My round robin experience

Aaron Aardvark and I sat down for the yearly performance review.

“And what can I, as a writer,” I said, preparing myself for the worst, “do to make your experience as a protagonist more enriching, more rewarding?”

Aaron heaved a heavy sigh and twisted his forehead into a mass of horizontal worry lines. “For starters,” he said, speaking each word as if a separate sentence, “get rid of that awful Fat Boy character.”

Hmm, I hadn’t thought about that possibility. But didn’t Aaron need to have a sidekick?

“I don’t need to have a sidekick,” Aaron said. “I work best on my own. You know that. I’m a loner and I don’t want to have any companions on my time trips.”

Ah, yes – but that’s good! That’s the problem with Aaron, he’s too self-centered, too much the narcissist. He needs to share the spotlight.

“Good,” I said, “then the conflict and tension in the plot are high, aren’t they?”

“But I don’t like it! And I don’t like all the nonsense about bisexual this, bisexual that. Make me straight or make me gay … but don’t keep leading me around from bedroom to bedroom.”

“But aren’t you having a good time, Aaron? Don’t you like eating Jeffrey while you’re thrusting into Cindy?”

“Oh, I guess, but a little variety, please. Cindy’s as boring as cardboard and Jeffrey, well, he’s kind of hot, I guess … I love his furry chest.”

“I knew it!” I said, reaching clarity. “No more women for you. You’re as gay as the three dollar bill.”

“And that’s another thing. You have an annoying weakness for clichés. Stop writing them!”

“Okay, we’re done here. Back to the book you go! Until the next Daily Write Round Robin, you’re in hibernation.”

“No!” Aaron said. “Don’t do that – please …”

Too late! Until February, then. Happy holidays, everyone.

We will build it

“Divorce Family Robinson,” Jake told his mentor – or should that be Mentor? “has suddenly become Suicide Family Robinson.”

“Forgiveness, tolerance, non-judgment,” said Jake’s guardian angel, “have you never listened to what I’ve taught you?”

“Oh, but I have, Savior. I have underscored that in my brain … and in my heart … every day. But he’s going to leave me, I know it, Savior … I know it.”

“Jake, my blessed child,” the guardian angel said, flapping his wings and sitting on Jake’s albinoed shoulder, naked and waiting for the lover who would never come, “you must forgive, bless, tolerate, love, and celebrate. Did I mention love? How can you build a house of my Lord, if you do not love?”

“If only I could, Savior, if only I could. But I find that now is the time to dispense with superficial forgiveness. Yes, they are blessed. Yes, they are loved. Yes, they are celebrated. But no, they are not connected to me. I will love them from afar.”

“As do I, my child,” the guardian angel said, a tear coming out of his eye.

And that tear fell onto Jake’s head, and when it did – oh, and when it did – Jake felt such a surge of love in him that, yes, he ran to his lover, he embraced that family, he kissed the sister, he hugged the niece, he tousled the nephew’s hair – and he said I love you, family, I love you … but goodbye, and forever goodbye.

At my feet

“I’ll see you in a month,” Marty said, kissed her on the cheek, and reached for the door.

“Goodbye, Marty,” Helen said, as the door shut. The keys in her left hand slid out and fell at her feet.

Helen looked out the side light as Marty walked to his Escalade, two suitcases rolling behind him, packed them in with his other things, went over to the driver’s side, sat inside, pulled out, and drove away. For a split second, Helen thought he might’ve paused as he switched gears from reverse into drive – but no. He accelerated away, and Helen watched the Cadillac roar into the distance.

Marty hadn’t looked back once.

Helen sighed. “Well, there it is.” She turned around and went into the kitchen The cat bowls were empty, so Helen filled them. How many times had she asked Marty to keep them filled? He could never remember ... except in those first months when Ben and Jerry came to live with them, gamboling across the floor and jumping over Marty’s barrel torso.

And Helen went over to the dishwasher to empty it. Full it was – from their chicken cacciatore dinner the previous night. She’d prepared the meal for him, wanting to do something special before he left. He’d said, “pretty good, thanks for making it, Helen,” before heading off to bed, their last night lying side by side, the six inches between them as wide as the Pacific Ocean.

She went to make the bed and found an undershirt under his pillow – yellow-stained at the armpits. But of course, Marty had a hairy upper body – oh, how she loved lying in his arms, cuddling in those warm moments of the sex afterglow. Well, she’d put this in the wash along with all the other clothes he’d left behind.

Helen walked back to the kitchen with a load of laundry to go in the wash. She saw the keys on the floor by the door. She dropped the clothes on the floor and stared at the keys. Helen sighed. She was so tired of the ritual. Twelve years together, and this was the fourth time he walked out the door. Three times past he’d left, whether because they fought over the direction of their closet hangers, whether because he’d had an affair, or whether he’d gone to Italy on a work assignment – and now it had become four.

Her bones ached and her blood slowed down to a frozen trickle. She just couldn’t go on doing this any longer – every two years, another goodbye, followed six weeks later by another hello ... no, she didn’t care if Dr. Schindler had recommended a month apart, just so Marty could figure out his needs ... no, she didn’t care if Marty had promised he’d come back ... no, she didn’t care if he bought her a diamond ring for Christmas just two days ago ... all she wanted was to get rid of that hole in her heart that formed, every time he threatened to leave.

Helen picked up the phone book, found the number she was seeking, and dialed it. She reached down to the floor and grabbed the keys at her feet.

“Safeguard Locks?” she said when the woman answered the phone. “Helen Clifford at 135 Chestnut Street. I’d like you to come out to change my locks.”

Up and down

I won’t get an erection for at last a year. I’m sure of it, I’m just completely certain.

So we get to Key West and check into the bed and breakfast. Honey, what was the place you picked on the Internet? Something like The Open Door? Oh, yes, dear – that was it, it’s right here on the left. Park the car, sweetheart.

This morning we got our chairs early – they said at the registration desk, it’d be a busy weekend. Bone Island was the circuit event, didn’t know about that one – two porn stars visiting from Hollywood, they said. Oh, and did we tell you when you made the reservation, it’s an all-naked weekend? Clothing is not optional. It’s forbidden.

So we sit around the pool all day long, watching one cock chase another. All afternoon. With the gray-beared muscle guys walking around the pool all afternoon, bouncing left and right,I think the Viagra supply’s dried up in Key West. How many sixty-year-old men do you know who can parade around at full mast for an hour in front of fifty pairs of critical eyes?

And then there was the lovey-dovey couple from Baltimore (that’s what I heard, they’re from Baltimore) doing blow jobs on the side of the pool. And then the four guys at the pool’s entrance, raising their swords like at a military wedding.

Sometimes a little too much of a good thing is a little too much of a good thing. I won’t get an erection for at least a year.

My mistake

“I’ll meet you over by the Atlantic House,” Geoffrey told the gang – Paul and Thomas, Frank and Bruce, Michael and Jay. He’d have just enough time to change his t-shirt into the blue skin-tight t-shirt he’d brought to bring in the 2000s at pier’s after-dinner party. And judging from the look he gave himself in the mirror ten minutes later, before going downstairs at the hotel to meet the gang, he wouldn’t spend the night alone.

Duval Street burst at the seems – shirtless twenty-year olds wearing rainbow boas and black leather boots, six-foot-tall drag queens in twelve-inch Elton John pumps and Bozo wigs, the diva parade of Cher, Liza, Barbra, Judy, and Bette – Geoffrey walked by the parade, laughing and smiling. The Atlantic House was straight in front of him. He couldn’t wait to tell the gang. And with the hundreds of men who’d be there for the countdown, surely there’d be a Mr. Right.

He walked into the place and scanned the crowds – just as he’d thought, hundreds of men dancing to Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You.” He spotted a dozen or so Mr. Rights for the night, diagrammed out a path once he got a Corona-with-lime from the bartender. But where were Paul and Thomas, Frank and Bruce, Michael and Jay? Geoffrey looked around the pool, at the dance floor beyond, back to the entrance, over to the bar area ... no gang. He felt his heart press down on his rib cage.

Oh, surely they’d be here. He grabbed his Corona, posed it on his left hip (mostly to throw his bicep and tricep into profile – they were more impressive on the left than right) and made his way around the aforementioned path. But none of the dozen or so Mr. Rights made eye contact by the time Geoffrey had circled around.

“Ten – nine – eight – seven – six – five – four – three – two – one ...”

Geoffrey stood against the pier, his left arm crossed over his body, balancing the empty Corona-with-lime on his right hip this time. That would throw his pectorals into profile, and at least one of the Mr. Rights would pop on by. Odds were, you know. Had to be, Geoffrey thought – men were such sluts, they’d sleep with anyone at least once. And once he’d managed to get a Mr. Right in the bedroom, well ... he’d keep him, wouldn’t he?

“Happy New Year!”

Where was the gang? Geoffrey smiled and laughed, scanned his eyes left to right. All those happy couples were smooching and raising their glasses in toasts to the 2000s. Geoffrey froze his face. He walked straight to the exit – left foot first, right foot following – and straight back to the hotel on Duval Street.

No one, it seemed, inhabited the hotel. It was dead quiet, dark as a moonless night. Geoffrey heard his Prada soles on the staircase as he ascended, opened the door, and walked into the room. There stood the mirror – and Geoffrey staring into it, the blue skin-tight t-shirt. He saw the crows’ feet around his eyes, the sun-damaged skin on his biceps below the t-shirt. His hair seemed awfully dry and thin.

For some reason, Geoffrey remembered that fall day when he was five. Mom, Dad, and his big brothers had left for Grandma and Granddad’s, and they left him behind. But yes, they’d come back to pick him up.

Right and wrong

I don’t feel like talking, I don’t even want to think. I feel numbed to the five senses, sight, hearing, touch, smell, taste – nothing, all numb.

I can’t enjoy the purple and white crossbars of the lilac petals outside my window. The soprano chirping of the whippoorwills outside my window, those birds nesting in the 150-year-old oak tree outside my fourth-floor window, it goes in one ear and right out the other. I don’t hear the “Mama, Mama!” tones of their chirping. When I rub my hands across the muscular contours of my decades-long worked-out torso (the muscles fading behind the sun-blotched skin) … I feel no sense of arousal, I remember nothing of the men who’d massaged my torso, their appreciative remarks, how it excited them. And the bakery downstairs at the corner of 78th and Lexington, who cares how good the pastries smell at 5:30 in the morning? At last I think of food, how much savored the basil-infused beef tenderloin, the roasted carrots melting in my mouth, the lumpy mashed potatoes prepared for our ritual Sunday dinners by my mother with a curvy pucker on her mouth for the six of us, her eyes always softening as we ran into the dining room, taking the same seats we’d sat in for years, feeling the security of our willow-thin mother and our burly father.

