This Time Will Be Different

I let out one final sigh.  Then the alarm sounded. 

I tripped it. I couldn’t believe it. How could I have been so foolish? I spent the past nine months casing this place, and it all fell apart because of one careless swing of the leg. I am a thief and, though I am prone to the odd mistake, I am a good one.  

I got started early when I was a teenager. My first job was as bold as it was lucrative. I was on a high school trip. There was a museum guide lecturing about a small painting on the wall bearing an image of a man sweating under the sun.  When she mentioned it’s value, I began wondering if I could fit that sweaty man into my backpack. 

Considering this possibility further, I took in my surroundings. There were no security cameras in sight, but there was a guard. I watched his movements for a few minutes. His patrol around the room was predictable. I knew that if I timed it just right, he would be facing the other way when I swiped it. 

I was wrong. I was just stepping away from the wall with the painting in my bag when I felt his firm grip on the back of my arm. I was wrong, but I didn’t get caught. A few minutes later, I tried to steal the painting again and I was grabbed again. But for all the times the guard grabbed me, I was never once caught. 

You see, I have a certain ability. I discovered it when I was a teenager. I can sort of time travel. I say sort of because I don’t have control over how far back in time I go.  Sometimes I want to go back five minutes, but I accidentally travel five days back in time. One time I wanted to go back a week, but I couldn’t seem to travel further than ten minutes. It’s a little finnicky. 

This might sound like an inconsequential annoyance, as if I am complaining about getting paper cuts from a winning lottery ticket. But time travel isn’t just rolling the dice until you get the combination you want.  Each roll of the dice comes with a cost. Every time I travel, I age at varying rates. Again, I don’t have control over this. Sometimes, I’m just a few days older and sometimes much more. 

When the guard caught me in the museum, it took seven more attempts until I walked out the door without being noticed. By the end of the week, I had sold the painting for $1,200, and I only looked a few years older. 

From that moment, I finally knew how to leverage my ability. It started gradually. I didn’t go for anything too crazy at the beginning. I knew bigger jobs would require more attempts, which meant sacrificing more years.  However, having the safety net of time travel meant I was still willing to try. 

As my skill grew, so did my ambition. Eventually, I developed a bit of a reputation.

There was a young agent at Interpol who was particularly invested in tracking me down. After I stole three Rembrandts from the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, he declared with confidence that he would take me down by the end of the year. He was a bit of a rising star in Interpol. I looked him up once. He was young - pale complexion, blonde hair, and penetrating blue eyes filled with purpose. He was formidable.  

But alas, it seemed the potential of a legendary chess match between the two of us would never be. My last job was a close call. It took more attempts than I had planned. Though I was only in my late twenties, I looked fifty. My hair was more grey than brown and I was balding at the back. A sprinkling of wrinkles and age spots decorated my hands and face. 

Therefore, I decided I could only do one last heist. 

I spent the better part of a year casing the Valerie Museum, which was renowned for holding the largest gemstone in the world, the Dareh-I-Noor Diamond. At the time, I had enough money to retire, and frankly, the diamond was so famous it would be nearly impossible to sell. But I couldn’t shake the diamond from my mind. It was the perfect way to go out. It would be the crowning achievement of my career. 

Three days before the heist, I was able to make my way into the security room splicing the CCTV, so I wouldn’t be seen. On the day of the job, that didn’t make a difference. The alarm blared, the gates crashed, the lights flashed.

I just needed to breathe and focus. I closed my eyes and breathed in.

As I breathed out, I could hear a door shutting and my knees hurt. I opened my eyes and saw that I was in the custodians closet on the 3rd floor.

 I checked my watch: 11:37 p.m. 

It was eight minutes before I attempted to steal the Dareh-I-Noor. Earlier in the day, I had holed up in the custodian’s closet. Climbing up to a deep upper shelf filled with drying mop heads I could easily conceal myself. It was moldy and a tight squeeze, which meant nothing as a younger man. But after the last jump my knees were killing me. I must’ve added a few years. I gingerly lowered myself down off the shelf and stretched out my back. There was a muscle spasming somewhere in my lower back from being curled up for hours. 

