Recycled Life

     This story is a Twilight Zone type story that I wrote a few years ago. No contest wins and it needs a little polish. Tell me what you think. Is it too confusing?

     Like most days in life, at least my life it was a pleasant and uneventful day. The city park was two blocks away down Central Avenue, through the heart of this Midwestern town of Longdale. I enjoyed living there. It had an upbeat vibe. No one seemed to be a stranger and it was very safe. My door could be left open without any worries. Despite having lived here for only six months, I had a few friends with similar interest. We met regularly to discuss the latest book or sometimes spent a few hours hiking one of the many nature trails. After being widowed my life had changed. Moving here was the best thing I could have done. Despite it’s being small, compared to the likes of Chicago, St. Louis or Atlanta, everything I’ve ever needed or wanted was here. At least, that’s how I described it to others.

     Taking an occasional day off for no reason is something I liked to do and did more often this past summer. I aired up the tires on my cruiser bike, hopped on to ride to the park with a coffee stop at Java the Hut. The park had an easy seven-mile trail, meandering around ball fields, past the golf course, and through a forested area. Along with my coffee, I brought a book, always a book. I took one everywhere I went. It was the lifeline to my imagination. 

        On this day I rode the trail to a bench, near the Indian Hawthorn bushes, parked my bike and sat down with my coffee to read. This was the quiet part of the park. Most of the activity was near the golf course or ball fields. I felt good, thinking I got a little exercise for my body, now I would exercise my mind with a good read. I didn’t need an exciting life just a purposeful one. 

     This novel by Norvel Thomas, My Alternate Reality was about unsolved mysteries, originally published in 1783, over one hundred years ago. It contained eyewitness reports about real-life thrillers. I liked these types of stories, mainly non-fiction about true-life events. Mysteries are all around us in big cities and small towns all over the world. Most people didn’t take time to notice because they’re too involved in everyday life. Even this town of Longdale, my adopted town, had an obscure secret, but that is something I was unaware of at the time.

     The afternoon flew by with the pleasant weather and my book of intrigue. I barely noticed anything, not even a dog or squirrel. If it wasn’t for my stomach growling and the sun setting, I might have read into the night. 

* * * 

     It had been a great day, but I needed to get home. I planned to pick up a sandwich on the way and continue my reading once I got home. The ride back was easy, but odd in a couple of ways. As I passed the golf course, I saw no golfers or carts. I knew it was getting late, but it wasn’t dark yet so the empty golf course was shocking. The same was true with the ball fields. There were no cars in the parking lot. I had never ridden past the ball fields without seeing someone in the parking lot if only drinking one last beer before they headed home. My spine tingled as if a spirit jumped at me from behind a tree.

     Everything looked unchanged, but the silence was unnerving as I rode down Central Avenue toward Main Street. It seemed like there was an absence of life in Longdale. The shops were empty, lifeless as if they were just storefronts on some Hollywood set. Where were my friends? Usually any day of the week I could find one or more of them at our hangout drinking an espresso while debating the latest hot topic. But, it too was empty. The quiet produced an eerie silence that chilled me to the bones. My hunger dissipated by the distraction of nothingness I saw in my town. 

     I expected to wake at any moment in a cold sweat, realizing my fascination with mysteries had penetrated my dreams, but little did I know this was my new reality. It became immediately apparent when entering my apartment. I found everything to be too perfect for my personality. The furnishings were familiar, but nothing was out of place. It was like no one lived here.

     I picked up the phone receiver to call a friend and heard a voice. It sounded like my own voice. I replied but received no response, no acknowledgment at all. I yelled into the phone but it made no difference. I listened intently. It was my voice on the line but not my words I heard, rather my thoughts. Every thought that came into my mind, I heard on the phone repeated back to me. Petrified with fear I collapsed to the floor, lying there dazed and confused, unable to move a single muscle. I drifted in and out of consciousness for hours.

     In my foggy mental state, barely knowing my name, Samuel Coan. I felt different, not myself. My features looked strange in the mirror, somewhat familiar but odd in most ways. 

     My book lying on the floor was open to page 178, to the chapter entitled, “Alternate personalities and Alternate Worlds.” This seemed meaningful but why?

     I left the building and immediately noticed a difference in the town. People scurrying around were dressed in period clothing like you would’ve seen in the 1700s. I was recognized and greeted by many, but not by my given name. The buildings were there but the shops were different. A General store took the place of the coffee shop and sat next to a tobacco, cigar and snuff store. The entire street was buzzing with activity but of another era. It was a strange feeling but pleasant in a way. As I walked down the street, I felt an odd comfort that my life belonged in this town and in this time.

