A place where logic doesn't exist

Frank look down at his half eaten meatloaf solemnly, looking at it in details, how the gravy was spread out amidst the crevices in the meat, the dark brown color. He had very little interest in consuming any more of it so he simply stared at it. His wife Alice was telling a story, something long and involved about someone he knew vaguely and a bunch of other he didn’t. It was trivial and banal usual but Frank had long since learned to filter her out. Like Charlie Brown where all the adults spoke an incoherent ‘Wah, wah, wah.’ I wonder what would happen if I told her to shut the fuck up? He pondered, if he told her of trivial stories, tired of having everyone leech of him and not respecting him.  Would anything come of it? Probably not.  The foremost reason being he would never do it, he could never muster up the courage to say it. Nothing is ever going to change. He had been thinking that for a long time, when it became obvious where his career was headed.  At first he hadn’t minded as much, he enjoyed cooking in the early days, putting out a nice plate. Then he had become manager which first had seemed like a dream come true, full time benefits.  Then had come the reality, being responsible means you’re always responsible be it good or bad. The waitstaff does something wrong? You’re responsible. Got a pissed off, asshole, customer? You’re on deck.

When was the last time anyone asked me about my day? Frank pondered, maybe ten fifteen years if ever.  Alice had finished her story, ‘So Frank what do you think?’ She asked. ‘Sure definitely.’ ‘Good.’ She said, and returned to eating in silence.  His son Ricky got up, ‘Hey Dad can I borrow 20 dollars?’ Frank nodded and pulled out his wallet and extracted  a 20, it might have been two 20’s because he hadn’t really been paying attention. It was easier to just say ‘Yes,’ he had found.  It had been his answer to everything for a long time, just submit, say yes.  Frank got up to clear his plate, ‘I’m not really hungry, going to go for a walk..’ He mumbled.  ‘Ok.’ Alice said. Ricky was long gone.

Nothing is ever going to fucking change, Sam thought as he put up a couple plates. It’s just going to continue like this until I’m dead. He had been thinking that way awhile mainly because he knew it to be true, weather I stay here or go somewhere else, I’ll still have the same patterns, the same habits, the same addictions. It just felt like an endless cycle.  The orders had been coming in nonstop since 4, and in the time Gary had done very little to ‘help,’ at all.  Gary had been there during the initial rush, helping him a drop a few things, but after that he had gone out and talked to customer for 2 hours. Then he had gone outside for a cigarette break and walked over and talked to the person over at the gas station for a half hour.  All while Sam was cooking.  By the time he had finally come back to help on the line the order had died down, although they had picked up a little at which point Gary had gone outside for another cigarette break.  I wish I fucking smoked, Sam thought.  He threw on a slice of American cheese on a burger and picked up an omelette on the other grill. It had been combination orders all night, since they were open 24/7 and people seemed to like to sample everything at the same time.  He put the last order up. 

Gary walked in aimlessly, ‘How we doing?’ He asked. ‘Alright.’ Sam said with a tone of annoyance in his voice.  ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Gary asked. Sam didn’t reply, he had learned a long time ago to not respond when Gary said stupid things like that, he was just fucking with you. At first he had responded, but he had learned quickly not to take anything Gary said too seriously.  ‘I need a break, I’m going to go get bread.’ ‘Ok, I’ll watch the line.’ Yeah now that all the orders are gone, Sam thought. He walked through the prep area to the backdoor outside, it was clear out with the moon, a welcome respite from the blazing kitchen.  This is probably a bad idea, Sam thought as he pulled out. He almost always thought that when he went to the store.  How this would inevitability lead to a bad hangover, and most likely a few calls to people who most certainly had no interest in talking to him.  In fact everything about it was a bad idea, and would only exacerbate his woes yet at the same time he knew it was the only way he would get over the shift. The day the grind, the day of day bullshit involved in being a human being on Earth.

I’m sad. He had been sad for a long time, such a long time that he had forgotten what is was like to be happy. To wake up with a  feeling of purpose, to feel optimistic about the future, to even think about that future.  Sam drove through the light toward town.  Even though Deerfield’s a small town I still has two bars and a liquor store, not bad, Sam contemplated.  I hope a fucking State cop doesn’t pull me over, they liked to hang out at the end of the diner parking lot, waiting. Still he had passed town cops plenty of time who hadn’t pulled him over for the rejection sticker.  It was hard to say why, maybe it was sheer laziness, not wanting to bother.  A he pulled into the liquor store, Sam noticed a crowd of carhart wearing men and a few women hanging out on the sidewalk outside the bar.  Looks like a decent crowd in the place, Jim and Judy are probably there.  Jim and Judy were there almost always or over at the Hot-L, it was obvious from Jim’s ruddy complextion that he was a heavy drinker, ‘Don’t worry you’ll be there soon buddy,’ Sam thought sarcastically as he walked into the store.

