The 1 mg. tablet of clonazepam needs thirty minutes to kick in so I take that first. Then I put on a polyester shirt and my tan leisure suit, and load up the VCR. As soon as the room begins the gentle stretch and sway that says the tiny green pill is working I sink into the couch and part the buttons of my shirt. I pinch the little bit of fat on my stomach and inject 4 mg. of sumatriptan succinate into it. Earlier that morning I took a single extended-release dose of Mematrizone, so my serum levels should be at their peak. 
 
It’s show time.
 
I press play on the remote and the opening credits for episode #12 of Me & the Mrs. appear on the TV. I've seen them at least a hundred times, and with each trip through the machine that old videotape gets a little more ragged and glitchy. Occasionally it catches on some unseen mechanism inside, and for a few heart-stopping moments the picture and sound freeze before lurching back into motion.
 
The credits end and I focus on the screen like a Sufi meditating on a mandala. The images overtake my field of vision and I close my eyes. When I open them again it's Friday, March 19, 1971 and I'm in a television studio, in Burbank, California.
 

***

 
There's an empty corner behind the set where I like to touch down, out of sight but within earshot of everything going on. As soon as Patrick Marshall—the attractive but essentially dim actor whose brief Hollywood career will peak with this role—says "I told you I'd be right back," the director yells, "Cut." That's my cue to hit the exit door a few feet to my left.
 
I step out into the long shadows of a southern California afternoon. In front of me cars are parked diagonally on both sides of a one-way street. A block or two to my right is Olive Avenue, a big four-lane surface street that runs like a river between downtown Burbank and Warner Bros. Studios.
 
Four minutes later a woman appears. She's headed for a white Impala just a few cars from where I stand. She must have a job nearby because she walks like someone who knows her way around. Her blond hair is pony-tailed in a blue and yellow print scarf, and her ivory pantsuit looks like something every other woman will be wearing five years from now. I can't see her eyes—they're hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses—but I’d like to. I’ve certainly tried.
 
She slows and smiles when she sees me, like we might have said hello at a meeting or industry party a few weeks ago but she can't quite place it. I take a few steps toward her and skip the niceties because they don’t work. 
 
"Don’t get in your car," I say. "Please. Don't even drive for the rest of the day."
 
Her smile slips. She fishes the keys from her purse and singles out the one that unlocks her car, a white Impala convertible.
 
I take a few more steps but keep my distance, talking to her from across the hood's vast expanse. 
 
"I know this seems crazy." 
 
"You're right about that," she says, swinging open the car's big door. She gets in and pulls it shut behind her, then presses the lock. She turns the key in the ignition and that six-cylinder engine roars like a beast at her command.
 
I cross to the driver's side, hands in front of me. "At least put on your seat belt."
 
"Get away from my car," she shouts through the glass. I do and she backs out of the space. Then she shifts the Impala into drive and speeds off toward Olive Avenue.
 
It doesn't matter if I manage to keep her there for 15 seconds or 15 minutes. When she gets to the intersection the traffic light is always about to change from yellow to red, so instead of stopping she hits the gas and tries to make it. 
 
On her left there's always a truck barreling north on Olive Avenue. Maybe the driver was going too fast to stop, or he didn't see the light, or thought he could time the change from red to green just right. Whatever the reason, it's too late. He slams on the brakes. His tires squeal. And he always ends up crashing into the white Impala.
 
I ran to the scene once and it's not something I ever want to see again. 
 
The entire driver's side of the car was smashed in, crumpled like a piece of paper, trapping the woman inside. She was almost indistinguishable from all the blood and metal and broken glass around her, dazed and badly hurt but still alive. Barely. 
 
She looked at me, like she maybe recognized me from a few moments before, and said, "I'm sorry. Can you please help me?"
 
It's her casual tone I can't forget, like she was asking for a grocery item on a too-high shelf, something just beyond her reach that I could easily hand to her.
 
