A Proud Grandfather

The smell of freshly brewed coffee lures me out of bed. I pour a cup, grab my wedding magazine, and walk outside to join Ken’s grandfather, Mr. Hamilton, on the porch. I sit down next to him on a handmade porch swing. I turn my head in the direction that he is looking and see a tall, broad shouldered, tanned man wearing a faded blue swimsuit. He is standing along the shoreline while the waves collide with his ankles. There is a blue board beside him, held up by his muscular arm.

“Ken was an amazing surfer. I wish he would give the waves a try again. His accident has scared him from returning to his passion, but I think if he went out there, everything would come back to him and he could take any wave that came his way.” Mr. Hamilton’s voice brings me back to reality. I try to concentrate on the conversation.

Mr. Hamilton shares Ken’s adventures of surfing. He starts with Ken’s first wave and hesitates at the tragic part: Ken’s accident. Mr. Hamilton’s eyes tear up, and I squeeze his hand.

“It’s okay, Mr. Hamilton, Ken has already told me about it. I’ve read the articles. You don’t need to share this part.” I give him a soft smile.

He puts his hand up in objection, “No, no, no. You don’t know the real story. I must share this with you.”

I sit back on the porch swing nod for him to go ahead. I look through the railing poles to observe Ken’s figure as I listen to Mr. Hamilton’s story of the accident.

“He took a magnificent wave. As he was about to escape from the billow, the lip of the wave slammed his head, knocking him off his board. The strength of the wave enveloped him and drove him head first into the coral reef. The lifeguards ran out to help him. When they brought his unconscious body out of the water,blood streaming out of his head from the gash, I never thought he would live.” Mr. Hamilton pauses to take a deep breath. “I thought Ken was dead.” His eyes shimmer with tears. I twist my engagement ring and thank God for Ken’s life.

I wish Ken never had to experience this part of his life. It ruined his fearlessness and left him with horrible symptoms that come and go. I think about the month after the accident--sometimes he couldn’t remember my name. He’s always tired now. He used to be the first one out of bed each morning, brewing the first batch of coffee. Now he naps during the day to try to fight off the fatigue and confusion that hits him by afternoon.

“He used to be brave and excited for where life would take him,” Mr. Hamilton adds, “but the accident ruined that. I believe if he swims out and takes a wave, he will remember his journey and all his success, all the medals he won.”

“Well, I think today might be the day,” I say, stretching my hand out to him to help him up. We walk towards the railing and Mr. Hamilton squeezes my hand in excitement. He can now see Ken swimming out into the ocean.

“Do you know why his parents named him Ken?” Mr. Hamilton asks while we wait for Ken to find the right wave.

“No, why?” I ask, eager to hear the story.

“Because ‘Ken’ means clear water. My daughter thought that it would be a perfect name for her baby boy. From the day he was born I could see it in his eyes, he had so much potential to be a great surfer. He could conquer any water he wanted to.” Mr. Hamilton smiles, his eyes glowing.

Ken floats in the water, the sun kissing his skin, and Mr. Hamilton keeps talking, about the Triple Crown, about the Mavericks Big Wave Surf, which he won at just seventeen.

As Mr. Hamilton continues his praise, I stare out at the ocean and notice a different movement in Ken. He’s sitting broadly on the board. I watch him shift his body, open his arms, and start swimming. Then I notice the large wave that he is trying to catch.

Ken turns his muscular body around, facing inland, and starts to swim toward us. Mr. Hamilton points out toward Ken and we descend the porch stairs to move closer, onto the sand.

“He’s going to do it!” Mr. Hamilton exclaims.

Ken swims faster and faster. He embarks on the wave, stands on his board, and sails through the barrel with a familiar confidence and control. Mr. Hamilton is ecstatic. My heart swells with pride for Ken, and I realize that this is the day that will change our lives forever. A feeling of relief washes over me. We can stop dwelling on the past and move on with our lives.

Ken clears the wave and throws a fist up in the air as he hollers in excitement. As he celebrates his victory, I notice his body rocking back and forth on the board. He slumps forward. My body tenses.

Ken falls sideways off his board into the waves. A lifeguard runs into the water, calling for others to help. I break away from Mr. Hamilton and run, burning the soles of my feet, and throw myself into the water. The waves splash over my head, making it difficult to reach Ken.

A large man pulls me out of an overpowering wave as it pushes me down. He carries me out and sets me on the shore. I look up and see a lifeguard’s bronzed, stern face looking down on me.