The store was small and brightly lit, ‘How’s it going?’ Sam said to the women at the counter. ‘Pretty good.’ You should ask her out, a part of him said. Find something to say, some kind of ice breaker. But he had nothing to say, no words he could think of off the top of his head. And anyway he came in there most every day, who’s going to want to go out with someone like that? He reached into his wallet, 12 dollars. He had spent most of his check on rent and car insurance with only a little under a 100 dollars left. No worry’s he thought and grabbed six pack of tall boys. 16 ounces more then enough bang for my buck. He always did a certain calculation when he bought alcohol, is this enough to get me drunk? And not charming James Bond drunk, more like stereotypical shitfaced party goer with a lampshade on his head drunk.  Sam walked up to the counter placing with the beer. ‘Long night?’ the cashier asked. She was short and a little big, maybe Puerto Rican he thought but it was hard to place.  ‘Yeah, cooking.’ He replied. ‘Can I get 3 nips of Jim Beam?’ she reached up to grab him. ‘Where do you work?’ she asked as she scanned the nips. ‘Over at the diner.’ Everyone called it the diner even though it’s official name was the Pumping station diner, complete with Gas pumps in the front. ‘Oh I love that place,’ The woman said. ‘I go there drunk late at night all the time.  Say something you moron, she likes you, the voice said. Instead he put the handed her the ten and muttered, ‘Yeah.’ 

She bagged the beer and the nips and Sam walked out, feeling like a fool.  As he got back in his van  Sam wondered why he felt so alien, to different from normal people. Like his software had been programmed differently, something off.  Maybe she was just super friendly to people, a ‘people person,’ in his mind there were just too many variable and it wasn’t worth it. He looked at his phone to check the time, 8:15, only four more hours.

That's gold,Jerry!

Nick

Nick looked out across the water as the sun shimmered across it. It was the first real nice day of spring, even though it was only 55 or so and everything seemed right with the world. He had case his line in the river, a cold beer in his hand, things were good.  He had been drinking and fishing since 11 when he had called the diner to tell them he wasn’t going to be coming in.  Frank had sounded strange on, almost incoherent in fact, but he was pretty sure he had said ‘Ok.’ Or something to that affect. Not that Frank gave a shit anymore, that much was obvious.  

 Nick had met up with his friend Zach who mentioned he just picked up a bag, and Nick had picked up a six pack and they had headed down to the lake.  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ Zach asked as he lit a blunt. ‘I’m not sure yet.  Gonna wait and see. It’s just nice to not have to go in to that fucking place.’ Zach took a hit of the blunt and passed it to Nick. ‘You called out?’ Zach asked. ‘Yeah, I told them I had strep which I had a month back. Still got the doctor’s note I’m just going to change the dates.’ ‘Nice.’ Zach said.

Nick passed the blunt over to Zach, ‘It’s almost done.’ He said. Zach took the last hit before discarding the roach into the river. ‘I think my phone’s ringing.’ Zach said reaching into his pockets.  ‘It’s Gary.’ He said as he extracted it. ‘Don’t answer.’ Nick said. ‘Obviously.’ Zach replied. It was usually the best policy, he usually wanted you to work but the conversation would drag on forever. ‘This is my first Friday off since I started, fuck that.’ Zach remarked.  Nick nodded so many options tonight. Still a lot of time.  Probably going to be pissed at me at work, that’s ok, they’ll get over it.

Sam pulled his van into the back with a sinking feeling.  This one was going to be bad, he just knew it. It was only a question of how it was going to be bad, what was going to be the extent of the damage. He got out locking the door as he went, then wondering why. His van didn’t have a radio and it also sported a blazing red ‘R’ on the side.  Do they need to make to bold, like that, so stark? Like on of this red ‘A’ they put on witches or whatever that was.  He looked at his phone 3:57 time to face the music, he thought, and walked toward the back entrance. 

 As he came in he was greeted with the familiar smile of mold, grease, and burgers.  The back sink was filled with prep dishes as he walked in, Nice,  Sam thought, a sign of what’s to come.  He walked through the prep area into the office over to the time clock and punched in his number. The door to the line was closed but he could hear the activity inside. Normally if there were two cooks on he would have waited for them to finish the orders.  Sure he could come in to help, but the line was so small that sometimes it was only a hindrance.  Today however he knew it was only Jim and Frank, and Frank was at the computer at the office. Spacing out, apparently Sam thought. 

 He opened the door unto the line. Jim was five slips deep . ‘Hey Jim.’ Sam said. Jim said nothing, Sam could see he had set up’s for the first three slips, all burgers. ‘Everything’s down.’ Jim said. Jim is a stalwart old soldier, Sam thought. Even though he would get mighty pissed he could cook some of the craziest day’s by himself. ‘Been like this all day.’ Jim said as he grabbed a picked up a basket full of fries.  Sam threw some cheese on the burgers, Jim handed him the fries. The line looked like a bomb had gone off, crumbs everywhere, stains, fries, grease.  Sam threw the fries on the plate and put up the first two orders. Jim was folding an omelet for the last order.

‘Fucking 4 oh ‘clock and he want’s on omelet.’ Jim said as he handed  Sam the plated omelet with homefrie’s.  He had stuck and toast on top of the toaster and now placed it on the plate. Sam put it up.  ‘Have fun.’ Jim said, as he took of his apron.  Don’t like the sound of that, Sam thought as he walked toward the steam table, how bad could it possibly be? Don’t ask questions like that, he thought to himself.  As he walked over to the steam table he could see why, no gravy, no meat sauce, no French Onion, going to have to basically rebuild this whole steam table, no big deal.  There are no orders, now at least. He walked toward the cooler. Where the fuck is Gary? Sam thought. He saw his truck out there but he hadn’t seen him out back, probably out front talking to someone. He grabbed a small cambro and walked toward the cooler. I want to get paid to come in prep a couple things, then go out front and talk to people and do nothing for a couple of hours. Sam thought, cynically. He filled one cambro sauce and one with gravy and headed back to the line. He quickly threw them both in the microwave.  He noticed a couple slips from the printer, he put them up on the board and threw on a couple burgers, and dropped some fries and some home fries.  I must have been here for a few minutes, Sam thought and checked his phone  4:17, he should be here by now.  He knew sometimes Frank had people coming in at 5 to stagger it, save money.  He walked over to the schedule, no Nick 4-10 it says.  What the fuck? Sam thought. How is it so hard to get anyone to come in on time? Or to come in at all.