I could sense those things, at least until that Monday that my father kissed my ,other on the way out the door, replaced in a heartbeat by a slit-mouthed policeman knocking on the door, muttering quietly about the accident – and my mother’s curvy pucker, soft eyes, and willowy thinness receded behind the dining table’s candles. And since the day when my husband walked out our own door that last time – this time, instead of heading toward a car crash, heading toward the arms of a younger woman with firmer breasts and suppler hips – I’ve sensed no things at all.

Fire

“Lester’s upside down, honey.”

“Yeah, so whaddaya want me to do about the damned dog?”

“Hey, just making light conversation, sweetie. Lighten up, bitch.”

“Who you callin’ a bitch, you bitch-slut?”

“Oh, yeah, well come on over here and prove it.”

“Not in front of Lester. He’s upside down.”

“And Snookems is on top of the Victorian collection.”

“Yeah, well Austen and Dickens can handle having a pussy lounging on top of ‘em.”

“Crude, sweetie.”

“Ain’t no gentleman in me when I talk about pussies, hon.”

“Don’t you ‘hon’ me, unless you intend to ...”

“Watch out – the pussy’s jumpin’ on top of Lester.”

“They’re just horsing around. Wait until Matilda gets at ‘em.”

“She’s one hell of a pussy – a lot more agile than Snookems.”

“Now don’t forget about Bossy Pants.”

“I didn’t. But seein’ as he’s thirteen, he’s allowed to sleep through the animal fights.”

“Nothin’ like an old dog.”

“Except for an old husband with a limp you-know-what.”

“Wasn’t limp, last time you poked it in me.”

“Crude.”

“Ain’t no gentleman in you, praise Jesus knows it’s true.”

The stove

“Let me get this straight,” Miss Tandy said, standing in front of the stove waiting for the water to boil – those British, they love their tea and scones – while Aaron sat on the edge of his chair, still in wonderment over being in the presence of a stage and film legend of the order that Miss Tandy represented. “I won’t win an Academy Award until I’m eighty years old? I have to wait another forty-three years?”

“Yes,” Aaron said. “But look on the bright side. When they announce your name, you’ll get a huge standing ovation.”

“And what do I look like?” the wide-eyed, cultured-voice Miss Tandy said.

“Like a queen. You’ll have white hair, pulled back into a single ponytail.”

“And you said you come from 2013 in San Francisco. Am I still alive?”

“Well,” Aaron said, “I’m not sure I should say this, but –“

Aaron felt his insides compress against his diaphragm, his head begin to vibrate, and his legs became weak under him. He heard a whirring sound descend from above, he saw smoke rise from the floor, and he felt himself spun into a vortex that surrounded him. Of a sudden the noise ceased and then he was flying through the black sky. White, yellow, and red lasers careened by him. The whirring sound rose again into Aaron’s head, smoke surrounded him, and he felt himself descending once again, until –

Aaron opened his eyes after a long while. He sat in a black chair in a black room with black-tiled floor and a black conference table in front of him. Four albino men sat at the table in front of him, bald, hairless, and wearing black silk t-shirts and slacks.

“Mr. Aardvark,” the albino on the far left said. “You’ve been called here to answer certain charges.”

“And what might those be?”

“You are charged with revealing the future to a Miss Tandy in 1947. Our investigators have determined that you revealed future events to her, and they intercepted you at the point you were going to reveal her date of death. How do you plead?”

In-laws

“All right,” Miss Tandy said. “Cards on the table. I know I fib a good deal. After all, a woman’s charm is fifty percent illusion –“

“How do I look?” Aaron said, coming from right stage center toward Miss Tandy and Mr. Brando, wearing a gold sequined over-the-shoulder gown with a leather sparkle vest. “I’ve always depended on the kindness of my in-laws.”

“What’s this all about, Aardvark?” Mr. Brando asked. “Elia, this isn’t in the script.”

“Okay, Aaron,” Mr. Kazan said from the blackness of the orchestra level. “Off the stage now. Once is amusing, twice is irritating, but this is damned irritating.”

“I just want to be in Streetcar!” Aaron said. “Can’t I at least have a cameo in Scene Three? You know, just before Stanley confronts Blanche about Belle Reve?”

“No,” Mr. Williams said, emerging from back stage. “My play is a work of art, a thing of beauty, a statue of impeccable form –“

Aaron rolled his eyes. “That’s exactly what you said about my schlong last night, Mr. Williams.”

“I repeat,” Mr. Kazan said, coming up the steps to stage left forward. “There will be no drag queen cameos. Mr. Aardvark, go sit in the audience. Otherwise I shall ask you to leave.”

“Oh, all right,” Aaron said. “But Mr. Williams, you get no action from me tonight.”

“Double drats,” Mr. Williams said.

Never again

“Sometimes there’s happiness,” Miss Tandy said to Mr. Malden, “so quickly.”

“Okay,” Mr. Kazan said. “Excellent Miss Tandy, Mr. Malden. Let’s take fifteen.”

Aaron put his hand on Mr. Williams’s crotch. Of all the lovers he’d ever had, Mr. Williams was the liveliest. In the past week, he’d wondered, where’d he learn all those tricks? Must be something about the water in the South. Perhaps it was laced with gin. But he was enjoying it.

“Come to my office,” Mr. Williams said. “I want to be alone with you, boy.”

Aaron followed Mr. Williams downstage left, hand in hand, and off toward the back of the stage. He wondered if the others could see the bulges in their slacks – but who cared? Mr. Brando was hardly a prude, and the others just looked the other way at all the backstage antics.

“Excuse me, Mr. Aardvark,” Miss Tandy said. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

“Would you excuse me,” Aaron asked Mr. Williams. “Miss Daisy wants to speak with me.”

“Huh?” Mr. Williams asked.

Aaron shook his head. “Never mind, I’ll tell you later.”

Miss Tandy came right up to Aaron and eyeballed him. Goodness, she was much shorter than Aaron had thought possible. But of course, divas always projected a larger image than reality.

“I hear a rumor that I’ll be passed over for the movie version,” Miss Tandy said. “And I want to make sure that never, ever happens.”

“Well,” Aaron said. “I’m afraid it’s true. Vivien Leigh will play Blanche in the movie version and she’ll win an Academy Award.”

“But she’s already won an Academy Award,” Miss Tandy said, sighing like a horse. “And this is my role. Everyone says it’s going to be my breakthrough.”

“Now don’t you worry, Miss Tandy,” Aaron said. “Your turn will come. You’ll win four Tony awards, several Emmy awards, and your own Oscar.”

“What’s an Emmy award?”

“Oh, I forgot, they’re not starting until the early ‘50s. It’s for work in television.”

“Television? Don’t be silly. I’m a stage actress.”

“In any event, you’ll work in movies made for television and win several Emmy awards. And you’ll win an Oscar.”

“When?” Miss Tandy asked. “When will it be my turn?”

“In 1990, for a lovely movie named Driving Miss Daisy.”

“I’ll be eighty-one years old,” Miss Tandy said. “I have to wait forty-three more years?”

“Hey, you wanted the truth. May I be excused? Mr. Williams is waiting for me in his room.”

“Oh, go ahead, you big slut,” Miss Tandy said, frowning. “But I don’t want the truth, I want magic.”

Crazy!

“Well, he’s like an animal,” Miss Tandy said to Miss Hunter. “Thousands of years have passed him right by, and ...”

A deep shuddering sound rose up from the bowels of the theater and the whole stage shook as if in an earthquake. Smoke rose from the floor, the actors could hear the clanking of metal on metal, and the smell of burning rubber permeated the entire building. The smoke cleared and there sat Aaron Aardvark in his time machine – smiling from cheek to cheek. He’d finally made it.

Mr. Brando walked around the corner. “What the hell was that?”

Mr. Williams rose from his seat and walked downstage. “This is not in the script.”

Aaron wrenched himself free from the time machine and walked toward Miss Tandy and Miss Hunter. “No need to worry,” he said. “I’m only here to observe the dress rehearsal. Please carry on, Miss Tandy.”

Mr. Kazan remained in his seat, a pencil in his left hand, the script in his right. “Whoever you are,” he said, projecting his voice across the theater onto the stage, “please leave at once. We’re in the middle of our final rehearsals.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m Aaron Aardvark and I’m from California.”

“Sorry,” Mr. Williams said. “You can’t be in this play. You’re hardly a neurotic Southerner.”

“Why not, Tennessee?” Miss Tandy asked. “I’m not a neurotic Southerner.”

“You’re British,” Mr. Williams replied, “and everyone knows British actresses play Southern belles better than Southern belles.”

“Who are you?” Miss Hunter asked Aaron. “Why’d you come here.”

“My name is Aaron Aardvark came to watch the dress rehearsal for the 20th century’s greatest play.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Kazan said. “The century’s greatest play?”

Aaron looked about him. Miss Tandy, Miss Hunter, Mr. Brando, Mr. Williams, and Mr. Kazan all looked at him with question marks in their eyes and exclamation points on their eyebrows. Should he tell them? Well, he already had.

“I came here in my time machine from San Francisco in 2013. Streetcar is considered the greatest American play ever written. Only Death of a Salesman approaches it.”

“Did I write that?” Mr. Williams asked.

“No,” Aaron replied. “Arthur Miller, 1949.”

“Bah! But tell me more about yourself,” Mr. Williams asked, casting his eyes up and down Aaron’s lanky figure. “And come down here so I can take a closer look.”

“All right,” Mr. Kazan directed. “While Mr. Williams interrogates Mr. Aardvark, back to Scene 4, where we left it. Stage hands, move that damned machine off the stage.”

“You know, “ Mr. Williams said, “I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

Describe it without telling us what it is

Where in the dickens are they? I just put them somewhere, not one minute ago. Okay, think fast. I gotta get going. Francine will be furious if I'm late, and I'm already cutting it way too close for comfort. The restaurant's 20 minutes away in normal traffic -- and I've got exactly 20 minutes to go. Where the hell are they?

I thought I put them down on the kitchen counter, next to my computer books and my wallet, right where I usually keep my wallet, sunglasses, Fisherman's Friends for my invariable sore throats, grocery receipts, and condoms. Hey, I might love Francine, but I'm a free agent -- always on the look-out for someone with a tighter you-know-what, and I gotta be prepared.

No, they aren't there. I scanned the granite countertop. I hate these granite countertops. Can't see anything on them. It's like camouflaging for all the things you want to find -- especially them. A close look ... took thirty seconds to do it ... nope, not there. Ah, but I did find a water puddle. I wonder how old that is. That's the worst of the granite pattern, can't see wet spots or water. I don't know how many times I've put something down on the counter and picked it up wet.