“Leave it to the professionals,” the man says in a deep southern accent.

He grips my arm so I can’t return to the ocean. His fingers dig into my sunburned skin, and I try to escape when he lightens his hold. Over and over again he stops me, and tells me to stay on the shore.

“Let me go!” I seethe, but in return he pushes me down on my knees. I am helpless on the scalding sand.

A few minutes later, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up and see Mr. Hamilton pointing toward a figure in the ocean. It gets closer and closer. Now it is so close to me that I can touch it. It’s Ken.

Written by: Kimberly Kupres

Photograph by: Blake Bronstad

Faerie Road

A peculiar path wound through the fields behind Beaugenveu Estate. It was a long path that no one ever walked for fear of never walking back. Despite never being used, the grass on the path was always cut while the grass surrounding it grew vigorously. As was the way of Faerie roads.

The youngest Beaugenveu daughter, Alice, had grown up hearing horror stories about the Faerie road. She used to watch the path from her bedroom window night after night and wonder if what her nanny said was true. This sort of thinking was what drove Alice to walk the path one sunny, Sunday afternoon, and her cousin was either stupid enough or courageous enough to go with her.

"This is it?" Lena sighed. "I thought it would be more impressive."

"This is it," Alice confirmed. Lena gave it another disapproving look. Doubt crept up Alice's spine the longer Lena stared. "Come on. Staring doesn't do anything," she said, stepping onto the path. Lena was quick to follow.

High tendrils of grass swayed around the path like a green ocean. Like gleaming golden rays of sunlight, dandelions stood out against the green. The air of unease that had surrounded them slipped away with each step as the house grew smaller and smaller, leaving them smiling and laughing. Everyone was wrong; there was nothing scary about the path. Nothing at all.

The path stopped where the old family cemetery began. Both stared at the ancient iron gate for many moments before Alice spoke. "Let's have a look around," she breathed. Lena shrugged.

The cemetery was small with crumbling graves. "No one's been buried here since the path appeared," Alice whispered. "Said it was too dangerous."

They danced around gaping holes and fallen stones before coming to the center of the cemetery. A large brush cropped out of the ground and loomed over their heads. They stopped and stared at it for several moments.

"It looks like you can go inside," breathed Lena. A small fissure, more open in some places than others, ran between the two bushes. Beyond was darkness.

Alice nudged Lena in the back. "Go on then," she said. Lena stared at the gap, hesitant. "What are you waiting for? An invitation?" Alice laughed. Her cousin's mocking was not something Lena would put up with, so she brushed away the thoughts of danger beginning to cloud her mind and stepped into the bush.

Alice followed close behind and the two girls spread out in the small area. "How very mysterious," Alice laughed, looking around. Lena glanced around as well but her eyes stopped as they landed on a gentleman kneeling before a gravestone. "Do you think faerie-"

"Alice," Lena hissed. Alice quieted and turned to see what had disturbed her cousin. Her eyes quickly found the gentleman. He was watching them with eyes the color of silver and hair a glowing gold.

"Miladies," he greeted, slowly standing, brushing dirt off his opulent clothing. The unease Lena had felt before stepping in the bush washed over her again. There was something dangerous and also delightful about him. Lena wasn't sure which scared her most.

"I'm sorry, we'll leave." Lena grabbed Alice's wrist but her cousin wouldn't move. She was staring at the man as if he was the only thing in the world.

"You needn't." A shiver of terror raced down Lena's spine, and she tugged on Alice.

"We have to go." Alice didn't budge.

"In fact," continued the man. "I was just looking for a partner. I was on my way to a ball at my brother's kingdom." He smiled at Alice. "Do you like to dance?" A smile broke across Alice's face.

"Yes," she breathed, stepping towards him.

"Then come with me." He offered a hand and Lena pulled back on Alice, terror fully consuming her now. Alice kept walking, reaching for the man's hand. Lena felt her fingers slip from her cousin's arm, and she fought for grip. As Alice's fingers wrapped around his, she disappeared. Lena stared at where her cousin had just been standing with wide eyes.

"Would you like to come to the ball too?" the man asked Lena. His charm did not fight through her fear, and she whirled, tripping out of the bush.

Lena raced back to the path. Her pounding feet matched the frantic beating of her heart. Alice was gone, captured by a faerie. The path was just as dangerous as the stories said.

