Q: A Love Story. Evan Mandery
At eight o’clock, I-60 tunes in for the Mets game. I turn on the set in my own room and listen. Pelfrey is pitching, which is always dicey, and Davis is sitting out with a wrenched knee. Sure enough the Mets fall behind. When Reyes fails to run out a pop-up, which is dropped, I-60 waves his hand in disgust. Around ten, he walks to the vending machines and buys himself a package of Oreos and a small container of skim milk. I-60 eats his dessert while watching the end of the game. When the cookies and the Mets are finished off, he licks his teeth clean for a few minutes, then brushes them.
In bed, he begins to doze while watching a rerun of The Office. Before he nods off, though, he kisses two framed photographs, which he has placed on the bedside table. One he sets back down. The other he clutches while he finally falls asleep, having either forgotten to change out of his corduroy pants or chosen not to.
As I run home to meet Q, it occurs to me, happily, that these pants from different time lines have come into contact with one another without any apparent disruption to the fabric of existence.
It occurs to me then, too, less happily, that the man wearing these pants, this sad, tired man who likes veggie burgers and soft pretzels and cookies, who wanders the city watching lovers and puppies and falls asleep dreaming of his family, is unequivocally, unambiguously, and unmistakably, me.
Chapter SEVEN
You have been following me.” I-60 says this directly, matter-of-factly, across our table at La Grenouille, on Fifty-third and Park, where we have gathered for Meal Number Three, a late lunch. I understand from his tone that it is pointless to deny the claim.
“It is nothing personal, I assure you.”
“What, then?”
“These are major life decisions I am facing. I need to be confident of your authenticity.”
“And you doubt this?”
“I suppose not,” I answer sheepishly. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything at this point.”
“Would you like me to relate to you the details of your first romantic experience with Becky Goldstein? Would you like me to describe the comic book you wrote in first grade in which the Muppets of Sesame Street had secret lives as superheroes, and Ernie and Bert possessed the special power to clean at faster-than-light speed? Would you like me to discuss the state of your bunions?”
“None of that will be necessary,” I say. These are all embarrassing matters, none more so than the Becky Goldstein incident.
“Well, then,” I-60 says. “I think you owe me something of an apology.”
This gets my dander up. “I owe you an apology?”
“I take it you think otherwise.”
“You ask for meals to be arranged at the finest restaurants in the city, order seven-dollar soft drinks, and don’t so much as lift a finger to pay the check.”
“How ungrateful is this?” I-60 asks no one in particular. “Do you seriously think that I have come from thirty years in the future to mooch a few good meals off you? I am here for the gravest of reasons, to change the course of your life, so that you can be spared the pain that I have endured. Money is irrelevant. I would very much like to treat you to dinner, but it is simply not possible.”
“Why is this again?”
“I explained to you already. We are not allowed to carry much cash.”
“And that is because?”
“There were incidents, abuses. People traveled back in time to take advantage of sales or shop at outlet stores.”
“And yet you told me that time travel is quite expensive?”
“It is, but the savings at wholesalers are staggering, and our dollar goes so far in your time. When the money started flowing backward, the financial markets went haywire. Restrictions had to be established.”
“So what you told me about the consequences of physical objects from different time periods coming into contact with one another was a lie? You and I are physical objects from different time periods. I suppose that should have been a tip-off.”
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