Okay, I'm looking in the dining room now. It's a round room, just perfect for the circular dining table I've got, but they’re not on it. My bookcase, the one that separates the dining room from the living room, now there's a treasure trove for open concealment. Okay, perhaps I put them on the top? No, I don't see it on that top shelf, which has all my display books -- Frank Gehry, Alfred Hitchcock, Giatta de Lorentis, Hillary Clinton at the White House -- nothing on top of Hillary's face or above her cankles (we love you, Amy Poehler).

All right, are they on the display table between the dining room and foyer? No, I don't see them there among the photos, my four nieces and nephews, enjoying the pontoon boat we rented for Mom's seventieth birthday, and a picture of my friend John's parents after his memorial service, Francine and Lester (my college buddy who at 50 is chasing girls half his age with the miracles of Rogaine and Viagra), another photo of Francine, this time with me -- our third wedding anniversary.

Okay, 17 minutes to go until Francine's gonna start getting mad. I still can't find them! Let me check the bathroom, that's right around the corner from the foyer. It's a small bathroom, but it's complete. When I renovated it two years ago, I opened up a closed triangle off one corner that I didn't even know was there, until we did the demo. This is my apartment, after all. I bought it before I met Francine. She wants me to sell it, too, so we can move into a place we bought together. I like my apartment. Why can't we just keep things the way they are?

There they are, right above the toilet. Of course, I was pissing and left them right on top of the toilet. What was I thinking? Of course, I was screeching in agony from the burning sensation. Guess I should probably tell Francine. Gonorrhea isn't exactly what your wife wants to hear, is it?

15 minutes to go. I'd better get myself over to the restaurant. It's her mother's eightieth birthday, after all. Can't be late. How many red lights can I run and get away with it?

One thing I think of when I think of Thanksgiving

I wish she'd forgive me. Or at least forget. I still can't believe I did it -- leaving her on that fateful Thanksgiving Day for my law partner's daughter. Life sucks and I've been such a stupid stereotype, haven’t I been? Alec Baldwin, Harrison Ford, Michael Douglas, and Clint Eastwood all in one offensive male chauvinist pig.

The middle-aged selfish yuppy driving a Porsche convertible, paying alimony to a long-suffering wife of twenty-five years, one child out of college in her own career, another in college, and a third in high school, all the while having sex five times a week with the twenty-three year old blonde Tiffany whose ambition in life is to appear on Housewives of L.A. on Bravo. Moving out of my home in Brentwood and into a Hollywood Hills condo, Eric Roberts living across the street and Kathy Griffin down the road, every moment of the day I wasn't off getting divorces for bitter Pasadena housewives, I was getting off with Tiffany in our upstairs bedroom overlooking Capital City Records.

How'd I know that it wouldn't work with Tiffany? How'd I know she'd divorce me for her tennis instructor, they'd go off to Santa Barbara, and she'd get all my income? How'd I know her father would close down the firm? How'd I know I'd have to file for bankruptcy, no longer able to pay alimony, no longer able to pay for my children's college educations, no longer able to even pay for my rented apartment next to the La Brea tarpits. That's where I've been ... now, nearly twenty years, living in a one-bedroom apartment across the street from the tarpits, seventy-three years old and alone.

There's Colleen, seventy-three years old, divorced now twenty-five years, walking dogs to make ends meet, carrying a large white plastic bag she used for doggy poop bags whether empty or filled. She doesn't know I'm walking behind her, just a few feet, yearning for the years before I left her, wishing there’d been someone who could've slapped me out of my idiotic mid-life crisis.

And yet, it comes to me now, Colleen is happy walking dogs at seventy-three.

The last obstacle I overcame

Elizabeth swam below me, two hundred fifty feet below in the icy waters of the golden ravine, the craggy hills smothering me on either side as I watched. Swimming on her back, her piercing gaze made its way from the water’s surface to my eyes and deep into my soul, jarring a memory of the last time we’d seen each other.

Holding my hand, she lay in the bed before me, asking me to take care of her children, asking me to promise to love her always, asking me to make amends with her parents. I shivered in the all-white room with its metal-framed bed, the steel-encased windows from wall to wall, looking out onto the cold city thirty stories below. The white tile, hard on my feet, aching from standing for so many hours, and the white fluorescent lighting above mocked me with cold contempt and bitter weariness. I knew the tile and lighting had witnessed many such scenes before and held no special regard for bed-side promises. The tile and the lighting could arrest the scene at any moment it chose, taking the occupant of its bed before these promises could be asked or before they could be made.

My beloved Elizabeth asked her promises and I made them – seeing to it that her children were well cared for, living with their uncle and aunt in Eugene; speaking to her parents in Salem, conveying her sorrow that she never forgave them or asked for their forgiveness, and enduring their bitter tears of regret; and loving her. Always loving her.

How best could I love her, I thought, as I gazed at the image swimming before me, two hundred fifty feet down in the icy waters of the golden gate? And suddently I knew. A moment later, I was free of my obstacles, free like a bird, flying through the air at rip-roaring speed, making my way from the vermilion-clad bridge to the waters beneath its majestic stance, reaching my Elizabeth in a calm void that was all-enveloping.

Utter relief

The day's salt-dry, sunburnt seventeen-mile journey by foot led to darkness. Selena remembered just forty-eight hours ago, in the protective confines of her own home, encased in the loving embrace of deep red brocade draperies, dark mahogany floors, thick wood furniture, marble bathrooms and kitchen -- the chestnut-scented fireplace warming their hearts -- and now, this, running from the war, escaping the enemy army's siege of the city where she'd lived and loved since her marriage just five years ago. But Hamish had died just six months into the war, leaving her a city widow, their boy not yet born. Now she made her frenzied way along the oft-traveled path -- this time by foot, not by the luxury of a carriage as many times before.

Selena, her 4-year old boy, her ailing sister-in-law, her popeyed maidservant, they would all find comfort and company in her family's country home, the white mansion anchored into the ground between two endless rows of oak trees. Mother would give her sister-in-law the guest room, nurse her to recovery. Papa would play with her son, frightened to death by the bombs and the shells, make him laugh and forget the nightmares that plagued his every night -- until the bombs stopped, the silence even more frightening, not knowing what the enemy planned, whether to ambush the city itself or to retreat to fight a different battle. Her sisters, coquettish in their pursuit of country gentlemen, would give her all the county gossip, safe in the quiet of the country, the happy embrace of the home, the family where Selena had spent her life before Hamish took her to town.

The four of them ached and moaned, reaching the top of the final incline that would bring the house and its oaks into view -- but darkness played tricks on their eyes, dizzy from a day's walk with no food and very little water -- Selena certain she could see only the vacant shell of a house, the two rows of oaks little more than stumps and leafless branches, alarming for the hot September they'd just encountered. They walked further on, down the hill and up the avenue -- no sign of life, no light in the house, just a black void with a roof. Ominous and lurid shadows cast from the trees, from picket fences collapsed on their sides. Selena broke free from her son's hand, her sister-in-law's arm, and ran the remaining two hundred feet.

Utter relief – the house had made it! The front door opened without turning the knob -- emptiness, scattered, broken furniture in the wide foyer where music once played. She darted into the dining room where feasts of roast beef, turkey, and ham, the smell of roasted chestnuts and sweet potatoes in the air had once made their mark -- no table, no shining silver, just an empty void -- even the portrait of her grandparents gone. She turned back, crossed the hall, and into the salon -- no portieres, no settees, no tables -- not a thing remained in this room but emptiness. Mother? Papa? Her sisters, where had they all gone? All gone, the seventeen mile journey that had brought the four of them from the hell of the city into this final abyss, abandoned and hopeless.

The view from the driver's seat

Outraged, she thought, that’s the only word that came into her mind. How could he do such a thing? How could he even think … contemplate doing such a thing? Did he want to hurt her, deliberately, over and over, without remorse, without apology? What was in his mind when he actually did it? What went through that me-me-me head of his when he was in the act? And why in the name of God did he feel the need to tell her about it? Couldn’t he have lied about it like any normal red-blooded American male?

Sheila spat out the window just before rounding the corner to the Burger King cashier’s window. Men – yuck. She was finished, she was through, she’d had enough, she wanted out, she couldn’t wait until it was over, over, over.

The teenager with the fuzz above his upper lip handed the bag to her. She looked at it and groaned.

“I ordered the double whopper with extra cheese. Can’t you people get anything right?”

That boy, she could swear, had an oh-what-a-bitch look on his face that she wanted to smash in. He’d turn out just like him. Men. Sheila spat out the window again.

It irritates me to no end

Aaron couldn’t keep up. He’d promised Mary Boleyn he’d look after Henry Fitzroy. He’d made an obligation to Caesar Claudius that he’d keep watch on Caligula. Sir Isaac Newton was counting on him to stand under the tree and wait for an apple to fall on his head. And Eleanor of Aquitaine wanted Aaron to lead an invasion of Normandy.

Why did he get himself into these messes? All these famous people, whenever Aaron saw them, all he could do is promise them this, promise them that. But he was a human being, too. He had needs and wants. And how would they feel if, one day when he visited them in that clackety-clack of a time machine, he turned the tables on them?

“Queen Eleanor,” Aaron could hear himself saying. “I’ve decided to wear some of your jewels to the king’s pig roast. Would you be a dear and hang these from my nipples?”

“Sir Isaac,” Aaron would baritone, “I think we need to give that tree a little shake. Go climb up it and jump up and down on that branch. I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an appointment with Socrates.”

“Great Caesar with the stutter,” he said, knowing the old man had a sense of humor, “every time I get near Caligula he turns me around and makes sport with my behind. Would you be a dear and point your flabby little arse at the heathen and service him yourself?”

“Lady Mary,” Aaron said, a velvety tone of appreciation for her round breasts in his voice, “would you stroke me a hundred times just here? That’s right, on that spot.”

But no, he had to be a star fucker and go blubbery every time someone famous asked him a favor.

I missed it

“All right, then,” I had said that Saturday morning when the Cleveland temperatures had dropped below zero but the sun shone brightly. “You’ll have to leave.”

It’d been a year I’d waited, after the return from rehab, the year going through the 12 steps, the aborted trips to the latest new age church, the weekly couples’ therapy sessions that just went around in circles and circles – this partner I loved had finally come to me and said, “I’m in love with Steve. I’ve always been in love with him.”

I had sighed. I knew it’d be a passing fancy, but it would be the hundredth passing fancy in the past ten years, and I’d had enough. I’d waited a year for him to come back to my bed – to feel the warmth of his chest, the soft resonance of his quiet voice, feel the contours in his abdomen – I had so missed the warm feelings. But something snapped in me, and I shooed him out, as I would a stray neighborhood cat that had wandered into the kitchen. Shoo!

