[2013] Life II Page 8

  “Okay,” Max said. He hesitated—she wasn’t going to like this. “I also need my class schedule printed for me.”

  Mrs. Shuster huffed. “Fiiine,” she muttered. She sat behind her desk, typed in the information on her computer, searched for the schedule, and printed it out. “Here.”

  Max quickly scanned his schedule. He looked up, smiling.

  “Uh. There’s one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to see the guidance counselor now.” He grinned widely at her. “Please.”

  The magic word worked. A few minutes later, Max sat on the olefin fabric seat of a wooden chair, opposite the guidance counselor, Mr. Runkowski. Banker’s boxes of career planning files surrounded them in the disorderly office.

  “So, Max,” Mr. Runkowski began, “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to change my courses.”

  “Which one?” Mr. Runkowski asked, looking at Max’s schedule on his computer screen.

  “All of them!”

  “Already? It’s only two weeks into the school term. May I ask why?”

  Max sat tall and confident. “I want to become a doctor.”

  Mr. Runkowski nodded. “A noble sentiment, but also a very difficult career path. You’re aware that both the studies and the work itself can involve long hours?”

  “Not any different from that of being an auditor,” Max replied.

  “Auditor?” Mr. Runkowski asked. flipping through the notes in the fie on his desk. “Yes,” he murmured, “You had mentioned an interest in finance and investment. This is quite a switch in direction, Max.”

  “I’ve thought about it for a long time,” Max answered. Oh boy, you have no idea how long! “What courses do I need to get into medical school?”

  “You’ll need to stack up on science and math courses, such as biology, physics, calculus, and chemistry. You’ll also need an undergraduate degree, in health sciences, physiology, or some medically-oriented major. Then you’ll apply for admission to medical school, which is very competitive. Assuming you get in, it’s a four-year program, the first two years being pre-med, and the next two years as an internship, followed by two more as a resident in your chosen field of medicine.”

  Mr. Runkowski paused and sat back in his chair, holding his fingers together at the tips in front of his face. “May I ask why the change?”

  “It’s my lifelong dream,” Max said with a smile.

  “Well, I believe a person should always pursue their passion,” Mr. Runkowski said. “It’s not like you get a second chance, right?”

  Chapter Eleven

  September 18, 1987 at 9:05 a.m.

  Max walked down the second floor hallway of his high school for the third time in the last five minutes, completely disoriented.

  He felt like a stranger in his own school. Room 214B. Where’s Room 214B? He no longer remembered where the wood shop was, where the English section was, or the mathematics classes.

  Wait… Room 214B. He found it. As he was late, he speed-walked into the classroom. This was the PHYS 305 class, an advanced physics course. He scanned for empty seats, and saw a blond, curly haired guy sitting by himself.

  “Hey,” Max plopped down beside him. “Sorry to bother you, but, uh, I just switched classes. I don’t have my textbook yet. Can I look at yours?”

  The guy peered at Max. He had a handsome, rugged face with a strong jaw.

  Max’s eye widened in horror.

  The guy from the UBC alumni newsletter! The guy who would be unhappy enough to take his own life, twenty-six years later. Nathan squinted as he gazed at Max, who appeared as if he’d seen a ghost.

  Perhaps he had.

  “Sure,” Nathan replied, and held out his hand. “Hey, you’re Max Thorning, last year’s commerce honors list winner. Right?”

  “Right,” Max said, managing to gulp down the dread that tied his stomach into knots. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Nathan.”

  “Yes, I remember you.” Boy, do I ever.

  “Listen, Max,” Nathan asked, as he slid the textbook closer, “forgive me for asking, but why’s the school’s business wünderkind taking this course?”

  “Oh, I’m not going into business anymore,” Max said, now much more calm after that split-second fright.

  “You’re not?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. I want to be a doctor.”

  “Ah.” Nathan’s pupils shot upwards. At first, Max thought the boy was mocking him, but Nathan spoke as if talking to himself. “That’s cool. That’s my dream, too, you know. To be a cardiac surgeon.”

