The Heimlich Maneuver

CW: Strong language

I arrive early, as is my practice… or was it my practice? I’ve lived this moment so many times now that the delineation of the time-space continuum eludes me. It’s hard to think in past, present, and future. Around you, it’s hard to think at all.

I walk past the parked cars, blue Ford Explorer license plate 4DGW345. Red Toyota Camry license plate 8VD74FR. I step up onto the curb, and pause for approximately fifteen seconds as a boy zooms by on his Razor scooter going 10,000 miles per minute. I take three steps to the right to avoid the dog excrement and make a funny face at the baby rolling by in a stroller to get a smile, and then I see you. You’re wearing a tight black tank top and glasses. The same pair I have fixed for you a hundred times in the years to come. Hunched over them under a green desk lamp at 3 a.m., so they’re ready before you wake up for work in the morning.

No matter how many times I have lived this moment I still find myself bashful. “Zach?” I smile, nodding in confirmation. As an unfortunate symptom of our time we were cursed to be set up on a blind date and not meet in the wild. I should have found you hunched over a scientific article in some deep recess of the library like the center of the maze the minotaur guards, this is far too mundane a start to our story.

We embrace. Despite the fact that this is our first (for you) meeting, we share a real hug. Not that awkward side profile that you get sometimes from people who are just going through the motions, but a genuine “I’m so excited to meet you” hug.

I do this every day, go back and visit different points in our relationship to try to stress test the butterfly effect, but regardless of what I change, the outcome appears to remain the same. I end up alone. I’ve tried everything, the first time I met your father, I dress a little smarter, look him dead in the eye when I shake his hand, and spend the evening talking about stocks I think (know) will do well, and all his favorite football teams. I’ve tried Christmas 2004 where I get you a sweater you haven’t even told me you love yet. Hell I even tried proposing once just to see what happened, spoiler alert, you said no. I’ve tried our first vacation together to Cabo and.. well I’ll be perfectly honest I re-live Cabo for the unparalleled sex, but I’m only human after all.

Sometimes I consider going back a little further. Finding your whereabouts years before this and attempting to make contact, but the by-laws were clear concerning linear progression and I don’t want to risk a ruling of cyber stalking from the council that would strip me of my powers. This is when we were meant to meet, and insofar as I can tell, we were always supposed to end.

The familiar green light indicating my hour of time warping for the day is nearing its end flashes across your perfect skin. I wake up alone again at 7 a.m., in my cold, dark apartment.

I open my laptop to the color-coded Excel spreadsheet,

Iteration: 1, 499

Year: 2000

Time Step: first meeting

Controlled Variable: Clothing (original 2000 black denim jacket and black leather combat boots)

Manipulated Variable: Conversation included references to all your favorite music and food (The Cure, Italian)

I close my laptop and scarf down a bowl of Frosted Diabetes before slopping on hair gel and slapping myself in the face in anticipation of the workday ahead of me. I walk out of my unit and get into my rust-ridden Prius (sexy, I know) to drive downtown to my corporate desk job at Company X, in Generic Building Y—a place that could describe the workplace of 348 million other people in this country.

On my lunch break I plug in my ancient ear pods and watch youtube videos someone made of a stop-motion squirrel water skiing. I look at the generic white calendar on my wall and notice that tomorrow has a big circle around it in red Sharpie and the words D-Day scribbled across it. Has it really been that long already? I pull off the cover of my calculator like an old west gunslinger and punch in some numbers. 4.10958904 years tomorrow. Shit.

I can't believe its really happening tomorrow. I absorb a Cup O' Noodles and make myself go for a long run around the neighborhood despite the rain. I’m going to need to be clear tomorrow, for the first time in a long time, I’m not entirely sure what will happen. I stare at the headlights dancing across my ceiling for awhile, then slip into a restless, unholy fit that I’m not even sure I can call sleep.

