The People We Used To Be

The ground shakes. Dylan materializes in an alley.

A boy in dirty coveralls playing with a hoop looks up at him wide-eyed.

“Ghost! A ghost!”

The boy runs away in a cloud of dust, leaving the hoop behind.

Knowing he must act quickly, Dylan hurries to Freemont Street.

He finds who he’s looking for in a narrow lot alongside C. S. Fly’s photography studio.

Billy Claiborne, brothers Ike and Billy Clanton, and brothers Tom and Frank McLaury are checking their guns.

“Pistol whip me, eh? That cur,” Tom grumbles. “I’ll show that lowdown mutt Wyatt how to use a six-shooter.”

“Yeah, let ‘em come,” Ike says boldly. “We’ll send them Earps to Hades with their trousers filled with lead.”

Dylan cautiously approaches the cowboys, tipping his hat.

Frank eyes Dylan suspiciously. “You want somethin’, slick?”

“I was hoping I could buy you all a drink.”

“Why?” Billy asks.

“I admire you fellas,” Dylan replies, pushing his western accent to the forefront. “Some of my kin are cowboys. C’mon, let’s go to the Four Deuces’ saloon and have us a hog killin’ time!”

The cowboys follow Dylan to the saloon. The cowboys drink, brag about their prowess, and play pool.

Dylan breathes a sigh of relief when the clock passes 2:30 p.m., the start of the gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

Fifteen minutes later, the saloon’s bat-wing doors swing open. Virgil, Wyatt, and Morgan Earp and Doc Holiday stare earnestly at the cowboys.

“I heard you been spoilin’ for a fight,” Doc Holiday says, tapping his shotgun. “Well, you got one.”

Billy Clanton and Wyatt Earp simultaneously pull their weapons. The room becomes a cacophony of gunshots, yelps, and smoke.

A bullet breaks Dylan’s glass. He dives for the floor, covering his head.

The fight is over in thirty seconds. The McLaurys, Clantons, and Billy Claiborne lie dead on the blood-drenched floor.

Untouched, the Earps and Doc Holiday survey the dead cowboys, smiling and exiting the saloon.

Bartender Waldron Wallace rises from his hiding place behind the bar.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Dylan mutters. “Ike and Billy were supposed to live. Virgil, Morgan, and Doc are all supposed to be wounded.”

Having heard the gunshots, Sheriff John Behan appears in the doorway, his pudgy features reflecting shock.

“They slaughtered ‘em, Sheriff, and this dude saw it all,” Wallace says, pointing toward the bar.

“What dude you talkin’ about, Waldron?”

***

The floor shakes, and Dylan reappears in his laboratory.

Tassie Cameron, his assistant, shuts down the time distortion machine.

“Well? Did you save your cousins, the McLaurys?”

“No, I made the situation worse. They all died. Ike Clanton and Billy Claiborne, too. I almost took a bullet myself.”

“See? Some timelines aren’t meant to be altered.”

Dylan’s body quivers.

“Then there’s that,” Tassie says, watching with concern as Dylan’s body shakes.

Dylan collapses to the floor, his body jerking uncontrollably as he bites down hard on his tongue.

Moments pass, and the convulsions slow down.

Dylan wakes up in Tassie’s arms.

“That seizure was a full minute. That’s thirty seconds longer than the last time. I’m worried about the effect time travel is having on you. You don’t have the physique for it.”

Dylan rises from the floor, hanging onto a chair for support. “Height and weight shouldn’t be factors.”

“But they are. What are you, five-six, a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet? That’s too light and too small for a man to have his atoms scrambled and rearranged. I’m three inches taller. When we started these tests, I weighed 150 pounds. I’ve lost twenty pounds. The stress of bending time has damaged my intestines, heart, and lungs. It has to be worse for you. Many of the medications we’re using to combat the effects of altering our bodies contain excessive amounts of lead. Other experiments using lead-based drugs have shown that too much of it can affect the brain, cause psychiatric problems, even violent episodes.”

