They say LA is the city of angels, but if you ask me angels must be born somewhere in Iowa. I’ve never been there myself, yet I think it’s something of a truism, a statement that I could carry with me to the grave without ever having to prove it to anyone not even myself. That’s the thing about belief. It’s something that runs deep into the core of one’s being and even if that someone is a rational person who typically harbors skepticism for most things, when it comes to belief that same person could never and would never waver despite any evidence to the contrary. Why do I believe angels are born out there you may ask? Well, part of me romanticizes that part of our country because of Field of Dreams. When the love of baseball runs in your blood, it’s only natural that one of the best baseball stories should capture a significant portion of your heart. That tale has everything you could ever want from a baseball story so much so that it manages to make me feel nostalgic for a place I’ve never been to. Music can do that too. Ever listen to a song made decades before you were born, but somehow you can just feel it in your veins as if that song spoke directly to you? I’m not quite sure what to call that. It’s not déjà vu, but something similar. Maybe there’s just something about me that makes me more receptive to this kind of sensation. I’m sure there’s a more sophisticated term for it but I just call it being “simpatico.” It’s that feeling you get when even though you have no reason to feel a connection to something or someone, you just do. Whether or not the person you’re simpatico with ever even senses it, it’s a sensation that exists “out there” nonetheless.
What do I know about Iowa cornfields or a guy reconnecting with his father summoning the spirit of Shoeless Joe Jackson by building a left field? Nothing, but that feeling you get when you play catch with your dad. . . missing that one person in your life that you have that intangible connection with – well, just about anyone with a beating heart could relate to that. I suppose that’s why most people love that story whether it’s the book or the film or both. There’s a true sense of the miraculous I get particularly when reading Shoeless Joe, the book that Field of Dreams was based on. Unlike the movie, it’s only a left field that gets built at first which summons Joe Jackson to come and play. Then, there’s more hard work to be done building the rest of the field for the other position players, but the miracle doesn’t quite happen all that easily despite all the hard work and sweat and tears. It’s as if nature gave Ray Kinsella just enough of a taste of a transcendent experience to want more but then it held back demanding even more from the man before yielding the reward and even then only people who “believe” can see it. There’s a kind of poetry to the events in that story even after you put aside all the romanticizing of Iowa. It’s that feeling you get when something makes perfect sense even though you can’t explain it. Maybe Iowa is heaven after all.
In the summer of 2010, I fell in love with the most amazing woman I have ever known, an angel from Iowa named Lizzie Davidson. I fell in love with her before I even knew her. I fell in love with her even though I never got to know her. Not really, anyway, but this story isn’t about that at least not directly although I can’t rightly tell anymore. Everything gets a bit hazy especially when the old fashioned kind of inspiration runs dry. My mind used to be flooded with a bevy of ideas, but my brain cells have been skewered over time if not by old age then by the rigmarole of everyday living, the mundane echoing of Phil Collins slushing through my brain – innocuous pop music to fill my mind and help me forget how much I hate the life I’m forced to live, and also there’s the inconvenient factor of being trapped in a marriage.
There used to be a time when I thought I could take it all in the stride. “Pretend to be happy and the world is your oyster,” a man I knew well had been very fond of saying. Then, he got hit by a train or maybe he jumped into the train or maybe he got pushed. It doesn’t matter now does it? If that was his mantra, he may as well be dead so we could all assume he died a happy man. The kicker is that the man’s wife won the lottery the day after his funeral with the numbers he used to play every week. Now she lives out in Mallorca with some Eurotrash half her age named Jorge. My wife and I visit her once every so often and each time we toast to her late husband who we all know must be smiling down upon us wherever he is. I just hide my shit eating grin every time we do this and look over to my wife mouthing the word “bitch” when she isn’t looking.