Void of any swagger or dignity, I limped down the hall to my target exhibit. I positioned myself at the left corner of the entrance and held my watch firmly in front of me. It was 11:39 p.m. I waited with bated breath. 

As soon as it reached 11:40 p.m., I took a calculated step into the room. Placing my right foot 2.5 feet to the left of the Roman statue, I began my dance. I was able to schedule the deactivation of the motion sensors in the main room, but the lasers proved too great a challenge.

Unfortunately, lasers aren’t red like you see in the movies. They’re invisible. Sure, I could’ve tossed some talcum powder to reveal them. But for a room that size, you would need a ton of baby powder. Instead, I studied the grid, mapped the lasers, and rehearsed the choreography for months. 

At first, I spun with ease. I shifted, lifted and reached across the room effortlessly. I didn’t encounter any problems until I had to bend underneath a laser, which sent my 55-year-old back into spasm. I stood up carefully, hoping the tension would release. No matter. I had come to my final step. Last time I had foolishly stepped to the left when I should’ve stepped to the right. 

I stepped.

The alarm sounded again. The gates fell, and the white lights flashed. 

I took a breath and focused. 

As I exhaled, I found myself back in my workshop in the South of France. The clear French sun shone through the overhead skylight. Near the center of the room was a cork board with plans and blueprints pinned up. In front of me was a tangled mess of string. Yellow string had been pulled all over the workshop to mimic the patterns of the lasers. 

I checked my phone; it was five days before my attempt. 

Shaking my head, I navigated my way through the string. I reviewed the course and recalled my failed attempt. When I made it to the end of the progression, I studied the final step that had gone wrong both times. It didn’t make sense. It said to step right, and that is exactly what I had done.

Something was off with my schematics. I acquired the schematics off a former museum employee four months ago. Theoretically, I could travel back to take up my dispute with him, but that could prove to be too costly. I might only age ten days, but it might be ten years. 

Instead, I glanced at the schedule on the cork board. It was blurry. I hadn’t realized I lost a little of my vision on the previous jump. I made a mental note to get my eyes checked, and squinted at the board. I decided the best option was to download the updated laser schematics in two days, when I would be in the security room of the museum to splice the video on the CCTV and schedule the motion sensors deactivation.

That’s exactly what I did. It was worth it. The schematics were completely different than the ones I purchased. Acquiring the information this late meant I only had three days to practice the new routine. 

The three days of training were tough going, but I soon found myself crawling down from the custodian’s mop shelf again. I stretched my back out. It wasn’t as bad this time. I had made sure to take periodic stretches. Soon, I was standing next to the Roman statue again. 

It was 11:39 p.m. 

I held my watch in front of me and envisioned the crossing yellow strings before me. 

11:40 p.m. and I began. 

My steps were slower this time and I my balance was off. However, I had accounted for all of this in my training. If my timing was right and I finally had the correct schematics, then I should make it to the diamond with plenty of time. 

The final step in front of me, and I stepped to the left. 

I waited. No alarm sounded and in front of me was the Dareh-I-Noor.

Even in the pitch black, the diamond shone. As if all light in this dark museum had been drawn into its heart. Carefully, I cut into the glass. I stared up at the CCTV whose menacing red light continued to blink. I trusted my spliced video played. Lowering my gloved hand, I cradled the diamond in my hand and lifted her from the case. She was heavier than I imagined, which was a wonderful surprise.  I slid the diamond into a pouch in my bag and began to recall the yellow string once more. 

However, before I could take a single step, the alarm sounded. The doors came down. The white light spun. 

How? I was baffled. Every step had been accurate, and even more bizarre was that I then heard purposeful footsteps jogging down the hallway. Someone was coming. No one was supposed to be in the building. 

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. 

When I exhaled, I almost fell over. My balance felt off. 

I was in the museum, but it was daytime. I checked my watch. It was the day of my attempt. The time was 3:32 p.m. I had nearly two hours until I snuck away into the custodian’s closet. My legs curiously ached. I shuffled my way into the public restroom. 

“Let me get that for your sir,” a middle-aged man said as he held open the restroom door.  He lowered his head, smiling sympathetically at me. 

