ue sweater with little yellow ducks all over it,
and a neon red down vest with pink tennis shoes. Really, it's not surprising that
someone would feel they needed to hit me.
"It was the best I could do at the time." I hope the guy I took these off of was
close to home. It's about twenty degrees out here. "Why are you consorting with
frat boys?"
"Oh, we went to law school together." We are walking by the back door of the
Army-Navy surplus store and I experience a deep desire to be wearing normal
clothing. I decide to risk appalling Gomez; I know he'll get over it. I stop.
"Comrade. This will only take a moment; I just need to take care of something.
Could you wait at the end of the alley?"
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing. Breaking and entering. Pay no attention to the man behind the
curtain."
"Mind if I come along?"
"Yes." He looks crestfallen. "All right. If you must." I step into the niche which
shelters the back door. This is the third time I've broken into this place, although
the other two occasions are both in the future at the moment. I've got it down to a
science. First I open the insignificant combination lock that secures the security
grate, slide the grate back, pick the Yale lock with the inside of an old pen and a
safety pin found earlier on Belmont Avenue, and use a piece of aluminum
between the double doors to lift the inside bolt. Voila! Altogether, it takes about
three minutes. Gomez regards me with almost religious awe.
" Where did you learn to do that?"
"It's a knack," I reply modestly. We step inside. There is a panel of blinking
red lights trying to look like a burglar alarm system, but I know better. It's very
dark in here. I mentally review the layout and the merchandise. "Don't touch
anything, Gomez." I want to be warm, and inconspicuous. I step carefully
through the aisles, and my eyes adjust to the dark. I start with pants: black Levi's.
I select a dark blue flannel shirt, a heavy black wool overcoat with an
industrial-strength lining, wool socks, boxers, heavy mountain-climb ing gloves,
and a hat with ear flaps. In the shoe department I find, to my great satisfaction,
Docs exactly like the ones my buddy Nick was wearing. I am ready for action.
Gomez, meanwhile, is poking around behind the counter. "Don't bother," I tell
him. "This place doesn't leave cash in the register at night. Let's go." We leave the
way we came. I close the door gently and pull the grate across. I have my
previous set of clothing in a shopping bag. Later I will try to find a Salvation
Army collection bin. Gomez looks at me expectantly, like a large dog who's
waiting to see if I have any more lunch meat.
Which reminds me. "I'm ravenous. Let's go to Ann Sather's."
"Ann Sather's? I was expecting you to propose bank robbery, or manslaughter,
at the very least. You're on a roll, man, don't stop now!"
"I must pause in my labors to refuel. Come on." We cross from the alley to
Ann Sather's Swedish Restaurant's parking lot. The attendant mutely regards us
as we traverse his kingdom. We cut over to Belmont. It's only nine o'clock, and
the street is teeming with its usual mix of runaways, homeless mental cases,
clubbers, and suburban thrill seekers. Ann Sather's stands out as an island of
normalcy amid the tattoo parlors and condom boutiques. We enter, and wait by
the bakery to be seated. My stomach gurgles. The Swedish decor is comforting,
all wood paneling and swirling red marbling. We are seated in the smoking
section, right in front of the fireplace. Things are looking up. We remove our
coats, settle in, read the menus, even though, as lifelong Chicagoans, we could
probably sing them from memory in two-part harmony. Gomez lays all his
smoking paraphernalia next to his silverware.
"Do you mind?"
"Yes. But go ahead." The price of Gomez's company is marinating in the
constant stream of cigarette smoke that flows from his nostrils. His fingers are a
deep ochre color; they flutter delicately over the thin papers as he rolls Drum
tobacco into a thick cylinder, licks the paper, twists it, sticks it between his lips,
and lights it. "Ahh." For Gomez, a half hour without a smoke is an anomaly. I
always enjoy watching people satisfy their appetites, even if I don't happen to
share them.
"You don't smoke? Anything?"
"I run."
"Oh. Yeah, shit, you're in great shape. I thought you had about killed Nick,
and you weren't even winded."
"He was too drunk to fight. Just a big sodden punching bag."
"Why'd you lay into him like that?"
"It was just stupidity." The waiter arrives, tells us his name is Lance and the
specials are salmon and creamed peas. He takes our drink orders and speeds
away. I toy with the cream dispenser. "He saw how I was dressed, concluded that
I was easy meat, got obnoxious, wanted to beat me up, wouldn't take no for an
answer, and got a surprise. I was minding my own business, really I was."
Gomez looks thoughtful. "Which is what, exactly?"