So, back in the summer of 2010 I worked in an office. Well, it wasn’t quite an office. It was more of a lounge, but we called it an office or at least I called it an office. Hell, if I can remember what we all did there (one evening of listening to “Sussudio” on loop will do that to you- don’t ask why), but I distinctly remember Lizzie Davidson and her smile or maybe it was a fake smile, but even her fake smile was a thing of beauty. You see, we dealt with a fair share of shall we say unpleasant people who we all needed to be pleasant to so I can’t remember if Lizzie was genuinely smiling at the person in front of her or if it was a fake smile meant to appease said person, but I can remember the feeling of wanting to be that person in front of her – the person she was smiling to. I watched from afar and realized that I had never witnessed a woman as graceful, bright, and as impressive as her or if I had, I had taken no particular notice. I developed a crush of maddening proportions so I did what would have come naturally even if I hadn’t been married. I resigned to disguise my attraction to her with a casual display of indifference. I pretended to take no particular notice of Lizzie only every now and then I couldn’t help but look up at her from my work station when I knew she’d be around, and each time I did the attraction grew deeper. I semi-hoped she wouldn’t notice me at all, but one day she came up to me with that smile of hers and asked how my day was going. Since I was somewhere where I didn’t care to be, my day had already gone to shit but I couldn’t quite say that. I couldn’t quite say anything. I got that feeling you get when you know you’re blushing and tried to recover with some innocuous small talk but needless to say my attempt at remaining cool and calm failed spectacularly. I don’t even remember what came out of me, but it must have been utterly embarrassing. She just laughed and walked away, but it was a sympathetic laugh. She wasn’t mocking me the way someone else might in the same situation. No, not Lizzie. No, she was laughing because in that instant we were simpatico even if it was for just a brief instance before forgetting it entirely. There we were a man and a woman on the same wavelength experiencing some kind of fragile connection.
Despite sounding like a raving loon, let me assure you that I’ve never been described as a passionate man. Most people who encounter me feel as if they’re left with no impression of me at all. I’ve learned to subdue all the things that make me stand out. It’s what one must do to survive marriage. Somewhere in the vast garbage dump of my subconscious exists all the things about myself I used to enjoy: my foolish ambition to become a writer, the way I used to roar and cheer at a ballgame, the tears that would come streaming out of me at a sad movie, the plans for my “future me” that I held dear to my heart -all the things I set aside the moment I said “I do.” There’s an old pop song from Rod Stewart’s old band Faces called “Ooh La La.” The song starts out with the singer telling the audience about his grandfather who warned him of “women’s ways.” “They trap you and use you,” the song goes but the singer simply thought that the grandfather was a bitter old man and surely none of this would happen to him until he reaches the chorus where he sings “I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger.” Married life is a bit like that. By the time you figure out the kind of person you’d really want to share your life with, it’s already too late.
There was that time I recall now when all the work piled up on us quite suddenly. It was another Saturday night (“and I ain’t got nobody / I got some money ‘cause I just got paid” – sorry I can’t seem to resist song lyrics these days), but on that Saturday night it was really busy for some reason. I was lucky enough to work side by side with Lizzie and out of the corner of my eye I’d see her and think isn’t she something. Then, when there would be a breather, we turned to each other and smiled. It was just the camaraderie of two people working on a task, but it was also something more than that. There was that smile of relief on her face when we finished the rush. The sweat that trickled from each of our brows signaled the adrenaline that pierced through both of our veins. I could imagine our lips getting closer to each other as we surrendered to kiss each other, yet there’s always work to be done. Before I knew it, the magic of the moment had passed and I realized that whatever connection we had faded along with that magic.
Whenever I saw Lizzie, it was as if we’d go from strangers to acquaintances to friends to passionate lovers and then back again in a never ending cycle that only I’m capable of registering. Those moments when the connection was strongest felt utterly intense and then when the connection is lost I felt desperately lost and foolish for ever even considering the possibility that she could be even remotely attracted to me just because I felt this attraction to her. I’ve lost faith in my simpatico theory more times than I could count. First, I think that I’m such a damn loser who Lizzie wouldn’t want anything to do with even if I were single. Then, I begin to think that Lizzie must already think I’m just another creep who wants to cheat on his wife the same way all men who have piggishly used women have done since the dawn of time. She must think I’m a Neanderthal, a pig, a no good louse whose only thoughts lay in the gutter. Sometimes I even think that way about myself until I remind myself why I started to feel the way I do about Lizzie in the first place. Of course, I find her physically attractive, but I also think she’d be the kind of woman who could understand me and accept me for who I am and that I could do the same for her, but the more I ponder all this the less it all makes sense especially now.