And now the house is quiet, no disturbance rocks it evenings just after the cocktail hour, before the meal gets slammed down on the table, and I can hear myself chewing food and sipping my third vodka martini. And the pets, they’re quiet, too.

The firehouse

Where in the name of Maria Ouspenskaya did Aaron plop down this time? The room was black and smelled of bad crotch, fizzy beer, sewer rats, and cigarette butts. Sweaty tank-topped men filled the room like a sardine can. They groped at his chest and grazed his hips. They talked in an Appalachian English that put him somewhere between Punxsutawny and Dubuque. Dear God, Aaron hoped he didn’t land in Punxsutawny. He hated Groundhogs’ Day.

The men were dressed in heavy jackets and jeans, at least those whose pants weren’t down around their ankles. Aaron could see better now that his pupils dilated. They all had beards. Was it a gay Paul Bunyan reunion? He didn’t mind traveling to a cliché gay locale back in the ‘70s. After he dumped Cindy, he lost interest in Jeffrey – and somehow found himself fantasizing about Joe Penny from the ‘80s Riptide. But these men – how else to explain the pocketed red scarves? Aaron gagged at the smell of cheap beer. He’d rather sit at Café Nervosa sharing lattes with Niles and Frasier Crane.

A short wiry type named Clayton came over and offered him a Rolling Rock, said he liked Aaron’s nose. Who likes people’s noses? And when he introduced himself, Clayton burst out laughing – “Aardvark, yeah right buddy. Total aardvark nose there. Hey fellas, listen to this guy, he’s got an aardvark nose.”

Aaron wanted to punch out Clayton’s face but held back. Why’d his family have to come from Slovenia and give him that name? For years he’d considered changing it to Aaron Avalon, but it didn’t flow off the tongue like Aaron Aardvark. But no, he just laughed along with this Midwestern idiot.

Then it hit Aaron, that’s why they transported him here. Part of the deal, once a month they choose where he’d land. He came here to warn them about the HIV crisis. So he picked up Clayton and went back to his place – a deserted firehouse, of all places – and enjoyed the romp, even if the mattress lay on the floor between kitty litter, a shotgun collection, and fire suits. But when Aaron warned Clayton about what was coming, all he got was a twisted smirk, get the hell out of my pad, don’t come the hell back.

Where were Niles and Frasier and their double lattes?

Patience required

I’ve reached the saturation point with Aaron Aardvark. I mean, really – figure out your sex life, dude, and get on with it. Ya wanna sleep with boys, sleep with boys. Ya wanna sleep with girls, sleep with girls. But you’re screwin’ with Cindy and Jeffrey's heads, ya know what I’m sayin’?

This morning I walked the dog and he pooped in front of a postal box. You know, the old kind – before there was any Internet, Facebook, texting, tweeting, or any other social avoidance mechanisms. Okay, yeah, we had Gilligan’s Island, the Flintstones, and the Brady Bunch, but that was nothing like today's medicated entertainment, ya know what I’m sayin’?

When I was eight years old, I dropped a half-eaten ice cream cone in a postal box right in front of our local Baskin Robbins, the suburban Pittsburgh variety. For years afterward, I expected the police to come after me and lock me behind bars for the rest of my life. It was chocolate chip and peanut butter that must’ve melted on someone’s payment to the Duquesne Light Company or someone’s Playboy subscription renewall, ya know what I'm sayin'?

My mother rolled her eyes, huffed and puffed, and balled me out all the way home in the Bel Air station wagon. I couldn’t have ice cream for a month, that was her punishment. She had no patience for me – but patience, as Nanny told her, was required for Little Boy Jimmy. But she huffed and puffed to her mother, he’s the straw that broke this camel’s back. Why couldn't Jimmy be a good little boy like Gary and Jeff?

Too bad my mother didn’t have patience with me -- or anyone else, for that matter. If she had any patience, she might not have had the hemorrhagic stroke two years ago that condemned her to that nursing home in Hilton Head. You know, the one for upscale Republicans who hate Obama care at the same time they’re rackin’ up those Medicare claims – that one. Ya know what I’m sayin?

Okay, gotta run. Someone’s knockin’ at the door. Maybe it’s the Pittsburgh police, finally caught up with me. I’m doomed, just like my mother.

Ecstatic

Cindy stomped around the foyer, her eyes surrounded by red rings, her blonde hair a wild bird’s nest, her cheeks quivering, her sobs echoing up the stone hallway.

“I caught you red-handed, you little cretin. Miss Pringelhoeffer, your nephew’s a low-class son-of-a-bitch. He’s been screwing this guy behind my back for months. Get rid of him … I wish I’d never met you, Aaron Aardvark.”

“Aaron, take care of this at once,” Aunt Wilhelmina said, her cheeks pressing into her mouth, her eyes cast down, and her index fingers quivering. “This is not suitable conversation for the servants to hear.”

“I’ve had enough,” Aaron said. He wanted to project an even tone – like a lawyer waiting for a widow to sign over her pension. On the dotted line, and then leave, please. “I’m taking you back to the Haight. Right now.”

But Aaron had a better idea. “Come with me, Cindy.”

“The sooner I get away from you, narcissistic homo, the better.”

Cindy bolted for the door down to the garage. Aaron followed her down the stairs and into the garage. She reached for the Bentley’s door handle.

“No,” Aaron said, keeping the even tone. “Not that car. The one over there in the corner –“

She rolled her eyes and marched over to the time machine. “What the hell kind of contraption is this?”

“It’s a dune buggy,” Aaron said. “I’m going to Stinson after I get rid of you.”

“Bet it’s to go screw that whore boyfriend of yours.”

“Enough, Cindy, get in the car.”

Thirty minutes later, he’d dumped her in Essen 1056, right in the middle of the Middle Ages. That’d teach her to squeal on him to Aunt Wilhelmina. I mean, his aunt was his trustee. She could pull the plug on his allowance at any time. He headed back to San Francisco 2013.

“Jeffrey, dude” Aaron called, his voicing rising into a tenor vibrato. “How’d you like to hang out at Stinson today? That’d be awesome, buddy.”

In the other room

The knock came on the door just at the wrong time. Aaron was pumping Cindy at the same time he was going down on Jeffrey.

“Aaron Aardvark,” he heard Aunt Wilhelmina say, “you open this door at once. Or I’ll cut off your allowance.”

What to do? His aunt couldn’t catch him again with Jeffrey and Cindy. There’d already been hell to pay the first time. But he hadn’t had ‘em in a month, and they wouldn’t go to each other’s place, so what choice did he have? He’d thought his aunt had gone to a spa treatment in Mill Valley. But no … she had to come back early and interrupt the best sex since last month. So what to do? The time machine was in the garage. He couldn’t escape without going through the house.

“Jeffrey, Cindy, in the closet –“ and they were off him like lightning. Oh, did he like being inside Cindy – but oh, was there a better feeling than Jeffrey being inside his mouth? Aaron put on a pair of loose gym shorts (hey, it hid the engorgement better than underwear) … and opened the door.

He rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms over his head, and groaned. “Auntie, you woke me up from my nap. What’s wrong?”

“I heard noise in here, just like last month,” she said, stomping into the room in her heels. High heels at four in the afternoon? “Where are they. I know they’re in here.”

She looked under the bed, she went into the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain, and opened the closet door.

Aaron squinted, certain that tragedy loomed. He shuddered at what she’d say. But she closed the door.

“Not in here either. All right, then. Maybe I was wrong. But I’m warning you, Aaron Aardvark. Next time I catch you fornicating in my house, you’re out on your sorry orphan ass.”

She slammed the door shut. Aaron locked the door, then went over to the closet and opened the door. No, they weren’t in there – oh, wait a minute, behind the hanging shirts was a shelf. He pulled the shirts to the side, and there they were, like a pretzel, Jeffrey inside Cindy.

“Hey,” Aaron said, “get that nasty thing out of her. That’s my job.”

What I won't accept

The tides worked against Aaron as he made his way up the Thames to Richmond. The king’s flotilla preceded him, and he rowed in its wake, happy to avoid the worst of the storm’s wind. He’d stolen a gown from a merchant in London once he stowed his time machine in an abandoned stable not far from the Tower. He’d have stood out among the courtiers in his low-cut jeans, tank top, and high-tops.

Of course, the time machine hadn’t worked as expected. When he’d set the dial for the Court of Henry VIII, he ended up in the law offices of Henry Clay. But after the good senator cocked his head at Aaron and said, “What lawsuit brings you here?” he’d adjusted the dial and, on second try, he’d gotten there.

The red-headed king was just departing for Richmond to visit the Chancellor when Aaron arrived, so Aaron stole the rowboat and made his way north at the rear of the flotilla. No one noticed him, or at least no one cared.

Up ahead, the king’s barge docked. Aaron was tenth in line for docking, but he could see the king disembark and greet his Chancellor. Ah, yes – Thomas More, author of “Utopia.”

What couldn’t Aaron say to these two men?

“A word of advice, your majesty,” he could hear himself saying – but only if he had one foot in the time machine, ready to vanish at a moment’s notice, before the nasty Thomas Cromwell seized him for the Tower. “Don’t marry Anne Boleyn, she’ll be nothing but trouble for you and your kingdom. And for Jane Seymour’s sake, don’t marry her, because she’ll die in childbirth if you do. Anne of Cleves, I’d suggest that you look at her before you marry her, because you won’t want to bed her. Catherine Howard … well, let the buyer beware. And Katharine Parr, she’ll cheat on you.

“Ah, hell,” Aaron would conclude. “Stay with Catherine of Aragon. She really loves you and she’s going to die in another four years anyway. And while you’re at it, shoot your dick. It’s going to get you in a lot of trouble.”

And Aaron heard himself whispering in Thomas More’s ear, “Take your family and get in the first boat for France after dark.”

Responding to round robin writes: how and why

Every writer has certain strengths and certain weaknesses, and every writer comes to the table at a different stage in his or her development of the craft. But we all share one thing, whether we’re taking pen to paper (or fingertips to keyboard) to keyboard for the first time or we’re Anne Lamott. We face an empty page and must jump that hurdle to transfer our creative juices into a linear sequence of letters, words, paragraphs, chapters, and stories.

The round robin forces us, by way of our nine-week commitment to the group and to Jane, to jump that hurdle every day. Somehow, the requirement to produce fresh material for our partner and for Jane on a daily basis manages to push us over that hurdle. It’s that sense of obligation, the integrity to meet our commitments, that goes to work. And so the material that we produce is fresh, it’s raw, it’s unfiltered, and it’s unpolished.