Clouds gathered with alarming speed and lightning shattered the sky. Rain began to fall in torrents and the world blurred until Lena didn't know up from down. She pushed forward, unsure of where she was, or where the path was, but determined to keep going.

Suddenly the rain dropped away as a canopy of leaves sheltered her. The forest unveiled itself around her, dark and foreboding. Lena jogged slowly down a random path, her waterlogged skirts weighing her down. She needed to get back to the estate, to tell Uncle Pete that Alice had disappeared, to send people out to find her. Could anyone be rescued from a faerie, though?

The forest was unfamiliar territory and somewhere in her heart, Lena knew she was hopelessly lost. She wouldn't let that seep into her mind, though. There was hope somewhere. There had to be.

A stick snapped behind her, and she whirled. She couldn't see anything through the murky light of the forest. Lena started on when a growl rumbled behind her. Again, nothing revealed itself to her. Lena remembered the hunt's master talking about wolves that lived in the forest. The thought continued to fuel her fear.

As if on cue, a giant wolf lunged from the shadows. Lena reeled back, screaming. Two other wolves followed the first. They slowly began to circle her. Ragged sobs began to rip from Lena's throat. She was going to die, in the middle of a forest, no one knowing where she was. She closed her eyes and waited for their attack.

Silence filled the forest clearing and Lean slowly gathered the courage to open her eyes. The wolves were gone. Lena felt her legs give out, and she hit the ground. Hopelessness filled her and she sobbed.

As she sat there, a hand patted her on the shoulder. "The ball would be much more fun than this." She looked up, finding the faerie man behind her. Lena nodded despite herself. "Come with me."

Written by: Cameron Mitchell

Photograph by: Kyle Hemmings

Just Let Go

October 1972

Heck Hansen gripped the wheel so tight that his knuckles were as white as the snow swirling around him. With visibility down to mere feet, he was driving more on instinct and adrenaline that anything else. Despite the freezing temperatures, sweat soaked into the band of his Stetson and dripped down his forehead. The wind whipped down Rabbit Ears Pass in frenzied gusts, hitting his beat-up pickup truck head on with the ferocity of a boxer swinging for a knockout. Heck knew he should turn back, that his chances of making it up and over the pass in weather like this were slim to none.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The call had come early. Too early. Sarah wasn’t due for another six weeks. It was one of the main reasons they had decided he should hire on with the C-Bar for the fall round-up. The timing seemed perfect. The wages he earned would be enough to pay for all of the hospital bills and see them through the winter in their little place near Stagecoach. As rough as three weeks away would be during her final trimester, if it assured him of the next four months at home, it would be worth it.

Heck tried to keep his mind on what little he could see of the road ahead, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the past few hours. He had been riding nightwatch, making lazy and slow circles around the herd. The cows were restless. Heck figured it was because of the full moon, so bright it cast long blue shadows on the ground. He heard the chatter of coyotes off in the distance, eerie and beautiful, but they were too far away to be a threat. He stopped on a rise, admiring the immensity of the land. It was then he spied the dust trail, kicked up by a truck hightailing it towards camp. Deep in the pit of his stomach, Heck knew the truck meant something was wrong. There was no other reason for anyone to head out here at night. He put spurs to his horse and raced back, choking on fear the whole way.

When he got there, Mr. Carson, owner of the C-Bar, was standing around the fire with a few of the hands. Heck swung down from the saddle.

“We got a call from the hospital in Steamboat, Heck. Your wife’s gone into an early labor, and she’s having complications. Grab your gear. I’ll drive you back to your truck so you can head out,” Mr. Carson said.

“Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” His words laced with fear, Heck didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice.

“I don’t know, son,” Mr. Carson replied, putting a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Get whatever stuff you need.”

The cowboys offered prayers and words of encouragement as Heck quickly packed his things.

“Watch out,” said Tell, a grizzled old cowhand who had been herding cattle in Northern Colorado since the Depression. He looked off towards the mountains, and the clouds gathering behind them. “There’s a storm moving in. Pass could get tricky.”

Tricky it was, but Heck plowed on, his resolve as firm as the bunched up muscles in his forearms. He searched for any discernible landmark, but his headlights showed nothing but a white blur. Even the moon, so full and bright earlier, had been erased from his view by the storm. Exhausted and afraid, he inched along.