All these feelings began in the Summer of 2010 and much time has passed, and some might say that I’ve grown complacent. After all, isn’t time enough that a person commit to one life or another and all that is true I suppose except for the fact that I’ve lost something in the intervening years or rather I became lost. One day I was walking down a city street when my vision became notably blurred. It carried on in that way for several minutes but when I fully recovered, I was somewhere else. The first thing I noticed was the cigarette smell piercing through my lungs, but then I began to notice the telephone booths. Almost every few blocks I walked seemed to have one and not just the kind that were open air. No, these were actual closable glass partitioned phone booths, the kind that used to be common place many many years ago and now have all but gone extinct. Then, I noticed the men all around me in suits and trench coats, the women – many of them with their hair made up in neat little buns – carried themselves in a way that seemed uniformly conservative while at the same time utterly striking. Where were the jeans and sneakers of my time? Where were the faded T-shirts that proclaimed the favorite sports team or fictional character of the average passerby? Where were my jeans and my polo shirt? Where were my sneakers? I seemed to be dressed in an old fashioned grey suit. My face felt more closely shaven than normal and my hand almost recoiled at the oil in my slick back hair. I had no idea where I was until a local urchin approached me and asked me for a nickel.
“Shine your shoes for a nickel,” pronounced the bold boy
“I’m wearing sneakers, kid,” I said almost instinctively.
“Why no, sir. Those are shoes if I may say so.”
I look down and much to my surprise I’m wearing black leather shoes which did look like they needed a polish indeed. I turn to tell the boy “perhaps another time” when I notice the most phenomenal thing. The cars! The cars weren’t the cars I’d been used to seeing. No, these were all large gas guzzling vehicles I would consider relics only they aren’t relics right now at this moment in time. In the blink of an eye I saw a long black Packard 180 followed by a green Hudson Commodore convertible. Then a Ford Customline Country Sedan pulled up to park right in front of me. There it stood in all its yellow and white factory delivered glory and all I could do was stare with my mouth open. A frisky blonde inside seemed to recognize me and called to me.
“Well, are you going inside or are you going to stare at my car all day?”
I stare further in disbelief as the woman grows more and more incredulous.
“Clark? Clark? What’s wrong with you?” she asks, and for the moment I can’t and don’t answer partially because my name isn’t Clark and partially because I have no daggone idea what’s going on or where the heck I am except that something inside me is telling me to go along with all of it.
Something inside of me instinctively tells me that this woman’s name must be Barbara but somehow I know that “Clark” has taken to calling her “Babs.” I’m not sure how I know this. I just do.
“Just a minute, Babs. I thought I spotted a dent on your hood but turns out it was just a reflection.”
“Mr. Porter called 4 times while you were out yesterday. If we don’t have the rent for him by noon tomorrow, he’s likely to padlock the door to the office. Whatcha doin’ here so early?”
Babs leads the way inside crossing the hallway and walking up the stairs fervently and determined like a woman on a mission as I linger behind. She hangs up her scarf and her jacket and I put my hat on a hat rack staring about the place. The dust hangs in the air the same way it might in the distant corner of a library where all the older titles are kept. The forms on Babs’s desk appear yellowed and typed in a rather old fashioned manner that suggests neat approximation rather than the precise computer formatting similar forms might have in my time. Everything about this office anteroom reminds of the old films. There’s a waiting area with a coffee table and ashtrays. There’s the standard black rotary phone on the upper right hand corner of the desk and file cabinets off to the left of Babs’s chair, and I could just about hear how loud they get when they open and close. The newspaper she tosses me tells me it’s December 1949. The frosted glass door to the right of Babs’s desk proudly proclaims this to be the office of Clark White, Private Detective.
“Lemme guess, Clara went off with the kids again?”
“Clara . . . your wife. Did you get popped on the head on the way over here?”
“Ah yes. Clara is off visiting her sister again. Why’d you ask?”
“Because normally you come in with an ironed shirt like most respectable men,” replied Babs.
“I must have forgotten. Sorry about that,” I say.
