[2013] Life II Page 6

  Focus, Max, he reminded himself. The play’s coming up.

  He got slammed into by a rival player and went flying. As he ate dirt, Max reminded himself he had to get his mind on the game.

  Focus.

  “Max! Max!”

  It was Coach Lyon, bellowing at him. He was jerking his thumb over to the bench. He understood. He was being replaced in the middle of the play.

  Dammit! But Coach, wait… I played until the very end and I scored the winning goal. This is not how the past is supposed to play out!

  Max thought of refusing to return to the bench. He would stay on, and get that goddamn goal that he was fated to achieve. But with dozens of eyes boring at him, he thought better of it, and quickly sprinted to the side of the field where his coach was waiting. Max’s substitute took over.

  Coach Lyon was furious. “Max, what’s up with you? You’re choking out there! Why are you disrespecting us? Disrespecting me!”

  Max saw the disappointment in the coach’s eyes. “Coach, I’m sorry,” he gasped out. He felt like crying. “I… I didn’t know…”

  Wait a minute. Press pause for a second. I’m not a 42-year-old Max. No, you are here now. You are back. You’re sixteen, and you’re living your life over again. Your crap-ass job and your difficult marriage… that stuff has never happened yet!

  Right now you’re a sixteen-year-old who’s very embarrassed about playing like an asshole in front of your own team and losing all the friends you ever had. This is your new life. Get it together!

  Max’s mind snapped back to the game. The coach was still staring at him. Max tried not to squirm as he leaned forward and whispered:

  “C-C-Coach, w-w-what’d I do wrong?”

  Coach Lyon sputtered and walked away. He threw his hands up in the air, then turned back to Max and yelled, “You’re supposed to make a sharp turn to the right and swap with Mike! You know that!” He looked at Max for a long time, then kicked the turf and stomped off, yelling at the lacrosse drama still unfolding on the field.

  God, this is weird, Max thought. He turned to David Leckie, who was sitting on the bench beside him. Incredible. David looked so young. Max had never seen David again after high school, and often wondered what David would’ve looked like in 2013. Back in ’87 he was the pimpliest-faced kid in school. Damn, dude, he still was! He kept staring at him, eyes wide.

  David, embarrassed, averted his face from Max and glanced at the game.

  Max started to feel dizzy. Max, Max, Max. Do you want to blow this? Dude, you have to act normal! Whatever normal means.

  He turned to David and tapped him on the shoulder.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Hey, uh…yo, what’s happening with the game?”

  David said nothing.

  “What’s the score?”

  “7-7, I guess.”

  “How much time?”

  “Two minutes.”

  Two minutes?? Oh, man. Max was crestfallen. In the past—no, now, in the present—he should have scored and pulled the team ahead by 8-7, and his teammates and several fans would’ve lifted him on their shoulders and cheered their asses off for him. Something was wrong…

  Max sat on the bench, mesmerized as he watched the rest of the game. He rested his elbows on his knees, as the whistle blew and the game ended. The game had ended in a stalemate, 7-7. Max sat, lost in thought. He watched David run over to join his team, as the two rival teams shook hands and then separated.

  Max’s team whined and bitched all the way back to the locker room. “We should’ve won!” Stan griped. He shoved Max into David. “How could you fumble the ball at the end, man? You just went down!”

  “Guys, I’m sorry,” Max gulped. “I… I think I had a bum knee or something.”

  “Shit, Max,” another teammate said.

  “You suck.”

  “You blow.”

  “Get lost, Max.”

  “Guys, I’m sorry!”

  Luckily for Max, their talk soon turned to the next practice and the coach’s strategy to beat the next team. Everybody headed to the locker room.

  As the boys changed their clothes, Max felt suddenly conscious of how lean and hard everyone’s bodies looked. He glanced down at his bare chest, and noticed that he, too, looked ripped—he had a washboard stomach and no fat. He felt a surge of pride. Here he was, a 42-year-old loser, dressing and standing in a room full of teenage boys, and he belonged once more. His mind effortlessly drifted into thoughts of being a sixteen-year-old again, and everything suddenly clicked in.