After that one time I just watch from half a block away as the other cars and a half-dozen unfortunate pedestrians stop to gape at the sudden carnage that's appeared in front of them where before there was only the ordinary traffic of Friday afternoon. One woman screams. Another turns and gives up her lunch to the gutter. A few men in short-sleeved shirts and ties get out of their own cars and try to help, but none of them know what to do in a situation this serious so they all end up standing around looking helpless. Someone calls the police from a payphone on the corner. Nine minutes later the cops arrive, followed by two ambulances. By then about twenty minutes have passed. I watch for five more. A fire truck arrives. The men inside it get out and do what they can, which at first always appears to be a lot of standing around and figuring things out. Sometime during all of this the woman in the white Impala dies. Then there's a little tugging sensation in my chest, pulling me back to my spot on the sofa. No one notices as I disappear.
 

***

 
Reasonable people are sure to have a number of questions at this point. 

One: How...? As far as mechanics go, you already know. But for those with an interest in pharmacology, here are a few particulars. Sumatriptan is an anti-migraine medication that stimulates serotonin receptors—those crafty switches in the brain that control mood and social behavior, sleep, memory and sexual desire. Clonazepam is one of the benzodiazepine tranquilizers, with both anti-anxiety and anti-convulsant properties. And Mematrizone is a next-gen dementia treatment so new no one knows exactly how it works, just that it enhances the neural pathways associated with the storage and retrieval of memories. Put them all together and you've got a cocktail with enough influence over emotional, mental and physical processes that certain aspects of time and space become, well, navigable.

Two: Okay, and...? This is where Me & the Mrs. comes in. Where and when I go depends on what I'm watching, and where and when it was shot. Because so many movies and TV shows are produced in LA and New York, I can go to either city pretty much any time I want. 

Three: But what about...? Nope. Books don't work. Photos, newspapers and magazines don't either. Neither does music or cartoons. And stay away from those history shows pieced together from different bits of footage. They're dangerous and leave you with a hell of a hangover. 

Extra credit for those still with me:

A: The trip lasts as long as the show. So every visit to Me & the Mrs. is twenty-five minutes long (because there are no commercials on my copy of the show, and believe me, there've been times when I'd give anything for those extra five minutes.)

B: The program must be a first-generation recording. Anything DVRed from live TV works. So does a factory-made DVD or VHS. But copy a copy and it's like a car with no engine. That's why I have to protect volume three of Me & the Mrs. Any episode of the show gets me to LA in 1971,but only #12 crosses paths with the woman in the white Impala. And that old VHS tape is really showing its age.

Four: And I figured out all of this how? It wasn't on purpose. I wouldn't even call it trial and error, because the first time it happened I wasn't trying to do anything but get high and watch an eighties movie. Let's just say my job at a well-known American drugstore chain provides me with access to a variety of interesting substances that can disappear unnoticed in ones and twos. I'm also a bit of a nostalgia buff without a lot of strong ties to what you might call the here and now. Also, for what it's worth, a doctor once described me as "highly hypnotic." 

Five: Why? That one's easy. Money, of course. Money and love.

***

I pull the gun from my coat pocket. "Step away from the car."

The woman in the white Impala stops, one hand inside her purse. Instead of keys she brings out a pearl-handled pistol, its dead eye pointed right at me.

Maybe she works on a cop show.

I'd never shoot her, but she just might shoot me. I put my hands up and back away.

She gets into her car and backs roughly out of the space, then squeals her tires as she heads toward Olive Avenue. 

You know the rest.

***

Getting rich isn't easy, even with time travel on your side. 

Consider this: A brokerage account opened today won't exist last week, last month or last year. It sure as hell won't be there in the days before Christmas of 2000 when you want to buy Apple at $15 a share, or on September 19, 2012 when you're ready to sell the whole bushel for $702 each.

So instead, you figure out ways to plan ahead and work backward. You brush up on film and TV history. You spend a lot of time renting P.O. boxes and applying for driver's licenses. You open and close accounts with cash, then bring it back here and take what you can (keeping an eye on those pesky bill redesigns and series dates) even further into the past. Over and over, until you end up with various sums of money stashed in lots of different banks at pretty much any point in time. And you learn to work fast, because you never have more than a couple hours to get it done.

***

As soon as I leave the studio I walk over to the driver's side of the white Impala. I reach into my jacket for the little knife I brought with me, then bend down near the front tire like I've found something interesting on the ground. I push the blade into the side of the tire. Stale, rubber-scented air rushes out. Thirty seconds later the tire's flat.

