But Always Meeting Ourselves



  But Always Meeting OuRselves

  Leo Hunt

  Neon Singles

  This story first appeared in issue thirty-six of Neon Literary Magazine. It is republished here as a single short story. To read the rest of the issue, or to discover more short story singles visit www.neonmagazine.co.uk.

  An interview with the author can be found online at www.neonmagazine.co.uk/?p=3702.

  The story text is copyright © Leo Hunt (2015). You are welcome to share this eBook in whatever manner you choose, but please do not edit or alter it in any way. For alternative formats, please see the website.

  The photograph used in the cover image is by Guido Ric.

  But Always Meeting Ourselves

  The time machine first arrived during the summer. I was outside, mowing the lawn, when it insinuated itself into the shrubbery. The time machine was a tall yellow cylinder, like a can of pop someone had stretched. I remember it smelt like the carpets at my grandmother’s house, which I had crawled across as a child. I turned off the lawn mower. A slot opened in the machine and my future self climbed out.

  The first time my voice was recorded and played back to me, I loathed it. Although I knew the voice was mine, it sounded alien and suspect when no longer rumbling from beneath my ears. Meeting my future self was somewhat like this feeling, but applied to one's entire body. My future self was a reflection of me that did not match my movements, but rather walked hesitantly across the half-mown lawn, fumbling with a green notebook. He looked older, of course, thicker around the waist, with creases burrowing into his forehead. I felt I could live with such a body, when the time came.

  “When was the last time you recall seeing our father?” my future self asked me.

  “How important is the answer?”

  “Completely. Utterly.”

  “I last saw our father three days ago. I had driven to see him. We cleared some trees so he could install a larger bird bath.”

  “I see.”

  My future self marked some pages in his notebook. I noticed that he was picking at his ear, unconsciously, as he thought. I resolved to stop the habit.

  “I’m too early,” he announced, “this doesn’t happen yet. I’ll be with you momentarily.” He turned and marched through the uncut grass to the time machine. He climbed through the slot and the machine vanished. I began to trim the grass again, rank upon rank.

  *

  I next spoke with the time traveller a month later. I was standing on my porch, thinking about possibly digging a pond. It was a ripe summer afternoon and the air was heavy with barbecue smoke and insects. Although I had told nobody about my conversation with the time traveller, I had begun to find myself in the garden more and more, simply waiting. On this afternoon he returned.

  The yellow cylinder was again present in my shrubbery, forcing the well-groomed bushes aside. My future self stepped from the contraption, apparently only seconds after we had last spoken. I noticed he was wearing a heavy flannel shirt, too thick for the weather.

  “When did you last–”

  “About a week ago. We went to the theatre and then had dinner at that pizza place he insists upon. He paid.”

  My future self flipped through his notebook.

  “Excellent!” He smiled at me, and I was gratified to notice that my chipped tooth wasn’t very visible. "We can talk now. I see you finished the lawn.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I had a whole month to do it. You want some squash?”

  “Strawberry and apple?”

  “We both know it’s the best flavour,” I said.

  I sat with my future self on my patio, a pitcher of squash between us. We smelt burgers cooking three gardens down and I could see a red frisbee arcing far away on the hills. My future self was too hot in his shirt but he said nothing, just tugged at the collar when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  “I’d imagine there’s a lot you want to ask me,” my future self said.

  “You have no idea.”

  “I’ll say this now: I’m not going to tell you.”

  “How much older are you?” I asked.

  “Can’t say.”

  “Do many people become time travellers?”

  “Loose lips sink ships.”

  “Do I ever get published?”

  “No comment.”

  I took a gulp of squash. The frisbee was still flying, red against blue.

  “You’re an asshole,” I told him.

  “We’re both assholes. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

  “Hah,” I said, “so there’s a clue.”

  “Listen,” he said, “we love books, you know? You get to the end of a great one, and then you’re pushing it on one of your friends?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Like, the plot is sublime... and you can’t even wait for them to find out? You just want to grab them and tell them everything? You can’t wait for them to finish reading, you just want to talk about it because it’s that good.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said. He refilled his squash.

  “But,” my future self continued, “you know that the pleasure is in the telling, the reading. Watching it unfold. Achilles gets to choose between living anonymously or dying a hero, takes the latter. Whole story right there. But. Not as good as reading the Illiad, was it?”

  “An analogy. I see.”

  “Anyway.” He took another drink. “I’m here to say none of that shit matters anyway. All you’re worrying about? Will I be famous, am I a good writer, am I good in bed, should I dig that pond... none of it matters.”

  “Please continue, exalted Buddha. Free me from my prison.”

  “You know, nobody likes that we’re sarcastic,” he said, “I’ve discovered that.”

  “Was there a point to this?” I asked him, “If you’re not here to say anything useful. Not that I don’t appreciate you coming by, but I can talk to myself whenever, and honestly I’m not great company.”

  “Sure there’s a point,” he said. The jug of squash was empty. My future self was pricking with sweat on his nose and forehead. He reached into his jeans and pulled out a photograph. He pushed it at me, face up on the patio table. It showed a road in a hot country somewhere, a place where the sun never slept and the clouds never came and the land was burned red and orange. There was trash by the road, and thin children, baked slivers of children, clustered around a dead tree. The tree was like a hand reaching for mercy.

  “That’s your clue,” said my future self. He was grinning.

  “For what?”

  “For your future. For how to find the time machine.”

  “Who took this? Where is it?”

  “I tell you where it is, then that’s no fun. As for who took it, well... I was given it by a time traveller. So who knows?”

  “That’s so obnoxious.”

  “I’m just threading the needle. Looping the loop. First port of call once I finally got my hands on the time machine.”

  “Well thanks,” I said.

  He tugged his collar.

  “I really must go,” he said. “Don’t have all the time in the world. Lots to see and do.”

  “Of course.”

  “Busy man with a time machine. You understand.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Stay safe,” he said. My future self stood up. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “And listen,” he said as he left, “if you see me again, don’t give him – us – the time of day.”

  “Why–”

  My future self turned, one leg in the time machine, and gave me a big grin. He hauled himself inside and was gone. I looked at the empty juice jug, wondered
how he’d gone through so much. I must have been hot, in my future.