"Pardon?"
"Henry. I may look like a chump, but in fact your old Uncle Gomez is not
completely sans clues. I have been paying attention to you for some time: before
our little Clare brought you home, as a matter of fact. I mean, I don't know if you
are aware of it, but you are moderately notorious in certain circles. I know a lot of
people who know you. People; well, women. Women who know you " He
squints at me through the haze of his smoke. "They say some pretty strange
things." Lance arrives with my coffee and Gomez's milk. We order: a
cheeseburger and fries for Gomez, split pea soup, the salmon, sweet potatoes,
and mixed fruit for me. I feel like I'm going to keel over right this minute if I don't
get a lot of calories fast. Lance departs swiftly. I'm having trouble caring very
much about the misdeeds of my earlier self, much less justifying them to Gomez.
None of his business, anyway. But he's waiting for my answer. I stir cream into
my coffee, watching the slight white scum on the top dissipate in swirls. I throw
caution to the winds. It doesn't matter, after all.
"What would you like to know, comrade?"
"Everything. I want to know why a seemingly mild-mannered librarian beats a
guy into a coma over nothing while wearing kindergarten-teacher clothing. I
want to know why Ingrid Carmichel tried to kill herself eight days ago. I want to
know why you look ten years older right now than you did the last time I saw
you. Your hair's going gray. I want to know why you can pick a Yale lock. I want
to know why Clare had a photograph of you before she actually met you."
Clare had a photo of me before 1991 ? I didn't know that. Oops. "What did the
photo look like?"
Gomez regards me. "More like you look at the moment, not like you looked a
couple weeks ago when you came over for dinner." That was two weeks ago?
Lord, this is only the second time Gomez and I have met. "It was taken outdoors.
You're smiling. The date on the back is June, 1988." The food arrives, and we
pause to arrange it on our little table. I start eating as though there's no
tomorrow.
Gomez sits, watching me eating, his food untouched. I've seen Gomez do his
thing in court with hostile witnesses, just like this. He simply wills them to spill
the beans. I don't mind telling all, I just want to eat first. In fact, I need Gomez to
know the truth, because he's going to save my ass repeatedly in the years to
come.
I'm halfway through the salmon and he's still sitting. "Eat, eat," I say in my
best imitation of Mrs. Kim. He dips a fry in ketchup and munches it. "Don't
worry, I'll confess. Just let me have my last meal in peace." He capitulates, and
starts to eat his burger. Neither of us says a word until I've finished consuming
my fruit. Lance brings me more coffee. I doctor it, stir it. Gomez is looking at me
as though he wants to shake me. I resolve to amuse myself at his expense.
"Okay. Here it is: time travel."
Gomez rolls his eyes and grimaces, but says nothing.
"I am a time traveler. At the moment I am thirty-six years old. This afternoon
was May 9, 2000. It was a Tuesday. I was at work, I had just finished a Show and
Tell for a bunch of Caxton Club members and I had gone back to the stacks to
reshelve the books when I suddenly found myself on School Street, in 1991.1 had
the usual problem of getting something to wear. I hid under somebody's porch
for a while. I was cold, and nobody was coming along, and finally this young
guy, dressed-well, you saw how I was dressed. I mugged him, took his cash and
everything he was wearing except his underwear. Scared him silly; I think he
thought I was going to rape him or something. Anyway, I had clothes. Okay. But
in this neighborhood you can't dress like that without having certain
misunderstandings arise. So I've been taking shit all evening from various
people, and your friend just happened to be the last straw. I'm sorry if he's very
damaged. I very much wanted his clothes, especially his shoes." Gomez glances
under the table at my feet. "I find myself in situations like that all the time. No
pun intended. There's something wrong with me. I get dislocated in time, for no
reason. I can't control it, I never know when it's going to happen, or where and
when I'll end up. So in order to cope, I pick locks, shoplift, pick pockets, mug
people, panhandle, break and enter, steal cars, lie, fold, spindle, and mutilate.
You name it, I've done it."
"Murder."
"Well, not that I know of. I've never raped anybody, either." I look at him as I
speak. He's poker-faced. "Ingrid. Do you actually know Ingrid?"
"I know Celia Attley."
"Dear me. You do keep strange company. How did Ingrid try to kill herself?"
"An overdose of Valium."
"1991? Yeah, okay. That would be Ingrid's fourth suicide attempt."
"What?"
"Ah, you didn't know that? Celia is only selectively informative. Ingrid
actually succeeded in doing herself in on January 2, 1994. She shot herself in the
ch