“None of which has happened.”

“No, not yet,” Tassie replies. “Our implants are degrading. The distortion of time, signified by the tremors, is getting stronger. Instead of the earth trembling a bit when we leave and reappear, the atmosphere around us now shakes like an earthquake… When I traveled back to the day before the stock market crash in 1929, I didn’t know who I was or where I was when I materialized. I suffered through tremendous headaches, a fever, and blurred vision. And when I got back, my blood pressure and heart rate were through the roof. I’m scared what’ll happen if I attempt another jump.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll do the traveling.”

“You’ve taken more trips than I have. You’re at risk for a lot more damaging effects.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You could die during your next trip, or God forbid, suffer complete amnesia. We need to overhaul the machine and our implants. In the meantime, we should stop the experiments.”

Dylan’s tired dark eyes brighten. “No! Okay, so not every trip has been a home run. Think of the good we’ve done, like what we did for Jackie Smith…”

Tassie rolls her bright blue eyes. “I’m sure you’re going to remind me.”

“You know that Jackie Smith was one of my heroes. Smith was a five-time Pro Bowl tight end for the St. Louis Cardinals. When he retired in 1979, his 7,918 career receiving yards were the most ever by an NFL tight end. He was elected to the Football Hall of Fame in 1994, but when people mentioned his name, you know what they talked about? Super Bowl XIII, when Smith dropped a pass in the end zone that should have been a game-tying touchdown. Yesterday, I corrected things. He caught that pass for a touchdown, and the Cowboys won the game when he caught a second touchdown pass.”

“For every Jackie Smith we’ve had, there’s been a Buddy Holly,” Tassie points out. “You were able to convince Buddy Holly not to get into the plane that crashed and killed him. So, what happened next?”

“He died in a car accident the same day.”

“And I’m worried that someone we come in contact with in the past will discover what we’re doing, like the time you insisted on going back in time to warn Charlie Chaplin not to take that boat trip with William Randolph Hurst, and not to make a pass at actress Marion Davies, Hearst’s girlfriend.”

“Hearst was supposed to shoot Chaplin in a jealous rage,” Dylan says. “What a waste. He hadn’t filmed ‘City Lights’ or ‘The Great Dictator’ yet. I had to save his life.”

“And that poor film producer, Thomas Ince, was sacrificed in his place. But you made a huge mistake, one that was captured on film.”

“I was a bit disoriented. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Pulling out a cell phone in 1924 to call me? Talk about not being able to make a connection.”

“…One more mission,” Dylan mutters. “I have to get Cheyenne back.”

“We talked this subject to death,” Tassie replies. “She left you, divorced you, and she’s living her dream of being a pilot, flying her plane around the Florida Keys. You need to forget her.”

“You don’t understand. You’ve never been in love.”

Tassie looks away from Dylan, clenching her jaw.

“You’re confusing love with obsession.”

“Don’t try to psychobabble me, Tassie. I’m going back to the time before the arguments, and my jealousy took control of our lives. Back before we started the project.”

“You’ll create a paradox. If you go back in time, you may stop us from creating the distortion machine, and none of this may exist. We may never meet.”

“I’d trade it all for Cheyenne.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Tassie asks incredulously. “Do you expect me to just flush the last five years away, go back to being a science intern at Colgate, or worse? But it’s not me I’m worried about…Are you sure I can’t talk you out of this?”

Dylan pats Tassie’s shoulder. “It’s all for the betterment of society. I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful, Dylan. Time changes people.”

***

When Dylan’s blurred vision clears, he finds himself standing at the head of a classroom, looking at a roomful of college students’ dumbfounded expressions.

He can feel his blood burning, his veins at the point of bursting, and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

“Are you okay, professor?” one student asks.

“…Yes, I’m fine…”

“You kinda blanked out on us for a few seconds.”

