Jude

Somewhere in Time

Cowering in a dark alley, I held my knees to my chest, shivering. Snow dusted the cobblestone streets. Noises and whispers in the vicinity meant I wasn't alone. Trash littered the streets and the place stunk of raw sewage. A woman and two small sleeping children huddled together directly across from me. The woman stared at me, horror and shock strewn all over her face. With a look of sheer terror, she hugged her children tightly, as if she couldn't bear to let them go. Her long dress and bonnet made me think I was in the mid-1800s somewhere in either the industrial United States or the United Kingdom. Nearby, a man lay curled up in the fetal position using newspaper for a blanket. I couldn't tell if he was dead or alive. If he was dead, then I could easily steal his clothes and avoid freezing to death.

Further down the street, women in scantily clad clothes loitered the alley. They stood there, their bare legs exposed for all to see, as they eagerly awaited their next client. They must have been freezing, too. If I had to guess, I'd guess they were 'working girls' or 'women of the night,' whatever prostitutes were called in the Victorian era. I wished I paid more attention in history class. I'd learned so much over the past year, and it would have been helpful if I knew more than I did.

My clothes always stayed behind. They didn't come back with me, either. By now, I'd lost all sense of modesty, accustomed to being naked in places I never imagined. During my travels, I'd gotten arrested at least a dozen times for indecent exposure. I even got locked up in a mental hospital, barely escaping a lobotomy.

I fell asleep on my couch, binge-watching a docu-series about serial killers. I'd just finished the episode about Ed Gein, the serial killer who inspired the creations of Leatherface, the killer in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and Buffalo Bill, Hannibal Lechter's former patient, in The Silence of the Lambs. In real life, Ed Gein was convicted and declared insane. He spent the rest of his life in a mental hospital. Anyway, the next episode was about Ted Bundy, but I'd have to watch it another time.

These journeys didn't just happen at night. It happened whenever I fell into a deep sleep. Exhausted all the time, I risked falling asleep any time of day; therefore, I worked from home. What would I do if I fell asleep in an office and returned butt naked?

I averaged about two to three hours' sleep before entering another realm. Those few hours of sleep allowed me to keep going in 2023.

Falling into a deep sleep was my only way back home. It was difficult to fall asleep in strange places. An alley, a jail cell, and barns were common places where I ended up crashing. Whenever I got arrested for indecent exposure, I usually fell asleep in the jail cell before anyone harmed me. Sometimes I found solace in jail as it gave me shelter, clothes, and food.

I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to live, either, not like this. Eventually, I expected someone to shoot me, hang me, or stab me to death. If that happened, I didn't know what would happen to my body. Would I just become a missing person in the present? Would that even matter? No one would miss me, anyway. I had no family to speak of. I hadn't seen my mother since my hospitalization.

I was so cold, my bones hurt. When it was this cold outside, I risked getting hypothermia. But if I stood up and walked down the alley, I risked being attacked. As my body trembled, I scanned the area, searching for something I could use as a weapon in case I needed it. A few feet away, I spotted a glass bottle and stretched my arm, reaching for it. In the past, I'd used homemade weapons to defend myself. Until this affliction, I was never a violent person nor a thief, but things had changed since the car accident.

Clutching the bottle with one hand, I picked up a piece of newspaper with the other, discovering it was the London Times, dated February 2, 1843. I then returned the newspaper to the man. Although he didn't budge, his chest heaved in and out subtly. He wasn't dead.

Quietly, I crawled along a tenement building, scouring the area, desperate for clothes. As another man slept, I discovered a bag beside him. I rummaged through it and found rags that turned out to be a shirt, worn out pants, and tattered socks. No shoes. I bet these items, besides the clothes on his back, were the only items he owned.

And I stole them. The last thing I wanted to do was freeze to death in London in 1843.

After getting dressed, I wandered down the street, nearly tripping over the sleeping bodies. A mother swatted at my legs as I accidentally stepped on her baby's blanket, barely missing her baby.

I'd visited London at least a dozen times over the past year. I survived a blitz attack in the 1940s, barely escaping with my life. It was almost as scary as landing in Cambodia during the Pol Pot regime. That's a story for a different day.

The socks on my feet felt as thin as the worn-out rags draped over my thin body. Up ahead, flames flickered, a sign of a fire. Folding my arms across my chest, I followed the flames, discovering that someone had started a fire in a trashcan. Men, women, and children of various ages crowded around the flames, doing their best to keep themselves warm. Everyone wore shoes but me. One woman took pity on me and scooted over, allowing me to get closer to the fire. A toothless man stood on the other side of the fire, glaring at me, ready to attack me any minute for trespassing on his turf.