I wake up in the cold pale morning and stare at the ceiling some more before putting in the painstaking effort of lifting my body out of bed. I open my closet door and pick out the only shirt you ever told me you hated on me. It's a pink (salmon? what's the fucking difference?) polo that I could never bring myself to get rid of because I still have a mental image of you wearing it to cook me breakfast on our trip to the Rockies in 2005. You took it out of my suitcase and teased that it looked horrible on me, so it was yours now. Watching you dance around the kitchen to Smoke on the Water in nothing but this shirt was the closest I’ll ever get to being in a rom-com. According to my spreadsheet, I’ve lived that moment twenty-three times now.

I walk past the parked cars, blue Ford Explorer license plate 4DGW345. Red Toyota Camry license plate 8VD74FR. I step up onto the curb and into the path of the boy on his Razor scooter, who tries to course-correct in time but ends up ramming directly into a nearby tree at ten thousand miles per minute. I step directly into the pile of dog shit, smear it all over my boot, and make an angry face at the baby rolling by in a stroller. As he starts to cry, I see you. You’re wearing a tight black tank top and glasses. The same pair I have fixed for you a hundred times in the years to come. Hunched over them under a green desk lamp at 3 a.m., so they’re ready before you wake up for work in the morning.

“Zach?"

“I’m sorry—who?”

“Oh… sorry. I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

It pains me to do so, but I continue walking to the other side of the field where a bench sits alone and I have a view of you waiting there for a man who will never arrive. I take a seat and get a little emotional thinking about the times we will never have. Is it really better this way? I promised myself on day 1,500 I would stop. I can't continue splitting my time between past and present if I am ever truly going to be whole again.

Oddly enough this is the right choice for you as well I think, I admit it is unfair that the choice was taken away from you, but truly I have tried every possible outcome, I have amended every possible detail to no avail. So that settles it, I wasted your time, and today I'm just giving it back. Almost every second minus the time it took you to apply your mascara, put on a perfect outfit, and drive over here. From experience, I know this to be twenty-four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Not too bad, all things considered.

Even as an observer, I find you stunning. It's windy outside and you're fighting a losing battle to keep the hair out of your face. I wonder how long you will wait, and if I’m doing the right thing at all. The dog shit was my insurance policy so that I couldn’t back out, and even if I tried now, I already told you I was someone else.

Thirty-two minutes in, I watch you glance at your phone and start typing a message, presumably to our mutual friend Kelly, who set us up, saying that Zach (that asshole!) stood you up. You start to walk towards your car and as you do the finality of all of this starts to sink in. I cup my face in my hands and want to scream, but as I do a dog runs up and starts licking the dog shit off my boot. Why do they do that? of all the species in the animal kingdom this has got to be the dumbest practice of them all.

As he continues I hear a call from the owner of the bootlicking quadruped. “Lucky! Leave that poor man alone.” as she gets closer I see her eyes, bright and green as she looks down to inspect the scene. She makes a face of disgust when she sees the feces smeared across my black leather combat boot. “You should see the other guy,” I mumble under my breath. It makes no sense but my mind is in tatters. I look up for just long enough to see your car pulling out of the parking lot.

“I’m sorry—that’s probably Heimlich’s handiwork. He got into the trash again last night.” I can’t help but smile.

“Your dog’s name is Heimlich? Like the choking, wrestling-move guy?”

“Yes. When he was a puppy, my neighbors caught him trying to squeeze through a hole in the fence. When he finally shot out, they said it was like a gumball popping out of someone’s throat during the Heimlich maneuver—and the name just stuck.”

I try to force a laugh but I’m still coming to terms with the fact that I’m literally never going to see you again.

“I live next door, and since this was his fault, do you want to use the hose in the front yard to rinse it off?”

“Sure.” My voice is a million miles away.

I’m on autopilot. As we begin to walk towards the house next to the park the green light appears on the sidewalk. That’s it.

Iteration 1:

I wake up in a house. There is something next to me that feels like hair. Did I? Half-asleep, I embrace the warm body. I feel lips on my own—large and wet—and then a tongue, and… who is licking my face?

I sit bolt upright to the sound of laughter. I look into the corner and see you sitting there in my pink (salmon? what’s the fucking difference?) polo. You steep a bag of herbal tea, rocking gently in a wooden chair. As you rise and walk toward me, I notice the bump under your shirt.

“I would kiss you, but Heimlich beat me to it.”

Your green eyes pierce my very soul.

“Good morning.”