“Her name was Kait and she was about nine years old on the day that I met her. She had blonde hair that was a little too long and a little too tangled, and the biggest blue eyes you could ever imagine. She had the kind of smile that could bring a whole room too life, and a laugh that could light the world on fire. She had a very nice singing voice for a child so young, but then, her whole family was very musical and she had been in voice lessons from the time she could speak in sentences.
“You would not have thought she would be the type of girl to fall for that sort of thing. She was beautiful, promising, from a good family, and so terribly, terribly young. It is always the saddest when it’s the young ones. It’s not that you believe it to be impossible, you just don’t really expect it. You think they are so pure and innocent, they would not fall for something so treacherous. But it happens, and it’s terrible.
“Especially terrible with her. She was just… that girl, you know what I mean?”
I have not the slightest clue what he means, but I nod anyways.
“But sometimes… power is too much for even the innocent to resist,” he sighs and leans back in the ancient leather chair, “I’m sure you know how the story ends, it’s nothing original.”
“Uh, yeah,” I’ve spent the last three hours listening to him recount tale after tale of adventure and horror in “some other dimension.” I’ve found myself repeatedly convinced that he is a madman, only to, the next moment, be solidly reminded of his sanity.
Every few minutes, I question why I am even here, just to, in the next secodn, be reminded. And yet there is some kind of a battle going on inside of me as to whether or not what I am doing is right. Maybe right is not even the word that I am looking for. I haven't been right for a long time, I'm not sure that what I'm looking for is something that is right. Maybe i don't care anymore about what is right or wrong.
Maybe all I want is something true - something real and solid. Between the alcohol, the drugs, the instability at home, the instability at school - whatver it was that happened to school - between everything, I somehow managed to lose anything that was real. Everything was constantly changing, completely ion flux, and never slowing down to give me even the slightest taste of security. And maybe it's better lkike that - to not even know what it is like. But maybe it isn't. Maybe I've wasted my whole life on something that was worth nothing at all.
And I think that is the reason that i am finding myuself here - as strange as it is, this man, Jack, offers something real. And the terrifying thinmg is that it may be the most hideous kind of falsehood, and the only way I will ever know is if I trust him. Even more strangely, I do trust him. There's something in his eyes, something in his voice. It's not the tales of a madmen that he is telling. He's being real, honest, with all the tears and laughter and emotion that goes along with it.
And I begin to wonder when it was - the last time I felt anything at all. I've spent the last several years teaching myself to be numb, to forget how to feel and to erase any emotions from my head or heart, or wherever it is that emotions begin. And now, here with him, I am wondering if I had been wrong all along. Maybe it wasn't so bad. I always assumed that sort of a thing was for the weak. Thre man before me is anything but weak, I think. He may be one of the strongest people I have ever met, if his words and demeanor are not false. And if he is a liar? Then... well, I don't know what then, to be honest.
It occurs to me that in this whole crazy life, I always have had some sort of a plan, some sort of a way to survive. And suddenly, the map's reached it's end... or maybe it's beginning? And I've run out of plans and thoughts and theories and dreams and have no choices left but to live it. Amd if it ends up to be nothing, if really everything that I've lived for amounts to nothing more than a dream or a nice story or a thought in the back of my head... I have no idea what happens at that point. How do you recover from that? How do you just move on with life as though nothing has ever been different when you've suddenly realized your entire life was not at all what you thought it was. And the whole idea of this is terrifying and awful, so I push these thoughts out of my head, giving him the benefit of doubt, and tune back into his words.
“They of course could not catch up to us. Their technology is still pretty far behind, and ours is a good ship. Old, but sturdy. Theirs…. It’s funny, you would think they would be a lot more practical, considering, but it’s more about looks than anything else, and looks don’t get you much of anywhere. Unless your greatest goal is to not be alone on a Friday night, then looks might help you out. Aside from that, it’s just not worth it.”
“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”
“The Tacos.”
“Tacos.”
“Well, not like the delicious Mexican food… they are, um, let’s see if I can pronounce it… Firoraptograndortacos, but we fondly refer to them as tacos. It’s just simpler that way. They hate it, though, so if you ever meet one, probably shouldn’t refer to it as that. Unless you like being killed with lasers.”
“Um. Alright. And what are they?”
“Aliens.”
“Woah, now we have time travel AND aliens?”
“Yes, that is what I have been talking about for some time now. Have you listened to me at all?”
“Uh, of course. I was just clarifying, that is all. It is all pretty strange for me. I feel like I might have crash landed in the middle of a cosplay con.”