As I stepped in front of the mirror, my hand slowly went to my face. It’s an unnatural sensation to be hesitant about touching your own face. It just didn’t look like me. A few pure white wisps lined the sides of my head. Wrinkles hung heavy on my revealed skull. Veins protruded off my arms like mountain ranges streaming down to my boney and bruised fingers. My muscles had diminished and I sensed it. As I felt my face, I wondered at the years I was touching. How old was I now? I didn’t know exactly, but I knew that to do one more time jump would be to risk death.  

I puttered back into the museum. Seeking to rest my aching legs and back, I found an empty bench. It was placed in front of a painting I once debated about stealing, the Bedroom in Arles by Van Gogh. I still had two hours until I had to be in the custodian’s closet, so I just rested in front of the painting.  

The bedroom looked small in the painting. There were two empty chairs and an empty bed. The windows looked cracked, which I had never noticed before. The bed took up most of the canvas. I imagined lying on that bed with a crisp breeze flowing over me. I sat there for nearly an hour conjuring the memory of a breeze like that. I also considered leaving the museum and the diamond behind. I could go and find a place just like that painting, where I could crack the windows and let the cool breeze wash over me. I weighed this heavily in my mind until I checked my watch. 

I knew this time would be different.

                  I made my way to the custodian’s closet. Closing the door, I looked at the familiar industrial shelf. The ascent was impossible now. Since there was no way I had the strength required to pull myself up, I weighed  the alternatives. I knew the janitor would make frequent visits in the evening, so I needed to find a place to hide. In the corner there was a sizeable trash can with a black sack in it. The sack was half full of garbage. I gently lifted the edge of the sack off the trash can. I stepped inside, lowered myself, then lifted the black bag over my head. When the janitor returned and dumped waste on top of me, I pinched my nose and waited for him to leave.

At 11:37 p.m. I crawled out from the trash can, which had looked more spacious from the outside. My legs complained, so I grabbed an old mop handle and used it to support my body weight as I precariously staggered down the hall. I brought the trash can with me and placed it just outside the motion sensors but within the frame of the door. Then I lined myself up near the Roman statue for my final attempt. 

I stared at my watch. 

At 11:40 p.m. I took a step. 

I went even slower this time and brought the mop handle with me. Several times, I leaned on it to catch my breath and give my legs a brief reprieve. My journey through the lasers was less a dance and more a crawl, but I made it. 

Sweating heavily, I cut the glass and reached in to retrieve the diamond. As soon as I lifted the diamond, the alarm sounded. The door fell and the white light flashed. Only this time, the door fell on top of the trash can, leaving a small gap between the door and the floor. I could hear the footsteps again, walking slower this time but just as purposeful. 

I dove to the floor and began crawling underneath the door. The emergency exit was on the second floor, where a fire escape led to my parked car. 

Limping down the hallway, I carried the diamond in one hand and my mop handle in the other. I made it to the stairs, but slipped on the second to last step and went tumbling. As I hit the landing I felt something crack. Then the door at the top of the stairs opened and I could hear someone descending the steps above me. 

My adrenaline propelled me up and I staggered through the final hallway using the wall to balance me until I reached the fire escape. I pressed on the door, but it didn’t budge. I pushed harder. Nothing. It didn’t make sense. 

Then I saw the padlock at the top of the door. I could’ve sworn that hadn’t been there before. Reaching into my bag, I removed my lock picking tools and deftly worked the padlock as the alarm blared above me. The door at the end of the hallway by the staircase opened, followed by casual footsteps. Feverishly, I labored at the lock but dropped one of my tools. I picked it up and started again. The steps grew closer. I could hear the person breathing. Why weren’t they running? 

Then the padlock clicked open. I pushed the door open, but someone grabbed my arm firmly from behind. I focused and considered one final time jump. Maybe I would only age a few days? 

Nothing made sense. Every time I went back, something in the room had been slightly different. I looked down at my aged hands still holding my lock picking tools. The breeze of the wind caressed my face, and I wished I was on that bed in Arles again. 

I turned to face my apprehender. He was old, but not as old as me. His hair was stringy and his cheeks sunk in. Everything about him was grey and pale. He had a weariness that I recognized in myself. But there was something else I recognized. 

He had penetrating blue eyes filled with purpose. 

He was formidable.