12
Apr
09

grapes are like nature’s bicycles, except there’s no world record for eating them

Entry 1: My name is Dr. Benjamin Stryker. It is my hope that this journal will serve as some historical account for future generations to learn from, as contemporary minds have yet to offer a reasonable explanation for my predicament. The origins of my current path are unknown, but I have established without a doubt that I have been traveling through time.

Entry 2: Waking up in a disoriented haze, I rush to the nearest newsstand at the break of day to get a newspaper so I can determine today’s date, but am thwarted when the man at the kiosk asks if I intend to pay for a paper, or just stand there drooling. Not knowing where I am in time or what the economic climate is that I’ve awoken to, I cannot divine the cost of a newspaper, or even what the currency is in this strange place. Instead, I rush into traffic, causing several cars to come screeching to a halt.  I slam my hands on the hood of one vehicle and scream at the driver, “What is today’s date?”  Unsympathetic to my plight, he gets out of the car and begins accosting me, his fists raining down persistently upon my head. I fall from consciousness unaware of my surroundings.

Entry 3:  I awaken to an intrusive light shining directly into my eye.  “Good morning, Mr. Stryker,”  I hear a strange female voice say. “Welcome back to the waking world.” How does this person know my name? Have I landed at some intergalactic hub for time traveling? Unfortunately, I drift back to sleep before I have a chance to ask for answers, or even correct her for calling me “Mr.” instead of “Dr.” Hours later, I reopen my eyes and find myself in some sort of holding area. I’ve been placed in a bedlike apparatus and my clothes have been replaced by a single-piece gown; clearly, clothing design in the future is based more on utility than aesthetics.  This place has an antiseptic, almost clinical atmosphere that I find threatening. Eyeing an overcoat left on an unattended chair, I steal it and make my escape into the night. I hail a cab to take me to an apartment building I recall having lived in at some point in the past, but upon discovering that my wallet has been taken, I jump from the moving vehicle before the destination and sprint the last few blocks to the apartment building. The cabbie, following me the entire way,  screams at me in some unintelligible language  (note: perhaps aliens are living on earth at this time?) as I climb the stairs to my once-apartment, finding it abandoned. The door has had several locks placed in it and an eviction notice is posted thereon.   

Entry 4:  This morning I broke an outside window and accessed the apartment. I found several items that appeared familiar, but as if in some alternate universe, the place was in absolute squalor. Half-empty Ramen noodles cups, some with roaches floating in them, litter the hallway leading to the bedroom. The bathroom looks as if someone has been using it as a place for injecting drugs. Horrified at my findings, I grab a medicine bottle and few crumpled dollar bills from the bedside table and venture back out before the drug-injectors return. Will I never find a pattern to my time-traveling? I silently fear that nothing in my educational background, not even my postgraduate degree in international finance, can prepare me for the discoveries ahead.

Entry 5: Relief has washed over me as I encountered a fellow time-traveler today, a woman named Wendy. As a brilliant means of avoiding attention during her travels, she has been posing as a prostitute. Wendy was able to explain that she, I, and countless selected others, have been traveling into the future at an approximate rate of 52 weeks per year. “Ah- It’s coming together!” I exclaimed. Connecting the dots, I was able to determine a pattern: on this date exactly one year ago, I was 38 years old, while on today’s date, I am 39 years old! Of course! It’s so simple! To celebrate our breakthrough, I pour out a few tablets from the medicine bottle, then we crush and snort them. Together, we will bravely face the future, whatever form it takes.

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1 Response to “grapes are like nature’s bicycles, except there’s no world record for eating them”



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