  He saw Stan, Graham, David, and two other guys talking as they donned their everyday clothes, none of them looking at each other as they conversed.

  Max came up to his own pile of clothing and saw his Van Halen T-shirt and stone-washed jeans with holes in the knees. Stuffed underneath was a pair of bright maroon designer sneakers with the tongues prominently sticking out. Max laughed in spite of himself. Dude, I remember these crummy clothes! He held them out in front of him, recalling his reverence for the outfit that had faded over the years. The clothes were so skinny. Would they even fit?

  Remarkably, they did. So Max moved on to what he should do next. Home. That’s where he should go. After all, he was a teenager who lived with his parents and older sister.

  Stan rolled up to Max, with David and Graham close by. “Hey, Max,” he drawled, punching him in the arm. “Cards tonight,” he said with a wicked grin. “My place. You in?”

  Max glanced at him, overwhelmed at being back at this point in his life. He needed time to sort it all out, to think. Plus, he had no recollection what card games they’d been playing. He remembered going to Stan’s house a few times—a bungalow on the other side of the school—but he couldn’t recall exactly where it was.

  “Uh, hey guys,” he stammered, “not tonight, guys. Uh, you know, thanks anyway.”

  “Hey,” Stan retorted, snatching Max up by the collar. “Listen, buttwipe! We won’t have enough players!” He glared at Max. “Come on, man, we have beer, too.”

  Graham, the team dork, snickered.

  “Dude! Keep it quiet!” David wheezed, looking around for the coach.

  “Come on, Max,” Stan sneered with irritation. “Don’t say no to your best pals.”

  Best pals? Where did that shit come from? Max certainly didn’t have any memory of them being close friends. On the other hand, Stan was always a big show-off, who tried to lay a line on everyone he met.

  “Uh, gee, guys,” Max groaned, clutching his stomach. “I feel kind of sick.” It wasn’t too far removed from the truth.

  Graham piped up, “Stan! You saw how Max collapsed on the field today!”

  “Come on, Max,” Stan said, putting his arm around Max’s shoulders. “Don’t be a wimp.”

  Max’s heart was thudding in his ears. Instantly it felt like he was living a flashback—as if time had suddenly dissolved. As if time had never passed. Everything around him suddenly wobbled, and Max felt he couldn’t breathe any longer. Frustrated, he brushed aside Stan’s arm aside. A worried look passed around the other guys as he strode off. “Hey, asshole!” he heard Stan scream after him. “How do you like that!”

  Mind in a blur, Max stumbled out of the locker room, and headed outside the school. The playground was deserted except for a few girls shooting basketballs. Max stopped and stared down the street. He had to think twice to remember which way it was to his house. Oh yeah, through the path in the park.

  He walked briskly away from the school, marveling at how much spring there was in his step. He’d been so busy with the guys inside the locker room that he didn’t have time to glance in the mirror. He wondered how he looked now. He held out his arms admiringly, and then glanced at his clothes. Shit! He’d forgotten his jock, and his uniform in his locker. Oh well, he could go back tomorrow to pick them up. Once again, he ran his fingers down his face. No stubble, just soft, smooth skin.

  Nice, man.

  All alone and overly excited, Max pumped
his arms up and down.

  My God, my God, my God! I am in 1987! I don’t have a job as an auditor! I have parents at home and my sister is there, too. I’m in high school and I’m supposed to go to classes tomorrow.

  He paused a second, wondering if tomorrow was Saturday? Then he shrugged, figuring he’d find out eventually.

  He thought of his parents, aching to see them together again, in the very same house where he’d grown up. The old house had been sold when Max graduated from high school and headed off to college.

  Max sighed. Only two years left at this house, he thought sadly.

  His parents’ divorce had been bitter. He often felt guilt and unease, although his parents repeatedly denied it, that his rebellious behavior—and that of his sister—had caused his parents to reach their breaking point.

  But, right now, his parents were still together. And he was going to value every minute of it while it lasted.

  Suddenly Max’s feet skidded to a stop. Hey. Maybe I can prevent history from repeating itself. Yes. He could change the future. Dr. Time hadn’t warned him against altering the timeline, had she? Besides, changes within a family wouldn’t affect the future of the world, would they?