* * *

     Moving was stressful, but this town of Longdale had been welcoming, and I had my books. My new job will start in a week, so there was time to get familiar with the surroundings. A walk through the park was pleasant with the fragrance from Lilies of the Valley filling the air. My book on mysteries gave me comfort. I found a bench in a secluded part of the park and sipped my coffee as I read. The title My Alternate Reality Samuel Coan, the name that sounds familiar for some reason. The book was published in 1783, over one hundred years ago, but it still seemed relevant. Someday, I would like to write a book. It would be fulfilling to see my name Norvel Thomas as an author.

     It was a quiet, uneventful day and I started to dose. I awakened abruptly to stark unearthly silence. And so began again another recycled life . . .

An Unexpected Letter

    "It's time we meet." These four simple words were about to change my life. The envelope was handwritten and addressed to me, which was odd since the Internet, invented over one hundred years ago, had virtually made letters and postcards obsolete. I'm not even sure why there are still physical mailboxes in the year 2112, Maybe it's a nostalgia thing. Even more puzzling is why I opened the mailbox. Mail deliveries are once a month and haven't contained anything significant in years. The letter was signed, Charles Decker.

     The address was Brussels, France. I remember from history books that Brussels was a city in the country of Belgium, but that was many years ago when the radical terrorist groups traumatized the world. Since then, many countries disappeared and boundaries have changed. One other notation in the letter is a reservation number for the Silver Streak Hyperloop Express. Now, it dawns on me! This is a mandatory meeting with a stranger. The World Council set up a program over fifty years ago to promote better communications.  

     I’d been selected to meet Charles Decker and learn about his life. He, in turn, would be tasked with the same from me. My great grandfather told me the selection process for this opportunity was similar to the jury selection they used many years ago. The World Council was an organization established to address the unrest around the globe. They determined the underlying problem was lack of understanding and poor communication with people of different nations and backgrounds, so they started this program called Strangers Meeting Strangers. The program has been around for fifty plus years. Every year thousands of people from many countries are selected to travel to places far and wide to meet strangers and educate themselves on different cultures. 

     To assume that the participants are selected randomly would be a mistake. Each set of strangers is paired explicitly so that the maximum exposure to each of their lives will be beneficial to future generations. Participants document their visit in a detailed report that’s signed by both parties. These reports then become part of the educational system to teach future generations.

     I'm eighteen and a citizen of Amerinada. My passport allowed me to freely travel to friendly countries, France being one, without the hassles of being confined for weeks after my return. I could be in Brussels in four hours if I take the International Silver Streak Hyperloop Express. I'm not sure what to expect from my month-long visit with Charles Decker. It's very likely Mr. Decker is old so what could I possibly learn from him? Communication will be difficult at best.I have no choice. Once selected you cannot refuse to go.  

    The World Council pays for the trip and I will be staying with Charles but I dread spending time with an old man that is out of touch with today’s world. I found my great grandfather told compelling stories, although exaggerated and unbelievable. It was important for him to share these stories with me. I must admit I enjoyed hearing them and learned a few things as well.  

    Since the inception of this program, there’s been a notable improvement in the tolerance people have toward one another. I never thought much about the Strangers Meeting Strangers program making a positive impact until now.

Early Riser

    It was late, much later than I’d been out in a long while. I was a night owl in my college days, but that is no longer my life. I rose early to get to the office first, because success didn’t happen without effort, for some never at all. Failure wasn’t going to happen to me, I always told myself. Some people call me driven, but others said I had no life. I disagreed; my life was my work, which was all I really needed.

    People didn’t understand, but why should I care. I kept to myself. There was no need to get involved with the problems of others. It never turned out well. 

    My life was routine, but it worked for me. I usually picked up dinner on the way home from work, takeout, but that night I ate quietly in the diner at the back booth. A couple of young thugs with gang tattoos walked in. They made some rude sexual comments to the waitress then grabbed her and pawed at her blouse. Her name was Julie. I knew her but not intimately. She was pretty, but she had a kid, and that was a problem for me.

    I watched in silence from the booth, trying to be invisible. I'd seen this before, but Julie was adept at handling creeps. These guys were different, more persistent and obnoxious. She was flustered, and the place was almost empty, except for an older couple and me, but they left quickly once the thugs started trouble. 

    Now it was just Julie, the creeps with gang tattoos and me left in the diner. I no longer went unnoticed by the gang members. They wanted me out so they could stalk their prey. I should have gotten my order to go, but now my conscience wouldn't let me leave. Dammit. This could get ugly. I left my phone at the office so calling for help wasn’t an option.

     Julie tried to dial 911 from her phone, but they slapped it out of her hand onto the floor, then pointed at me and motioned to the door. I got up not sure what to do, but I couldn't leave her alone. She’d be a statistic on tomorrow’s newscast. 