His tires found the ditch on the side of the road before his eyes did. Heck threw the truck into reverse and tried to back up. The tires spun wildly. He got out and assessed the situation. He tried to dig out the right front tire but the snow was already building up in drifts. He knew he was stuck. Heck grabbed his gear out of the bed and climbed back into the cab. He shook out his bedroll and climbed in, and piled his saddle blankets on top. The wind howled and raged. Sleet and snow battered the window above his head. Sprawled across the bench seat, quivering with cold and fear and exhaustion, he thought of the ocean.

Heck had only seen the ocean once, seven years back. That once had been more than enough.

Fresh from high school, and unsure of what he wanted to do in life, he had tramped across the land, hitchhiking and hopping trains, and seeing what there was to see. Drawn West by the summery sounds of the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean, he ended up just north of LA.

Hypnotized by the mighty expanse of the Pacific and the slow undulations of its waves, he was taken by surprise when the undertow sucked him in. For three long minutes--minutes that felt like forever--he struggled, tumbling end over end as he searched for blue sky and sun. The waves, thunderous cascades of churning white water, crashed down on him. His lungs burned. His limbs ached. And then, just when he thought he couldn’t survive another second, he felt someone grab him, pull him to the surface, and swim him back to shore.

The lifeguard hovered over him.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I … I think so,” said Heck.

“That was a close one,” the lifeguard said. “Now this might sound weird, but if that happens again, don’t struggle. When you get stuck like that, you lose your bearings and sometimes you’re fighting the whole time to go the wrong way. So instead, just let go.”

Heck thought of the lifeguard’s words. He closed his eyes and let his exhaustion overtake him. He dreamt of the ocean, of tremendous waves that battered him, that pulled him under. But in his dream, when the water pushed him down, he let go, and was lifted out of the water by a giant invisible hand.

Heck awoke six hours later to sunlight, stillness, and a silence so profound it resonated in his soul, like the voice of God himself. The storm had passed. He climbed out of his truck. The snow had drifted into a giant wave that engulfed the passenger side. He looked around. Beartooth Peak sat off to his right. He had almost made it to the top of the pass.

A faint rumble cut through the quiet, growing louder by the second. Heck watched as the plow truck worked its way up the road. When it pulled up next to him, he could barely hear the driver over the roar of the diesel engine.

“You Heck Hansen?” the driver yelled.

“Yes.”

“Climb on in. There’s a woman and baby girl anxious to see you.”

Written by: Ben Cook

Photo by: Samuel Zeller

Gone Fishing

I remember the night that myself and Blue Louis took some time out with a bottle in the abandoned petrol station before the bad times, after being freaked out of a bar by beefy rednecks, flannel shirts so stiff with sweat they were like insect shells, thin but hard and keeping all their whisky-squished innards in.

Didn’t help that Louis - Gods bless him - was all decked out like he was fresh from the jazz joint in a beat-up snazz suit and green fedora with cigarettes stuck in the band. He always had those damn cigarettes shoved in there like the press photographer in a Bogart noir. Didn’t help that I had ripped jeans and mussed blond hair and was street-skinny, like a cheap angel of the lanes bestowing miracles by the hour.

‘What brings you here, boys?’ That’s what one of the big guys says to him, and let's not forget that Louis is dark dark dark and you can see Mayan pyramids in his cheekbones, and these guys were moonshine brewers like you get out here with their terrible fucking fear of the dark.

‘Uh…I work for a paper.’ Tryin' to keep that cigar-smoke voicebox of his nice and smooth and easy.

‘Oh? There a story in these parts?’ A couple whiskeys slid over the sticky toffee bar to us. Some hulker in a shady corner mutters something as Louis pays up and the others around him chuckle like their mouths are full of gravel, and I start to hear banjo music in my head.

'He gone fishin.' One grizzled guy with a grey beard like a big smokey tongue flopping down from his lips nods at me. 'Caught a pretty one.'

And I hear the word ‘faggot’ and that's when I start praying, Oh sweet and holy Jesus let us get the fuck out of here before we get torn in two down by the river somewhere. I'll give you kind deeds and clothes for the needy and Oh holy mother of God, I'll find you some real gigantic fresh red roses, you know, the ones you like and Oh Saint Jude who watches over lost causes I'll take out that ad in the paper for you, just get us outta here or make us fireproof.

'This?' Louis looks at me like he's never seen me before. 'Stupid kid was tryin' to jump the trains. Like the old hobos.'

'Lose your life that way, son.' One of the werebears says, and the others start nodding and talking, remember when so-and-so stopped off at the railroad shack and when the train pulled up they saw something between the carriages and God above there was a leg caught up in there.