Sam walked back over to the line and flipped the burgers.  There was a slight possibility he’s still coming in, Sam thought, maybe he just got delayed.  He smiled to himself, did that ever actually happen.  Gary came walked in from the front, the same dazed look he usually sported. ‘Sam, how’s it going?’ Gary asked. ‘Well pretty bad right now.’ Sam replied. ‘Is Nick coming in tonight?’ He asked. ‘No, he sick.’ ‘Are you going to call anyone?’ ‘I did. No one picked up. But I’m here.’ Better than nothing, I guess. Sam mused.  ‘Can you heat up some stuff for the line?’ Sam asked. Gary nodded.  Fuck, I got to work with this asshole all night?

Everything is food

Kitchen

Frank Richards took a swig of bourbon reviewing the resume that he had put together for himself on his computer. It hadn’t taken him long to make, since he had been working at the same place for thirty years still, it looked relatively impressive. He had earned an MBA when he was 25 and gotten a job at a small software company.

 When that company had gone under due to massive financial mismanagement he had looked for work everywhere and finally had gotten a job at the Fill her up truckstop diner as a dishwasher. Over the years he had moved up to cook and finally general manager. He almost felt tears come to him but sadness was something he seldom felt anymore.

It was more a perpetual state of loathing which he attempted to mask with nervous awkward laughter. The bourbon burned as it went down and left a warm feeling in his belly. Frank usually wasn’t much of a drinker but the past few weeks had gotten to him. His bosses at J.M. Philips headquarters had been relentless, sales were down, they said, payroll is up, he would then cut hours which in turn would lead to his employees complaining about the lack of hours.

It was a lose, lose, predicament and no matter what he did the chips seemed to be stacked against him. Do I really even want another job? The question burned in his mind. It was something he had never asked himself before but now he pondered with more seriousness than ever. Every time he went to the bank to make the weekly deposit he pondered it.

Escape. Take the money, flee, change his appearance, take up some kind of assumed identity and live out the rest of his days on some beach in Mexico or something. He enjoyed concocting these impossible scenarios. Something he thought that maybe he enjoyed them because they were impossible. Because it was far easier to do that then to actually take the steps needed to make changes in his life.

 This evening had been the worst. The J.M. Philips company had invited him down to headquarters for a dinner to honor those who had been with the company longest. Frank despised the small talk and socializing associated with such events but as general manager he had no choice in the matter. Still he had harbored some hope for the event, as he had just come up on thirty years with the company. They have to at least acknowledge me, he had thought. So he had put on his best suit and endured the minutia, the small talk, the mediocre food and general superficial nature of those present in the hopes for some recognition. They had started with 10 years, then 20, as it went up Franks hope had risen, when they had gotten to 30 years he was certain they would call him, but then nothing. They called the manager of one of their gas stations. When it was all over he was dumbstruck.

 He had walked out to his car not really sure what had happened. Were they really such assholes? He wondered. He never even wanted a bonus, or a plaque or anything, just some kind of acknowledgement. Recognition. Some token words to let him know that he was appreciated. The ride home had been a blur. He was staring at the lines wondering what had gone wrong. How he had ended up where he was. He had declared bankruptcy already had a massive heart attack and no one seemed to give a shit. He felt like a ghost, a phantom. He scanned down the page at the job’s reading the descriptions but not really taking in the details, not really caring. He wished he could slow down time to this moment, 12:15 am and just keep it there for days, weeks, months, as long as it took for him to figure out a plan. Frank took another swig of bourbon, fuck, he thought, I have to go to work tomorrow morning.


 Jim ‘They don’t want gravy.’ Sara said pushing the plate back from the window. ‘It comes with gravy.’ Jim replied,the hostility thick in his voice. ‘Not it doesn’t.’ Sara said going back to the dining area. ‘I’ve been here ten years and it always come with gravy!’ Jim shouted. She would get her plate back, Jim thought, just not anytime soon. She did this every time, she would put in something wrong bring it back and blame it on him. Fuck this, Jim thought. He had eight slips going already and he was not about to bring everything to a halt for her. Amanda the girl who was supposed to be working with him had called out and the people had been coming in all day. In groups of four, to six, to eight, non-stop. He had had a smoke earlier around 9:30 but that had been short ten minutes at most. Sometimes when it was really going he barely got a break at all. He put the next order in the window and he was down to six. Fuck I got a hangover, Jim thought. He had a few beers in the afternoon after his shift ended and that after noon had turned into night which soon turned to morning and those few beers which soon turned into several.