“I get you your paper, your coffee. I answer your phones and file your paperwork and now I suppose I need to iron your shirts too. This job’s more than any woman could bargain for. The least you could do is take me out to the diner later tonight.”
“You got it, Babs.”
“I don’t suppose that wife of yours will have sense enough to stay away long enough to let me take her place?”
“I doubt Clara would ever quite run off for good.”
“It’s a shame. You and I make quite the match.”
“Those are just the cards we’re dealt, Babs,” I say as I walk into my office and close the door. I stare out the window for a long while expecting to awaken in the 21st century after every blink of my eyes only it doesn’t happen and I think to myself that of all the places to disappear to and end up in this ain’t so bad.
At the end of the day, I take Clara out for a hot meal and further settle into the life of Clark White. Most of what I need to know has been implanted in my brain somehow. For instance I know Clark has $75 tucked away in his gun safe for a rainy day and while Clark was hoping not to use it towards rent he figured about half of that might keep Mr. Porter from padlocking the office if he piled on the charm and implied that he was working a “hot case.” I know that Babs has been Clark’s loyal secretary for 4 years and that she flirts with him at every opportunity knowing that he could never call her out on her bluff. It’s turned into a game they play and they each get some zingers in to pass the time and relieve stress when needed. At dinner she talks about her old boyfriend Rocco who used to take her to the pictures until she found him sticking his hand up Betty Brogart’s blouse when she decided to treat herself to the movies one night after he told her his ma was sick and he needed to leave town for the weekend. The food at the diner tastes absolutely delicious even though I just ordered a hamburger and fries. The burger is perfectly seasoned and the vanilla milkshake I treat myself to hits the spot like no other milkshake I’ve ever had. Babs notices that I appear more pensive than usual, but as my confidence about the circumstances rises I feel more alert and aware enough to stave off her concerns. I walk her home and I go off to my place knowing exactly where to go and feeling more and more at home with every step I take. I become Clark White and I have no regrets in leaving my old life behind. Somehow it just feels right for me to embrace this existence.
I get so used to walking in Clark White’s shoes that 2 years go by and I hardly even notice and hardly ever even stop to think about my 21st century life, which I can safely say was not much of a life at all. Having somehow gleamed Clark’s personal knowledge and skills I found myself to be quite an able gumshoe when I had to be. Most of the time I tracked down cheating or missing spouses. Missing and cheating tend to be the same thing in this business. I created quite the stir, however, once I found Trixie Montgomery after she ran off with Nazi gold nefariously obtained by her husband. It made all the papers “Private Dick Recovers Nazi Loot” and “Detective White Settles the Score for Uncle Sam.”
Then, one Saturday afternoon in June 1951, I get the urge to visit the Polo Grounds and watch the Giants play ball 6 years before they would move to San Francisco. I had been to couple of games before, but this one Saturday afternoon I felt something beckoning me to go to the game so I did. I passed through the turnstile knowing full well that back in the future a writer by the name of W.P. Kinsella would romanticize this very act which now felt common place to me no different than swiping a metro card at a subway today. Part of me just wasn’t sure how to pay reverence to such an occasion other than to blend in and act like I belonged which was a behavior I had grown accustomed to.
The smell of fried onions and hot dogs lingered just about everywhere as I approach my seat. I thought about inviting Babs to the game with me but something told me I needed to be there alone. It was really something to see the stands come alive that day. I saw Wes Westrum behind the plate for the first time that game. I recognized him as one of the Mets future managers, the one who would replace Casey Stengel as manager in 1965 and whose career as a Mets manager was unremarkable but I nevertheless took pride in watching him play the game as the starting catcher for the Giants in the 1951. I suppose the foreknowledge that this team would eventually lose to the Yankees in the World Series that might spoil the experience for most people but anyone who loves the game of baseball just loves to watch the game being played. So what if I knew how the season would end? My baseball knowledge was limited to World Series winners alone so I had no idea about the outcome of the individual games in the season. Back when I was 12 years old, I decide to memorize the winners of every World Series ever played. It’s just something I carry with me and I know no matter where I happen to be.