“You did not, I assure you, though I do find it amusing how close to reality many of their ideas are, while at the same time being entirely pompous and ridiculous.”
"Did you honestly just call science fiction freaks intellegnt?"
"Well, I was not going to go to the extreme to call them that, I just think they may be slightly more enlightened than the rest of you humans."
"What's up with that?"
"Well, they do realize the potential for life and reality beyond what they are used to. Likewise, a good deal of the religious types also have veryu good points. Now some of them are just ridiculous, but most are just realizing the truth: the world is bigger than they thought, there's meaning and purpose in life, and not evrything is hopeless."
"That was not what I was asking about, but okay?"
"What was it that you were asking about?"
“You humans?”
“Yes?”
“Why do you say that? Please tell me you are not an alien.”
“I am not. I told you, I grew up in Brooklyn.”
“Okay,” I pause, but he does not speak, “well, are you going to explain yourself now?”
He frowns, “well, I’m afraid I am going to sound rather silly and arrogant. And I am trying to think of a good way to say it.”
“Really? Now you are worried of my opinion of you?”
“Well, not so much worried. I just feel it would be easier to work together if you did not think of me as a pompous idiot.”
“Just explain, I promise I will not hate you forever.”
“Fine. Well. You see, I havw seen... a lot. And doen quit e a few things that your average human has not, and I suppose that it is a little bit rude of me to blame them for that, because it really is not their fault that their experience has been so limited. I just feel so... I don't know... insulted? when I get lumped together with all you other silly, stupid humans. Most races recognize some existence beyond their own, yet we have made an art of trying to erase any possibility of life beyond us. What thoughtless, stupid, selfish creatures we are! It's all popular to know the right answers as to why there is no meaning, no morals, no answers, no absolutes. We think it is so exciting - so daring and interesting. In reality, we have been boring ourselves to death for years. We have become the laughingstock of the universe. So when I say "those humans", I say it in a way you might say "that family" or "that house" in reference to things which, by definition, you belong to, but you wish no association with. Do I make sense?"
"Well, I do think that you are very arrogant, but it would be silly for me to scold you all that much about that, as, sincve you just so cleverly poined out, I do the except same thing, except on a smaller, less interga;lactic scale. And I suppose neither one of us is right, and neither one of us is wrong."
"Oh, it may well be very wrong, but I am okay with tat at the monment. One day I will imporve myself and work on being less arrogant and close minded, for now I am conmpletely kay with being a little bit wrong in this area. I have greater roads to trave before I go down that one."
"No need to get all poetic about it."
"I find that when people hear that I am a time traveller, they suddenly expect me to speak with a British accent and describe the world in poetic terms. I used to be very normal, before I got stereotyped as Doctor Who. I used to, you know, play football - real football. Now I play futbol. And that's not even painful - it's soccer. I never thought that I would end up playing soccer and travelling across the universe, feigning a British accent and growing a goatee."
I can't help but laugh at him, "wow, your life sounds terrible."
"It is," he says with a grin, belieing his statement, "you would be surprised. See, once you start travelling with me, you'll do the same, start acting British."
"And grow a goatee?"
"I think you would look very nice with just a little bit of facial hair."
"I'm glad that you specified the just a little bit part."
"You are welcome. Now, let me see, where was I? We were talking about Tacos, right?"
"Right."
"Okay, so the Tacos, and you will probably meet quite a few of them in our travels, they are perhaps the biggest enemy to humankind, not that you can blame them much, sometimes I feel like being the biggest enemy to humankind, and I am humankind. In theory, a large part of our job is to protect our planet from the Tacos."
"Our job?"
"Responsibility, per se. There is a council for those who travel between time and space, and occasionally, if a large problem arises, they will put out some assignments for us to complete, such as settling certain treaties, making trade negotiations, leading armies to battle, tweaking a historical event that has fallen out of place. All of these things are, of course, of upmost importance. Mostly we freelance, doing things on our own whims and leisure. A few of us have what we may call "pet projects," say, like, a refugee planet. It is pretty much social work on an intergalactic scale."
"Intergalactic social work," I laugh slightly at the thought, "what university can I major in that at?"
"It may surprise yo to know that there actiually are many intergalactic universities and training schools. Most of the degrees are very credible on most planets. Earth is one of the few planets yet that refuses to accept that there is a whole entire world out there that is beyond their reconing. Silly humans."
"Okay, I get your point, you hate humans."
"I wish I were an alien."
