My eyes raced over the print a second time. Surely I misread. I did not.
I crumpled the paper into a tight ball. I reared back to launch it into the street, then reluctantly aborted. I smoothed it out and slipped it in a pocket. I didn’t want to risk old Mrs. Clausely reporting me for littering, again. A ticket would be twice as much as I didn’t get paid for my story. Plus, snail mail rejections are rare these days. I would add it to my desk stack later. The leaning tower of failure was meticulously maintained, after all. Why keep these ego-deflating notes? Part of the masochistic brand of inspiration writers love, I suppose. Every one, kept to one day laugh about over cocktails at my book signing after party.
How could they reject that? A masterpiece! They must be kicking themselves now.
Maybe…(that’s me talking) But that was ages ago. They’ve picked up a dozen of my stories since then.
You don’t say! (Cue applause.)
A white splash of bird excrement an inch from my tennis shoe yanked me back in time to my lowly present. At least one thing today could’ve gone worse, I thought. I grimaced anyway and grabbed the rest of the mail—bills, a ream of coupons, a small parcel—and tucked it all under my arm. By the time I closed the mailbox I had forgotten all about the narrowly missed crap beside me, and thus stepped in it on the way back to my front door.
It was hours before I even noticed the package. I had tossed it on the kitchen table and promptly forgot about it. I was too busy adding the rejection slip to my impressive collection and feeling sorry for myself. I set down my coffee and brushed the rest of the mail aside. The thin parcel was missing a return address. Other than my name and address handsomely scribbled in the TO box, nothing. It was the right size and weight for a book but I didn’t remember ordering anything online. I tore into it and had a look at the cover. Then another.
I froze. My eyes raced over the words again and again, my skin went cold. The cover was generic enough, but it was the words that did me in.
Cyborg Genocide: A Novel. Todd Goldstein.
That’s me. The problem was, I had never written a novel, let alone published one.
A joke? Maybe a friend of mine that knew my dream… No. It didn’t take long to dispel that notion. The printing looked professional, but no better than some self-publishing jobs I had seen. Still…
I couldn’t stop staring at the cover. It wasn’t just my name in large print that threw my brain into overdrive. Cyborg Genocide. Paranoid human government orders the destruction of an army of innocent helper robots after a misinterpreted transmission. A novel idea I had a few months back, one I scribbled down in my notebook and promptly forgot about—until now.
Nobody knew that title but me.
I flipped the book over in my hand. Then I pinched myself. I was still there so I pinched myself again, then smacked myself across the cheek, a really good smack like they do on the soaps, just without the satisfying sound. But I didn’t wake up. I was still there in my kitchen, staring at a black and white picture of myself. It was me alright, but I was wearing glasses. And my hair had streaks of gray!
At that point, I thought it would be a perfect time to faint. I gave myself plenty of time to collapse but it didn’t happen. I had to figure out another way to deal with this. I decided to open it. A few pages in, I saw the dedication. To my daughter Claire.
I have a daughter! Or will have one, whatever. I flipped a few more pages and a loose sheet slipped out and fluttered to my feet. A handwritten note, with my name at the top.
I squinted. The floor was going in and out of focus. I wondered if this marked the beginning of my need for glasses. I bent down to pick up the note, but instead I fainted.
Todd,
Hey. As you may have guessed from the book, this is the future you. Crazy, right? I was doing a book signing gig the other day and a fan asked me how long it took me to break into the business. Which made me think of you. No offense, but I kinda feel sorry for that guy. Wanting something so much but never quite figuring out how to get there. Pining away like a hamster on a wheel. Hey, are you still keeping your rejection slips? Anyway, listen. I wanted to do you a favor. I first thought to write up all the things you’re doing wrong so you can, you know, get here a little faster. But then I thought, why not kick this thing into overdrive, huh? You’ll need to type up the book in manuscript form, but insert some errors here and there—it can’t be perfect right off, that would raise eyebrows. It’s not cheating if you look at your own work, right? (Not that that would bother you anyway… Mrs. Loffer’s class!)
When it’s ready, call Stan Gudsman, my—soon to be your—agent. The number on the back of this note is his. This should be more than enough to give you the jumpstart you need. I wanted to send more, but it was hard enough to get this to you, believe me. And you won’t hear from me again. Rules are rules. Fabric of the universe and all that. But you won’t need anything else, not if you do what I say. So again…
1) Type up the manuscript
2) Burn the book.
3) Call Stan
I mean it. Start today. Go write your first bestseller.
You’re welcome.