I watched Larry Jansen strike out the side in the 4th inning then I sat back in my chair and inhaled the smell of the outfield grass when I looked across the field and saw her. It was Lizzie Davidson sitting just beyond the Giants on deck circle. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me at first but then there was no doubt in my mind it was her. I got up from my seat and started to make my way towards her section hearing several “What’s da matter, pals” as I made my way. As I got closer, I called out to her but she didn’t seem to hear me. Next to her was a big man and I knew he just had to be somebody’s muscle. I wondered if she was in danger and was desperate to find out more.
Both the strong man and Lizzie get up and make their way to the back seats under the shadows of the upper level. I could tell Lizzie doesn’t want to be there. Then I see it, the dark metal barrel pointed at her ribs and my mind gets ready to freak out but I somehow compose myself and push people aside until I’m right next to them. I remember that I’m carrying my own piece, and I decide to pull up right behind Mr. Muscle and stick the barrel of my gun right in his lower back.
“I think the lady doesn’t care for the pleasure of your company. I’d scram if I were you unless you desire a new orifice in a place where you haven’t got one already.”
Mr. Muscle looks surprised and stunned. “A new what’s it?” he says.
Since I arrived here I seemed to have attained a natural gift for the one-liners so I say, “Look it up in the dictionary and beat it.”
Mr. Muscle leaves and I find myself lost in Lizzie’s chestnut brown hair. I think about how her hair would look splayed out on an empty outfield grass as the two of us lay side by side in an empty left field with no one else around (It has to be left field because in Kinsella’s book it all starts with a left field). Her round cheeks and her beautiful figure enchant me and I find myself feeling as if I’m floating only to be awakened by her soft voice saying, “That was sweet of you, but you shouldn’t have done that.”
I reply, “No worries. I’m a Private Dick. I can take care of myself.”
Lizzie took great pains not to laugh at my line and then she introduced herself as Elizabeth O’Connell and I just decide to play along. I tell her I’m Clark White and offer to look after her if she thinks she’s in trouble. It turns out she is, she’s in a lot of trouble.
We don’t get to talk much as I escort Elizabeth to my car. My 1950 Pontiac Chieftain deluxe convertible is hardly the kind of inconspicuous vehicle you’d expect a low brow detective to have, but with all the success after the Nazi gold case, I decided to splurge a little. Only now I wish I hadn’t. The largeness of the thing sticks out like a sore thumb and no sooner do I get passed 109th street do I spot a cabbie tailing me. Mr. Muscle looks to be behind the wheel and I could tell by the determined look in his eye that he plans to stop us and stop us for good. I step on the gas and try to ease Elizabeth’s concerns by telling her that this isn’t my first high speed chase on the streets of the city, but she looks too worried to care about this feeble attempt to console her.
I try to get downtown fast but traffic seems to be working against me. At East 74th Street I make a sharp turn into the alley as Elizabeth’s jaw gapes open in suspense. I honk the horn 3 times and unload a single shot into the air. The cabbie is right behind and I pray they don’t shoot out my tires, but so far the shots they’ve fired have all missed the mark completely. Still, I make sure to tell Elizabeth to keep her head down. After speeding away for 3 minutes I make a sharp u-turn doubling back to pull in front of the Church of the Resurrection at 119 East 74th Street where Father McMichael stands outside ready with his shotgun. He waits for us to pass him by and then stands in the middle of the street pummeling his Winchester right into the windshield of the cabbie. Mr. Muscle brakes hard and his body breaks through the grass along with his companion, a mustachioed man in a bowler hat.
As Father McMichael comes towards us to see what’s going on, I tell Elizabeth that it pays to have friends in high places. It also helps that I caught the sorry mook who conned the church out of 7 Gs a year ago using the same signal system only I was the man with the shotgun at the time.
I finally got the chance to talk to Elizabeth as we sipped down some Earl Grey tea at the rectory. Father McMichael left us alone to talk after seeing to the authorities. Turns out the good old padre stopped some fellas who stole a cabbie uptown. How he knew the cabbie was stolen, they ask. Well, the Good Lord has His ways, he says without blinking an eye. The doughnut squad buys it and that’s why I love religion.
“So, let me guess. You must owe the wrong people some money,” I tell Elizabeth.
“Close, actually they owe me money,” she says. “I bet on the Yankees to sweep the Phillies in the World Series back in October.”
