11/22/63: A Novel

“Two minutes. I told you, it’s always two minutes. No matter how long you stay.” He coughed, spat into a fresh wad of napkins, and folded them away in his pocket. “And when you go down the steps, it’s always 11:58 A.M. on the morning of September ninth, 1958. Every trip is the first trip. Where did you go?”

“The Kennebec Fruit. I had a root beer. It was fantastic.”

“Yeah, things taste better there. Less preservatives, or something.”

“You know Frank Anicetti? I met him as a kid of seventeen.”

Somehow, in spite of everything, I expected Al to laugh, but he took it as a matter of course. “Sure. I’ve met Frank many times. But he only meets me once-back then, I mean. For Frank, every time is the first time. He comes in, right? From the Chevron. ‘Titus has got the truck up on the lift,’ he tells his dad. ‘Says it’ll be ready by five.’ I’ve heard that fifty times, at least. Not that I always go into the Fruit when I go back, but when I do, I hear it. Then the ladies come in to pick over the fruit. Mrs. Symonds and her friends. It’s like going to the same movie over and over and over again.”

“Every time is the first time.” I said it slowly, putting a space around each word. Trying to get them to make sense in my mind.

“Right.”

“And every person you meet is meeting you for the first time, no matter how many times you’ve met before.”

“Right.”

“I could go back and have the same conversation with Frank and his dad and they wouldn’t know.”

“Right again. Or you could change something-order a banana split instead of a root beer, say-and the rest of the conversation would go a different way. The only one who seems to suspect something’s off is the Yellow Card Man, and he’s too booze-fucked to know what he’s feeling. If I’m right, that is, and he feels anything. If he does, it’s because he just happens to be sitting near the rabbit-hole. Or whatever it is. Maybe it puts out some kind of energy field. He-”

But he got coughing again and couldn’t go on. Watching him doubled over, holding his side and trying not to show me how bad it hurt-how it was tearing him up inside-was painful itself. He can’t go on this way, I thought. He’s no more than a week from the hospital, and probably just days. And wasn’t that why he’d called me? Because he had to pass on this amazing secret to somebody before the cancer shut his lips forever?

“I thought I could give you the entire lowdown this afternoon, but I can’t,” Al said when he had control of himself again. “I need to go home, take some of my dope, and put my feet up. I’ve never taken anything stronger than aspirin in my whole life, and that Oxy crap puts me out like a light. I’ll sleep for six hours or so and then feel better for awhile. A little stronger. Can you come by my place around nine-thirty?”

“I could if I knew where you live,” I said.

“Little cottage on Vining Street. Number nineteen. Look for the lawn gnome beside the porch. You can’t miss it. He’s waving a flag.”

“What have we got to talk about, Al? I mean… you showed me. I believe you now.” So I did… but for how long? Already my brief visit to 1958 had taken on the fading texture of a dream. A few hours (or a few days) and I’d probably be able to convince myself that I had dreamed it.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, buddy. Will you come?” He didn’t repeat dying man’s request, but I read it in his eyes.

“All right. Do you want a ride to your place?”

His eyes flashed at that. “I’ve got my truck, and it’s only five blocks. I can drive myself that far.”

“Sure you can,” I said, hoping I sounded more convinced than I felt. I got up and started putting my stuff back into my pockets. I encountered the wad of cash he’d given me and took it out. Now I understood the changes in the five-spot. There were probably changes in the other bills, as well.

I held it out and he shook his head. “Nah, keep it, I got plenty.”

But I put it down on the table. “If every time’s the first time, how can you keep the money you bring back? How come it isn’t erased the next time you go?”

“No clue, buddy. I told you, there’s all kinds of stuff I don’t know. There are rules, and I’ve figured out a few, but not many.” His face lit in a wan but genuinely amused smile. “You brought back your root beer, didn’t you? Still sloshing around in your belly, isn’t it?”

As a matter of fact it was.

“Well there you go. I’ll see you tonight, Jake. I’ll be rested and we’ll talk this out.”

“One more question?”

He flicked a hand at me, a go-ahead gesture. I noticed that his nails, which he always kept scrupulously clean, were yellow and cracked. Another bad sign. Not as telling as the thirty-pound weight loss, but still bad. My dad used to say you can tell a lot about a person’s health just by the state of his or her fingernails.

“The Famous Fatburger.”

“What about it?” But there was a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You can sell cheap because you buy cheap, isn’t that right?”