I hurry over to a car on the other side of the street, to watch and wait. Maybe I can offer some help then talk her into changing her plans instead of the tire. Call a cab. Ask a friend to drive her. Maybe she'll live and we can grab a quick cup of coffee this time next week, when the show tapes what will turn out to be its final episode.

When she rounds the corner she's with some guy. He's got dark hair and a mustache big as a brush. They notice the flat tire and stop.

"Oh, honestly..." The woman looks around and her eyes land on me. I feel like an asshole, even though I shouldn't. Before I can jump in the mustache says, "I got this.”

She turns to him, completely forgetting about me. They do a couple rounds of "Are you sure?" and "No problem, really," before she hands him the keys. He takes off his jacket and tosses it into the passenger seat, then opens the trunk. He pulls out the jack and tire iron and spare like he's been training for this his whole life. Every so often the woman looks over at me from behind her sunglasses. I ask if they could use another hand. Before she can answer mustache says, "No need, but thanks." 

Fifteen minutes later he's slapping his palms together and she's giving him the smile that should have been mine. They get into the car. He fastens his seat belt. She just drives, headed for Olive Avenue. As soon as they're gone I turn and sprint toward the far corner of the building. The last thing I hear is the sound of the crash, like a huge door slamming shut behind me.

When I open my eyes the tape is between episodes. A thick band of static, like electronic confetti, cuts through the otherwise black screen. It doesn't look good. I find the remote, press "stop" and then "rewind." 

***

So, on to love. 

Can I honestly say I love the woman in the white Impala? I don't know. I've met her at least a hundred times, but only for a few minutes. 

So why keep going back? I ask myself that all the time. Maybe it's because she asked me, in those final moments of her life. And maybe there's more to it than just that.

• Maybe it's the smile she flashes that first moment she sees me, like we know each other from somewhere.
• Maybe it's her perfume, something sweet and light that I catch in the breeze if I'm lucky.
• Maybe it's that she doesn't seem like someone who needs saving, even though I know she does.
• Maybe it's the note of kindness in her voice, even when I've pissed her off. 
• Maybe it's because there's no ring on her finger.
• Maybe it just feels like the right thing to do.
• Shit. Maybe it is love.

***

This time I flatten both driver's side tires, barely making it across the street before she appears.

Today her hair is loose, falling in waves around her shoulders and catching the sun like a precious metal. The scarf that usually holds her ponytail is knotted around her neck, its bright blue and yellow flowers fluttering in the wind. The woman with her is a brunette with a British accent and the dramatic gestures of an actress.

The woman in the white Impala laughs at something the other says. They approach her car without slowing and don't stop until they reach a green convertible half a dozen cars further down.

British gets behind the wheel. I wonder if she's used to driving on our side of the road, or if it feels new and unnatural.

She pulls out of the parking spot, still talking and waving grandly as they approach Olive Avenue and that traffic signal that promises it'll stay yellow until they get through it. This time the truck comes from the right and slams into the passenger side.

I sit on the sofa, my head pounding while the tape rewinds, screeching in the machine like it's in pain.

***

Top Ten Facts About Me & the Mrs.

10. The sit-com centers on two newlyweds in Los Angeles and their struggles with the traditional (that is, "old-fashioned") roles of married life.

9.   NBC ordered the show as a mid-season replacement for the spring and summer of 1971; only 13 episodes were ever produced.

8.   Ha! TV (which would later become Comedy Central) aired the reruns from 1990-1991, when it became a minor cult hit.

7.   Warner Bros. (the original production company) released the show on VHS as a three-volume box set in 1992.

6.   I found the tapes last year at a garage sale in Arlington Heights, Illinois; they were marked $3.00 but I only paid $2.00.

5.   I planned to use the series to deposit $2500 cash into the First Entertainment Credit Union, then buy 100K shares of a little company called Intel.

4.   The tapes have degraded with time and (over)use, making them prone to increasing malfunction.

3.   I've scoured every corner of the internet for additional copies without success.

2.   No one at Warner Bros. will return my calls regarding this matter.

1.   For all I know, my copy may be the last in existence.

***

Episode #12 has one, maybe two more plays left in it. One or two more second chances to save the woman in the white Impala.