“Good bet,” I say. “How much was it for?”
“100 grand at 9-1 odds,” says Elizabeth without batting an eye, “They took me for a sucker. ‘Yanks might win the Series but no way will they sweep,’ they told me. Turns out I was right. I tend to be right about these kinds of things. I like the Yankees chances of winning this year too, but I think my betting days are far behind me.”
“I agree about the Yankees but I’m not a betting man myself. It’s a shame though. I never could take to those pinstripes,” I say.
“Well, don’t count me among their fans,” she says, “I just know a good bet when I see one.”
Later that evening we retreated to my office and I ignored the glare Babs gave me when I told her to hold all my calls as we rushed passed her after a cursory introduction. Elizabeth filled me in on all the details telling me that the bookie she made the bet with was connected to the Luchesse Syndicate. The bookie himself was just the middle man who was forced to welch on the bet by his boss Stafano LaSalle, underboss to Thomas Luchesse. I wondered if Elizabeth was thinking what I was thinking. Just about anyone else in their right mind would have advised her to forget about the money and leave town, but instead a crazy notion clicked in my head and I wondered if the same notion was on her mind.
“What if,” I started….
“We hold up a Luchesse casino,” she finished.
“A woman after my own heart,” I said. “How’d you know what I was thinking.”
“Woman’s intuition,” she said.
That night was the perfect night to strike. They would be licking their wounds from the pinching of Mr. Muscle, and I doubt they knew the kind of ally Elizabeth made the Polo Grounds. I made some phone calls, and in a matter of a couple of hours I secured a team of clean trustworthy cops willing to give organized crime a black eye. This would be an unofficial operation of course. In my business, it pays to know which cops are on the take and which ones aren’t. It pays to know how many cops are in fact disgusted with the rampant corruption in this town where gangsters operate with impunity. These are the guys with tough hearts and cold eyes. These are my kind of men. I explain all this to Elizabeth but she’s just nervous about whether or not this crazy idea will actually work. I decide to take my chances, lean in, and kiss her. She kisses me back. Then, something happened to take us out of the moment. She began telling me some of the things these men have put her through since she tried collecting on her bet. How she’s been forced to live life constantly looking over her shoulder, how one day the men even killed her dog. Then she said, “Until today, it seemed to me that just about every man in this world had a rotten heart. Somebody ought to write a song about it.”
I thought for a second and said, “Well, the closest thing I could think of is a song I once heard by a guitar playing fella called ‘Hungry Heart.’ Fella who played it was named Bruce.”
Elizabeth took a step back and her face seemed to contort in utter shock. She gasped. “Springsteen,” she said. That two syllable name stood between us like an albatross and seemed to produce a tremor that only the two of could feel.
I finally speak. “How could you know that? Unless you’re really her. Lizzie Davidson?”
“Yes and you must be…”
But before she could finish, Lt. Stanley Caldwell just about knocked down my door. He’s the man I’ve just chosen to lead our assault on the Luchesse casino along with me. Nine of his men were right outside. Lt. Caldwell knew the perfect time and place to strike. There was a former speakeasy over on West 46th street that was now just a plain bar using its secret hidden back room to double as a gangster casino. Caldwell had just raided the place just over a month ago but the charges were suddenly dropped and nothing ever came of it. I can’t help but glance over at the woman I now know to be Lizzie from the 21st century and suddenly fear sweeps over me. My fear has nothing to do with the operation.
All of us put on ski masks as we ride in an unmarked police van out to the west side. I try to convince Lizzie that she should stay behind, but she insists on coming along. Once we arrive, everyone says their own quick little prayer – the cops to some Jesus guy, and me to whoever controls this time travel thing that’s kept me here in the past for so long to keep me here even longer. My gut only tells me that my prayers will be in vain. Somewhere, some universal time travel computer will no doubt detect a glitch and say “Wait a minute… These two people don’t belong together… Not in this time . . . Not in any time.”
It’s Lt. Caldwell’s booming voice that everyone hears as we storm into the bar and head towards the back. There’s a momentary sense of chaos where all the unsuspecting men in the room freeze and then protest but I make the first move. I let my gun speak once letting the bullet fly just over the head of the strongest looking man in the room.
