by
William “Bill” Blick
It was on a Wednesday morning when I first saw me. I was driving by in a Chevy Nova. I didn't recognize it at first and then I was almost struck by that same car later that morning. I was on my way to the diner to get some pancakes and coffee. A car screeched to halt a couple of feet before me and I froze like a doe, staring into the eyes of the reckless driver. I had once owned a Chevy Nova. It was my first car. Man, that certainly brought back memories. But it wasn't until I was halfway down my short stack and second cup of coffee that it finally dawned on me that it was indeed me behind the wheel of that Chevy Nova screeching to a halt, nearly striking me- not me now, but rather me of eighteen and fifty pounds lighter and with fuller hair.
I remember I had saved up all summer working at Davy's Hot Dog Shack for that car. Though I was roasting weenines on the grill and serving up fries, I was eighteen and I felt like an immortal. I got laid in that car. I would drive down the turnpike on Saturday nights in that car. Hair-greased back, starched, linen shirts, and Bachman Turner overdrive on the speakers as my statue of St. Jude bopped to the beat on the dashboard. Yes, the days of the blue Chevy Nova were glorious. But it wasn't long before my demise began. I had my first schizophrenic episode. I was laid up in that hospital for a few months and then they released me to society.
I'm not crazy. I get distorted perceptions. I know right from wrong and I know I'm not a teapot. Actually, I can be pretty sharp. I can. I swear it. Man, like I was saying… The days of the blue, Chevy Nova… Keg parties in the park. Kissing Katie in the backseat. Listening to Air Supply on the radio. I loved those days. It wasn't fair that one day I woke up and I felt unreal. I slipped out of reality. Life is not fair.
Soon after that first brush with my past in that Blue Nova, I began to see the car all over the neighborhood. On my way to grocery store, by the gas station, I used to wave to me. I had learned to just ignore when the car drove by. Sometimes the car wasn't occupied. It was often parked outside the pizza store and in the parking lot of the bank. I tried to forget about it when I saw it.
But it wasn't a couple of months after the appearance of the Nova that another strange event occurred. I saw me again-not me of now and not me of eighteen, but me in a brown Ford, age twenty-four and slightly overweight. At the time I was mowing the lawn when a car sped around the corner and slowly passed my house like it was a damn drive-by shooting. I shot the suspicious vehicle a stern glance. I caught a glimpse of the driver who winced at me as he drove past. Disoriented, I went back to my chores without thinking. I was edging the lawn with the edger when it dawned on me that it was indeed me in that suspicious brown Ford. It was the same brown Ford that I owned when I was twenty-four years old and was the second car I had ever bought.
When I was twenty-four I was doing graduate work in cognitive psychology. I had decided to pursue that course of education so that I might gain an insight into the nature of my own illness. It was a great time in my life. I had focus and ambition. Unfortunately, I suffered my second major psychotic episode during that time period. I never finished my degree. I was laid up in the hospital for a longer period of time. When I finally was released I was able to control my thinking with medication. However, I was only able to find employment doing various half-ass jobs. Mental illness ravaged my life.
It is not easy to come to terms with the fact that your self or selves are driving in cars that you once owned all around your own neighborhood. I think a degree of acceptance is necessary when faced with such phenomena. So I accepted it and would go around town doing my various odd jobs. All the while, I would frequently see the Nova and the Ford driving by, my past selves gazing at me in my present state.
The other day I stopped at the corner deli to a get a paper and a cup of coffee. As I came out of the store, I looked up from the front page to see me of eighteen in the Nova drive by. I paid no mind and sat down on a nearby bench. I flipped the page of the paper. A car honked. I looked up and it was me of twenty-four in the Ford driving by. Me waved to I. I sipped my coffee and proceeded to read on about the election coming up. Another car swerved around the corner. This time it was a new, gray Mercedes with tinted windows. The car slowed up and rolled down its tinted windows. I looked into the car and knew right away what I saw. It was me. Not me of eighteen. Not me of twenty-four, but me of now. I stared into the mirror. It reflected an image of my balding, plump face in the front seat of the car. The car pulled away.
Damnit! It was enough that I had me of eighteen driving around to remind me of me then. It was enough that I had me of twenty-four driving around to remind me of me also then. Now I had me of now driving around to remind me of me now. Not only that, but the me of now had a nicer car than I had ever owned and would never own. Yes, this certainly was a predicament. I had thought that maybe I should try to make contact with my doubles. Maybe I could persuade them to stop haunting me.
When I finished my coffee, I put the paper in my back pocket and proceeded to walk home. I walked across the bridge that overlooked the expressway. There seemed to be a huge traffic jam. I looked over the bridge and saw an interesting sight. There was bumper-to-bumper traffic, but all the cars were blue Chevy Novas, brown Fords, or gray Mercedes…Oh yeah and I drove them all.
That was it! Something definitely had to be done. My past selves were dominating the freeway and infiltrating my reality. They had to be stopped. The only way to stop me was through me I guess. So I went to the bureau to report the haunting of my past selves.
I wanted to perhaps get at least a restraining order that would keep them at their distance.
The bureau was housed in a monstrous post-modern structure at the center of town. The building was made of mirrors from the ground up. The lobby was enormous and very impressive.
“Name and occupation?” asked the pleasantly mannered receptionist.
“Stewart Foley, landscaper,” I answered.
I filled out the paperwork and waited nearly an hour before Jake Samuels, a sharp dressed guy with an arrogant disposition, saw me.
“I want to get a restraining order,” I tried to explain.
“Have they hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” I answered.
“Have they threatened you?”
“No, not directly.”
“Have they disrupted your life in any way?”
I tried to explain that their presence was a painful reminder of what I was and what I could have been and what I am. He didn't care too much. I said they were blocking up the expressway and causing congestion. He said they hadn't broken any laws. I asked what I was to do. He finally determined that our past selves sometimes have a place in the world too and because they had not physically bothered me, there was nothing he could do. Still I was not satisfied. I wouldn't be until they were out of my life. I tried to come up with a plan to eradicate these soulless phantoms of who I had been. I devised strategies and tactics to wage the war against these beings. Then something changed. They stopped appearing. As quickly as they appeared, they had vanished.
It was inexplicable. But from time to time I think I catch a glimpse of my lives driving by in that Blue Nova, the Brown Chevy, or the gray Mercedes. I can never quite catch them though. I've learned to just let them go and although I shoot a glance when I see those flashes of color, I've decided to move on with my life.
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