  No shit, he thought, he could do this! Plus he had to figure out how to separate the lives he’d already lived. He had to draw lines in the sands of time. Because he could get his two lives messed up, quickly.

  His old past, the one he’d lived for over 25 years—that one would be called Life I.

  This new future, in which he would re-live his life, would be called Life II.

  He nodded. In a flash he looked around, and realized where he was. He rounded the corner of the park and started running.

  His pulse quickened as he approached Desmond Crescent. The trees lining the street seemed less full and shorter than he remembered. The shade had receded a bit, as if shirking away from the warm sun. Otherwise, the houses were just as he had remembered. The Connellys. The Irwins. The Lefebvres. And his own house coming up soon…

  Max lifted his eyes to see further ahead. Howling like a lunatic he ran through bushes and leaped over benches. He kept running. He ran faster.

  There it was.

  The paint looked newer, the door boasted a familiar light blue instead of the black hue it had acquired in later years, and the basketball net was still up on the garage. But it was undeniably his home, just as he’d remembered it in 1987, free of the unwelcome decay of his memory. It was a step back in time, just the way it should be.

  107 Desmond Crescent.

  Home.

  Chapter Nine

  September 16, 1987 at 4:21 p.m.

  Wind rushed through Max’s hair and his heart pounded, as he dashed up to the best house he had ever known. As his feet touched the front lawn he stopped, rocked back on his heels, looked up at the house, and instantly let out a gasp of shock.

  His memory of the house had been perfect! Max used to tell his own kids about this house, the one he grew up in. He once showed Angela and Brandon a photograph of himself standing in front of the house as a child. The photo was lost years ago, but Max remembered it vividly—and the house that stood before him now perfectly matched it. It was like Max was stepping into that photo.

  Just then his mental reverie was broken by the sound of friendly barking. “Ruff! Ruff!” Joy and happiness suddenly flooded him. He’d never been much of a crier in his life, but he felt himself choking back tears as his beloved dog Cherokee raced out of the back yard and bounded over to him.

  “Cherokee!” Max yelled, running toward the brown and white Labrador.

  “Ruff! Ruff!”

  “Oh my God! Hey, buddy!”

  Laughing hard, Max raced up and tackled Cherokee playfully. Together they rolled around on the front lawn. Cherokee licked Max’s face over and over.

  “You’re alive, Cherokee!” Max shouted gleefully. “Holy cow! And hey girl, you look good, you really do!”

  Max stroked Cherokee’s back, clasped her furry tail as it wagged him in the face, and hugged her again. He squatted next to her and felt her excitement at seeing him. For now, just for this one moment, it was completely worth it to return to 1987, just to be with his true best friend once again.

  Oh, the joy of being with someone who knew you! Who loved you! Who never complained, and never passed judgment! Cherokee barked and yipped happily at all the newfound attention she was getting. She leaped out of Max’s arms and ran to the front door, sitting beside the welcome mat, panting.

  “Oh, Cherokee, why did you have to die?” Max sighed. He remembered the phone call he’d received from his mother when he was living on his own in Vancouver. Cherokee was seventeen years old, and her hind legs didn’t support her anymore.

  Max walked up the front steps and patted Cherokee on the head. Then he grabbed the door handle.

  The door wouldn’t budge.

  Max sighed. Dumb-ass, he thought. All right…where was the key? He checked in his pockets, and found a familiar-looking keychain. He slipped the silver metal into the lock and listened for the click.

  “Mom? Dad?” he called as the door opened and he stepped inside. His heart raced away in his chest. He felt like a visitor in his own home. As if he’d moved out for twenty years and the house was now owned by some stranger.

  No one answered. All Max heard was Cherokee panting beside him.

  “Come on, girl,” Max said, “let’s see who’s home.”

  Eyes opened wide, he surveyed the main floor of the house. The living room. Family room with fireplace. Den where his father liked to read newspapers and do his crossword puzzles. The kitchen. Yes, everything was as he’d remembered it. He smiled at the old drawings he and his sister had scribbled—still posted on the kitchen walls after so many years.