 Why am I cooking alone out here? Jim thought, putting another plate up. He had seen Frank earlier in the office and he looked like hell. They had exchanged hellos but little beyond that. Frank was not the most talkative type Jim knew. Not that he need to say much, everyone there pretty much knew what was on his mind, misery. Frank was supposed to help him when situations like this arose, and this was certainly such a situation. Frank hadn’t come out of the office since he got in, but he’d seen him in the shed scratching lottery tickets and smoking cigarettes earlier. Fuck this, Jim thought and opened the office door. Frank stood at the computer staring idly ‘Could you give me a hand here I need a cigarette.’ Frank came out of his trance and got up. As soon as Frank came unto the line Jim walked out the front door, as he walked outside he heard Sara’s voice ‘Where’s my stuffed turkey?’ and allowed himself a grin.


The supply shed was a welcome site to Frank and he lit his cigarette. It was to most of the cooks at the Deerfield diner, it was a place of refuge of solace when you just need five minutes away from the hot kitchen. Marge the dishwasher was there and Jim nodded. ‘Busy in there?’ She asked. ‘Out of fucking control,and something’s going on with Frank. ‘ Jim said taking a drag. ‘ ‘Something’ had been going on with Frank for a long time now, though today it seemed worse than usual. ‘I heard his son got arrested last week.’ Marge mentioned, casually it seemed. Frank’s kids always seemed to be getting into something, weather it was getting pregnant, or arrested. Rarely was it something like getting a raise, or earning a doctorate. ‘Figures,’ Jim said taking a drag of his cigarette. ‘Four ‘oh clock can’t come too soon.’



 An  Island. In the pacific, maybe. Maybe somewhere else, in the arctic ocean, somewhere far removed from civilization. Maybe Northern Canada, in the woods, with land to grow crops on, start a farm. Maybe just leave today with all the money from the drop and disappear. Create a new life. It all seemed possible but when he thought of the detail’s of the plan it scared him to death. Going into the unknown, that was what he feared. Frank saw it, that booth, where had first interviewed for a job 30 years before. He had been young then, full of energy, hope. The crowd had long since dispersed and now it consisted of mainly a few straggler’s, a few truckers loudly arguing politics, a loner in a trench coat in the corner looking at a laptop ordering only coffee. It can’t hold forever, he knew, someday he’d crack. Someday this place would get to him, would be the death of him. It was only a matter of time. He could cook a 1400 dollar day by himself, but when he went home it was more of the same. He would get shit on no matter where he was at work or at home. One of them had to go, he knew.



 The phone rang in the office and Frank slowly walked over to get it. ‘Hello Fillin’ station Diner, how can I help you?’ in its entire existence no one had ever called it the ‘Fillin Station Diner,’ but it was how it was listed in the phone book so Frank usually answered this way. ‘Is this Frank?’ the voice said over the phone. ‘Yeah.’ Frank replied. ‘Well let Sam know that I can’t make it in tonight. Bad strep throat.’ Frank heard the news and knew it was Nick. ‘Yeah I’ll let him know.’ He said as he hung up the phone. Frank was thinking as he hung up how remarkably well Nick sounded on the phone despite the strep, and how from his tone he could tell he most likely would not make it in for the next couple of nights, considering how those nights were Saturday and Sunday. It always seemed to work out like that, someone would call out. Almost every other weekend. For some reason this place seems to attract lowlifes and alcoholics, Frank thought, amused.


 Although he was officially still the manager Frank had long since taken to leaving the hiring and interviewing of people up to Gary. He liked to talk so it seemed suited to him. Frank heard the door in the back open and Gary come in, going on about something. Fuck, Frank thought and hurried over to the computer to feign he was doing something important. The stale smell of cheap cigarettes lingered with Gary as he came into the office, ‘Frank, how’s it going?’ He asked. Frank grumbled something incoherent in reply. Gary nodded and looked at the schedule on the wall. ‘Nick’s not coming in tonight?’ Frank mentioned casually. ‘Why not?’ Gary said, frowning. ‘He says he’s sick. Strep throat.’ Frank was looking at his bank statement online, not that it was that encouraging more as it made him look like he was engaged in something. ‘So who’s coming in?’ Frank groaned inwardly to himself, you’re looking at the schedule you jackass, he thought. Instead he replied, ‘It’s Sam on tonight.’ Gary nodded, ‘I can always jump on the line if it gets busy.’ Frank said nothing. Gary liked to talk about his cooking skills, about how he had owned 5 or was it 9? 5 star restaurants in New York or sometimes it was New Hampshire, Frank had heard several different versions. Gary like to boast about how he could ‘cook circles’ around everyone here yet no one had actually seen him do it during the busiest times. He like to tell people it was because he didn’t want to. ‘You’ll be fine.’ Frank declared although it was more of a mumble.


 Gary had already walked out. Not that he was even listening to me. No one ever listens to me, Frank thought. He looked at the time on the computer 2:30, just got to make it a little longer, he thought. I need a drink. The thought came into his head entirely unbidden, but once the seed was planted he knew it would be impossible to ignore. Yes, I’ll have several drinks tonight, and do some serious thinking.



 Sam opened his eyes as the bright light from the sun hit him square in the face. The morning, my favorite he thought as shambled out of bed. Except something was wrong, the light was different, this isn’t early morning, Sam thought and checked his phone, 2:00, fuck. He thought. I have to go in to that fucking place. He thought that every time he had to go in but the weekends were the worst. You never knew who would actually be there, what would be broken, what they would be out of, kind of like an adventure. But not an adventure in the Indiana Jones sense, more of an adventure in the going off to fight in a war half a world away.