Louis shakes his head like I'm a dumb dog. 'Right? Coulda found himself landing both sides of the state,' and because these lumberdicks are rough and tumble types he looks like he's gonna cuff me round the head for a second but I see him think the better of it because let's not forget in this unbreathable place that Louis is dark dark dark.

'Huh, that's a bunch of starry-eyed crap, hopping the trains these days. You runnin' away from something?' Same guy looks me over intently, like he's trying to figure out if they need to turn me in. This place looks like it still has Wanted posters up on the walls and I'm busy winging sweet nothings up to the vaulted ceiling above this one and its golden inhabitants.

'Nossir, trying to find a job in the city, where's he's goin'.' They look up-and-down at my torn jeans and laugh.

'And you, paperboy?'

Lou shrugs like he isn't sweating blood right now. ‘Just passing through. Gotta be back in the office Monday.'

We downed our gulping whiskeys that could fireball the germs off your lips and backed out of the joint slowly, like it was full of wolves who’d leap if you moved too quick. Soon as we were out the door we whirled our bootheels away down the dust track back to the car, shrieking the banjo duel music at each other. Louis jammed it into first and pulled away from that Ol’ Boy freak circus fast as the wheels would turn. Picked up an amber bottle at some no-hope trailer and blazed out into the desolate desert road.

Hit an old gas station, looming out of the darkness all squat and skeletal. Parked up and rolled a special smoke and sat watching the stars. There’s really no light out there, see, it’s like the nicotine yellow stained sky you know in the city just peels away, and there’s all this universe underneath it. It was like when you see reflections in a lake or a puddle and wonder if you could fall through it into the reflection world. I turned my head to watch Louis all strung out along the sand like a big cat.

I believe I said something nonsensical and beautiful about the universe and the microscope of God out here and the stars being our atom-selves. He shook his head and said:

‘You know, if it had come down to pig-squealing time, I just want you to know that I woulda gone first.’

‘What the fuck, Lou?’

He turned, and in that totally unselfconscious way he had of touching other beings he stroked my hair and my star-stoned face.

‘Because I love you, man, you’re my best friend.’

I thought about this a moment and said:

'But I woulda seen what was coming, I mean, thank you for your consideration and all but...No, no...That wouldn't have helped me at all.'

At some point in that long galaxy gaze we passed out. Comes to something beautiful when you wake up in an old petrol station in the arms of your best friend still wearing his green fedora. The rest of the way we played I Spy and the sand and the scrub and the sky all began with the same S.

Written by: Natty Mancini

Photograph by: Daniel Charles Ross

Edie's Reflection

It rained all day Friday through most of the morning on Saturday, finally turning into a slow drizzle that had ceased by early afternoon. Edie had spent most of her Saturday morning with her forehead pressed against the window, staring at the world through rain droplets running down the other side of the glass and watching her breath fog up the surface.

“If you’re bored, you could always read a book or play with some of your toys,” her mother called from the office down the hall. Edie didn’t respond. Not purposefully, but because she didn’t hear her mother when she called. She was too busy focusing on each individual rain drop that hit the window pane and joined the many rivulets cascading down the glass. She wasn’t bored. There was too much excitement and wonder right in front of her. Rain had to be one of her favorite things in the world. A close second was the world outside after a good long rain.

When the rain did stop, she didn’t hesitate for a second. She ran for the door, reached up for the knob and pulled it open, only stopping to heed her mother’s words to put on her rain jacket and boots.

When she stepped outside the whole world smelled new and fresh, like the laundry her mother would pull out of the dryer and put in the hamper. Sometimes, when her mother wasn’t looking, Edie would jump into the hamper and feel the warmth of the freshly dried clothes and breathe in those clean smells.

The green grass of Edie’s front yard had turned into a bit of a mess. She stomped through puddles of dirty water. Bloated bodies of earthworms had floated to the tops of the puddles and Edie did her best to avoid those ones. She made her way to the sidewalk and looked up. A blanket of light grey clouds covered the sky. There were little slivers in the blanket where the sun did its best to peek through and shine down onto the earth.

One of the slivers of sun shone down onto the street corner next to her home. Edie and her family lived on the corner of 11th and Spring Street in a neighborhood that mostly consisted of older couples without children. Most of Edie’s parents’ friends wondered if Edie was ever restless or lonely living on a street with no children. Edie always thought it was a strange question. Then again, she never really liked being around other children very much to begin with.

