River Of Time

 

At moments like these, David tried to remember that going out on nonsense stories was part of a reporter’s job. His beat was a mix of investigative and human-interest stories, which were often strange, and this one was.

A man had called in to one of the city’s all-night radio talk shows several nights in a row with tales about what was going to happen that day. In his first call, he had claimed that a large meteorite would be seen flashing over Albuquerque, New Mexico, at 5:03 am that morning. That happened, right on schedule. The next night, he called and told of a small earthquake that would occur in Peru at 11:08 am, centered on the town of Caleón. That too happened, right on schedule. David took a deep dive to figure out who this man was.

At this point, the radio station contacted the newspaper and David was put on the story. He asked the host to ask the caller, if he called again, to meet David for a drink, off the record, at a bar in the city’s lawyer district.

The caller called in that night just after midnight. He claimed that a tornado would touch down at 4:24 pm near the city of Lincoln, Nebraska. A few minutes after the caller went off the air, David received an email from the host: the caller had accepted David’s invitation and would be at the Hammer and Anvil, on 14th Street, at 9 pm.

David had watched the weather in Lincoln all day as it deteriorated; the tornado warning was issued at 4:04 pm, and the tornado made its appearance right on time, destroying an auto parts store. And now, two hours later, David was on his way to the Hammer and Anvil.

At 8:58 pm, an older man stepped through the door. Around his head he was wearing a red bandanna, tee shirt and jeans. From the bandanna came two long, thick braids.

David ordered a drink and he sat there waiting for something to happen. He didn’t look up, but simply stepped awkwardly around the corner of the bar, just as David had done, and sat down on the stool next to him. “Keeping an eye on the door?” the man asked.

David immediately recognized the voice from the radio show. “That’s right,” he said. “How did you know it was me?”

“I know things,” the man said. He turned in his stool and David got a look at his face—he had wrinkles that could probably tell their own story. He had graying hair in two thick braids and a patchy white beard.

“You work for a newspaper, right?”
“That’s right. “The Globe.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Never actually seen it.”

“Ah,” David said. He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a newspaperman’s notepad. “You don’t mind if I take a few notes?”

The man shrugged and looked at an elaborate watch on his left wrist. “The time has passed now,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what you do.”

“I see,” David said, not really seeing, but willing to say anything to get to his questions. “Can you tell me your name?”

“No,” the man said. His eyes were roving around the bar; David got the feeling that he was more interested in the women sprinkled here and there. One of them caught his eye, smiled, and he smiled back and nodded.

“You’ve been making some predictions on the radio and they’ve been coming true. Can you tell me about that?”

“It’s not a secret,” he said flatly. “I’m a time traveler.” He pulled his eyes away from the woman and turned to David. “I watched these things play out the first time, and then I came back here and started calling that show.”

“You watched them play out,” David repeated. “What does that mean?”

“I’m sort of a navigator, I guess you could say. I navigate time.”

“Navigate time. How do you do that, exactly?”

“Well, it’s a little like navigating a boat. You ever been on a boat?”

“Yeah. How is it like navigating a boat?”

“Time is a river. I have a ship and I sail in the river. I navigate upstream and down.”

“Ah,” David said. “What is it that you’re trying to accomplish?”

The man turned to David. “I had to get you here instead of—where you would have been tonight.”

“Yeah? And where’s that?”

“At home,” the man said.

“Will you be calling in to the show tonight?”

“No,” the man said. “Last night was the last time.” The man got up. “It’s been great talking to you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to where I came from, which will be different now that you’re here and not where you would have been. If you had not met me here tonight.” And without another word, the man got up, placed his hat back on his head, and strode out the door and into the night.

David drove home, and when he got close, he could see yellow flickers of flame reflecting off of the houses on his street—something big was on fire. As he approached, he saw that his own house had collapsed into itself and was a raging inferno. There were fire trucks parked akimbo and an ambulance sped past him as he parked and got out. He approached one of the firemen. “This is my house!” David said. “What happened?!”

“Propane tank explosion,” the fireman said. “We’ve got it contained, but if we spray the house, it’s going to spread embers everywhere. Nothing to do now but watch it burn.” The fireman turned to the structure. “The neighbors said you live alone. You live alone, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah,” the fireman said. “Well. Good thing you were out.”

When Sylvie Sang

When Sylvie sang the men at the bar would stop and turn on their stools to listen. The bartender would dry his hands, move to the end of the bar and light up a cigarette. The waitresses would huddle by the wall and hug their trays flat against their bosoms. And the drunken man who cried softly to himself in the corner by the door would lift his eyes and rub his hands together underneath an invisible spigot.

"When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and cloudy."

When Sylvie sang she never really heard the music or thought about the words. She was far away in a small town by a riverbank, holding onto someone she loved...someone she lost. She only heard his voice, felt his heat, and the nightclub disappeared.

But the song always has to end and when the music stopped the men at the bar would turn again and start to laugh and talk. The waitresses would rush to cover their thirsty stations and the drunken man would close his eyes again and descend inside himself.

