Seven Again

Nothing holds back the dependability and stability of a man in his parallel dimension. I never call out, I never miss a day of hard work. The glimmer of light cast from my gold wedding band shines in my eyes, blinding me from true reality. Yes, I am a husband in the parallel universe. My face is soft under the general lighting, but underneath the scope, you’ll see the crows feet that walk around my eyes. Lines carved lightly from the laughs, the sudden surprises. The smile I flash to my brilliant wife. A woman whose daring nature brought her praise from colleagues and peers through the work of charity. Her smile is much more worn out from giving it to everyone. Her body tells two stories of new life. Feminine life created from myself and herself. We have a perfect life. Two adults, two children, who stay in their role. We have alarms, routine, love. Nothing exists in our home to diminish the order we’ve built. That alarm keeps blaring. Why is that alarm going off while my children are playing on their slip n slide? Their skin shining under a scorching sun, slick with water from the hose that waters our garden. That alarm is ruining their play time. They’re worried about being adults, having to wake up for work. Work?

“Uh… uh?” Hearing the sound of my own voice blending into the blaring alarm shoots open my bright eyes, only to feel a familiar feeling of disappointed annoyance. I’m back in the true world. I left my family behind in the parallel universe. Their laughter still ringing in my ears. But the sound was disappearing over the alarm. And once again, I would forget their smiles and our life.

The white ceiling blurred together with the dark ceiling fan, circling like buzzard’s over their newest game. I hardly made an effort to disable my alarm clock. It’s a sound that happens to be high and low all at once. The noise pounds through my small ears only to ricochet around my empty small mind. My arm couldn’t reach my phone beside me on my bedside table. I let out another groan.

“Dammit!” Rolling over to reach that stupid phone. Feels so heavy. I sigh, focusing on my now tiny toes. I’ve got to call Dylan, tell him I’m not coming in. Luckily the brain stays its “age.”

My ear was feeling tense through the first ring, gathering my thoughts. He won’t believe me, he’s going to be pissed again. God, I swear this happens to me more than anyone! Fuck, he’s totally going to go ahead and tell me I finally need to see Dr. Chloe, the specialist. The taste of pennies interrupted the shadow of paranoia that followed me like I was a valley caught in a sunset. My smaller lips are easier to cut while biting down in the state of-

“Morning, Jason.” I swallowed hard, erasing the taste of change.

“Good morning, Dylan.” I said. The 4 seconds of silence were killing me, just yell at me-

“Are you serious? Again? It’s been two weeks Jason!”

“I know.” I said shamefully, hanging my head like a broken bobble head.

“All right. Jesus. Take today off, you clearly can’t come in.”

“Thanks. Sorry, Dylan.” He hung up without another word.

My body, full of spring energy, flopped onto my bed, bouncing back up onto my feet, stumbling a bit. To think today will be all about motor skills and social awareness. It’s the same thing every time this happens, but who knows, maybe today will be different. My condo feels so big when I’m like this, the tall ceilings give me the illusion of wealth, like I’m packing Benji’s in my wallet.

Even with my surging energy I just walked down the stairs, a boring step after step that jolts my compacted body. On the counter I’m barely as tall as, sits my black leather wallet. My arms reach upwards, as high as I can reach, finally pulling it down and flipping it open. The thin holographic words read Jason Woo. 1349 Avenida Soldin. Rosewood, Virlin. 72104. 09/21/1980. Current age: 7 years old.

Seven again! I could believe it. Sucked into this again. Never 16! 21! 26! Only seven. I’m always turning seven. I threw my wallet onto the kitchen tile floor, wanting to throw an age appropriate tantrum but knowing nothing beneficial will come from it. Eating my stress will surely help out.

The sugary cereal clinked into the bowl while I’m frowning at my semi-usual morning sweet tooth. Of course this only happens when I’m seven. Pushing away cravings at 39 is very different than as a child. It’s all about self control, which I have none of, as a sugar maniac kid. I should write a story about a literal cereal killer some kid wearing ninja turtle pajamas breaking into homes and stealing boxes of Lucky charms and cinnamon toast crunch. I dumped chocolate milk over the pot of gold, rainbow and balloon pieces of artificially colored cereal and slurped up the liquid sugar. I have no interest in cartoons anymore so I can imagine how hilarious it is to see a 7 year old boy wearing enormous pajamas while eating Lucky Charms and watching 8 AM news must look.

That crunching sound of colorful marshmallows pains me. Even though I’ve gained my baby teeth back, I know they’re being poisoned with sugars and processed bullshit. I can’t help myself though, it’s so damn good. A year ago I tried an experiment to see if I loved Lucky Charms as much as I do in my 30’s, and I’ll tell you the truth, they’re tasty, but not so good that I would compromise my health for a fleeting sugar rush. The experiment concluded that sugar is “great” for kids but not so much for a man who has an amazing 9-5 in the city. A man who suffers from regular “Aetate retrorsum.” Pronounced eye-tate-retror-some, a condition in which all humans suffer from. Aetate meaning ‘age’ and retrorsum meaning ‘backwards.’ For the “normal” individual, every once in awhile, maybe once every 2-3 months, one will wake up at different ages. It can only be ages you’ve experienced. So, being 39, I cannot experience what a 75 year old man knows and feels. There’s something wrong with my DNA. I turn 7 about every month and it will last a week. During puberty I was 7 for an entire month, throwing my body out of wack. There is nothing to help me to stay my current age for longer periods of time, thus resulting in me hating the doctor. It’s question after question, blood sample after blood sample. It’s exhausting. I’ll sit in the waiting room, twiddling my thumbs, feeling that knotted up, freshly punched gut feeling, wondering what they’ll say this time. It’s hard to keep a job and even harder to keep a relationship. I don’t know who would want to engulf them-self in a romantic partnership with someone whose dick doesn’t work half of the month.

Finishing break-fest meant getting out my step-stool so I could wash my dishes. I wanted to run up the stairs on all fours like a dog, laughing and barking on my way up, but my brain held me back. That’s not how 39 year olds act. That’s not how a man about to turn 40 would act.

I face planted into the bed, barely sinking in. Barely feeling the comfort of my bed surrounding my joints, not that they hurt anymore. I love sinking into my bed but weighing just shy under fifty pounds means just denting the surface. I rolled over with ease, again, staring at that white ceiling, listening to the beating of my own heart. My little heart, now the size of my little fist. Pumping healthy blood throughout the body that keeps me up. The body that turns back time, over and over again. The knowledge I know barely fits inside my brain. It’s cramped like the last flight to NYC on Christmas Eve or a Los Angeles freeway at 4:40 PM.

I wonder what parallel universe me is doing right now. I wonder if he’s happy being 39. Grateful to be driving to work. Grateful for a never changing body. Does a universe exist like that? Just one age? Never seven and always aging. I dream of living there.