Dylan looks to his left. Tassie Cameron, the student he would choose to be his intern, then later his assistant, isn’t in her usual seat.

He scans the room. She’s not in it.

The bell ending class sounds. The students file out, whispering about Professor Shorter’s weird behavior.

Dylan wanders out into the hallway, nodding placidly at the passing students.

He spots Tassie at the end of the hallway talking to another student.

“Thank goodness you’re here. You can help me.”

Tassie’s sharp blue eyes bore into Dylan.

“Sorry. I’m not that kinda girl.”

He steps back to look at Tassie. She’s still the same tall beauty, but her manner of speech has changed, and she’s traded her crisp, All-American preppy appearance for a trendier look.

“I need you to help me get Cheyenne back.”

“Who? Sorry, I don’t know where your puppy is.”

“She’s not a dog. She’s my wife, and your friend.”

“Call missin’ persons. I’m not your pimp. And who are you, anyway? Some perv tryin’ to pick up college girls?”

“I’m Professor Shorter. I teach biophysics…”

“Is that some kind of fancy science?”

“You could say that.”

Tassie smirks. “Well, there you go, Einstein. I’m a journalism major. I can’t help you. Besides, I skeeve science. Bye!”

***

Dylan checks his jacket pocket and finds his car keys. He’s lost Tassie, but if the other elements of his trip five years into his past are in place, then his Mazda should be in the teacher’s parking lot, and Cheyenne should be where they first met - mixing drinks at Starbucks.

Another man approaches the car as he’s about to get into it.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” a familiar voice asks.

Dylan looks up at himself.

The other Dylan drops his briefcase.

“What the?... Who are you?”

“You.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

His heart racing, the other Dylan throws out a series of frenzied sentences. “What are you doing here! Why are you here! If you meet your doppelganger, aren’t you supposed to die? Am I losing my mind?”

“I’m here to make things right between you and your wife.”

“But I’m not married!”

“Not yet. You’re going to meet a woman named Cheyenne Walker soon, a beautiful Native American with silky hair and a killer figure. She’s kind-hearted, has an interest in aeronautics, and has the disposition of a saint. You’ll get married. Then you’ll start working on a time distortion machine. The work will consume you. You’ll neglect Cheyenne, which will drive her into the arms of your best friend.”

“Galen would never betray me.”

“Your best friend is Justin… Justin Howard.”

The other Dylan shakes his head vigorously. “No. My best friend is Galen Jung.”

“I don’t think it matters who’s involved; it’s more about the events that occur. Don’t ignore her. Don’t mistreat her.”

“How can I hurt someone I haven’t even met?”

“Listen to me. My Cheyenne and Justin decided to run away together. He came to the house to take her away from me. I chased after them, determined to get her back. We raced up the highway, both going over a hundred miles an hour. Justin tried to change lanes at the same time as another car. They slammed into one another. Justin’s car flipped over, and he and Cheyenne were killed.”

The other Dylan gives him a peculiar look, shaking his head.

“This is a joke… Granted, you’re a dead ringer for me… Maybe a little thinner, definitely more tired looking… Pat Mortimer from the Physics Department put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Dylan swiftly moves forward. Grabbing himself by the shoulders, he shakes the other Dylan.

“Listen to me! I’m warning you about your future!”

The other Dylan stares at him with fear in his eyes.

He begins to choke, struggling to breathe.

“My heart…You… You’ve killed me…”

The other Dylan slides from his grasp, falling to the ground.

Dylan watches his body dissolve.

“I’m sorry, Dylan. I guess there can’t be two of us in the same time period. But I’m getting a second chance at life, and I’ve got to take it.”

***

Dylan steps out of the car, staring at the gaudy building in front of him.

“This should be a Starbucks, not a strip club.”

A sports car parks a few spaces ahead of him. Cheyenne gets out.

Instead of wearing jeans and a billowy peasant blouse, Cheyenne is wearing a tight leather skirt and an even tighter pink halter top with stiletto heels, and she’s carrying a Gucci bag the size of a suitcase.

