Time and Hope

Rory logged off of his computer and stretched his arms above his head. Leaning back as far as his chair would let him, he let out an intense sound as he felt every muscle in his back fill with blood. How long had he been leaning over the keyboard? He surmised one of the downfalls of working from home, during a worldwide pandemic, was having no ergonomics posters anywhere. No constant reminders he was ruining his posture by sitting like an idiot. He reached for his journal, something he had started at the beginning of the pandemic to cope. It was a small, leather bound, black journal. The pages were crisp, but the edges looked worn, and that was exactly why he had picked it.

He leafed through his previous entries, grabbed his favorite pen, black and sleek. It would glide on the paper and give him a tingling sensation up his spine and right into the back of his head. He wrote the date, settled back into his chair, and stared blankly at a white page. He woke up, ate the same breakfast, worked the same job from his home office, even his sweatpants had become his daily wardrobe. Any options for entertainment outside of the house had been cancelled. Months were spent calling friends and setting up virtual hangout sessions but even those had fallen off after the holidays. There was nothing new to write, a realization of how hard it was becoming to persevere washed over him.

After commiserating for a solid hour about time lost and just how weird the world was today. Rory decided he would take a walk. The sweatpants came off and he noticed that even the small act of changing out of his “lazy” clothes and into something presentable lifted his spirits some. It was mid-February, so he bundled up for cold weather. Rory doubted he would be writing while walking, even still he grabbed his journal and tucked it away into his messenger bag. The point of the walk was to find inspiration, so if he could scribble a few words down to keep his mind fresh, that would be better than writing the same thing for the umpteenth time. He took a final look in the mirror, then covered his face with a surgical mask, then a cloth one his mom had sewn for him. It still felt surreal, but he would rather be safe than sorry. The stories about patients being intubated and hospitals being overrun haunted him, his imagination, like the world, had become a dark place.

He never took the elevator in his building anymore, yet another change he had made. The handrails in the stairwell were off limits now too. He was more cautious, more careful, than he had ever been before. Keeping hands in pockets, he made his way down the stairs and out the double doors before being taken aback by the chill in the air. It was only for a second, because the fresh air and crispness felt better than expected. The masks couldn’t be removed but he could let the cold air revitalize whatever uncovered skin he could expose, so he unwrapped his scarf and shoved it with his gloves into his bag.

He passed the local park. It looked baren. Despite the social distancing rules in place, he decided to venture his way over to the closest bench. He silently resolved that if he were approached, he would simply get up and walk away. There didn’t have to be any rule-breaking, and hopefully something inspirational could be found looking over the manmade water feature with a thin layer of ice on top. He sat, and brought out his journal, cradling it in his lap while he fished out his pen. He looked up from the pages and could feel the thoughts from the day just completely overwhelming any chance he had of writing something useful. He underlined the date then sat the journal on the bench beside him and put both of his elbows on his knees. Rory hadn’t prayed in ages, but he found himself muttering to a higher power about allowing this world to get back to normalcy before he lost his mind.

“There really isn’t a normal that doesn’t risk one losing his or her mind, ya know?” A deep, gravelly and still remarkably quiet voice broke Rory out of his stupor. Where had this man come from? How had he taken a seat and Rory not noticed? There was no mask on his face, weirder still he wore no coat, like he hadn’t realized it would be frigid. The mans face was scarred and lined with age. He was shorter, almost hunched, and Rory imagined the ornately carved cane he now rested both palms on was a necessary accessory and not just for clout.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you sit down. I hope you enjoy your day!” Rory rushed through the niceties but as he stood, he got light-headed. The world seemed to tilt right and left, his eyes went out of focus, he felt his knees start to shake as he precariously lowered himself back to the bench. He could feel the droplets of sweat on his forehead and brow. The nausea would pass, this was just a bad case of standing up too fast, right? The air was cold, so it would be thinner than in his apartment, he was a little winded from his walk, this was all normal. The man had his eyes fixated on Rory when he finally looked up.

“You probably have low blood pressure, it’s something most people in my family have. Makes it interesting to try to get anything done quickly.” The man’s smile was warm, inviting in the way a grandfather’s concern is invited. Something clicked against his teeth as he dug in his pockets. He pulled out what looked like a small candy wrapped in golden foil and made the gesture for Rory to take it. Rory obliged. “Trust me when I say, a little candy can make anything better. Except for diabetes!” The man let out a bellowing laugh, as though he had said something hysterical. Rory chuckled as he unwrapped the candy and let new fears of being diabetic start to take root in his mind.