 Got to take a shower soon, Sam pondered as he walked up to his computer and took out his tray reaching into his desk and putting a few buds on it. It was his usual routine, usually to ward off a hangover. This one in particular was pretty severe. He crushed up the buds and placed them in the bong. He had been up until 4AM the night before watching a documentary on Queen Victoria on PBS and drinking vodka. As he watched the chamber fill with smoke, Sam wondered if Lindsay would be working tonight. Lindsay was the waitress he had been infatuated with since he started. She was thick like he wanted, but also smart. The best combination, Sam thought. But she also had two kids which always made things harder, and she seemed to have issues. Still he pined for her, so much so that just being in her presence made him feel happy, joy. Sam cleared the chamber of the bong and set it down.



 He sometimes wished he had camera’s at the Diner or maybe spies, who could tell him what exactly was going on on any particular day. Who had called out, how busy it was going to be, what was malfunctioning. A couple of weeks ago the dish machine had broken, and they had to wash all the dishes in the back sink. Then the dishwasher was an hour late, which had caused him to run out of plates. No one seemed to care there, no one was really in control. Sam walked into his small bathroom and turned on the shower. He stepped into the heat hoping it was would wash some of the filth and the hangover away. Unlikely, he thought. This one is going to stick with me all day. He could tell he knew his hangovers. When he had first started drinking when he was 18 it was only beer, those hangovers weren’t so bad. Sure they could be fairly intense, but it was the hard liquor that caused the throbbing, head splitting son of a bitch, hangover he had now. I wish I could fucking call out, Sam said aloud. Everyone else seemed to. Then they would call him. Except when it was on his days and someone called out they wouldn’t do the same. He liked getting the extra money but sometimes he pondered why he did it. No one was going to give him a raise, and very rarely did he receive so much as a ‘Thank you.’ Sam emerged from the shower drying himself off. What if I just didn’t show up? Gary would call him or course. Probably leave a voicemail or too. Likely he would get terminated. Yet Sam had seen other people do it on more than one occuasion. Sam packed his bong again and took another hit, going to be a long night. He had rolled a joint in a drunken haze the night before but had passed out before he could smoke it. Now he noticed it in the corner of his drawer and picked it up. You are going to be my secret weapon.

Wish i'd brought a jay

Imagine the worst job you've ever held. The most labor intensive, with the worst boss, under the most horrid of conditions. Now imagine this job makes you work long days, up to 18 hours. Except those long days don't come with overtime, in fact they don't come with any compensation at all. In fact your only compensation is a ratty set of clothes and a sub-par housing known to breed disease. There is no upward mobility in this job, no room for advancement, in fact no ability to leave at all. If you slow down at this job you risk physical abuse if you try to leave you risk worse abuse. Now imagine that not only are you chained to this job forever, so are you're children, and their children. You are a slave. Forgotten, in the Southern perspective about the Civil War are the roughly 4 million human beings enslaved at the start of the civil war. Bought and sold like chattel. A lot of Southern apologists like to dismiss this entirely be claiming the slaves were treated well. For the sake of argument, I think that certainly some slaveowner's were better then other but they were still slaves. With no rights, no ability to get an education, no room for upward mobility in any sense. Perhaps General William Tecumseh Sherman was unduly harsh in burning Atlanta and laying waste to a large portion of the Southern Confederacy. I don't think so though. Should the states have been allowed to secede? I think there could be a strong case made for that. Should they have been allowed to continue to profit and thrive off of slave labor? Definitely not. And while it is true that maybe the North was not any kind of bastion of tolerance and acceptance that it is sometimes made out to be they were, in the end, on the right side of history. They were not fighting to defend slave labor. Another argument is that the average Confederate soldier did not own slaves, therefore slavery was not the issue. Still they were fighting for a government built upon the institution of slavery. The Southern politicians of the time were not so shy about the issue. Alexander Stephens the vice president of the Confederacy put it nicely: Our new Government is founded on exactly the opposite ideas; its foundations are laid, it cornerstone rests, upon the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery , subordination to the superior race, is his natural and normal condition.

Call headquarters, have you terminated.