“Cheyenne!”

Dylan is surprised to see how much makeup she’s wearing.

Cheyenne lets out an exasperated sigh. “Good lord, another groupie…I’m on stage in an hour, honey. Gimme a little space until then, okay?”

“But we need to talk.”

“I ain’t no shrink.”

“Ain’t? Is this how you talk?”

“The customers don’t seem to mind. They’re lookin’, not conversatin’. Okay, honey, I can spare a few minutes if it’ll help steady your wheels, so long as you remember to tip me later on.”

Dylan rubs his hand against his forehead. “You’re not supposed to be acting like this.”

“Oh, really? How do I act in your fantasies?”

“It’s not a fantasy. It’s our lives! Come back with me. You can pursue your dream of being a pilot.”

“Dream? That’d be a nightmare, honey. I’m airsick. Have to keep my feet on the ground at all times.”

“That’s not right! My Cheyenne’s a professional!”

“Relax, honey, so am I. Don’t make me reach for my mace.”

“We’re supposed to be together.”

“You just pushed the meter past sicko, honey.”

“No, listen to me. You’re a barista. I’m a professor…”

“Yeah, a nutty professor.”

“I’m sorry, Cheyenne.”

“For wastin’ my time? Greenbacks make a good apology.”

“We were happy together once.”

Cheyenne studies Dylan’s teary eyes. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I came to apologize and to beg you to give me another chance. We can still have a home together, kids.”

“How ‘bout I just promise to visit you at the booby hatch once a month?”

A police patrol car steams into the parking lot, pulling alongside them.

A stern-looking, muscular officer gets out, lowering his sunglasses to get a good look at Dylan.

“Saw you two bickering from the road,” Officer P.J. Tracker says.

“It’s all right, officer, we were just talking,” Dylan offers.

“This nut bag was gonna kidnap me.”

Officer Tracker reaches for his handcuffs. “You can come with me the easy way, or the hard way, but you’re coming to the station.”

Dylan turns to run but is slammed to the pavement.

“CHEYENNE!”

***

Sergeant Copeland Rice and Officer Tracker look through the interview room’s one-way glass at Dylan.

“He says his name’s Dylan Shorter,” Officer Tracker says. “Claims he’s Cheyenne Walker’s husband, and he’s a professor at Colgate University.”

“That’s what his driver’s license and employee I.D. say,” Sergeant Rice replies. “We searched for priors. He doesn’t have any. We went a little further down the rabbit hole. He doesn’t have a valid Social Security number, despite what his card says. There’s no Dylan Shorter living at the address on his license, and Colgate said no Professor is working there by that name. There’s no trace of his existence.”

“So, what do we do with him?” Officer Tracker asks.

Dylan begins to shake. His shaking quickly develops into a full-blown gran mal seizure.

“Right now, we’re getting him to a hospital.”

***

Dylan’s eyes flutter open. He sees a nurse and a doctor conferring in the hallway, then they walk away. Pulling out the tubes from his arm, he reaches for his clothes.

He sneaks down the hallway toward the exit door.

“…Have to get back to the lab…”

***

Dylan runs to the laboratory’s address. The laboratory is gone. He drops to his knees in the middle of the street, laughing hysterically when he sees the sign above the building’s entrance.

“…The Jackie Smith Foundation…”

A car hits him, screeching to a halt a few feet away.

***

Officer Don Hemsley tries to calm down the driver.

“I didn’t see him until it was too late!” the woman screams. “He was curled up in the middle of the road! I mean, who does that?”

“Hard to recognize him now, but I’m sure he was the mental patient Officer Tracker brought to the precinct earlier today. We sent him to a psych ward, and he escaped. Don’t worry, the way he was acting, I’m sure this’ll be ruled an accident. For the record, what’s your name, Miss?”

“Cheyenne…Cheyenne Walker. ”