They redesigned fire escapes over the last few decades. I never saw a problem with the rotted scaffolding they used to use, though I doubt it would have carried the weight of all 1,237 households in my building. It must have been seventeen, maybe eighteen years ago when they tore down every ladder in the city and replaced them with the Tubes.
I’m sitting on the iridescent ledge of a Tube now, just outside my forty-seventh floor apartment. My hand hovers over an enormous yellow button while I rock back and forth on the platform, which swaddles my legs in a slight bit of goo. I’ve gotten in trouble a few times for pressing the button when there wasn’t a fire. But it’s the city’s own fault for making the Tubes so comfortable. They wrap me up in this warm, heat-proof fabric, and soon I’m drenched in slime, funneling a thousand miles a minute through the invisible chute system that hangs like honey over the skyscrapers. It’s wonderful, and it lasts for ages–like how I imagine it feels when most people sleep.
But then I get to the other end–the fire station–and I have to deal with Mr. Pliskova who always threatens legal action if I keep pulling the goopy fire alarm when I’m not supposed to.
I sigh, retract my fingers from the button and turn to the next best thing. My lighter tickles the bowl of my pipe with dainty, cygilistic sparks of electricity. Soon, yellow heat waves radiate from the drug in the glass before I suck it all up through my lips and my cheeks shiver with delight. Cold gas rakes my throat, but I keep it in for as long as I can. I feel the tingle of a cough building in my lungs and as I watch the sulfur smoke wisp from my lips, I wonder if that’s what I’ll become when I’m gone.
I shriek as something jumps onto my hand. I brush it off and scurry away. That’s the other problem with the Tubes. For some reason, they like to wrap up dead things from the ground and send them up to the ledges. It happens so often that the mayor had to give a speech. She said she had no idea what caused it and after that, everyone just kind of accepted it. I nudge the little body over the edge and lean to see it disappear into the darkness below.
My attention catches on the building across from mine. I peer about twelve stories down into Julie’s apartment. I think she leaves the window open to taunt me. I can see her and her new boyfriend fondling each other on her couch. I wonder if it still smells the same or if his scent has invaded the aroma I spent so long cultivating. They’re watching a show I watched with her first. I shake my head as they get to my favorite bit, and don’t look up from their incessant necking. She leaves the window open to taunt me.
Anyways, I’ve extracted every morsel of yellow goodness from my pipe, so I suppose it’s time to head back inside. I’m careful not to pinch my fingers on the windowsill as I crawl through unflatteringly. I don’t want to feel any pain.
“Hello, Pascal,” I say to my roommate as I pass by. Pascal’s sitting in the usual spot, meditating as Pascal does. “How’s it going tonight? Got any plans?” Pascal doesn’t respond, as usual. I don’t expect anything more, I’m not crazy.
There’s a gun on the counter. It’s old and the trigger looks like it could disintegrate at any second, but the bullets that jut out from its revolving chamber glint new. This is the weapon my grandfather kept in his waistband during the war. It’s the one with which he shot a dozen fascists, and then himself. I admire it every day. I brush the dust off with the black feather I keep beside it, check to make sure it’s still loaded, and inspect its various fiddly bits, wondering if it would work if I used it.
I look up at the two doors in my apartment. On the left, the bathroom. Do I have to use the bathroom? Not really. It’d be something to do, but I tried about an hour ago and I haven’t drunk any water. On the right, the bedroom. Could I sleep? Probably not, and it would depress me to try.
So, I suppose it’s time for my only hobby–pacing around the living room in a wide circle, waiting for the drugs to kick in.
“Hey, Pascal,” I say to Pascal as I pass by on my first revolution.
I keep my apartment sparse. I read a book on spartanism a while back, thinking it was about the cool Greek guys. You know, statues, and battles and shit, but it turned out to be a life-coaching seminar on why it’s better not to have furniture. I never really liked my furniture anyways, so I thought I’d give it a try. I sent my couch, my coffee table, and my pay-per-view holographic television to the fire station.
All that’s left is my grandfather’s paisley rug. It covers the burns in the hardwood, and I feel it ties the whole room together, so I kept it.
“What’s good, Pascal?” I say on my second pass.
This goes on for half an hour, or until I start to wonder how long it’s been. I glance to the smokey outline where my clock used to be, and once again salute Pascal. I’ve also started to see tiny yellow figures in the corners of my eyes. They’re exercising, stretching their limbs, smiling, and depending on my mood, conspiring to rob me. I know they’re going to get bigger. I know they’re going to turn into huge fractals that make me forget where I am. Soon, the drug will take over my mind and I won’t feel like this anymore.