She skipped to the street corner and stopped in her tracks when she looked down and was greeted by a mirror image staring up at her. The corner of the sidewalk had cracked and caved a while ago. Edie always had to be careful running around this corner. She’d tripped and fallen on the jutting sidewalk before, scraping her palms and cutting her knee. Today, the rain had filled up the space to make a little pool. There was something about this puddle that was very different from the puddles in her front yard. The reflection was practically crystal clear.

She crouched down and examined herself in the pool of water. The reflection was so strong, she could barely see the sidewalk and dirt beneath it. She could see the green street signs for 11th and Spring behind her, except in the pool, the sign read Gnirps instead. This struck Edie as odd. Why was the G capitalized in the reflection? She looked up at the sign above her. Only the S was capitalized. She looked back down, noticing that her reflection was still looking up at the sign. She let out a little gasp, and her reflection looked back at her with a casual expression.

Edie sat still and studied her reflection in the pool, doing her best not to blink. She didn’t want to miss a thing. The reflection stared back at her. She tried to get it to do something else by catching it off guard. She would move her head back and forth, stick out her tongue, or jump around in circles, but the reflection did the exact same things that she did. She grumbled to herself, knowing perfectly well that she had seen something extraordinary, but was unable to recreate that magical event. It almost looked as if the mirror image wore a smug expression of victory.

Edie wondered about what this discovery could possibly mean. Had she found some parallel universe right beneath her feet? Had it always been there, and she was present for the freak accident that brought the two worlds together? Had it wanted to be found? How far did that world underneath her go? How would she get there? Was it as easy as stepping into the puddle? Would she even want to visit?

Eventually, Edie’s curiosity got the best of her and she stretched out her arm and lowered it slowly to the pool. Her mirror self followed. Her palm and fingertips touched the surface of the pool. She flinched. She didn’t feel the cold, wet surface of a puddle. What she felt was another palm touching hers. She remained shocked and frozen for a moment, wondering what she should do next. Her reflection watched her. The other Edie had a much more menacing expression on its face, an expression that seemed to dare Edie to pull her hand away. In the distance, Edie heard her mother call out for her.

Edie hesitated for one moment more, then pulled her hand away from the puddle. The reflection’s hand shot up from the pool and grabbed her wrist. Edie opened up her mouth but no scream came out as the reflection’s grip tightened on her wrist. The reflection grinned. Edie pulled back with as much strength as she could muster and broke free. She fell to the ground a couple of feet away from the puddle. The hand shrank back into the water and disappeared under the surface. She got up and ran to the house as fast as she could. When her mother asked what was wrong, Edie lied and said she’d tripped on a sidewalk crack. She never went outside after a rainstorm after that day.

Written by: Quentin Norris

Photograph by: Tiffany Melanson

The Original

Alfredo is one hell of a big guy. He’s at least 6’5” and has a body like an upside-down triangle—all beef at the top and nothing in the hips. To be honest, he kind of looks like a Street Shark, if you remember that show.

I say all this because Alfredo is the boss of the window washers, and I cannot for the life of me imagine a dude his size up fifteen stories balancing on a swing-stage.

“You ever clean windows?” he asks me, crossing his arms over his barrel chest.

“Si, yes, but from the inside. I did janitorial at ChronoCorp?”

“So you cleaned windows with two feet on the ground,” he humphs, unimpressed.

“I get the job done. And I’m not scared of heights.”

“Washing windows takes upper body strength, balance—“ he says, looking me up and down. “Trial basis.”

I’ll take it. I heard you can earn up to twenty-five bucks an hour if you made it to skyscrapers. That’s almost three times what I was making at ChronoCorp, and with fewer—complications.

“Complicaciones.”

That’s what I tell Dusty, my new coworker, when he asks me why I left my last job. He’s fitting me for a safety harness—“OSHA compliant,” he says.

“You got to interview me, too?”

“Nah, man, just curious. You got to watch people who want to get into this line of work, you know? Some people—kind of like reality shows—in it for the wrong reasons.”

“How do you mean?” I ask him.

“Well, take this one guy we had last year. Thrill seeker. Tried to drop down the building too fast, just to see if he could. Fredo fired him quick. And then, there’s the funny guys.” Dusty shakes his head.

“Not ha-ha funny?”

