He looks around the empty office, the bare walls, like he’s looking for something to defend himself with and, finding nothing, turns back to me. “You’re three years out from your pension. You hang here, you get your ten, you retire with some modicum of security. Don’t you want that?”
“Tell me when and where my job performance has suffered,” I say. “Just last week I broke up a plot to kill Lincoln before he could run for president. Which, if it didn’t destroy the timestream outright, would have been a bit of a mess if we suddenly had slavery again. And this is my reward? For stopping slavery?”
“January…”
“Or remember the guy who was going to go back and invest in Betamax and then game the videotape format war to kill VHS? Who stopped him? Me. Think of all the ripples that would have created.”
I hold up a finger. “I have stopped a dozen big game hunters from going after a T rex.”
Another finger. “The guy who wanted to warn Hitler to get out of Berlin? We got him.”
Another finger. “The woman who…”
“You’re Unstuck, January.”
I give the word a minute to settle. The sharp edges and dark valleys of the letters.
Again, not a surprise. For weeks now it felt like I was having moments of extreme déjà vu. A few times a day I’d see things I thought I’d already seen. Someone would walk into a room and I could have sworn they’d already been there.
And then a few days ago I heard someone tell me to duck, so I dropped to the floor on the concourse of Einstein. Nothing happened. Ten minutes later someone told me to duck for real, and I was so confused over hearing it again that I didn’t. One of those dumb little AI drones was having a navigation malfunction and flew right into my head.
I knew it.
It just sucks to get it confirmed.
I hold up the third finger. “The woman who tried to board the Titanic so she could warn them about the iceberg and, I quote, ‘save Rose and Jack.’ As much as I wanted to let her follow through so I could see the look on her face, I stopped her.”
Allyn gets up and walks to the wall, turning away from me. I’m frustrating him. Which is the whole point. It’s the only card I have to play right now. Because I know how this hand ends.
“Have you ever seen it?” His voice is quiet. “Have you ever seen someone who hit the third stage?” He turns to me, his eyes almost misting. “It’s horrible. They’re there, but they’re…not. Like shells. I know it’s a risk we all face doing this job. I know if I gave you a choice, you would be back in there today.”
I try to respond and he puts up his hand.
“You’ll be the house detective,” he says. “Frankly I think it has a nice ring to it. You get a room and an unlimited tab. There’s still plenty of bad shit here to break up. Where do you think that Titanic woman was staying? The Paradox Hotel will be your own personal fiefdom.” He knocks on the desk and I look up at him. “I’m not asking you to come here and put on a guard’s uniform and let your ass grow fat. I’m putting you in charge of this place. It’s yours.”
I sag in the chair, lean my head back, stare into the light until it hurts. “Can I think about it?”
“Sure,” he says. “Have yourself a walk around. Go up to the bar and get a coffee. We can talk about it tomorrow. Two or three days if you need.”
“Okay.” I get up, push in the chair, and pause at the door.
“I’m sorry,” Allyn says.
“I know.”
I don’t wait for a response. I let the door close behind me and stand there, taking in the lobby. The sunlight spilling down through the skylight far above, shattering on the shiny brass clock hovering above the floor. The bustle of the employees. The movement and the sound of it. The smell.
Coffee.
I could use coffee.
I go to the urn and it’s kicked, so I amble over to the wall, where there’s a map of the hotel. There’s a café on the second floor but the restaurant and bar are on the top, so I figure on walking my way up there. Get the lay of the land. Sit. Maybe it’ll be quiet. What a bonus that’d be.
It’s after breakfast but before lunch, so by the time I make it up there, it’s mostly empty. I consider taking a table, but decide on the bar, which doesn’t have anyone working behind it. I pull out a stool and wait.
I’d have to give up my apartment. It’s not even a very nice apartment, but I’ve lived there for six years now, which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere since I was a kid. I won’t get to ride the stream anymore, which has been the greatest thrill of my life that didn’t involve two bottles of wine first. And I’ll have to come here. Live in a hotel.
I feel hollow. The plight of being a workaholic. You lose your job and suddenly you find yourself with nothing. As much as I could use that pension, maybe I should go. Being this close and not able to play the game—that’ll hurt. Maybe I’m not prepared for it, to stand at the window and look at the lights of Einstein and wonder what’s happening over there, the fun I’m missing out on.
The worst part of being Unstuck is, drinking can supposedly exacerbate it. So I can’t even order my coffee with a few licks of whiskey. I have to navigate this sober.
It’s real now.
Allyn saying it makes it real.
“What’ll it be, honey?”
I look in the direction of the voice and when my eyes land on the woman in the sleek white blouse and the black apron, just about every drop of blood in my heart squeezes out, before rushing back in and making me light-headed.
Her skin glows, and the gentle curve of her Adam’s apple catches the light even in the dim confines of the bar. But it’s the smile that does me in. She smiles from the top of her head down to the points of her toes, and she’s not just smiling, she’s smiling for me.
With me, like we’re sharing something.
“Coffee, black,” I tell her, finally making my throat work again.
She sees me stumble, and she likes it, giving a little grin as she glances down at herself, like she wants to make sure her apron is clean and her shirt is tucked in. She disappears around the corner and comes back with a steel carafe and a ceramic mug on a plate. She places the mug down in front of me and pours perfectly from the carafe without taking her eyes off me. Then she sets it down and leans her elbows on the bar. “You’re troubled.”
“That obvious?” I ask, trying to sound cool. Failing.
“What’s troubling you?”
I take the mug, place it to my lips. It’s a touch too hot but I take a sip anyway. “Change.”
She leans a little closer to me. I can smell her. Cherries? I like the way she leans close to me, and when she speaks her voice feels like sunlight on my skin. She takes a deep breath and says, “There was once a student who went to his meditation teacher and said, ‘My practice is horrible. I feel distracted. My legs ache. I’m constantly falling asleep.’ And the teacher said, ‘It’ll pass.’?”
I put down the mug. “I’m not one for parables.”
She holds up a finger. “Not a parable, but we’ll get to that. So the next week the student went back to the teacher and said, ‘My meditation is wonderful! I’m so peaceful! So alive!’ And do you know what the master said?”
“Good for you?”