I’m tired, so I sit in front of Pascal. “Hi, Pascal,” I say again.
Pascal is an enormous, conglomerated shrine to every deity I’ve ever come across. Pascal sits at eight feet tall, oozing with the industrial grade glue I used to piece it together. The body is composed of various religious texts, all of which have been perused, torn apart, and stuck back together like a lunatic’s victim. It has the skull of a goat, the ears of an elephant, and ten divinely positioned hands that hold crustacean shells and stolen gemstones. I painted its base to look like those Tibetan clouds, but they turned out more reminiscent of dirty rags. Pictures of spiritual leaders sprout from Pascal’s shoulders, all smiling at me, smelling of every incense I could find on top of sage, myrrh, vomit and hardening wax. Pascal is my passion project. If I’m going to end it all, I may as well hedge my bets. I don’t want any unpleasantries.
That being said, I really don’t know how to pray to it all. I feel like I should, but to who? To what? For what?
I turn around to make sure the old gun is still in its place. It always is because only Pascal and I live here. Right on the table next to—
It’s gone. I twist my head to various corners of the room, spying for dropped bits and pieces of it, but there’s no trace. Did I move it and forget? I never move it. But maybe earlier today I decided it was finally time, and took it to the bedroom. I don’t remember that, though. And as the drug whispers louder in my ear, do I really care about the old gun?
I turn back to Pascal and rock back and forth on the hardwood. My ass starts to hurt. While I can stand it, I murmur incoherencies, hoping that if something is watching me, they might understand the feeling without the words. But soon, the yellow specters have clouded my peripherals, and I need to use the bathroom.
With a groan, I push up from the ground, and rub my eyes, missing the door handle twice before I catch it between two of my weakest fingers. Immediately upon entering the cracked-tile bunker of sewage piping, I turn to the mirror, and lift my shirt. It’s not like I’m going to go to the gym, or start eating healthier, so nothing will have changed, but I still shake my head as nausea slips up my esophagus.
“Hello,” says someone in the bathtub. “We know you want to kill yourself.”
I shriek and stumble back into the door, slamming my head on the wood. I point and scream “Get out! Who are you?” There are two women standing side-by-side in the faux marble basin. They wear trench coats and patinated leather bootstraps with modern ether rifles and futuristic control panel waistcoats. Two shy beeps sound out of time, and echo a series of red lights in their breast pockets that spasm on and off.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” says the one on the left, “but we have a matter of urgent business to discuss with you. My name is Captain Fronders, and this is Leftenant Muck. We are members of a government agency called AAMTT–the Association for the Advancement of Military Time Travel. We would like to enlist your help.”
I sputter and shake my head. “Time travel? Excuse me? Is this some kind of joke? Get out of my apartment.”
They disappear. No wind, no bright lights. The two women are gone, and I can’t remember if I hallucinated them.
I squeal again as a sudden wave of memory eclipses my thoughts. I fall to my knees. My heartbeat pounds in my brain as I experience a memory over and over again like it’s always been there. But it feels entirely new.
When I look up, the women are back.
“I remember you,” I wail. “I remember it now. You were at my elementary school. During volleyball practice. How–You looked… completely different. But it was definitely you–”
“Yes,” replies the woman on the left. “We’ve just come from there.”
The one on the right interrupts seamlessly. “Would you like to participate in our study?”
“What?” is all I can manage to get out.
“We are interested in your participation in our study. Are you familiar with the grandfather paradox?” She doesn’t pause for me to respond. “What happens if one travels back in time and kills their own grandfather?”
“We have been tasked with deciphering this problem,” continues the other. “But because of recently amended manslaughter legislation, we are unable to kill others in the past, we are only authorized to use… self-destructive methods. We find the whole grandfather part of it all redundant anyways. The paradox arises in the same way with even a one minute travel to the past. That being said, no one at our agency wants to test it. No one’s willing to go back in time and kill themself.”
“But since I already want to…” I piece together.
“Precisely.” Says the one on the left. “We want you to travel back in time, and sacrifice yourself to science.”
A pause. I steady myself against the wall, and my towel falls off its hook. “I’m too high for this,” I say. My vision is almost entirely consumed by the yellow shapes.
“Come towards us,” they say. I stumble forward, hands grabbing in front of me. I feel knuckles on my shoulder, and instantly I’m silenced. I try to scream, but my mouth moves too fast. My vision begins to clear, thoughts speeding along more swiftly than I can track them. When the women release me, I slump against the ridge of the bathtub, and catch my breath.
I’m sober.