How? Speaking only for myself, I look at my partner’s material and ask myself the questions, what works for me in this write? What do I get out of it? What resonates with me? What aspects of the writer’s craft has my partner pulled out of his or her toolbox that succeed in this write? Characterization, setting, plot, mood, imagery, tone? What elements has my partner utilized to great effect, and can I frame my critique in a way that encourages him or her to continue exploring that aspect of the craft?

Why? When I respond to a write in this way, I hope that I’m helping that writer to overcome the hurdle of the blank page, I hope that I’m helping him or her tear down the barriers inside that prevent us from opening the writer’s floodgates – and I hope I’m increasing my partner’s confidence in his or her ever-improving ability to communicate meaningful letters, words, paragraphs, chapters, and stories.

Everybody

The shadow behind the tree spoke first. He smelled of Pall Malls and vodka. "Barker said you'd be here."

Aaron looked to both sides, making his face into a tight cauldron. "Gimme what you got."

He backed up against the granite. Aaron saw the Reflecting Pool in the distance. And he could hear the man's uneven breathing, every huff's tone, depth, and duration as unique as a fingerprint. "You got to follow the money trail. Look what C.R.E.E.P. paid out. It'll lead you to Liddy, and he'll squeal like a county fair pig."

What the hell was he talking about? "That's what bank networks are for. Any good hacker can get the data in fifteen minutes."

The man belched out a cutting, dry laugh. "Think I give a damn how you get the information? Do your own leg work, buddy."

Thirty minutes later, Aaron had it. All it needed was a Facebook hacker, and he'd paid attention in college to Zuckerberg. It took Woodward and Bernstein three years to figure it out. Aaron got it in fifteen minutes, so he'd drop it off at Graham's office before heading back to San Francisco '09 and nailing Jeffrey.

Nobody

Where in the name of Theda Bara did Aaron land this time? The room was black and smelled of bad crotch, fizzy beer, sewer rats, and cigarette butts. Men filled the room like a sardine can. They groped at his chest and grazed his hips. They talked in a hilly English that put him somewhere between Punxsutawny and Dubuque. Dear God, Aaron hoped he didn’t land in Punxsutawny to see the groundhog not see his shadow for the tenth year running.

But the men were dressed in heavy jackets and jeans, at least those whose pants weren’t down around their ankles. Aaron could see better now that his pupils dilated. They all had beards. Was it a gay Paul Bunyan reunion? He didn’t mind traveling to a cliché gay locale back in the ‘70s. How else to explain the pocketed red scarves? After all, Aaron enjoyed men and women in the same frisky way. But he did mind the cheap beer. He’d rather sit at 21 sipping martinis with Noel Coward.

A short wiry type named Bruce came over and offered him a Rolling Rock, said he liked Aaron’s nose. Who likes people’s noses? And when he introduced himself, Bruce burst out laughing – “Aardvark, yeah right buddy. Total aardvark nose there. Hey fellas, listen to this guy, he’s got an aardvark nose.”

Aaron wanted to punch out Bruce’s face but held back. Why’d his family have to come from Slovenia and give him that name? For years he’d considered changing his name to Aaron Avalon, but it didn’t flow off the tongue like Aaron Aardvark. But no, he just laughed along with this Midwestern fool. He’d probably end up in an HIV ward ten years later.

Then it hit Aaron, that’s why they transported him here. Part of the deal, once a month they choose where he’d land. He came here to warn them. So he picked up Bruce and went back to his place behind the mill and enjoyed the romp, even if the mattress lay on the floor between kitty litter and a shotgun collection. But when Aaron warned Bruce about what was coming, he said he was out of his mind, get the hell out of here, don’t come back.

Where were Mr. Coward and his 21 martini?

Washing something

“Mister Aardvark,” Proctor Lewis intoned, his voice an octave lower than Aaron typically heard in these plan reviews, “it is the Consortium’s determination that you may take the machine as far as the year 2063.”

Finally, Aaron thought – after all these months of pleading, after all this time submitting to the investigations, limiting himself to random sex only ten times per week, on the concern that too much might sway the jury’s decision – he’d be able to witness the future. What fun!

“A word of warning, however,” the proctor said. “We’re programming a chip into the machine. On your return, you’ll enter Purgatory Cove and remain there for two hundred eleven minutes, during which time you’ll be administered Acrovarstanin.

Aaron knew Acrovarstanin – the anti-memory drug. The Consortium would allow him to visit the future, but he wouldn’t remember any of it.

“You’ll fall asleep, during which time we’ll destroy any evidence of the future. And when you awaken, you’ll have forgotten anything that happened on the trip. Do we have your agreement?”

“Yes,” Aaron said, cursing inwardly. What was the point in visiting the future if he couldn’t relate his tales to Nero? But Nero had gone back to the Roman Empire for a few weeks to help his mother do the emperor’s laundry. Aaron had to get back there to fetch him. And then a thought –

“Hey, wait a second,” he said. “People do future time travel all the time without being forced to take Acrovarstanin. Look at Nero –“

“He’s not a sexual deviant like you are,” Proctor Lewis said. “He won’t corrupt the morals of a whole generation of hot guys and bodacious babes.”

According to the rules

Time for you to go,” Aaron said, jumping out of bed. Was Cindy thinking his rear was starting to sag? Better not be, or he’d say something about her raisin boobs. “I’m off to a bullfight in Pamplona. Back this evening.”

“Huh?” she said. “That’s seven thousand miles from here.”

What gave her the right to cross-examine him? “Never mind. Let’s get together in a few days.”

“What’re you talking about? I’ll just chill out here at the house until you get back.”

“No,” Aaron said, like a guillotine. “I’m spending tonight with Jeffrey and then I’m off to Moscow on Thursday. Won’t be back for two weeks. You should go back to the Haight apartment.”

Why was she just lying there on his aunt’s silk sheets, instead of getting up and dressed and out? Did he have to come right out and say it?

“You treat me like shit,” she said, bringing the sheets up over her raisin tits. “I don’t know why I put up with this kind of treatment.”

“Your choice, Cindy. Honestly, I’m getting a little tired of your demands. You’d think we had a commitment.”

“We’ve been having sex for months now. About time you ponied up.”

Aaron looked at her. Whose rules was she playing by? His grandmother’s in Iowa? They certainly weren’t Aaron’s rules.

“Get dressed and leave, Cindy. We’ll talk about this when I get back from Moscow.”

In summary

Nero shuddered when they walked in. “Oh, my god. Everything, absolutely everything, is in here.”

“Keep your toga on, fat boy. It’s just a pharmacy, a general store, and a convenience market.”

“Stop, you’re both right.”

“You’re the only Roman who’s seen Saturday Night Live.”

“What do they call this store, Aaron?”

“They don’t call it anything anymore. Maybe a ‘superstore.’”

“Since we’re here, I need cleansing facial cream and Preparation H.”

“And I need a box of Trojans and a Waterpick.”

“You get your stuff, I’ll get mine. You pay, though. I have no gold coins.”

“We’d better shop together. Excuse me, ma’am,” Aaron said to the cashier, “where would the condoms be?”

The blank-eyed pasty-pink cashier spoke into the loudspeaker. “Manager to the front, we have a customer who wants condoms.”

Aaron shrank from six feet tall to a little under three. The manager spoke from the back through another loudspeaker. “What kind?”

The cashier stared at Aaron and then blared into the loudspeaker, “Trojans. Lubricated. Spermicidal.” She looked down at Aaron’s crotch. “And extra small.”

Aaron grabbed the loudspeaker. “That’s extra large, and if you don’t get your ass off that speaker, I’m going to come over there and personally screw you with my extra large.”

Eeeny meeny miny moe

What did Aunt Wilhelmina want him to do this morning? That’s right – turn the clocks back an hour. There were the VCRs, DVD players, alarm clocks, not to mention all those appliances in her kitchen. Any of one her servants could do this job, but this was the one chore Aaron wanted to do himself, twice every year.

Twice a year, these were the only times Aaron could move in time without having that damned time machine do it for him. He could do it without risking bodily injury or death. What if the time machine transported him into a plane crash?

He jumped out of his skin when he opened the door to the morning room. A mass of pink blubber and curly hair lay in the bed. His violin lay on the dresser. What was he doing in Aunt Wilhelmina’s Presidio mansion?

“Hey, Nero,” Aaron called out, “what’re you doing in here?”

“You walked by, and I’d been looking for a way out Byzantium 1435, so I bummed a ride on that machine of yours,” his New Jersey vowels showing despite himself. “Mine’s still in the shop back there, won’t get it for another five hundred years ago. You didn’t know I’d stowed away? Good.”

“So when do you come from?”

“And when do you come from?”

“I asked first. And you’re trespassing in my aunt’s house.”

“Nice digs, buddy.”

“Fat ass, buddy.”

“Your aunt’s a dried-up old prune, Aardvark. She wasn’t interested in a quick ride on the Nero express.”

“Your skin has the tone of dead whale blubber, Nero.”

“Where can I get myself some? This is San Francisco after all, isn’t it, the land of free love?”

Aaron liked him. He could tell it was the beginning of a great friendship.

It's all under control

Aaron Aardvark ramped up the time machine, pushed the Start button, and put the machine in reverse. He couldn’t wait to get to the Court of Henry VIII and sit in the audience box at the trial of Thomas More. He felt the smoke billow out from both sides of the machine, the steam scalded his face. The machine began to sputter and shake, bounce and fall, then finally lift off the ground. Aaron felt the ever cooler air of the sky swoop across his face as the clouds rolled by and time accelerated and he began to approach the white light.

And then the Abort button began to flicker, a heavy beep that quacked like a duck sounded its alarm, and the machine began to descend, slowly, then more quickly, and then finally into free fall.

“What the – oh, shit!”

The machine landed with a thud like Aaron had never experienced, not even when landing at the Nativity Scene, not even at the investiture of Louis XIV. The smoke cleared. Aaron looked about him – no, this was most certainly not the Court of Henry VIII, nor was it Thomas More’s trial. He looked in front of him, a hospital – no, a rest home – with Victorian columns, a porch, high windows, with a sign that identified it as the Shady Pines Rest Home. The lawn was manicured and bushes dotted the front yard like well-tended Chia pets. Two shiny Studebakers sat parked in the driveway.

Aaron stashed his time machine behind a tree and sauntered forward. He knew why he was here, but he didn’t really want to see her. Not after what he’d heard about the end. Aaron sighed. There was nothing to do but visit. He walked inside.

“I’d like to see Mrs. Aardvark, please.” Come this way, the purse-lipped, pointy-glassed nurse with the little white hat said to him. He followed her to the lounge area. They were all watching The Edge of Night. Aaron remembered his mother talking about that soap – it went off the air just before Aaron was born.