The air was filled with wafts of smoke, and the clamor of voices, and sometimes the jostling of an unruly patron. The smell was a strange melange of tobacco, whiskey, blood, sweat, and urine. Jim took it all in as he took a long swig of his beer. He didn't mind. It was authentic, it was really, it was probably the most amazing thing he had ever experienced. Better than the birth of his first child, bad as it was to admit that to himself, better than getting his P.h.d, better than sex. It was history alive, in the flesh, walking into an old newsreel. When they had first entered through the door into the dark alley and walked toward the street he could hear the clopping of the hoofprints. 'Now this is probably going to blow your mind so be prepared.' Jim had nodded and they emerged from the alley. It was hard for Jim to identify exactly how he felt as he walked into it. There it was, New York City, 1885. Men in top hats and frock coats, ladies in hoop skirts, sometimes with a parasol. The newspaper boy's hawking the morning paper. Men doffing their cap's to one another. 'That always makes people smile.' Ben said as the had walked down the street. 'You see going back is just like going to a different country,' he said. 'Different customs, different social mores, different etiquette.' Ben was explaining this as they were walking down the street but no one seemed to notice them. 'In many ways its just like being in the city today, people pretty much ignore you.' They had mostly. The barkeep was a large Irishman with a handlebar mustache who grunted as they had ordered. Ben had given him 40 dollars in greenbacks which had been more then enough. 'The past is cheap.' Ben explained. They their journey in the 50's going to a bar on the corner populated by greasers and factory workers. Then they had tiled back a few pints in a speakeasy in Brooklyn in the 20's and Jim had watched a young Louie Armstrong play. Ben seemed to know someone in every decade. Have some kind of contact in that era. That was his asset, Jim thought as he watched him singing a having a boisterous conversations with a couples of Irish workers. Jim pondered what he would tell his colleagues who had told him about historical travel. They hadn't gone themselves but they had told him the rumors. Ben had made him sign a confidentiality agreement, and Ben wouldn't tell them anyway. If everyone found out the past would become like and old remote swimming hole discovered by the general population. A once pristine location now littered with beer cans and crowded all the time. 'I usually only take one person back at a time.' Ben explained. 'The more people you take back the more frequent the anomalies become. The more likely they are to recognize you as an outsider.' It was hard to remember it wasn't exactly the past, it had the same characteristics but it wasn't exactly the same. Alternate universes' but damned if it wasn't close. Jim finished his beer. 'Can I get another?' Jim asked the Irishman. He noticed Ben sauntering over from the other side of the saloon. 'How you doing over there bud?' Ben asked as he approached. He had finished his fourth beer, he had had one in the 50's, two in the 20's and now 4 in 1885. 'This is really something.' Jim slurred, taking a draw of his beer. 'Yeah it is, good people here too.' Ben knew most of the regular patrons of the saloon by name, and a few more things about the. Al who liked to sit at the end was an old Civil war vet, Ben had found that out one time after he'd had a few and had started talking to Al. Al had told him about Antietam, Gettysburg, and a half dozen other battles Ben had never even heard of. It was come out all at once, as if Al had just been waiting for someone to ask him. A cannonball had taken off his leg a Frederiskburg. He had been struck by a minieball three time in the arm, hand, and chest. Tough old bastard, Ben had thought. This is my calling, Ben thought as he looked around the saloon at the various patrons. This strange niche was what I was put on earth to do. 'Shouldn't we head back soon?' Jim asked finishing the rest of his beer. It was far better then he had expected. 'Why do that Jimmy my boy? Another round for everyone at the bar!' Ben raised his glass. A few of the patrons raised their glasses in reply but most just grumbled. Ben put down the remainder of his cash on the table. It was just enough to cover it. 'Alright let's head out.' Ben motioned to Jim. Jim stumbled up, it was getting late. 'There might be a few ruffian's out there, so watch your step.' Ben said loudly as they walked out. The night was clear and cool, with a full moon. 'You see, this is what your money can get you.' They walked down the gas lit street in silence for a minute, watching the stars. 'Do you really think you should have engaged them that much?' Jim asked, breaking the silence. 'No you see, you should refrain from engaging with them. But me they know me, recognize me, and if they think that you're with me they are less likely to hone in on you. They think I am some kind of travelling peddler right now, and your'e my friend from out of town. That's usually the best thing to do. Say you're from out of town, or a foreigner, they love that.' 'So as long as I'm with you they won't see me as an outsider.' Jim said. 'Exactly.' It was more of a theory than an established fact, but so far it had proven true. The incident in 1992 had shaken his confidence slightly, but now he felt it back. He knew these people, knew the past, knew how to navigate people through the static worlds. 'Here it is.' Ben said as they approached the alley. He had placed his Handkerchief on the barrel on front of the alley to mark it. Ben led the way, stumbling slightly as he went. Ben fumbled in his pockets for a second before producing the device. A little remote control. He pressed a few buttons and the door opened. 'Well,' Ben slurred. 'Back to our shitty time.' He walked through the door. Jim paused for a second looking around. All was silent, but something didn't feel right. He could feel eyes on them the whole time they were walking out of the bar. Paranoia, maybe Jim thought. Maybe not. As Jim walked through the door he was sure someone was watching them. They didn't look much like demon's Mary thought, the two men who had passed through the wall. Or angel's or any kind of wizards she had read about. Just average people. Still she had had read that the devil would appear in different form's sometimes, to work his evil among the good people. Still the men didn't seem like devil's or evil, but there was something about them. Something off, she had heard that one of them lived nearby, a peddler of some kind. Mary had been on the street's for two years since her parents had died. She had learned to observe, to study the vast arrange of character's she ran into on the street. It was a necessary component of survival on the street. She had observed every kind of gambler, hustler, brusier, pimp, there was. That one was no peddler. Maybe he did live in the brownstone across the street but he wasn't from there. She wasn't sure where he was from. But she was going to find out. The next time they go through, I'm following them she vowed.

Here's the thing-can you come in?

