'll talk to him and see what the issue is. That's what us bartenders do. We listen. You guys go back to what you're doing. I'll handle this."

I make it back to my seat before he's done talking to them. The calendar draws me to look again.

And again, I don't believe any of this.

"Sorry about that guy back there. Jace can get kind of rowdy after a few... So, what's really going on? You need someone to talk to? My name is Eric. I'm all ears."

"This is impossible... You say it's 2019 but earlier today it was 1987. How can that be?"

"Did you just say you think it's 1987?"

"It is 1987. I can prove it."

I reach for my wallet and retrieve two receipts from recent purchases. He doesn't seem impressed. I pull out my ID and hand it to him. He reads it out loud.

"Richard Kinsey.... 6536 South Eldron, Brooksville Indiana. Date of birth, July 2nd, 1948... 1948! That would make you... that would make you-"

"Seventy-one." I say, having already done the math. "Do I look seventy-one to you? I'm thirty-nine."

"I don't get it. Look, I don't know what you're trying to pull, Richard but I'm going to ask you to drink up and leave. I can't help you with any of that."

"Fine. I'll finish up and leave."

He returns down the narrow space of his work area where patrons waste little time throwing questions his way.

They don't believe me.

I wouldn't believe me either.

I spend another five minutes nursing the drink, mind wandering in circles, searching for a next step.

They can stare all they want. I know the truth. And I still need to try making a call.

Right as I am about to leave, Eric shouts my name. His face is frozen in disbelief.

"Richard, wait! Everyone, you need to see this."

He rounds the bar towards me, joined by the few patrons who've been following along with this situation from the start.

"Richard, stand right here for a second. I'll show you next."

I wait, hoping whatever he does helps.

"This is him, isn't it?" Eric says to the group, facing his gadget toward them close to the side of my head.

The blond woman shows interest and steps forward. She unfolds a pair of glasses and puts them on. Her words break first.

"It does look like him... It has to be him. They both have that same flat mole on the right side of their chin. Holy shit! What's going on here?"

Perplexed, I step to the side so I can see what they are looking at.

It's a photo of me. An older version of me. I grab the gadget out his hand to get a closer look.

It's true. My eyes do not deceive me.

It's me, greying hair and all.

Somehow, I'm standing in the future. Right now.

But why?

"What is this thing?" I say, pointing to the gadget, giving it back to him.

"It's a phone." Eric says. "That was a picture of you on your face book page."

"My what?"

"It's like, this little thing here is a computer and a phone altogether. I can use it to look up all kinds of things. It's like... like it can sort through thousands of news articles or anything at once for information, if that makes sense. Everyone has one. That's how I found your account. Theres probably other things on here about you."

"Really? Are there more pictures of me on there? I look like I'm in my late fifties or sixties in this one."

"Probably. It knows everything. Give me a sec..."

"You guys believe all this shit?" Jace says. "Why did you have to come in here anyway? There are ten other bars around here, and you had to come in this one with your bullshit history shit! Oooo, scary man from the past come to fuck up our night! Why don't you take your baloney and get the hell-"

"Hey, knock it off, Jace before I ask you to leave! This is legit, man! It checks out. I mean, it's weird as fuck. It's like... It's like a glitch in the matrix kind of thing. My brother is all about that shit. He's never going to believe me." Eric says as he glances back down on the device with a strange excitement that quickly dissolves. He sees something troubling. I know the look. His smile is wiped away.

"What is it? What do you see?" I say, taking a step closer to him.

"Man... How old did you say you are right now?"

"Thirty-nine."

"Here...I'm just gonna let you read it."

He hands me the device and starts whispering to the blond woman whose mouth remains dropped.

I read it.

Richard Kinsey the II. Arrived July 2nd 1948 - Departed August 10th 2007

Survived by wife Felicia and three, loving boys.

The lord called for him on a beautiful Saturday morning...

I stop there. I can't read anymore. Who could ever imagine reading their own obituary?

"The page before that one said you died from radon poisoning." Eric said.

I give him back the device, eyes drift to the floor, head shaking at the weight of it all.

"Where's the rest room? I need to relieve myself and wash my face and try to get my head together. I have to... Can I try calling someone on that thing when I get back?"

"Yeah. Anything, man."

***

"I'm gonna go check on him. It's been ten minutes...

"He's not in there! There's no way he could have left without us seeing him. I have to keep the back door bolted shut at night. This is getting weirder by the second, man. Can you believe any of this, Angela?"

"No, I can’t. I wonder if he went back to his own time... What if he goes back and remembers being here and somehow stops his own death?"

"What?... You think I might have changed his life by showing him that? Wait! It would have already happened, right? Let me check... Okay... This is unreal. I can't find it! The obituary is gone! I can't find it anywhere...You were right!"

“It is gone. I can't find it either... Jesus Christ. No one will ever believe this shit. We should have got a picture of him. Damn."