  And I have perfect proof he’ll make it, Max thought. He knew if he played his cards right, befriended Nathan, and learned by his example, he’d totally make it to medical school. And, maybe along the way, prevent that unthinkable calamity where this budding doctor would feel distressed enough to end his own existence.

  Just then the P.A. system squawked:

  “Attention! Calling Max Thorning to the office. Would Max Thorning please report to the office?”

  “Detention again? So soon?” Nathan said with a laugh.

  Max cringed, laughed back, and shot out the door.

  A few minutes later, he stood outside locker 562, with the locksmith handing him the damaged deadbolt he’d chopped off.

  “Thanks!” Max patted the man on the back. Then he hurled open his locker. He looked inside to see a pile of disorganized papers, leather boots, a football, stacks of textbooks, a nylon sports jacket, his old jockstrap, and—attached to the hooks on the sides of the locker—his red high school backpack, bulging at the seams.

  Bingo!

  “Hello, old friend.”

  Chapter Twelve

  September 25, 1987 at 8:41 p.m.

  Max climbed out of the pool, dripping wet. He grabbed a towel, dried off his hair and chest quickly, and sat down at the patio table beside Nathan.

  “This is cool.” Max said admiringly, “An indoor pool in the basement of your house.”

  Nathan bent down from his sitting position to dry off his legs. “Yup. Means we can use it all year ’round. No worry about leaves ’n crap falling in.”

  He straightened up, and then motioned toward the wood paneling that surrounded the pool. “Sauna’s over there, if you want it.”

  “No, thanks.” Max glanced around. “This is awesome.”

  Nathan was merely an acquaintance in Life I. Back then, Max passed him in the hallway, not addressing him by name. How would their friendship develop differently in Life II? Would it? He couldn’t contain himself. “How did your father think of putting a pool down here?”

  Nathan grinned. “From our trips to Mexico.”

  “You go often?”

  “Every year.”

  “Wow,” Max said, more than a trifle jealous. His trip to Greece sparked his thirst for travel.

  “You won’t believe the black markets in Acapulco.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They have incredible black markets where you can buy anything.”

  “Like what?”

  Nathan motioned for Max to walk after him. They both shuffled barefoot onto the carpet leading through the recreation room in the basement, past the billiards table.

  Nathan guided Max to his bedroom. The kid was a neat freak! The bookcase were orderly and probably in alphabetical order. On the desk sat a completed pile of homework. Nathan moved over to open a drawer to the desk. Slowly, he withdrew a clear plastic bag and dangled it in front of Max’s eyes.

  “Is that pot?” Max eyed the weed and tried his best to sound like a teenager and not the father of two children. “Cool. How did you get it?”

  “Told ya, from the black market. Couldn’t pack it to take on the plane, so they offered to ship it by mail. Guess they know how to get stuff through customs.” Nathan fingered the bag with pride. “I take a little toke to chill out sometimes, after I’ve finished studying.”

  “Do your parents know w
hat you do?”

  “Nah. They’d freak out. It’s my secret.” He opened the bag and pulled out the remnants of a partially smoked joint. “Wanna join me?” He leaned over his desk to open up his window.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Suit yourself.” Nathan shrugged as he lit up, inhaled slowly, and held his breath a few seconds before slowly blowing the smoke directly in Max’s face. Max coughed and waved it away. In Life I, he had never experimented with drugs and didn’t want to break that streak in Life II.

  Max switched the subject before his friend could push the issue. “So, Nathan, I know your dad’s a surgeon. What does your mother do?”

  “She’s a minister at the church.”

  “She’s a priest?”

  Nathan held up his left hand and twisted it from side to side. “Sort of. She’s with the Unitarian Church. She performs weddings and stuff like that.”

  “That’s neat.”