  To his room upstairs now Max climbed.

  He found his door closed, as usual, with the sign “DO NOT DISTURB” hanging on it. Below it was a large stoner decal of a skull with blood and brains dripping out of its sockets. Max groaned. Was he that immature back then?

  He opened the door and gasped in astonishment.

  Piled all over the floor were clothes and empty pop cans. Comic books and audio cassettes were strewn all over his desk. An electric guitar stood in the corner with one string broken.

  With a great sigh Max started picking up his clothes. He held them to his nose, sniffed them—“Sniff! Sniff! Ewww!”—and threw the most disgusting ones into the hamper.

  He packed the rest in his dresser drawers. As he started making his bed, Max remembered something. He looked around, realized the coast was clear, bent down under the mattress frame, pushed aside dust bunnies, and pulled out a stack of wrinkled Playboy magazines.

  Oh man! Max laughed, thumbing through the pages. I was definitely naïve. He stared at the centerfold of naked Miss December with big jugs. Then Max crawled around under the bed, looking for more. Naw, he decided, better to put them back, and discard them later. He crawled underneath again, shoving the magazines back, taking a moment to thumb once more through the pages…

  “Max? What are you doing?” A familiar voice suddenly rang out behind him.

  Max shot out from under the bed, startled. He banged his head on the bedframe, groaned and crawled out.

  Standing before him was his father, Bill. He was nattily dressed, cheerful, much younger than Max had remembered, and… thinner. Beside his father stood Cherokee, staring at Max with her head tilted to one side.

  Max gulped. He smiled bravely. Then feeling a terrible sense of excitement, he forgot his terror and leaped at his dad, embracing the beefy man in a big bear-hug.

  “Daaad!”

  “Max?” his dad squeaked, his throat constricted from being squeezed tight.

  “It’s so great to see you, Dad!”

  Emotions churned in Max’s chest. He held tight to his father who tentatively hugged him back, eyes wide, as if to wonder what had gotten into his son.

  “Well, well, Max…” Max could feel
his father’s voice as his hand rested on the man’s back. “What’s this all about? Cleaning your room without being told?”

  Before Max could open his mouth, he looked down and saw two wrinkled Playboys, sticking out from under the bed. His eyes bugged in horror.

  “Uhhh,” Max said, placing his arms around his dad’s shoulders, and kicking the magazines further under the bed. “Uh, I just felt like it,” he answered. He pulled away and then added, “Hey, uh, you know, you look good!”

  Max gazed at his dad with watery eyes.

  “What’s up?”

  “Geez, Dad,” Max declared, quickly wiping the tears away. “Can’t a guy, uh, you know, can’t a guy hug his own father?”

  “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

  “And I’m just so glad to see you, Dad! Uh… I mean, hey, where’s Mom?”

  “Your Mom will be home from work soon.” Bill started to turn away, but recalled something. “Oh, hey Max. I didn’t see your bike in the garage. Where is it?”

  “My bike?” Bike, bike, do I have a bike? Of course I did! One after the other, as I wore them out constantly.

  “Uhhh,” Max breathed out and said, “I just forgot it. At school. I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Uh, there’s school tomorrow, right? I mean, what day is it today?”

  Bill gave Max a bewildered look. “Yes, there’s school tomorrow. Today is Wednesday, Max. Are you okay, son?”

  “Yeah, fine. Sorry. Just exhausted from the lacrosse game, that’s all.”

  As soon as his dad left, scratching his head, Max sat on the edge of his bed and tried to gather his thoughts.

  Okay, dude. Calm down. And get a grip. Today is Wednesday, September 16, 1987. Tomorrow is Thursday. That means I have to be back at school. I’ll have to figure out my way through my old school schedule. Bummer! But then it’s Friday. And then the weekend. Wa-HOOO!

  Then Max could contemplate the rest of his life.

  The rest of my life. Wow.

  There’s a saying, Today is the first day of the rest of your life. He chuckled at himself because he’d just hit the “redo” button. Every day was the first day. Every day would be a new opportunity for him.