"That is a statement I don't hear every day."
"Ah, well, get used to it."
"I guess I will have to. So these Tacos, what is up with that?"
"Tacos... right, yes. It would be very important for you to know how to properly respond to a Taco. The best response is always silence. There is nothing you can say that they will not use against you. So keep your eyes open and your mouth closed. They are tricky, so be cautious. You think you know what is going on. In reality, you know nothing at all. Wait until you gain a little more knowledge to say or do anything at all. If you ever happen to be captured, nothing. No speaking, no heroic attempts at escape, nothing. You wait for me to come get you, understand?"
“And if these Tacos are so tricky, what makes you think that you will be able to rescue me?”
“I have all the time I need. I can wait for years to retrieve you only a day after your capture. Sure, it will kill me inside to know that in even one dimension, even one timeline, I allowed someone to be tortured for years. But you will not know that when I rescue you, you will not remember anything at all.”
“Then… thank you, I think?”
“You are welcome, if that is how you are choosing to take it.”
“So, that is just what you do, then, alter past events at any time you feel like?”
“No,” he says, closing his eyes for a moment as though in deep thought, and perhaps also deep pain, “no, there are rules that govern. There are some things that I cannot do, some situations I cannot change. There are renegades, those who change history. It is the council’s job to keep history in tact. This becomes increasingly difficult as the renegades grow in number.”
“What do you mean, keep history in tact?”
“Some travelers look at all the wrongs in history and try to fix them, heal all the scars in our history, and create some sort of a Utopia. Unfortuanately, our world is far from perfect, and messing with events in the way they do creates some unexpected and often horrific results.”
“Such as?”
“Imagine if Hitler had been assassinated.”
“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
“See, that is what everyone thinks, but what if, instead, it had been Stalin? If one man perishes, there is always another to take his place. And, I’ve found, the alternative is often unlovely.”
“Has someone assassinated Hitler?”
“Wouldn’t you, if you thought it would save lives?”
“Yes.”
“And yes.”
“So basically, you travel through history replacing all the events that other people travelling through history deleted?”
“Basically.”
“That’s a little bit unique.”
“It is.”
“Is that what I am going to be doing?”
“If you want to.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“Well, then, I guess you won’t do anything.”
But I will. And it’s in this moment that I realize I have honestly abandoned any sense of reality. There is no longer any voice in the back of my head telling me that I am probably crazy, there is no more skepticism, no more doubts, and a complete absence of any logic that I may have had once upon a time. I don’t really remember what it feels like to be normal: or at least as normal as I once was, which really was not all that normal at all. I do not any longer remember caution, and I feel as though even if this were some sort of a crazy, drug induced dream (where I ironically become sober), I would never want for it to end.
More terrifying than the prospect that this could be a dream is the very fact that I believe it is not. I believe this is truer and realer than anything I have known before. And I realize that right now I am placing all my trust –every hope, dream, and thought – squarely on the shoulders of this one man. Should it turn out that he is, after all this, a madman, I think that would be the end of me.
But looking at him, I find it hard to believe it possible that he could be a madman. He just looks far too sincere. His clear blue eyes light up as he begins to recount some tale of a far-off land. Perhaps I should be listening to him, but I am not. I study his apartment with some interest. It is hardly the apartment of a madman. The small living room consists of this ugly pink couch – some product of the 80’s that once upon a time, some man thought was a good idea to create. It was not a good idea. Sorry, man who invented this couch. The upholstery is worn and faded, completely destroyed in some parts, with a bit of the metal frame sticking out of one of the arms. The brown, leather chair is not in much better shape. The sides are ripped and there are tufts of stuffing peeking out at random places. It looks like a chair that may have been nice five or ten years ago, but exhausted itself in the effort to survive and became somewhat haggled from it. A sturdy coffee table sits uneasily between the two seats, stacked a foot or two high with books, papers, coffee mugs, and empty soda bottles – typical of a university student. I wonder if he is in university. I had not asked, but he would be in that age, I suppose. The only other substantial piece of furniture in the main room is a large wardrobe that puts me in mind of those books, the Chronicles of Narnia. Perhaps it is not so much that they look like something from the books as it is that I am not certain I have ever seen a wardrobe in an American home. The wardrobe is, by far, the nicest piece of furniture in the room. Only a few years old, and well taken care of. Made out of dark, solid wood, and engraved. I wonder absently what might be held within the wardrobe, but quickly forget such thoughts and allow myself to become wrapped in his story. And this is how it went:
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