And there she was, sitting in a chair, rocking back and forth. But the chair wasn’t a rocker. Her shoulders curved inward toward her chest, her white hair lay on her head in a frazzled jumble. Aaron could see the bones of her shoulders, her hips, her knees, and her forearms were like sticks.

“Hello, Granny,” he said, going up to her, knowing it didn’t matter. She looked up at him and then down again.

“I’ve got it all under control,” she said. “The turkey’s in the oven, the vegetables are stewing on the stove, and I’ve put on my diaper.”

Unintended consequences

Aaron finally got a ruling on his petition and found the machine had transported him to ancient Rome. He emerged in a hovel in the forest, God only knew where, and walked to the nearest town.

“Who goes there,” a black-bearded man asked that evening when he walked by the market. “Halt and make yourself known.”

“It is I, Aaron Aardvark of California.”

“I’ve never seen hair that color, nor a face so white. Not even among the most northern of Romans. And your robe wears too closely to your legs.”

“I come in peace, kind man. Please forgive my odd appearance.”

The man reached for his knife, but paused. He squinted his eyes, looked at Aaron shivering in just dungarees and flannel. “Where is this California you speak of? Is it somewhere east of Persia?”

After a fashion, Aaron supposed. “Yes, it is quite east. I come to warn Caesar. He is about to be assassinated by his closest allies.”

The man grunted. “Never a more ambitious group did I ever see. Off you go then, in that direction.” He pointed and went back to his hides and pelts.

Aaron turned down the alleyway the man indicated. Before too long, the small houses of the village came further apart, and then he came upon the Senate. Light came from within. Aaron entered and just as he turned to confront the senators, he saw a three-ringed circus with ponies, acrobats, clowns, and a strong man.

“Once again,” Aaron thought, “Damn that time machine. I knew I should’ve downloaded the latest upgrade when it prompted me.”

A disappearance

After dropping Cindy and Jeffrey off at their Haight apartments, Aaron returned home. He had to figure a few things out. Approaching Aunt Wilhelmina’s, the dual lines of oaks framing the long street in front of Aaron’s car dizzied him, but he plunged forth. The butler greeted him when he drove under the portico.

“Good afternoon, Master Aardvark. Miss Pringelhoeffer is expecting you in the library for afternoon tea and sausages.”

Jeeves had an especially sour expression on his normally dour face that Aaron didn’t like. “May I ask, Jeeves, whatever seems to be the trouble?”

“I’m afraid, Master Aardvark, there’s been some trouble in the house today. It seems the head footman has disappeared with the second maid. Miss Pringelhoeffer is beside herself with worry. Formal dinner must be served, after all, and there is the matter of polishing her shoes.”

“I understand, Jeeves. Thank you for warning me.”

Aaron entered the house. It was especially cold for July, he thought, but the stone columns and twenty-foot ceilings never did invite warmth. He dreaded visiting Aunt Wilhelmina under such circumstances. She placed special importance on the presence of servants at dinner and in her closet. But, at least, it would divert his mind from his own topsy-turvy problems.

Cheap thrills

Aaron sucked Jeffrey off while he banged Cindy. It was so kind of them, really, to accommodate his sore lower back, letting him lie on his back while Jeffrey thrust into his mouth and Cindy bounced up and down, squeaking in that way that sounded like a hyena on speed. For his part, Jeffrey kept quiet except for the occasional osmotic moan that came from somewhere behind his heart.

Aaron looked up at Jeffrey’s torso, the lines of his brown hairs running in parallel around his stomach, merging into a line that ascended the center of his chest, then broadened out again across his pectorals and wrapped around his nipples. The contours of his abdominal muscles, the protrusion of his pectorals, the round balls on his shoulders, the veins in his forearms, the jutting chin that pointed outward as Jeffrey looked up and let out a moan that echoed through the bedroom – Aaron stiffened even harder and thrust deeper into Cindy.

Aaron grabbed Cindy’s waist and fondled the curves at that point between her legs and her abdomen, so soft and narrow, so smooth and taut. Jeffrey in front, Aaron couldn’t see her – but tried imagining the sight of her body swaying over him, the breasts, small and round, swaying from down to up and down again. The image of Jeffrey, though, and his hairy chest kept crowding it out –

Jeffrey looked down at Aaron, a deep blue in his eyes that Aaron had never seen, and, somehow, the eyebrows shaded the sapphires in a new way that made them seem as deep as an Alpine lake. The eyes gripped Aaron as he felt Jeffrey slide in and out of his mouth – on the one end, his bristly hairs rubbing against Aaron’s lips and at the other end, the triangular flesh of his tip. Aaron felt locked by those eyes, and a different feeling ascended up from his middle, into his heart, like a massage, and up through his chest that made him feel warm, cozy, and excited – No, he thought, it can’t be happening.

“Okay,” Aaron said. “Time to change positions.”

Another view

“What’s all the fuss –“ Aaron heard from down the hallway. He scrambled for the sheet he’d thrown on the floor. Aunt Wilhelmina and her high-pitched vibrato, her words coming closer, one after the other. He threw the sheet over Jeffrey and him.

And then she said, as close as Jennifer, “Young lady, who are you and why are you wearing my Vera Wang robe?”

He peeked out the sheet and saw her there, her white hair flowing down her back, her brocade robe with its high neckline wrapped tightly around her Duchess of Windsor-thin frame, the lines of her mouth so straight, Aaron could’ve sworn she had no lips –

“Oh my God,” Aunt Wilhelmina screamed when she looked at the bed and looked Aaron in the eye. “Who the hell are these people?”

Aaron hid under the sheets again. Two seconds later, someone tore the sheet off him. Aaron shifted to fetal position and covered his crotch – hoping, hoping that Jeffrey would have the good sense to do the same. But no …

“Hey lady,” Jeffrey said, jumping out of bed, pointing down at his crotch, still erect, “what do you think of this? Cindy, you’ve had your fair share, isn’t it time for the old lady to have a go at it?”

“Young man, you get out of my house immediately!”

“And give up this sweet situation,” Jeffrey said, “no way.”

Aunt Wilhelmina glared at Aaron. “I told you something like this would happen when you started with them. Aaron, you get rid of them or I’m calling the police.”

“You let me stay, auntie,” Jeffrey said, sitting down in a high-backed chair, “and I’ll let you watch me with Cindy …”

“Get your hairy behind off my fabrics!”

It all started when ...

Aaron lay naked in bed, the creamy silk sheet barely covering his torso, his legs wrapped around Cindy’s once again. Heaven, that tangy sweetness and milky warmth of being inside Cindy, feeling the bristles of their pubic hairs rushing together and then apart – so sweet, tears edged out of his eyes. He felt Cindy’s tangle of dark hair against his neck, her head on his chest, the smooth contours of her left breast nestled between his armpit and his torso. Could it ever get better than this?

Yes, it could.

He gently edged himself to the right side of the bed, put one leg down on the floor, and slid out of bed. Good, he said, looking back at Cindy – he didn’t wake her. He put on his pale blue silk shorts, though they couldn’t hide his erection. He crossed his fingers, hopefully Aunt Wilhelmina wouldn’t be wandering the hallways, and opened the door. Looked left, looked right – good, coast was clear. He tiptoed across the hallway and opened the door.

Jeffrey lay in bed. “Hey man,” he said, stroking his chest and wriggling his hips under the sheets, “glad you could come on over. Sure was noisy in that room an hour ago.”

“Dude, you up for messing around some more?”

“Look under the sheets, man, all for you.”

Aaron stripped off his shorts, pulled the sheet off from Jeffrey, and they were at it – again. A perfect world, Aaron thought, it’d all started so easily with the two of them – now it couldn’t get any better. But just as he was about to lift Jeffrey’s legs up, the door opened. Jennifer stood in the entrance in one of Aunt Wilhelmina’s robes.

“Aaron Aardvark, you lying cheating bastard, get your sorry ass back over here now. I’m not done with you.”

Something stolen

Aaron hoped he could at least find the machine. The last time it’d botched the time warp like this, it’d taken him a week to find it and he’d been stuck with Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine on one of their lunatic crusades. At least he’d gotten some nookie with each of them. King Henry was better in bed.

“So when the hell am I?” Aaron asked, and looked for clues. It was nighttime, hot and humid, and the city was burning. Soldiers were lighting kegs at the train station, people screamed, a hospital was burning, flames shot out the windows of a bank, women in hoop skirts raced by in horse carriages, taking their straps to horses, dogs barked and ran down the street.

Atlanta, September 1864, the Confederates were evacuating the city. But where were Scarlett and Rhett, and what did they have to do with his birth?

“Hey you,” a soldier with no left eye and a right peg leg, “gimme some food, will ya? I got to have some food.”

Aaron ran in the opposite direction, down a narrow alley, and came upon the famous good-bye scene, Scarlett slapping Rhett, They were right, you aren’t a gentleman. But Aaron ignored them, jumped on wagon, took a strap to the ancient horse, who lurched forward.

“Hey,” Rhett Butler said, “you can’t steal my horse.”

Scarlett aimed the revolver for Aaron and shot, but it missed as he scampered away with Prissy, Wade, Miss Melanie, and the baby. But Aaron reined in the horse when he saw his machine nestled in a bush on Peachtree Street.

He jumped over to the time machine, pushed Start and looked back at the horse, Prissy prairie-dogging up from the wagon. He sighed in relief. “Don’t worry, Prissy, Miss Scarlett will be right back.”

Aaron turned the gears all the way to the right. Yesterday sure was one hell of a day.

This is the story of my birth

“Aaron Aardvark,” Master Solomon said, shaking his head slowly, “if you insist, then we shall have to allow it. But we are entirely against this idea and must go on record. Are you willing to risk this?”

“I am,” Aaron said. He just had to see it – so off he went, back to Aunt Wilhelmina’s estate and down the stairs to the garage, but not before shredding his gym clothes, frolicking with Jeffrey in the bathtub, humping Cindy on the kitchen table, and showering.

He got in the machine, pushed the Start button, turned the dial once to the left. Smoke poured out of the jalopy, it jumped up and down, and that thin mist he’d come to expect descended over him. And then he sped backward with a white laser of light, felt the weightless swoosh of flying, and descended with a jolt.

The machine had parked itself at Divisadero and Polk, and he saw it right in front of him – U.C.S.F. Hospital. He looked left, then right. A ’78 Buick Electra in front of him, an ’81 Olds Toronado, a ’76 Datsun B-210, and a ’71 Plymouth Valiant. Perfect – he’d landed at the right time. He looked at the sky – sunny and clear. Yes, it was October in San Francisco, 1983.

He walked into the hospital and up to the maternity ward. There they were – waiting.

“Austin,” Aunt Wilhelmina said, her face smoothed of its wrinkles, her figure tighter and more smooth – menopause would not yet have struck – “take your head out of that book and pay attention. Now that you’re having a baby, you need to move out of the Haight and buy a house over near me.”