  “Yeah, my mom’s devoted to the church. Between the two of them, they’re never home. My dad’s always at the hospital. Mom has her ministry.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “My older brother’s studying pre-med at Northwestern University in Chicago.”

  Max’s mouth fell over in sincere awe. “So medicine kinda runs in your family, huh?”

  “Yup,” he said in a high voice as he held his breath after a long inhale from the joint. “I have a little sister who’s going to Confederation next year. She’ll probably end up in medicine, too.”

  Nathan snubbed out the joint in a glass and stuffed the remainder in the plastic bag, replacing it in the drawer, as far back as he could reach. “Come on,” he said, “I have something else I got from Mexico.”

  Max followed with interest. Once back at the indoor pool, they changed their clothes in separate rooms, and then sat on plush chairs in the recreation room. There was a bar at one end of the room.

  Max looked around the room. “Cool man cave.”

  “Ha! Great name.”

  Max bit his lip from re-stating the 2013 vernacular. “Uh…yeah.”

  “Here’s the surprise.” Nathan stood behind the bar, taking out a whiskey bottle. “First, some tequila shots. This is straight from Mexico.”

  Max’s mind reverted to his forty-two-year-old self. “What if your parents come in here?”

  “Nah.” Nathan retrieved a lime from the tiny refrigerator behind the bar and took out a salt shaker. “They never come in here.”

  He poured the tequila into two shot glasses. He cut the lime into quarters, and then sprinkled some salt on his palm while still holding a lime wedge. “You ever do a tequila shot before?”

  “Not really,” Max lied. He’d experienced a bad weekend with tequila his first year at university and swore off the stuff forever.

  Nathan handled the shots like a pro. “Lick the salt, then drink all the tequila as fast as you can, then bite on the lime.” He puckered his lips in anticipation. “Oh, it’s so good.”

  Max watched in amusement. In one swoop, Nathan licked the salt off his hand, downed the tequila, and then inserted his teeth into the lime. “Now you try it!”

  Max just went with it. He shot back the piquant liquid and squeezed his eyes shut. It was not the tequila alone that lit his excitement, but the refreshing novelty of a new and interesting friendship.

  “Nathan?”

  “Hmm?” He was mixing together orange juice, tequila, and ice, then sprinkled some grenadine in both highball glasses. A Tequila Sunrise, he called it. He handed one to Max, then carrying his own, he plopped down, feet up, on a slightly worn-out Mid-century Modern sofa. To support his back, he had inserted a beanbag under his back and his neck.

  Max couldn’t quite figure out why he was so nervous, but he felt he had to ask. “Nathan, how do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “You know… what you want. School. The girls. You go straight for it.”

  “I don’t overthink it. I just do.”

  “How do you figure it out?”

  Nathan looked serious, even with a tequila highball glass in his hand. He sat up on the sofa, and pointed at Max. “Look, you don’t waste time over analyzing things. That’s bullshit. Slows you down and keeps you from getting it done.” Nathan sliced the air with his arm. “Don’t question yourself, Max. Not on anything. Just do it.”

  Oh, I will, Max thought, forcing himself to constrain his enthusiasm. I most definitely will.

  Max held up his tequila high. “Cheers.”

  Nathan smiled. “Cheers.”

  As Max watched Nathan sip his drink, feeling envy for all his new friend had accomplished—in the future, too—he thought: How could this guy be driven to commit suicide?

  The good news. He remembered Nathan’s date of death—in the original timeline—was September 30, 2013. I have twenty-six years and five days to make sure it doesn’t happen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  September 30, 1987, at 3:42 p.m.

  Max sat across from the loan officer in the Continental Bank branch several blocks from his home.

  “So you want to borrow money?” asked the clerk.

  “Yes,” Max answered. “In the amount of ten thousand dollars.”

  The clerk looked at him over his steel-rimmed glasses.

  “Ten thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” The clerk scribbled something on a pad. “And the purpose of the loan?”

  “Investment.”

  “Investment?”

