Early on Friday morning, Johnny Flynn puffed on a cigar and eyed the Facebook entry. His daughter had written, “Man, I wish it was Saturday.”
As he watched, his son wrote a response. “I just wish it was 5:30 Friday afternoon. LOL.”
Johnny grinned and shook his head.
Ah well. He really should leave such things alone. Stay out of the conversations fueled by youth. What harm would it do to let the young wish away time? Especially while they still had it to wish away.
But he couldn’t leave it alone.
He couldn’t do that anymore than he could build a rocket and fly the hell off this silly little planet.
He put his fingers on the keyboard and wrote, “As long as we’re wishing, I wish it were November 20, 1952 and I knew then what I know now.”
He hit Enter, then sat back and grinned.
* * *
As he opened his eyes on November 20, 1952, Johnny Flynn had a feeling he knew a great deal more than he should.
But that didn’t make sense. How could he possibly know more than he should?
He wasn’t a spy or a double agent.
He wasn’t a significant player on the world stage in any way.
Or the international stage for that matter.
Or the national stage.
But he also had a feeling this wasn’t anything to do with external things. Well, situations or people external to him. It had to do with himself.
Hmm. An enigma. If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was an enigma. A puzzle.
Well, there’s an exaggeration. There were many things he enjoyed.
He was 63 years old, after all. He’d been around awhile.
So there were many things. Whiskey. Horses. Women. In whatever order.
Doing the right thing. Well, deciding on the right thing in the first place and then doing it. All that while living in the moment.
And thinking. His old man constantly said, “You think too damn much. You know that?”
No. He never had known it. Thinking too much came from the same box of hand-me-downs as knowing more that you should.
And trust. He’d known way too much of that. Trust was the currency of friendship. It was anxiously sought after, carefully given, and freely accepted. And most often snapped off at the knees and tossed on the garbage heap of experience.
And interpersonal dynamics. The psychology—or lack of psychology—of the human experience. Especially the dynamic of friends and enemies. How one could become the other in half a heartbeat and without warning.
That one was better learned through observation than experience.
In his mind he puffed on a cigar, a 5½” 50 gauge 5 Vegas Gold, then keyed that thought into his laptop. But he didn’t have his laptop handy. Or his cigar. Later maybe. If he remembered.
His mind offered a wry grin.
His face translated it into pursed lips and a bit of saliva seeping from the left corner of his mouth.
Another enigma. Another puzzle.
Why would such a benign thought cause him to drool? It had nothing to do with women, whiskey or horses. Maybe it was the thought of the cigar.
But cigars didn’t make him drool.
His mind frowned.
He wrinkled his little brow.
Well, that felt different.
What was that luscious scent? It was perfection itself.
Heady in a soft, gentle way. Could a scent be soft? Even warm?
But that’s what caused the drool. He was sure of it.
Back to the enigma. Where’d the saliva come from?
Okay, start with the facts.
So what did he know?
He shifted a bit so he could think more clearly.
Well, something definitely wasn’t right.
The mattress didn’t give way beneath him in the familiar way it always had.
And his pillow was gone.
Probably fell off the bed. That was bound to happen. He always slept on the edge of the bed.
Okay, so that was solved. And at least the covers were— No, there were no covers.
But there was something.
His mind frowned again, and again came that annoying sensation of a “little” brow.
Talk about your enigmas!
Take inventory, Johnny. Start at the top.
Okay, his hair hadn’t wrapped around to threaten his eye. Check. That was good.
His chest was bare. Check. That was normal.
And his waist was nak— No. Huh. Something bulky was strapped around his waist.
Did he keep his shorts on last night? He never kept his shorts on.
Well, “never” was a heavy word, but hardly ever.
Anyway, something was there.
It wasn’t his shorts though. Well, not the gym shorts he wore around the house in the evenings. The shorts he sometimes didn’t take off when he collapsed into bed. Rarely.
What time had he gone to bed? He didn’t remember going to bed.
Weird. Another enigma.
Well, it could blamed well take its place in line. He’d get to it when he got to it. Back to the inventory.
Let’s see. Head. Check.
Torso. Check.
Waist.
Ah, yes. His waist. There was something there, and it wasn’t his shorts.
It was something thick but not heavy. And tight around the waist. So, like tighty whities. But this was a half-inch thick, minimum.
Okay, back to that later. If whatever it is was still there. Probably this was all in his mind.
Or there was some sort of mind-body disconnect. Like smiling in his mind and drooling from his mouth. Or frowning in his mind and a weird sensation on his forehead.
Anyway, to continue.
Nothing on his legs. Nothing on his feet.
And definitely no covers.
He raised his feet to verify there were no covers.
But of their own accord, his right foot, then his left, kicked up and straight out. Like he did sometimes when he woke up with a cramp.