It was too late to prevent exposure at this point, so Rory allowed himself to calm down. He realized he had never gotten around to putting his journal away, he had just grabbed it in his hurried attempt to leave, and he sat it back down on the sun lit bench, where it felt warmer than before. He swore it felt warmer. The old man dug into his jacket pockets and brought out a bag of what looked like dried fruit mixed with birdseed as he spread it over the ground in front of him. Rory swore the park had been silent, devoid of life, and yet, the moment the man started to scatter his mixture he was surrounded by birds. Ducks, small birds in a variety of colors, and pigeons feasted as a gaggle of geese looked on, in what Rory could only assume, was a mix of envy and disdain. Rory had never liked geese. One experience of being chased and bitten on the rear was enough for him to avoid the birds for life.

Oddly satisfied Rory watched as the birds flittered and bounced around, listening to the cooing and cawing conversation between the man and these mid-winter rebels that hadn’t flown south. Rory could swear they shouldn’t be there. Was the sun shining brighter? Was he getting warmer in his winter coat? Why did he feel so calm? This was odd. He watched as the man tucked the bird feed back into his coat and reach into a knapsack Rory had only just noticed. He brought out a beautiful, leather bound, black journal. The journal caught Rory by surprise, he could swear it looked just like his own.

“If I told you everything, you would run back to your apartment on Grand Avenue, and you would hide away in your room, in the security of your walls and doors with locks. So let me try to ease you in. This pandemic, that has you scared and living in fear, it will pass. Like all things do. You’ll quit your job, tomorrow probably. Not because you’re rich, but because I’m about to give you the gift of finding your voice.” The man spoke without looking at Rory. Which was good for Rory because his mouth was agape and his eyes wide. He imagined he looked a lot like a toad before catching a fly.

“I know it’s hard to believe this, but this is your journal. It’s over a hundred years old now, handed down from you, to your son, to his son. I’ve read every page, multiple times. My favorite lines have been underlined; my favorite quotes are smudged from my fingers tracing the words. You wrote on todays date, a strange man, that you thought could make the sunshine brighter and bring the birds out from the trees and the safety of their nooks and crannies, gave you the winning lottery numbers.” The man handed the journal to Rory and with shaking hands Rory opened this impossible book of possibilities. He recognized his own handwriting, he felt the chills crawling up his arm as he leafed through the same journal he had sitting beside him, only this one was finished.

“I can’t tell you anything concrete. Like a good hand of cards, time is always in flux. If I was right though, then the man you meet is me, your great grandson and biggest fan. You take the money and move back into your parents for the rest of the pandemic. You use the time at home to write and eventually fund your first novel. A novel about time travel. That book becomes a series that inspires an entire generation to make the world a little better than it was when you started to write. You change the world because you had the courage to pursue something you didn’t know you could do. All because you chose to walk to the park today. I believe, I was your inspiration, as you have been mine my entire life.”

Rory knew he should be asking questions. At the very least he should be skeptical, but all he felt was relief. Even if nothing else was real, he hoped the pandemic would pass. He looked up to the man who had a soft, solemn look on his face. Rory had been a science fiction fan his whole life; he knew there was no point in asking anything about his future. The man looked at his watch, nodded to himself, and reached for Rory’s pen. He wrote the time out in military style beside the already underlined date. 02-15-21 16:27 As the man wrote Rory could swear he was fading in and out. He continued to write, and as he stood and grabbed the old journal, Rory was having a hard time keeping him in focus. His voice sounded like an echo “It was incredible to finally meet you,” and as suddenly as he had appeared the man was gone.

Rory looked at the page the man had scribbled on. “You are always loved,” scrawled beside the date and time that was now underlined and circled. Words his mom had always said to him, words he now knew he would say to his kids, words that had made every difficult thing a little easier. He knew exactly how he would start his novel; he had characters and plots filling his head when he reached the gas station. The clerk played his numbers 02-15-21-16-27 as she noted the prize was worth $20,000 that night. Rory smiled in response, and realized, all he could feel was hope.