Austin looked up from his book, The Coming P.C. Revolution, his hair still long, still wearing tie-dyed shirts, loose jeans, and flip-flops. “Not a chance, Willa, those honky snobs can kiss my –“

A doctor walked into the room, “Mr. Aardvark, you have a son, come with me –“

Aaron followed his father out of the room and into the maternity ward. But when he opened the door, he was transported to a burning city, barefoot soldiers in gray carrying rifles –

“Damn the machine, it’s screwed up again.”

Floating bed

Mama and Daddy’s king-sized bed floated down the Pacific Coast Highway. Mama slept on the left side, Aaron could see, resting on her side with her back to Daddy, a placid expression her smooth, unlined face, with just the suggestion of a smile in the slight upturn of her mouth. Daddy slept on his back, shirtless, the top half of his chest exposed, his mouth wide open, his beard thick, his forearms hairy and thickly muscled. The bed floated forward on the highway just north of Half Moon Bay, climbing a hill toward the rocky precipice and then, just at the top, it stopped in front of a rocking chair. Aunt Wilhelmina sat in the chair, rocking back and forth, knitting a pale blue sweater. She looked at the bed and shook her head, left to right. And then the bed catapulted over the precipice onto the rocks, down the ravine, and crashing into the ocean.

Aaron woke up and sat up in bed. He tasted a bitter bile in the back of his throat. He felt cool waves of air from the open window on his skin. He must’ve been sweating. He felt his palms, cold and clammy. He felt his stomach lurch and ran for the toilet – but no vomit came out.

Ten minutes later, he sat on the edge of the bed, ready to go back to sleep. But he knew he wouldn’t sleep. He put on his robe, went across the hallway, and knocked on the door.

“Jennifer,” he said. “I know you’re in there. Wake up and let me in.”

The door opened and Jennifer, clad in a silk negligee, her eyes half open, her blonde hair a messy tangle and half covering her face, motioned him in.

“Are you wanting to go at it again? We just finished three hours ago.”

“No,” Aaron said. “Nothing like that. I just want to cuddle.”

“Whatever floats your boat, that’s why I’m here.”

He took off his robe and climbed into bed with her. But as soon as she curled into his arms, he became erect and he knew, yes – he’d have to have his way with her before getting that image out of his mind.

Let me be blunt

Aaron rowed the boat across the stinky ithsmus. He’d caught wind of a feast planned that 1437 evening at the palace in Athens, and if he was going to meet Sultan Karpathy at the port, he’d better hurry. But the Turks didn’t make it easy, fighting their little civil war like a Muslim version of the Spanish armada.

He had a pretty good idea he’d landed in the right year, three hundred years before his most recent stop at the councils of the de Medicis. Most times he conjured up the right place, but he backfired occasionally. He’d wanted to dine with the Pilgrims in Plymouth for turkey dinner – but instead, he’d landed in an Appalachian country field with a bunch of gobbling turkeys, two weeks before Thanksgiving, dodging bullets from Pennsylvania hunters.

Byzantium didn’t please Aaron Aardvark, smelled too much like urine. But he had to be blunt – that afternoon, he got more nookie in three hours in the prison bath than he’d gotten in that Appalachian field (a confused hunter had gotten a new, eye-opening experience out of it) or would’ve gotten with the Pilgrims.

The Turkish men and the women just crawled all over him. “Hey you,” he said to the concubine on the other end of the boat, the Amazon beauty he’d sniffed when heading back from the port, “what’s your name?” But she didn’t speak English or Hebrew (Aaron’s only other language), so she just grunted and spread her legs open for him. He plugged the horny concubine right there in the boat and then headed straight for Greece after docking. He traveled fastest alone, and he needed to hurry to make it to the sultan’s feast.

The wedding

The time machine flew across the sky at a dizzying speed that had Aaron seeing lines in all colors across the spectrum, clouds flying by at quantum speed, the sun and the moon zipping by. And then smoke billowed up from the machine in front of him, he felt the descent, and when the dust settled, found himself in a field of sycamores and redwoods, dark orange clay, dark green leaves, and bright blue sky.

Mount Tam. So far, so good, the machine hadn’t screwed it up this time like all the others. But what about the time? Aaron stepped out of the machine and wandered over to the clearing, looked out onto the field, and saw it –

Yes, he’d landed in the right point of time. When the damned machine decided to work instead of sending him off to the bullfights in Seville, it worked beautifully. And there they were – the flower children, the beat-up Beetles, the banana-seat bikes, the barefoot bride with the flower wreath on her hair, the barefoot groom with long hair, a beard, and tie-dyed psychedelic shirt – barefoot, too. And the bongo drums and the chanting. Yep, he’d landed in June 1969.

He walked over to the crowd, knowing he’d be invisible. He’d petitioned the council for an Anonymity Pass, so he could observe without participating. Given the circumstances, they’d agreed.

He walked right over to the minister, wearing a toga, thin-framed spectacles, and a white cross around his neck. The minister was reciting a love poem. Joni Mitchell stood behind him, strumming her guitar to his rhythm recitation. And then he got to the vows.

“Do you, Penelope Pringlehoeffer,” he said, swaying left to right, “take this heavenly dued, Austin Aardvark, to be your main squeeze and love partner until you both head for cool other far-out places?”

“As our Goddess Judy witnesses this … I say yes, oh lord,” Penelope – Mother, Aaron meant. His mother. How beautiful she looked, standing there with her smooth skin, the willowy look, the long feathered blonde hair …

“And do you, Austin Aardvark, take this heavenly maiden, Penelope Pringlehoeffer, to be your main squeeze and love partner until you both head for cool other far-out places?”

“As our Goddess Judy witnesses this … I say yes, oh lord,” his father said. Austin, if only I could reach out, plead with you never to get behind the wheel of a car, at least not after drinking three gin martinis …

A few things about my neighbor

Hazen Clingsworth sat in the swivel chair in front of his desk, a floor-to-ceiling window behind him showing the thick fog that had rolled in from the ocean through the Presidio. He crossed one of his bony legs over the opposite knee and stared at Aaron, tapping an index finger to his cheek, looking at the bookcase stacked with Raymond Chandler mysteries, then over to the liquor cabinet.

“You’re only fourteen, too young for whiskey,” he said to Aaron. “But what they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em, right?”

Clingsworth laughed in a sharp, staccato and went over to the cabinet. He poured two whiskeys with ice into tumblers.

“Here, drink this. It’ll put hair on your chest,” he said, giving Aaron one of the tumblers and sitting back down. Clingsworth rested his elbows on his knees, hunched over, and looked at Aaron.

“Didn’t know your parents all that much. But I always liked Austin and Penelope. Good neighbors, always. You Aardvarks got back luck, is what I say. Too bad about the crash, so you deserve a special gift.” Clingsworth leaned back in his chair and spread his legs.

Aaron knew what that meant, and he looked at the door for a quick escape. He downed the tumbler of whisky in one gulp that burned his esophagus.

Clingsworth laughed again, this time echoing off the walls. “You’re a real man, I tell you. So this is what I’m givin’ you. Old, but it works right if you learn how to use it. Come with me, young man.”

He finished his own whiskey, got up, went out the door. Aaron didn’t know whether to run away or follow him –

“Come with me, into the garage. Be quick about it.”

He rose and followed him on unsteady feet. The room began to sway – was it the liquor or was it fear? Clingsworth opened the garage door.

“There it is,” Clingsworth said, pointing at something that looked like a dune buggy, but more square and upright, and with a boxy center console that rose above the dash.

“My time machine. Can’t tell anyone, or it’ll lose its power. You take it to the past and tell someone, you stay there until you die. You take it into the future and tell someone, you did immediately. Go on, take a look. It’s yours.”

Where would he put it, Aaron asked himself – but then he remembered. He’d be living with Aunt Wilhelmina now. She had a 6-car garage and a chauffeur.

“I need to tell Boggs, nowhere to put it otherwise.”

“Your aunt’s chauffeur? Can he be trusted?”

Aaron thought – yes, he could be. Boggs had pilfered thousands from Aunt Wilhelmina’s petty cash account over the years. If Boggs squealed on him, then he’d just turn Boggs into the police and tell Auntie. He was safe.

“Absolutely.”

“So fire up the machine and go wherever you want. Be creative. Always.”

Dropped in New York City, 2013

“Okay, machine,” Wilbert said. He was in the mood for some free love and free weed and a bunch of groovies, psychedelic shirts, and love beads. “Woodstock, 1969, on the double.”

Aunt Prudence would wonder where he’d gone. She was expecting him for one of her countless cotillions with the upper-crust Republicans of San Francisco. All eleven had R.S.V.P.d and Aunt Prudence was expecting them. They’d complain about Obama and their taxes while sipping Grey Goose martinis with diamond-ringed hands, tiaras, Vera Wang originals, and Manolo Blahniks.

No worry, Wilbert decided. He’d just put the time machine in reverse and come back two hours earlier – plenty of time to rewind the cotillion and start over. Hopefully, the society wouldn’t get wind of it. There’d be hell to pay if they found out he’d reversed time. But it had to be done.

He cranked up the machine and made his way to Woodstock.

“Damn this machine,” Wilbert said once again. He needed to trade in this jalopy for a new and improved model. Preferably one that landed in the right place at the right time. He landed in the middle of New York city. As far as he could tell, it was Times Square. And judging from the fashion, current day.

But something struck him as funny. He got his psychedelic shirts, love beads, and everyone passing him said groovy, man. But everyone was paired off with a twin. The African Americans in the Nelson Mandela overshirt, two of ‘em. The Orthodox Jews in black and white, a pair of identical twins. The twink gay boys in their gym rat spandex, two of ‘em. The militant feminists with their saggy boobs, gray caftans, thick glasses, and sensible shoes – a dynamic duo. The Chinese software engineers walking with heads buried in Apple Macbook Pros, the middle-aged businessmen driving BMW 5-Series while talking on cellphones, the angry white old curmudgeon McCain-Romney voters walking around with constipation written on their faces, the transsexual drag queens. All in identical pairs – two of ‘em each time.

And then Patty Lane walked by him, followed by her identical cousin, Cathy Lane. Wilbert remembered his favorite re-run from the 1970s – Patty Duke with the curls twirling out, Patty Duke with the curls twirling under. But they’re cousins …

“This is weird shit,” Wilbert said to one of the two street vendors hocking cheese dogs and mu shu pork. “I’m getting’ out of here.”

“But haven’t you heard?” the two said in unison. “Obamacare’s giving everyone a free clone.”

Should the world risk another Wilbert? He ran for the machine and put it in reverse.