Carl took a long pull of the joint and slowly exhaled the smoke billowing across the room. He had that thoughtful look that he sometimes had, of contemplating some puzzle. 'So the old man grilled the client and told him to get out of town, and then the whole town went after you?' Ben nodded,'Yeah basically. I've never seen anything like it before. I've run into problems sure but nothing that bad. I've been in there before plenty of times and never had any problems.' Ben took another toke and passed it back to Carl. 'But they know you there, they've gotten used to you. Each time you go back there are variations, usually subtle, but sometimes something more.' Carl had explained to him when he first created the technology that it wasn't exactly time travel. The world was authentic in that everything in it would be identical to the time, but it wasn't exactly in the space-time continuum. Carl called them 'static world's', parallel universes that were simply on a tape loop. The same year,over and over. After the year was over the year would reset and begin anew. With each visit to the static worlds different variation would occur. Some subtle like the color of a woman's dress, some more extreme. 'I can probably find a way to reset it, but it's hard to say what will happen. Most likely it will be fine but be prepared to make a quick exit. Carl passed the joint back to Ben and Ben finished it. Carl was the kind of person who could do calculus baked out of his mind. He loved puzzles, deciphering codes, in some ways Ben thought that he had developed the technology to go back only to solve that puzzle. Once he had created it he seldom used it, save for a few times. Carl loved the challenge, working on something most thought impossible. 'This guy's already paid me the money, and now he's threatening a lawsuit.' Carl laughed. 'Who would believe him? I had a bad experience going back in time? 'Still we need more customers, its been slow lately.' Carl was silent for a moment. 'It should be back to normal the next time you go back. I know you use the technology alot and I don't mind but you need to be more careful. The variations will continue each time.' 'I know.' Ben said. 'It magic, going back there. It's better than sex, a good movie, food, anything. Like stepping into an old painting.' The room was dark even though it was midday, and a waft of smoke hung in the air. Carl had never been one for interacting with people, which was why he had Ben be the face of the company. He could never endure having to make conversation with random strangers, plus going back had always seemed creepy to him. The furthest had had gone with the 1930's and when he had seen a little boy on the street playing hoops with his friends and realized that that boy was unquestionably dead it had hit him-all of them, they are all dead. He was visiting the land of the dead. After that he never went back. Even if they were alternate universes, it was too much. 'I know, and I can understand. But don't go too far back, because at a certain point the variations become out of my control.' Ben rose, 'Well I'm going to talk to his guy again. Do you think it will work this time?' Carl took a second to respond. He had clicked a few icons on his computer which may or may not have had anything to do with what they were talking about, and Ben marveled at this enigmatic person he had known for so long. Despite having known him for most of his life he had no idea what made him tick. 'Most likely.' Ben nodded, realized that that was probably the most concise answer he would get. 'Well I'm going to see if I can talk to this guy.' Jim felt cold. The whole experience had been so..creepy. It was the only word he would use to describe it, wrong, something off. As if he was dabbling with something that simply should not be dabbled with. That was meant to be left where it belonged, in the past. Sitting in his dark apartment with a bottle of bourbon by his side he took a long swig. He remembered the look of the old man at the store, of the mob advancing toward him. Toward me, Jim thought, they seemed to all be honed in on me. And something about the world was off, the sky was too blue, the sun was too bright, everything was exaggerated somehow, overblown. He might have guessed that maybe Ben had simply built a set and paid actors to do everything but it was too real. And then they had turned against them. The angry mob. Perhaps the most terrifying thing in the world. Carl had remembered in college reading about the New York draft riots of 1863, of the mob taking control of the City for several days. He had seen that same thing in that mob gathering back there. Maybe this whole thing had been a mistake. A loud knock on the door woke Jim from his revelry. 'Who is it?' Jim barked. 'It's Ben!' he heard in reply. Jim rose slowly and headed to the door. 'What do you want? 'Only to explain, and I can give you some of your money back.' 'Only some?' Jim asked. 'We were almost killed.' 'You were almost killed.' Ben said as he walked into Jim's apartment. 'They know me there. Let's just say there were some kinks but we've got them ironed out.' Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out 6 hundred dollar bills placing them on the counter. 'Here's half.' 'Just half?' Jim asked as he picked up the bills. 'I still took you to an alternate world.' 'So it's not exactly like going back in time?' 'It's called a static world. A tape loop, the same year, over and over. But it's still authentic, and nothing done in those worlds can effect what happens today.' Jim nodded, he had had a strong feeling that something was wrong. 'Still I'm not interested. It was a mistake.' Jim rose and took another swig of his whiskey. 'I know you want to see it.' Ben answered. 'You've wanted your whole career to see it. Everything. The entire body of your work, real, in the flesh. No reenactor's, no Hollywood bullshit, just history, real in the flesh.' Jim paused a moment. Remembering the time when he was 10 and he was passed an old house that had one of those placards on it about its history. How it had been there for a couple hundreds of years, served as headquarters to a general or two, how he had become fascinated about its history. Had wanted to see its history, to witness it firsthand. 'Ok. I'll give it a shot again. But no trouble.' 'Absolutely. You want to go time hopping?' 'Time hopping?' Jim asked. 'It's like barhopping but through time. You got to one bar have a drink and then go back maybe 50 years and hit another one. First though we go back to where we started.' Jim nodded. 1992 seemed slightly brighter this time around. 'This is just a test run.' Ben said as they walked down the main street. 'To make sure the calibrations were correct. Everything seemed nice. The sun was shining, the bird's were chirping and everything seemed perfect. Too perfect in fact. Jim was noticing that now everyone seemed overly friendly. 'Hey guys!' the girls with the perm said as they passed. The man in the suspenders gave them a hearty, ' 'Good morning!' 'This is kind of creepy.' Jim remarked. Ben couldn't agree more. It was all exaggerated, wrong somehow. 'It's ok, we won't be here for long.' The citgo station was still there but the sign moved slightly, payphone was further to the end of the parking lot. Subtle variations, Ben thought. Ben led the way into the store, Jim followed. 'Howdy folks?' the old man at the register said with a beaming grin. 'Hi.' Jim muttered. He grabbed his coke, gum, and paper and headed to the register. 'Will that be all?' the clerk asked. 'No I'm all set.' Jim replied and handed him another 5. The clerk gave him the change, 'You folks have a nice day.' He said as they left. 'I think something is off about this place again.' 'It's always going to be off, like I said. Variations. Ready to see the 50's? 'Ok.' Jim said.