I took the ice pack off my head and tossed the note on the floor. Who do I think I am, talking to myself like that? Numbering my instructions like I’m building Legos instead of communing with another version of myself across time. I mean, come on. Where’s the respect? As if plagiarizing the book wouldn’t be anybody’s first move.
It was a lot to take in, sure, but I just couldn’t believe what a jerk I turn into! I admit, looks like I learn a few things in the next dozen years, but what could explain the radically scarring transformation into that guy? When they invent time travel on my end, I’ll write him a letter and see how he likes it.
I swallowed a few aspirin, then my pride. I picked up the book and hobbled over to the couch. I stared at the cover for a long time. A hand drawn warzone, piles of cyborg bodies mercilessly strewn around a barren landscape. Smoke trails winding up to the sky. It was perfect. And it had my name on it. I was staring my dream in the face. As long as I didn’t turn it over and see “that guy,” I was okay. More than okay; all the self-doubt, all the rejection, I felt it all melting away. No more fear, no more wondering.
Then I read my first novel, all in one sitting. It was good. Actually, really good. So much so that I began to realize what a solid my future self really did for me. My writing skills are pretty good now, but I could only imagine all the hard work to get from here to there. Years of pointless trial and error, grinding my gears alone in the trenches before ever breaking free. And he saved me the time. Maybe “that guy” isn’t so bad after all.
The next two years were a blur. I typed up the manuscript, and yes, inserted some errors (and a few minor improvements). I called Stan, and though he took some convincing to return my calls with no credits to my name, once he finally read it he was more than willing to take me on. The dominos started falling into place. Same publisher, same cover art, everything. All was the same as my copy from the future, except for one thing. One little detail would be different, of that I was certain. Until my wife showed me two unmistakably solid blue lines. (Oh yeah, got married too.) I stared at her dumbly until she told me she was pregnant.
I said nothing of names. Never even told her about the contact with my future self. I wanted to, but she was so proud of me that I didn’t have the guts. I told myself she would never believe me, and maybe that was right. It was her that proposed the name Claire one night over dinner and I almost choked on my macaroni. I tried to dissuade her, clutching my last shred of personal choice in all this. But in the end, she had her way, and in the end, the dedication read: “To my daughter Claire.” By then I didn’t care anymore. No need to fight it. It was my dream coming true after all. Claire was still a month or so away from joining our family when the first copies arrived in the mail. It was an amazing day. But nothing could prepare me for what came next.
Cyborg Genocide was a bonafide bestseller.
The book debuted with strong reviews. One of my favorites: “Todd Goldstein came out of nowhere to become of the most promising new talents in science fiction.” Book signings followed. A few stores had me in for talks. Invariably would come questions like, “What was your biggest inspiration for the book?” and “How long did it take you to write?” I was thrown off at first, but before long I had canned answers that sounded as inspirational as possible. Sometimes, I told the truth, and we all would have a good laugh.
I had crossed that mysterious threshold from writer to author. No matter that I clung to my own coattails to get here. This is where I was meant to be. Who I was meant to be. I got so caught up living the dream that I almost forgot about “that guy.” I was here, right? So what did I need him for anymore?
One night in early spring of that year with the house to myself I lit up the fire pit. I went inside and lifted the floorboards beneath my desk, retrieved the copy of my book from the future. I grabbed the note underneath and ran outside into the cool night. Took one last look at that snobby grin and impeccable silvery hair. I hadn’t realized it until then, but there was something different about this copy and the new ones after all. The picture. Same pose, same backdrop, but mine had a younger version of me. After tonight, every trace of my mysterious benefactor would be gone. It’s what he wanted anyway, and I didn’t mind one bit. I even reluctantly hoped that in following his instructions I had returned the favor. I had changed his past, and therefore his future. Now he would reach his fame and fortune much younger, and I imagined him out there somewhere bragging about his twentieth bestseller over martinis. Would he even remember sending the note? It didn’t matter, because his new present was now my future. And it was looking pretty sweet.
“You’re welcome,” I said and slid the note inside the book.
Then I tossed it into the fire and watched it wither and blacken until it was gone. I stood there for a long time, breathing in the smoky air and watching the firewood pulse with the heat. The finality of it! All trace of contact with the future me was gone, and with it the evidence that could endanger my good name. It was a relief, but panic suddenly sank into my mind like a dagger.
The rest is up to me, I thought. No more shortcuts, no more freebies.
I had been so focused on the book’s success that I guess I hadn’t realized that I and I alone would have to write the rest. The publisher had already been asking about sequels and prequels. I wonder if deep down I was expecting those to write themselves too. The familiar sting of fear and self-doubt returned to me like an old friend.
No. He and I are one and the same. I can do this.