“You know,” he says. “Funny in the head. They think if something happens up there, everybody’ll guess it’s an accident. Let your family off easy, you know? So they don’t think you’re in hell for killing yourself.”

“Mi dios—"

“Si, partner. Your dios. Or somebody’s. So I take it that’s not what you’re after—but why leave the time machine? That’s some high tech shit they got over there.”

I shrug and give the straps on my new harness an experimental tug. I consider griping to Dusty about The Man, but decide not to. He watches reality shows, after all. He wouldn’t get it—pushing a broom is bad enough, but it’s worse when you’re cleaning up after ChronoCorp’s customers: perfectly normal-looking middle-aged people hemorrhaging money to get their skin tightened and their fat blasted. And I’m eating off the dollar menu for dinner. Again.

All the commercials call it “the Time Machine.” Take you back to the you of your youth. But every day in that place, I could feel myself getting older and older. And then I stumbled down a restricted hallway one night, looking for the good floor buffer. Some things, once you see them, you can’t un-see them.

“Bills, man,” I say.

                                                                                                  ***

Life dangling from a rope turns out to be chill, once you get past the terror. I think maybe this is why people like surfing. The balance. The rocking. The wind in your face. And the view, if you’re into that.

Alfredo chews out one of the younger guys for taking selfies on the scaffold.

“You screw around, you get killed! You get killed, I’m out of business!”

“But man, did you see that sunset?”

Alfredo is not amused. Alfredo is not a man impressed by nature blushing all over itself or some shit. Alfredo puts Mr. Instagram on bucket duty for three whole days.

I’m a quick learner. Dusty only has to show me a few times before I get the rhythm of things. I swipe the mop and squeegee at the windows, down and across, across and down.

“Okay,” Alfredo says. “I guess you’ll do.”

We do office buildings, mostly. Sometimes hotels. One day we do a building at a college, and all the students gawk at us like we’re magical acrobats.

“You see that video of that Spiderman window washer?” Dusty says. “They think we’re Spiderman!”

I saw the video. It was at a hospital for sick kids. I think Dusty kind of missed the point. But I don’t care if the people on the inside stare. I’d rather be on the outside than trapped in a fishbowl. It’s alright out here. Best of all, even with the blinds open to the inside, there’s nothing happening. Nothing to un-see.

                                                                                                  ***

What I’m dreading finally happens: we’re doing the windows at the Time Machine.

“I’ve got that thing—I think it’s called vertigo,” I tell Alfredo.

“And I’ve got that thing—I think it’s called we’re understaffed and have a job to do. Don’t give me this crap, Ramos.”

We take the elevator to the fifteenth floor, then climb the stairs to the roof, where Dusty and I secure the ropes. We’re using the two-man swing-stage today.

The blinds are closed and shut in the fifteenth-floor windows. Dusty’s singing the jingle for some car title loan place—“Get cash fast with Zippy Cash!”

“It should be ‘Get hash fast with Zippy Cash,’” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Why else do you need a title loan?”

Dusty looks a little confused, but laughs, faking understanding.

The fourteenth floor is corporate office space. Through the few uncovered windows, I can see a meeting in progress and a fancy waiting area.

Then there’s the thirteenth floor. The blinds, as I feared, are wide open. Even though the windows are tinted, you can see inside—row after row of metal doors.

When we reach the last window, I see a man—the head janitor—opening one of the doors. He presses a few buttons on a panel on the wall. And then a man steps into the room.

“Look at that! Dude in there could be your twin,” Dusty laughs.

“Huh,” I say, hoping that’s all he notices. We’re about to finish this floor, and then we’re onto twelve and eleven, where all the rich people have their evaluations for experimental rejuvenation treatments.

“Wait a second—do you see that? There’s people in there. Lots of them—Ramos, what the hell?”

And I know then that Dusty, dim as he is, will never un-see. To ChronoCorp, to the rest of the world, it’s an endless supply of uncomplaining laborers. They could be programmed to have any number of fake memories—or maybe no memories at all. But to me, all I see is my face, Maria’s face, the face of the teenage kid who did the bathrooms—over and over and over again. What they told us was a simple test for drugs was really a free genetic sample to clone for their secret inventory. Their experiments.

But I am not them. I am the original, and I got out. And nothing is going to mess that up.

“I’m sorry, man,” I tell Dusty. I pull the knife from my belt and slash his rope. I give him a shove.

Written by: Dot Dannenberg

Photograph by: Daniel Vidal