Third grade was actually a really good year for me.

1992 really wasnt't that much different from today, Jim thought as he walked down main street, a spring breeze in the air. Sure the cars we're older, a few of the stores were different then the ones he knew but by and large the town hadn't changed much. After Jim had showed up at 8AM, with the check for 1200 Ben had asked for he had taken him into the same office they had met the day before. He had produced a small device, about the size of a wallet, and pressed a few digits and aimed it at the back wall. A opening the size of the door had appeared on the wall, like a closet. Jim had been expecting something like a wormhole, gleaming a shining, but it was only blackness. Like a closet. 'After you,' Ben said and he had entered. It was something every instinctual part of him told him was a bad idea. Don't walk into the dark void, but he had gone. Through the blackness they had emerged into an alley, behind a store that had gone out of business. 'Point's of entry.' Ben explained. They tried to pick a spot as isolated as possible to prevent being seen, poring over old maps of cities to determine the best spot. It was tricky and sometimes a derelict or a hobo would see them, but they usually pulled it off, Ben explained. Was this really worth 1200 bucks? Jim thought as they strolled down the street. As if reading his thought's Ben remarked 'I know this doesn't seem like much but it makes for a good starting point. Also its so see if the people from the past notice you.' They had passed a few people on the street, a few teenage girls with perms, a man with in a business suit with suspenders, neither had seemed to take much notice. 'That's something you'll run into from time to time as you go back-the stare. I still don't entirely understand it but sometimes, they know. They don't exactly know why but they know you're not from here. That's there's something out of place with you. It can range from merely courteous to downright hostile. The further back you go the worse it gets. It's part of the reason we only take people back in period costume, but even then they can tell.' Ben had even attempted learning the language and slang of the eras he visited to fit in, still it persisted. The worse had been in a tavern in Boston in 1785, when the locals had been grilling him all night. He had consumed a few too many ales that night and had proceeded to rant about the future, how the very tavern they were in right now would be a parking lot in 300 years, how they were in fact, all dead men. They had called him a heretic, and had barely escaped unscathed. 'So far they don't seem to take much notice of you which is good.' Jim nodded, attempting to recall where he had been at this stage of his life in 1992. Working on his thesis, most likely, studying tenement conditions of the immigrant poor. 'Want to grab a few souvenirs?' Ben asked as they approached a gas station. 'Sure.' Jim said mildly. Jim's awe in seeing the past had been restrained but when he looked up at the sign and saw that gas was .95 cents it hit him, this guys actually done this. I am visiting the past. Throughout all of his years of work as a historian he had dreamed of seeing it, and now it was actually here. True it wasn't witnessing the Gettysburg Address or the signing of the declaration of independence, it was something. The gas station they walked up to was still there, in fact Jim had gone there the day before, but it had switched hands several times. 'You'd be surprised what you can buy here with not much money.' Ben said as they walked in. 'In fact if it was possible I'd move here.' He smiled to himself. In fact he did have an apartment here, and one in the 50's, the 20's even in 1890. He usually told the landlord he was some kind of peddler or traveling salesman, and they tended to believe him, as long as he paid on time. Jim could feel the hostile eyes on him as he entered the store. The stare. The clerk was an older man, slightly stooped. His look was cold, piercing. The store was small and Ben could walked over and whispered, 'Don't worry just stay cool.' Jim attempting to, but he could feel the clerks cold gaze following him as he moved. As if he was thought Jim was going to pull out a revolver any moment and hold the place up. Jim decided on just a pack of gum, a coke, and a newspaper. Ben had thought of cautioning him against it but decided not too. No one would believe him if he told them. It was part of the reason Ben had been able to keep his business under wraps. Jim walked up to the register placing his items on the counter. The old man's steely gaze had not faltered. 'Will that be all sir?' Jim nodded. The old man said something and he handed the man a five. The old man snatched the note with contempt and gave him his change. Things are cheaper here, Jim thought. 'You from out of town?' The old man said as he walked to the door. 'Yeah,' Jim replied nervously. 'Well why don't you stay that way? We don't care for outsiders here.' 'Sorry.'Jim replied as he walked out the door. Ben came out of the store hastily, 'Something's wrong, we might need to get out of here soon.' 'What the hell was that?' Jim asked. 'An anomaly, something's off. I need to talk to my tech guy to see if we can sort it out.' Ben was looking around to see it anyone was watching them. 'For now though I can't take you any further back, it just get's worse.' They walked back down the street toward the alley. 'How did he know?'Jim said as they walked. 'It's hard to say, I've taken people to that same store with that same clerk dozen's of times and that's never happened.' Someone was following them now, a man, the one with the suspenders. 'Alright this is getting weird.' Ben said. The alleyway was only a couple blocks now, but they couldn't be seen, especially not after the incident in the store. The man was closing in, something is off about this, Jim thought, finally they came upon the alley. Ben went quickly down the alley, as Jim followed him he looked over his shoulder, several others had joined the man, a mob. Fuck, Jim thought. Ben pressed a button on the device opening the door, 'Hurry!' he urged, and Jim descended back into the darkness.