I spend a week picking apart my previous trips, replaying each one in my mind. Not just to remember everything I've tried, but also to find something I haven't. Because here's the thing: every effort I make to save the woman meets (or is it creates?) an equal and opposite reaction. No matter how I alter the details, the big picture remains the same.

I pull up the earlier episodes, searching for new angles and opportunities. I wander outside the soundstage and through the back lots, hoping to run into her someplace else. I spend an hour in a nearby branch of the public library—courtesy of Mel Brooks' Blazing Saddles—combing through old issues of the Burbank Daily Review hoping to find something, anything, about the accident and the woman involved in it. 

For a while I consider putting the tapes into storage and doing nothing at all, resigning both of us to some kind of limbo until I can come up with a solution. Tomorrow, next week, next year. 

Then I remember why I went there in the first place.

***

I pull the money from inside my jacket. That stack of cash stops the woman in the white Impala right in her tracks. "What's that?" 

"Twenty-five hundred dollars," I say, holding it out. "For you." 

"Right." She laughs and looks around. "Is this one of those hidden-camera things?"

"No. It's real." I thumb through the bills to give her a better look. 

Her hand creeps forward. She takes the money and fans it out in front of her. "It is real," she says, wonder in her voice. 

Now it's my turn to laugh. "And it's all yours."

Her head snaps up. "Why?"

I take a deep breath. "I need a favor."

Suddenly she's suspicious. "What kind of favor?" She stresses the last word.

"Take me somewhere?"

She seems ready to say no. Then she looks at the money again. "Where?"

"Any place. Just drive." I check my watch and point toward Olive Avenue. "For fifteen minutes."

She looks me up and down, tapping the money against the palm of her hand, thinking the whole thing over and deciding if I can be trusted. "Are you in one of those Manson things?"

Before I can answer something weird happens. At first it feels like I'm going to get yanked and vanish right there in front of her. Then it's the opposite, like gravity just increased ten percent and I'm being planted even more solidly on the ground. I’ve never felt anything like it before.

"Please," I say. "Can we just go?"

She tucks the cash into her bag, then opens the Impala's big white door and slams it shut behind her. She starts the car, and for one awful moment I think she's going to take the money and leave me behind. Instead she leans across the seat and cranks the passenger window down a few inches. "Fifteen minutes," she says from the other side. "No weird stuff. You stay on this side of the car and keep your hands to yourself. Promise?"

I lift my right hand. "Promise."

"I have a gun," she says.

"I know."

She eyeballs me for a few seconds more before lifting the lock. I wait until she's back on her side and behind the wheel, then open the door and get in. Of course the car smells like her perfume. I find the seat belt and buckle it around me. "You, too." I say, indicating hers. "Please."

She rolls her eyes but puts it on, then backs out of the space and shifts the car into drive. We approach Olive Avenue like the edge of a cliff. Ten feet from the intersection I tap the dash to get her attention and say, "Don't risk it. Stop the car."

She brakes. A second later the truck speeds past, no more than three feet in front of us. It occurs to me this might be the first time in the whole history of the world that driver actually makes it to the next stop on his list.

She jerks back, one hand clapped to her chest. Then she pulls off her sunglasses. For the first time, I see her eyes. They're blue, like I knew they would be, and wide with fear and astonishment. "How...?"

My own heart is beating so hard it's hard to speak. Not only because we avoided the crash, but mostly because we're here, alive and together in this car. Not once have I ever gotten this far before. I’m completely clueless about what happens next.

Again I get that odd pushing sensation. The seat beneath me seems to sink two inches. I check my watch. Nine minutes before I've got to be going. 

The light turns green. A car behind us honks impatiently. "Wait a second," I tell her, checking both sides of the intersection. When I’m sure it’s clear I say, "Okay. Turn left, but slow."

She does. I lean forward, watching for a car, another truck, something to come screaming out of nowhere to punch both our tickets. When we're finally past the intersection and headed south I allow myself to sit back and relax a little.

She drives. We don't speak or take our eyes off the road. When we cross the LA River, Olive Avenue becomes Barham Boulevard and I sigh with relief, glad to be leaving that street behind. 

Four minutes to go. That pushing sensation rolls over me again. This time it's accompanied by what could be bubbles below the surface of my skin, like I’m filled with champagne. Or static. I picture the TV back home, bands of distortion crossing the screen, the actors' voices dragging like time itself is slowing down.