    I strolled toward the door. Time was not my friend. Seconds were ticking away as I approached the exit. I had to do something, but what?

    Without giving it much thought, I grabbed a chair and swung it at the guy who appeared to be the top thug, striking him in the side of the head. He clutched his bleeding scalp. Julie immediately reached down and picked up the phone and dialed 911. The other guy came at me with a knife; thank God he didn’t have a gun. I fended him off like a lion tamer, holding the chair in front of me. I advised him to leave with his buddy and pointed to Julie.

    She waved the phone at him. “I called 911, the cops are coming.” She pointed out the window at the flashing lights. 

    They ran out and yelled, “We’ll be back.”

    Julie screamed back. “I’ll be ready.”

    “That was close,” I said. “Lucky you were able to get the phone and call the police.”

    "I was bluffing, the phone's broken." She held it up to show the broken screen. "In this neighborhood, you always hear sirens, so I was gambling."

    “Holy shit! That’s gutsy.” I remarked. “I’m not playing poker with you,”

    She smiled, “I better lock the door.” She turned the deadbolt and started to lower the shades. “That was brave of you, to stick your neck out for a stranger. What’s your name?”

    “Thanks. It’s Timothy . . . just call me Tim. I’ve been here before, so you’re not a stranger. I don’t normally get involved, but this is different.” I started to lower another shade. “They threatened to come back. What are you going to do?”

    "I'm not sure what to do. I need this job." She looked into his eyes. “I recognized you, but you’re quiet . . . you rarely say a word.” 

    “Yeah, I fly under the radar, most of the time. We should get out of here before your admirers realize they’ve been duped.”

    “Admirers... that’s funny. But you’re right let’s go, now.”

    “Do you need a ride?” He pushed the chair back under the table.

    “No, I only live two blocks away. I’ll be fine.”

    “Let me give you a ride. They could be waiting around the corner for you.”

    I checked the parking lot and saw no signs of trouble. After locking up we hustled out to my car, a dinged up Ford Focus. It had a dented rear fender and only three hubcaps, a thief’s nightmare, so no worry it would ever be stolen.

    I felt good doing something to help her. She was a young single mother doing her best to support her child. It was a short drive. I’d drop her off and get back to my bland life. It was two blocks, no big deal. She thanked me repeatedly, as we turned west on Second Street toward the projects. When we rounded the corner, I spotted two cars riding side-by-side exchanging gunfire.

     “Holy Crap! We have to turn around.” 

    Julie looked at me with tears rolling down her cheek. “But my son, I have to get home.”  

    I made a U-turn in the middle of the street. "We will, but we have to go a different way." 

    Just then a third car turned the corner at high speed heading my direction. Now driving east on Second Street, I stomped on the gas, but my economy car was no match for their go-fast car. They were gaining on us quickly. At least I was driving a direction that was familiar to me. Two blocks down on the left was Compton Avenue, which leads to the rail yard. If I could get to the yard, I might be able to lose them.

    Compton was quickly approaching but so was the thugmobile. I didn't slow down. As I made the turn on to Compton, I could feel the car lift up on the left almost leaving the ground. The tires screeched like an animal being skinned.  

    Julie huffed, moaned and yelled. “Shiiiiiiiitttt.”

    I was too focused and scared to say anything until we exited the turn unscathed. Then brilliantly claimed. “That wasn’t so bad.”

    Through the rearview mirror, I could see the chase car take the turn at a high rate of speed, much faster than I had. They made the turn but sideswiped two parked cars, which slowed them down. But they didn’t stop. 

    They were further back now. So, there was a chance I could lose them in the rail yard. When I worked there in my teens I knew a back way out. I hoped it hadn't been closed off.  

    Julie regained her composure. “For a quiet guy, you have a wild streak." 

    Before I could respond with a witty remark, I heard the churning wheels of a train.  

     “I hear the train . . . a coming.” I gripped the steering wheel.

    Julie braced herself, “It’s rolling around the bend.”

    “No time for Johnny Cash." I teased. "Maybe a duet later, June."

    She laughed. “You’re nuts.”

     With the gang not far behind, my car launched over the tracks. I could see they were trying to beat the train. It was going to be close. The screeching of tires, the blaring horn from the train and the sound of the crushing metal filled the air. 

    I looked at Julie. “They won’t be bothering you anymore.”

     “There’ll be someone else to take their place.”

    We drove in silence to her apartment; relieved the nights' trauma was over. As I pulled around to let her out, she yelled. "Watch the curb." Too late my front wheel jumped the curb, and I hit the light post. 

    I ignored the minor bump and smiled. “Can I give you a ride to work tomorrow?” 

    "I think it would be faster taking my son’s skateboard . . . definitely safer.”

    I winked. “I’m an early riser.”