Sylvie would go out into the alley and stare at the night sky. One evening she clung for a moment to the sound of distant laughter. She paused when she saw the couple in love cross an intersection, and she closed the gallery in her mind and slipped into a world of smoke and mirrors until she was called back for her next set. The singing paid the rent and bought groceries, but it cost her... dearly. Every night when the neon lights went out, she'd walk back to her room, six blocks down, two blocks over, past the on-ramp, next to the Hallmark store. And there, with no lights on, Sylvie would sing for herself and make love by the riverbank with no audience looking on. And every night the return trip from the riverbank got longer and longer. She paced away her days away inside that room.

Her room next to the Hallmark store had once been part of a large house that was broken down into crash pads in the late 1960s. By the terms of the rental agreement there was to be no cooking in any of the apartments. But everyone cooks. Sylvie had one of those GE toaster ovens that she kept on the floor by her bed and on those cold nights she turned it on and opened the glass door just a crack to let it warm her face.

When there was no show, no songs for Sylvie to sing, no way for her to leave the 'here' behind, images came to her in flashes of light. Voices yelled and swore at her. Distant blows landed on her body. The river overflowed its banks and her Lover floated away, out of sight, and was gone.

The water seeped into the floor causing the ceiling of the apartment below to discolor and drop pieces of green painted plaster onto the bed of the widower who lived alone and kept diaries so that someday “he world will know. So they'll all know.”

When his ceiling began to fall he ran into the hall. The commotion pulled some of the other tenants out of their rooms and after a short crisis meeting that bounced back and forth between English, Tagalog, Spanish and, and perhaps Greek, they marched, as a small mob, up the stairs to Sylvie's door.

The water coming from her room followed the slope of the floor out into the hallway, soaking the frayed edge of the hallway rug. The widower pounded on the door as they all yelled for her to open up. When they got no answer and the water had started its way down the stairs, the widower kicked in Sylvie's door. The door jumped from its hinges and fell to the floor. They could see the water coming from the bathroom and so the widower and a few other neighbors crowded in. The rest filled the doorway.

There she was, sitting, naked on the floor of the shower with her porcelain arms full with paperback romance novels, books of mysteries, and many beauty magazines. She didn't look up when we came in. Her eyes stayed fixed straight ahead.

The widower reached over and turned off the water while one of the ladies began to scream at her about how her craziness was going to cause trouble for all of them. About how if the building inspector came in and found out about all of the cooking, the owner would be forced to bring the place up to code and where were they all supposed to live while the work was being done? And about how, even then, they wouldn't be able to afford the new higher rents that the repairs would cause. Another man shouted at Sylvie to get her shit together or just get the hell out of the building and leave us all in peace.
She didn't hear a word he said. She just stood up, left the dripping books and dresses and walked past them. As she lowered herself onto the sofa she stopped and looked the widower in the eyes. Then she rolled over and went to sleep. The others started to leave and the widower covered her with an old afghan that was draped over the back of the sofa. On her bed, laid out very carefully were three silky-looking black dresses on padded hangers. He should have left then too, but he didn't. He stayed and looked at all the books and the three black dresses. The dresses didn't fit in. Everything else in the apartment was worn and neglected, but those dresses were immaculate and cared for. All of the other clothes in her closet were casual and looked as though she bought them from a thrift shop. The dresses were expensive and classy. And they faintly smelled of cigarettes and lilacs. He put the door back on its hinges and went home and got a little drunk.

After that night the others began to freeze her out. The Armenian woman with no bottom teeth stopped saying hello in the hallway and the young couple, who are both runaways and so much in love, never asked her to share a joint anymore.

One night when the widower was taking out his garbage he saw her, in one of her black silk dresses. He didn't quite know why but he became so curious about her. She was such a dramatic mystery to him. He followed her to the nightclub, the "Satin Rose," and stayed until closing time and then followed her home.

Night after night he went to the club. He'd sit at the bar, close his eyes, and let Sylvie's voice make him feel good. He didn't want her to see him. He would be compelled to tell her how he felt and he couldn't do that. He was falling in love with her and she was barely aware of him. And besides, everyone in the club knew that Sylvie was in love already with someone that no one could ever outshine. One song and you just knew.

But the widower wanted to be something to her - do something for her. So, he began to feed her. He would fix food for her and put it by her door. Soup, eggs, some meat when he could afford it. The widower wasn't much of a chef, but he can fix what he remembered his mother fixing for him. Stew. He crushed vitamins and mixed them in.

At first, she didn't eat anything that the widower made for her. Then she started to take a few bites and, finally, she began to eat everything he put down for her.

In the morning, while he knew she'd still be sleeping, He'd come up and get the dishes from the hallway. Last month, she left him a paper napkin that she'd kissed. He wished he could say things to her in words as eloquently as she spoke from a napkin.

One Friday, the widower had to work late so he couldn't go to the club. When he got home he fixed himself a meal and put a plate in the hallway for Sylvie. The next morning it was still there.

That night the widower went over to the club but somebody else was singing. He asked the bartender why Sylvie wasn't there. He said that the night before Sylvie had done her usual show except, after the last set she went through the club and thanked everybody for being there - shaking hands, kissing cheeks and then she said good-bye, picked up a small brown suitcase from behind the bar, and walked out the door. Then he handed the widower a note. “Here. I believe this is for you.” he said.

The note read:

"Thank you very much.

For coming to hear me sing, for the food,

for loving me when I couldn't."

That night she sang the last song that she felt she had to sing.

"Love brings such misery and pain. I know I'll never be the same.

Since I fell for you...."

When Sylvie sang.