  “Yes.” Max smiled. “Investment.”

  “Investment in what?”

  Max gulped. “The stock market.”

  The clerk stopped scribbling. His eyes shot up at Max.

  “We don’t typically make loans for basic investments, Mr. Thorning,” the clerk replied. “We usually only give them out for new business. Or for buying real estate.”

  “Well, uh,” Max stammered, feeling the sweat trickle down his neck as he smiled, “I’m very certain there’ll be huge opportunities in the stock market in the next few weeks.”

  “That may very well be, but…” the clerk glanced at the papers. “From what you tell me, you have no assets.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have no occupation or other earnings.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Your parents aren’t with you here.”

  “Nope.”

  “If your investment does not go well, how can we expect to be paid back?”

  “Well, uh—“

  “Do you have proof that this investment in the stock market will pay off?”

  Max was flustered. He sighed, shook his head, and grabbed his backpack. “I don’t have any proof,” he admitted. He knew there was no point in continuing further. “Thank you,” he said, and then walked out.

  Later, at home, Max phoned Garfield.

  “Listen, man,” Max said, “I need to ask you a huge favor, and you’ll just have to trust me.”

  “All right, dude.”

  “I have a major investment opportunity coming up. I know you inherited five thousand dollars from your great-aunt. Would you invest it all with me?”

  “All of it?”

  “All of it.”

  “Whoa!” Garfield exclaimed. “What’s the big idea?”

  “Dude, hear me out. I’m certain that on Monday, October 19, the stock market will crash in a big way. We’ll short-sell, and make a fortune.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Max’s heart pounded. He was revealing a piece of the future to someone who had no idea about the source of the information—or the potential implications.

  “You’re not joking?” Garfield asked.

  “I’m not joking. Trust me. There’ll be a huge stock market crash on Monday, October 19, 1987.”

  “And what evidence do you have to base this hunch on?”

  Max let out the breath he’d been holding. “It’s not a hunch. And I don�
��t have any evidence. So you’ll just have to trust me.”

  On the other end he heard Garfield sigh.

  “You’re acting kinda crazy lately, Max. You know that?”

  “Dude, I know. But—”

  “You’ve quit your commerce major. And out of nowhere you say you want to be a doctor.”

  “I know, man, but—”

  “And now you want to play with the stock market. Based on what? What huge shift is going to happen to cause the crash? And why aren’t all those smart stock guys on top of it?”

  Max found himself grasping for an explanation. “Listen, I know this all sounds crazy. All I can say is that you’ll have to trust me. It’s going to happen.”

  There was another long pause. Finally, Garfield said, “Okay, okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “I’ll do it. I’m nuts, the whole thing’s nuts, but I like it. If I lose all the money, I’ll make you work your ass off to pay it back!”

  Max grinned from ear to ear. “Bring the money over this week and I’ll contact a broker.”

  “Wait,” Garfield said, having second thoughts. “If the market’s crashing, how do you make money?”

  “Short selling,” Max answered. “You bet the market will go down and if it does, you cash in.”

  “Huh. Sounds weird. So we bet on the stock market doing badly? Doesn’t sound legit to me.” Garfield paused, and Max could hear him breathing on the other end. “Okay Max, you’ll have my money.”

  “Cool! Thanks, buddy!”

  Max hung up. He could feel his hands trembling. Although he knew he would make his friend—and himself—a lot of money with the plan, he felt a pang of guilt that he was using his knowledge of history for personal gain. But if it funded his plans for Life II, he was confident he could live with a little nagging from his conscience.

  Chapter Fourteen

  October 19, 1987 at 12:13 p.m.

  “Oh my God!” Garfield said for the third time.

  They were at Max’s home for lunch, watching the live reports on television.

  “The crash continues,” the TV anchorman reported. “Market analysts are at a loss to explain it. They’re blaming a large imbalance of sell orders. The Dow Jones is now down to 1,799.94, losing 446.80 points so far today—”