I don't want to wink away while she's driving. She could freak out and get into another accident. After a hundred or more tries she's finally alive. I’d like to keep her that way. So I ask her to turn right, into the parking lot of a shopping center, some place public where I hope she'll feel safe.

She chooses a spot at the far end and stops the engine. The sun behind us paints everything inside and out of the car shades of gold. I thank her for the ride and reach for the door. 

"Wait," she says. "Who are you?"

I take a deep breath. "My name's Kevin. Jarvis. I'm from Chicago." Three minutes.

She smiles. "I'm Stephanie." She gives me her hand and I shake it, wishing there was a way I could hold onto it. "I think you might have saved my life back there," she says. 

All I can do is count the seconds. She reaches into her purse and pulls out the money. "You should take this back. I think I owe you.”

I wave it away. "We made a deal. It's yours now. Take it and invest in something called Intel." She acts like that's a foreign word. I suppose it is. "Computers, basically."

Her face goes sour. "Ugh. I hate those things."

"Yeah, well, they're going to be very popular. Trust me." Two minutes now, maybe less. "I really have to go. Thanks again for the ride."

I get out and walk away. The Impala revs up behind me. Whatever had her number back there on Olive Avenue, I hope we outsmarted it. I listen as she drives away, dreading the sound of a crash, but all I hear is traffic on Barham Boulevard, speeding in both directions. At least she got that far safely.

I should be happy. I finally accomplished what I came here for. There's no good reason to come back. Ever. There's no sense in touching this time and place again, for fear of undoing it all.

I lean against a lamppost, wondering what her future holds now that she has one. I wait for that familiar tug, the one that always pulls me home. But it doesn't come.

When I finally glance at my watch it's 4:16. I've been here twenty-eight minutes. That shouldn't be possible. But then, nothing about this should have been possible. And yet here I am, standing on the edge of a parking lot years before I was born with no car, no cash and, ironically, no idea what happens next.

What must have happened is that old VHS tape finally gave out, like I knew it had to. I picture it wrapped inside the guts of the VCR, a single image frozen on the screen. But rather than cutting my visit short, it stranded me here instead. Maybe only for a while. Or maybe longer. 

I turn and face the sun, shining like a spotlight through the golden-gray haze. The silhouettes of palm trees and buildings in the distance look like they could be on another planet. 

I think about my future and what I might do next. There's money, of course, waiting in banks here and in New York. But no way to get to it until Monday morning. This could be an interesting night, or a rough weekend if I manage to stick around that long.

The rumble of an engine pulls me back to the here and now. I turn toward it. If this were a movie, now is the time you'd want to cheer. It's the white Impala, with Stephanie leaning out of the window. "You're still here.”

"Yeah, well. I didn't expect to be, but."

"You need a ride?"

I look around like an idiot, because I don’t know what else to do. "I guess I do.”

She gives me a little smirk. "Okay. But it's gonna cost you."

I get in next to her and smell that perfume again. For a few seconds we sit there, like two high-schoolers at the start of their first date. 

"Why did you come back?" I ask.

"I don't know,” she says. “Maybe… it just seemed like the right thing to do? You ever get that feeling?"

A fool's grin spreads across my face. "A lot," I tell her. "At least a hundred times."

She puts both hands on the wheel. "So. Where to?"

I shrug. "Anywhere you want. Just… be careful, okay?"

She steers that big old Impala back onto Barham and we head south again. Once we merge with the Hollywood Freeway she turns to me and says, "So how long are you in town anyway?"

I don't respond, at least not right away. Mainly because there are so many answers and I don't have the slightest idea which one will end up being right. We might meet that truck again in another mile or so, with the same awful results. Or we might keep lucking out, the way we did back there on Olive Avenue. 

There are only a few things I know for sure. 

• It's Friday, March 19, 1971. 
• I'm in Los Angeles, buckled into the passenger seat of a white Impala. 
• A woman I fin  ally met for the first time is behind the wheel.   She's taking us toward downtown, where the skyline shimmers in the sun.  
• And believe it or not, I'm perfectly content to be in the here and now. That’s probably a first for me.

I don't know what the future holds. Not for me or her or us.

But then, who does?

© Michael Cook 2020