A crazy situation

The fragrant scent of figs, leaves, and dirt awoke Wilbert. He squinted his eyes open and shut them quick – the bright sun went through his head like a saber. Oh, where in the name of Walter Mitty did this pounding headache come from? Wilbert tried to open his eyes again, but all he saw were blurry green leaves and a bright white light beyond it. He had a bitter, metallic taste that came from his molars. Did a filling come out? But his mouth was so dry, it felt as though his cheeks remained glued to his teeth and gums. And then his stomach lurched.

Oh, just another hangover – no big deal.

Where was he? But more importantly, when was he? He tried to remember what the time machine had done. He’d wanted to visit Mesopotamia, but no – now, he remembered – it’d transported him to ancient Rome and the bordello of Messalina. That’s right, that’s where the hangover came from – an orgy of brandywine, fruit nectar, olives, and figs. Also a round, sporting with Messalina’s voracious fertile crescent and then Marcus Agrippa’s statue physique.

Wilbert could feel the stirrings between his legs at the thought. Just as he liked it – a curvaceous woman followed by a muscular man. But then Emperor Clau-Clau-Claudius had broken up the orgy and sent Messalina over to the lion’s pit.

Damn the emperor, but where was his time machine? If he could get it into gear, he could be back at Aunt Prudence’s in time for dinner. And then Wilbert saw sandaled feet at eye level –

“Who harkens there?”

Wilbert looked up. A cherubic boy – no, young man, as Wilbert could saseew up his toga, a nice endowment he had, plump and long – stood by him, curly brown hair, pink skin, blue eyes, pudgy everywhere, holding a violin.

“A visitor from another state. And who are you?”

“I am Hexabus from Pompeii.”

Wilbert stretched up with his arms, lifted himself up with help from his knees. His stomach lurched and he vomited. When the spell passed and he stood to look Hexabus in the eye, Wilbert laughed to himself.

“This reminds me,” Wilbert said. “You’d better leave Pompeii.”

A door opens

Wilbert stepped out of the time machine and stretched. He arched his back, shoulders backward, pelvis forward, and reached up for the sky. Debbie in his step aerobics class had told him to do that after long journeys. But, of course, she didn’t know that “long” for him meant decades or hundreds of years. He liked Debbie, or at least he liked nailing her in the ladies’ locker room after step aerobics class.

He looked around. Just a few farmers in dungarees. Thank goodness, the weather was good. One time he’d landed near the North Pole back in 1906, and he’d dressed for his intended destination, Aruba in 2032. Summer, he could tell – farmers had truckloads of corn and hay.

“Pardon me,” Wilbert said to one farmer, a sixtyish man with dark leathered skin, “would you know where I might find a restaurant?”

“Go to Aunt Millie’s,” he said. “She’s always got some good eats. But I’d put on some clothes, buddy, before you walk in there. Otherwise she’s liable to tan your hide for public indency.”

“What’re you talking about?” Wilbert said. He was wearing jeans and a tank top.

“Lift up your pants. I can see your undershorts. Scandalous, buddy, scandalous.”

It didn't work

Wilbert inserted the key and pushed the red button on the console. The machine bounced up and down, made a tinny grinding noise with squeals and kuffaws, smoke burst out the sides and filled the Aunt Prudence’s garage, and an odor somewhere between rotten broccoli and bad cabbage invaded Wilbert’s nostrils. He put the gear into forward and set the dial to 2197, Paris. Onward to the future!

The space in front of Wilbert began to make little circles, then bigger circles, and then he felt the machine get sucked into the vortex and whoosh into the black hole in front of him. Wilbert’s heart raced, the butterflies in his stomach pranced left, right, then forward, backward. And his mind simply burst with imaginings of speed, light, and the cosmos. He could feel air sweeping by hs face, and though he couldn’t see anything, he knew he was flying.

He’d never been more excited. To Paris, and in the future!

“Yahoo!” he said, but he didn’t hear a word of it. He’d been sucked into the next dimension, and wherever his voice had gone, it had no meaning here. And then he could feel the machine slowing down, his ears popped, he could feel the descent, and the air became warmer. The machine began to bounce up and down again, he could hear the tinny grinding noise, and then he felt a sharp jolt that sent pressure into his abdomen. The steam cleared, and Wilbert saw what he’d found –

“Damn that time machine,” Wilbert said – it was becoming a tradition when he landed, it seemed, that these were his first words. The machine had landed him in Dubuque, Iowa, right in front of a 1959 Ford Futura. Judging from the Leave It To Beaver-like setting, he must be in the early 1960s.

Listening to the radio

Wilbert stood in the corner behind the maroon-leathered high back chair. Grandfather Pricklebush sat in it – a much younger version of the bald, brown-spotted grouchy old fart Wilbert had known who’d said one too many “In my day, we didn’t …” and got knocked over the head by crazy Uncle Jeremy with a frying pan. After that, crazy Uncle Jeremy went to the Idaho state home. Grandfather went six feet under.

They were listening to the radio that Sunday evening. Grandfather had a full head of hair, wore a white shirt and red tie. Sunday evening at home. Aunt Prudence played on the floor with her dolls. Crazy Uncle Jeremy played with his Lincoln Logs, taking ten minutes to put up some building and then knocking it right down. And Mama – his very own darling Jenny – Mama played with her Shirley Temple doll. She had long, straight blonde hair with a pink braid that matched her chubby cheeks.

Ah, Mama … Wilbert wanted to reach out to her, but the society had only approved this journey in the time machine if he remained invisible to the group. But Mama, he wanted to say – don’t get into the Cadillac that fateful evening with Daddy. Don’t get into the car for the evening journey down the Pacific Coast Highway …

“We interrupt this program with a special bulletin,” the radio announced. “The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor –“

Grandfather put down his pipe. Crazy Uncle Jeremy stretched his eyebrows up, excited like a dog with a bone. Aunt Prudence patted her cheeks, looking in the mirror – and Mama kept to Shirley Temple. Grandfather froze and looked over at the sofa at Grandmother, knitting a winter sweater.

“I shall have to serve,” Grandfather said.

“Nonsense, Howard,” Grandmother said. “You’re too old. You’ll be thirty-seven in January.”

Sneaky kitty

“Aunt Pittycat?” Marlo called. “Oh yoohoo, Aunt Pittycat?”

“She’s nowhere to be found!” Phil said., clenching his buttcheeks. Nothing was worse than being forced to hold a fart, especially when it’d be so sweet, stinking up Marlo’s snooty little black cocktail dress.

“Okay, what were you doing? I waited downstairs in the car ten minutes while you putzed upstairs, doing God-knows-what with your hair and your jewelry,” Marlo said.

“Look in the closets. Look under the bed. Look under the furniture. She’s got to be here somewhere. I know,” Phil said, elongating his vowels in that Grace Kelly-esque way that just had him salivating during screenings of To Catch a Thief. “I know she’s in here somewhere.”

Ten minutes later, Aunt Pittycat had yet to surface.

“Always were the irresponsible one,” Marlo muttered under her breath, but loud enough that Phil heard her. She’d scoured every closet, crawled under every bed, craned her neck under every antique they owned. No cat – sore lower back, yes.

Phil forced out a cutting laugh while ricocheting from kitchen cabinet to kitchen cabinet. No Aunt Pittycat. “Hey, who’s had the at-fault car accidents, Ms. Mario Andretti? Not!”

“Never you mind. If you hadn’t been calling me on the cell – the bedroom!”

“Whaddaya mean, the bedroom?” Phil said.

“Your dresser drawers?” Marlo said, groaning.

Fifteen seconds later, Phil heard it from Marlo.

“Oh, Phil …” Marlo said, and then heard the little meow – “guess where I found Aunt Pittycat?”

He’d have to eat crow for two weeks. Damn. She won every time.

The old man

The old man walked down Lincoln Road by himself, not even Scruffy to accompany him for the late Sunday afternoon stroll. Chet wouldn’t have wanted his old dog with him, even if he hadn’t died of kidney failure two weeks earlier, even if the dog had always been man-bait in Chet’s younger years. Chet wanted to cruise the area while all the strapping Latinos in speedos and on rollerblades were out and about.

His body ached and pinched at every joint. He couldn’t blame it on the weather, beautiful even for Miami Beach’s October. Just a week ago, his orthopaedist had told him, you’ve got to have a hip replacement. And his chiropractor had shaken his head when twisting Chet into a pretzel – things just don’t stretch the way they used to, Chet told him. Mightn’t you try yoga, the young thing had said, but he didn’t know anything about bodies Chet’s age. And his internist had put Chet on Lipitor, your cholesterol’s too high, we have to be worried for the heart. The only thing that seemed to work these days was his appetite, still the same as it was when Chet was twenty-two.

Despite the padding around his stomach, Chet thanked God, he could still see his penis when he urinated. And he didn’t look all that bad in jeans and a white t-shirt, did he? That’s what he’d worn this Sunday. No, not bad at all. So then why did the prepubescent Latinos in speedos and on rollerblades look right through him when he passed by them? Even the hunky daddies who were no more than a few years younger ... or the same ... or even older ... even they looked right through him. As if he were a glass prism, but without the refraction.

Chet wished he could be twenty-two again. Hell, he wished he could be thirty again. But no one seemed to understand just how difficult life was for a man once he turned thirty-seven.

A family story

“All right, family,” I said to the crew sitting around in a tight circle of chairs in my 18th Street flat just north of Castro, “you may begin reading.”

They opened their copies of the manuscript and began devouring the pages like vultures would a pig carcass on a sun-scorched desert highway. My mother’s lips froze when she turned to the second page. My brother scrunched up his brow until it looked like a Christmas danish. My sister let out a little squeak after she skipped ahead to the devirginization chapter. How’d she know where to find it? Perhaps someone had been reading my blog, after all. And my father popped his mouth open and groaned when he fingered his way through the last pages of the last chapter.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Dad always read the newspaper from the back to the front. I can remember him, sitting on the toilet Saturday mornings, reading the sports section, stinking up the whole house after French toast and bacon breakfasts.

And then came the onslaught. Mom went first.

She pointed her index finger at me. “I did not have sex with my husband before marriage!”

“How’d you know about the Nancy Smith incident?” my brother said. “I never told anyone. And no one was home. And those Cheetohs, you’re the one who stole them from my underwear drawer.”

My sister whimpered, on the edge of tears. “I think this is all really insulting and disgusting. You’ve laid out our lives for the whole world to laugh at. I did not go around the world with Bobby Boulder!”

“Relax, everyone,” Dad finally said. “It all ends happily in the last chapter. The family convenes at the artist’s San Francisco apartment and they smoke a joint to celebrate the youngest’s smashing exhibition.”

Exhibition, indeed.