Then up and out again. Almost gleefully.
Then again.
What in the world was that?
In his mind, he said, “All right. That’s enough!”
Both legs dropped and lay still. But again, the mattress didn’t respond like it always had.
Weird.
And the skin on his legs. His feet. His torso.
It was different somehow. Clean.
No, it was clean after a shower.
It was fresh. Newly driven snow and all that.
As if the years and all that had come with them had dropped away.
He had to think this thing through.
He raised his right arm, an automatic reflex, to run his fingers through his swept-back brown hair. Well, what was left of it. He’d trained himself not to feel the bald spot on his crown.
But his arm didn’t rise like it always had.
It jerked as if suddenly released from gravity.
And the back of his own hand smacked his forehead. It didn’t hurt like maybe it should have. It was soft on soft.
But still. What the hell?
Then the same hand, still soft on soft, dragged itself down over his forehead.
Had his eyebrows fallen off? They weren’t shaved. No stubble. Even with his rough palms the bristly hair of his eyebrows felt like fine steel wire when he rubbed his forehead.
But not this time.
And the back of his hand didn’t wait to be explained. It slipped off his forehead, balled into a fist and ground into his eye.
Then his other arm raised, his other hand curled and did the same to his other eye.
Had he lost all motor control?
Then his left fist shot up above his head somewhere.
His right fist dragged its way from his eye down along his nose to his mouth where he attempted to devour it.
That was no good. He had to regain some control.
He rolled his head to the right. The room was huge.
The rippled corduroy fabric of whatever he was lying on pressed into his cheek and the right side of his forehead. His right ear was folded forward beneath him. It wouldn’t stay like that, would it? Given that it was young and pliable? Or at least it felt young and pliable.
No reason to take a chance.
He rolled his head back to the left.
Oh, now that’s nice. Soft. Creamy. Fleshy.
Whatever it was moved the slightest bit, slowly, rhythmically, as if paced. The movement was magnified by his proximity to it.
He was too close. Focusing too closely. The muscles around his eyes were fatigued.
Ah. His eyes were crossed. That must be it.
He slid his head back a half-inch or so. To refocus, he blinked.
Ahh! Everything went black for an instant!
Then the light was back. That was a relief.
And the flesh stuff. The flesh was back.
Why did the sudden darkness frighten him for that instant? That was a silly reaction. That’s what happens when you blink, moron. Well, except usually without the flesh.
He was still focusing too closely.
He rolled his head slightly back to the right. But only slightly.
Good. A good angle. Now focus.
What’s that?
It was still flesh, but darker.
Instinctively, he felt it was a target.
But he knew things. He should be able to remember.
Wait. Is that a nipple?
It was a nipple! He was lying alongside a breast. And that was a nipple!
Well, no need to let all that go to waste.
A bit of saliva slipped from the left corner of his mouth.
His mind was torn between disgust at the drool on his cheek and a lecherous grin.
His more practical mouth simply formed an O.
Well, maybe I ought’a just— But when he strained to raise his head from the corduroy, nothing happened.
Was he paralyzed?
Then the flesh shifted.
For a moment, it covered his lower face, his nose and mouth. He couldn’t breathe.
His legs kicked again, and his arms flung themselves upward and outward.
He saw his hands. In the air above his head, his fists clenched—his tiny fists—then pulled back toward his body.
The flesh shifted again. Then the surface shifted.
For a second he was alone. Then something squeezed lightly beneath his arms and whatever he was lying on fell away rapidly.
His head lolled forward and he saw a couch. Ribbed cushions. He’d been lying on a couch alongside the flesh.
A massive hand cupped whatever was covering his buttocks and another slipped up along his back to his head.
He was adjusted, shifted, and lay on his back at an angle.
He blinked.
Darkness, then light.
And a huge face came into view. It grinned, showed its teeth. “Come on,” it said.
It wasn’t an it. It was a woman with dark hair, the breasts covered again in something white and loose.
What the hell is going on?
Who am I?
“Mama’s gotta go to the bathroom.”
And the scene changed. The room swept past in an arc at first, then slowed to a rhythmic motion. It remained mostly linear, then curved around into another smaller room.
No, a hallway.
Then another curve. A door jamb.
Then a smaller room swept past as she turned around, and the world rose as she sat.
There was a tinkling sound of water on water, then she shifted him again, onto one arm this time.
His face lay in the crook of her neck, her hand firmly on whatever was on his buttocks.
He blinked.
Darkness, light.
Something shiny.
A mirror.
A shoulder, part of a back.
A tiny head. A tiny wrinkled brow.
Who’s that? Who’s that baby?
He frowned in his mind.
The little forehead wrinkled again.
Oh no! No!
And the tiny eyebrows arched.
* * * * * * *