"Oi! Get 'im outta ere!" he shouted. "We ain't know you!"

"The boy's got no shoes," the woman said. "Give 'im a few minutes."

"Thanks." I barely spoke, careful not to expose my accent and therefore my nationality. I doubted these people had ever met an American, but if I spoke, they'd surely know I wasn't from around here. My aim was to fade into the background, ensuring I remained just another unremarkable face in the crowd. As someone of mixed Cambodian and white descent, I struggled to blend in while traveling to places like England in the 1800s . A top hat and eyeglasses would have been useful, but the people in these slums didn't seem like the type who owned either. I hoped to make it back home by daylight with no one noticing I didn't belong there. The less interaction with people the better. I never met any famous people like Bill and Ted did in their adventures. I ran into normal, ordinary people who did their best to live their lives.

While the fire warmed my bones, a man shoved me so hard I landed hard on my ass. As I attempted to get up, he kicked me in my ribs, knocking me down again. Before getting up, I smashed the glass bottle on the cobblestones and aimed a shard of glass at the filthy man.

"Don't fucking touch me again," I said through gritted teeth. As he took a step toward me, I ran off, running as fast as I could while he shouted at me. In my haste, I tripped over a cobblestone, tearing the knee off my pants and stubbing my big toe. I was lucky that the man stopped chasing me. Exhausted, I crawled to another tenement building, searching for a quiet spot in a doorway, only to find more people sleeping. Gripping the shard of glass, I lay flat on the cold cobblestones, hoping God would take me in my sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, I woke up on the floor of my bedroom in my shitty apartment, shivering profusely, my body still aching from the cold and blows to my ribs. My big toe throbbed in the worst way. I bet I broke it. I stumbled to my feet, my head hurting as much as the rest of my body. I limped to the bathroom and sat on the toilet to get a better look at my red and swollen toe. I swore under my breath, rubbing it. Yeah, it was broken. I was broke and couldn't afford to go to any more doctors, so I'd just have to deal with a broken toe. I stood up again and turned on the shower on the verge of tears that wouldn't come. I was too tired to cry. The warm water was a welcome relief for a few minutes.

I wanted a friend. No, I needed a friend. This loneliness was killing me as much as the unexplainable time traveling. After my shower, I returned to my bedroom and wrapped a blanket around me. As I held my phone in my hand, I scrolled through my short list of contacts. The only people I ever called were my doctor, boss, and co-workers.

The time on my phone reflected nine a.m. Where did the time go? I fell asleep yesterday afternoon. By now, I was starving.

But food would have to wait. I decided to make a call instead of making breakfast. I saw Percy three days ago and couldn't wait until next Tuesday to see him again. The receptionist at the community health center had bad news for me, though: He wasn't in the office until Monday. I had no choice but to wait.

Or did I?

There was one other number I saved, a number I never called before. When I traveled to 2018, Percy gave me his phone number, which I wrote on my arm. It was an experiment to see if the ink would stay on my skin like cuts and bruises did. I wasn't upset that Percy didn't remember me. A lot of people didn't remember me, like my first boss. I hated working at Express Pizza. He was a douche when he was eighteen and an even bigger douche as the owner at forty-five. Don't ask me how I ended up running into him. From what I saw, there was nothing special or significant in 1996.

The experiment worked. When I returned, I plugged Percy's number into my phone. I wanted to call him, but I didn't have the balls. To him, I vanished off the face of the earth five years ago. To me, it was only a month ago. I remember he was dating a girl who liked the idea of dating a lawyer. Those were his words, not mine. I stayed awake for as long as possible. Three days was my max. I fell asleep in the shelter and that was it. I didn't have the ability to wish myself back to the same year. In my bed, I stared at his number, my finger hovering over his name.

I can't do this anymore. I need a friend.

Fuck it. I tapped his name. My heart beat fast as I waited for him to answer. After several rings, I expected his phone to go to voicemail. A part of me wanted it to go to voicemail.

It did not.

"Hello?" Percy answered.

"Hello, Alonzo. Are you busy?"

At first, I thought Percy hung up, but his breathing grew faster and heavier. "Who is this?"

His tone of voice made me think he recognized me, whether it was by the alias I'd used during our previous encounters or by my given name, Jude.

"It's... it's Kevin." At one time, I called myself Kevin Bacon. When I met Percy, I just introduced myself as 'Kevin.' He would never have believed I was 'Kevin Bacon.'

"Leave me alone. I'm busy. Never call me again."

And that was it. He ended the call.

Ten minutes later, I got a text message notifying me that Percy had canceled our appointment on Tuesday.

Yep, he knew who I was.

But it wasn't over.

Far from it.

Words: 2038

Total Words: 4718