Caldwell breaks through to the back room where we see black jack tables and poker tables lined up from front to back. Elizabeth in her ski mask holds the Smith and Wesson I gave her shaking hand but her eyes impart the necessary sense of fury to give the impression that she’s willing to use it. Then, Stafano LaSalle weaves his way towards us with his hands up. Elizabeth removes her mask.
“Lizzie no,” I say as I watch her steady her stance and tighten her grip on her weapon.
LaSalle all smarmy and coy smiles, “It’s alright, it’s alright.”
“I want the money you owe me with interest,” Lizzie says sweat dripping down her brow like pouring rain.
LaSalle motions to a man at the corner. “Eddie go into the safe. Give these men everything in there.”
Eddie attempts to vocalize some kind of protest but it only comes out as a mumble. I make my way over to him and point my gun right between his eyes.
“Do it,” LaSalle said. “Let me tell you something, girl. You’ve got yourself some moxie but if you ever place any kind of bet anywhere in this town again I will personally see to it that you and every one of your friends – don’t think I don’t know who they are – you and every one of youse will be hanging from a meat hook. Are we clear?”
Lizzie stepped up to him. She put her gun down staring him right in the eyes. “Crystal clear,” she said.
Lizzie and I thank Lt. Caldwell and his men. They depart and then it’s just the two of us outside my office on West 35th Street between 5th and 6th Avenue. “I don’t quite feel like going back to my apartment,” she says.
“Well, with my wife at home the only thing I can offer you is a cot in my office but with the funds you’ve got I suppose you have better options for yourself.”
“Don’t you think we should talk,” she says, “About where we’re from?”
“Absolutely not. What if the two of us just being together like this pulls us back? I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
“We’re still here aren’t we?”
Only just as I was about to reply, my biggest fear came to fruition and in the worst possible way. As I tried to pull closer to Lizzie and reach out for her suddenly my vision blurred again. Then, came the noise. That insidious horrible sound. It was coming from large amplified speakers. I was in some kind of concert theater. Then, the worst part of it came. A keyboard riff and then that bland loud voice broke out in song, “There’s a girl that’s been on my miiiind / All the time/ Su Sussudio!!!!”
Phil Fucking Collins. I was at a Phil Collins concert with my wife. “Isn’t this awesome?” she asks.
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s your favorite song,” she says. “You listen to it practically all the time. I got these tickets for you.”
“Lovely,” I say. There’s nothing more I could say. Later on I find out 3 years have passed. No one seems to think I had gone anywhere. It takes me several months to readjust to my 21st century life. One day not too long ago, I actually had the urge to listen to that Phil Collins song again and that’s when I knew I had fully returned. I was me again grounded in this time. Phil Collins becomes a pill I take to numb my brain and deal with the loss of my preferred life as Clark White. The music is literally a drug to me. Other songs become my drugs – a means of escaping without really escaping, a way to feel passion without risking any real part of me. I just escape into the world of a song and I’m there in that moment feeling the song’s feelings, living the song’s life. No courage necessary.
I find out Lizzie no longer works in my office but instead she now works in a different office smiling her same smile at a different set of people. One day very recently, I resisted the urge to listen to Phil Collins and decided to see her. I think Why not. I’ll just go up to her and ask her if she happened to be a bodysnatching time traveler who pulled off a casino heist with me in 1951.What could possibly go wrong?
I get very close. I see her through the glass door but then just as I’m about to go inside I see my own reflection. I see me, the person who I am in this 21st century life – a man adrift with no prospects other than the fruitless office work I do. When I was Clark White I was somebody, and now as I stare at myself I’m back to being nothing but a shapeless shell of a man. I’m not Clark White anymore. I’m nobody and I have nothing to offer- no bravery, no courage, not even a nifty anachronistic one liner. Lizzie – whether she was with me back in 1951 or not – deserves better. I turn around and go back home where I belong and listen to Phil Collins “Against All Odds” with my headphones on. I must forget all that stuff about being simpatico, but it’s a notion that I just can’t seem to shake out of my head. I think just this one thought to myself before falling asleep on my pillow and forgetting the entire matter, if only I could spend one night with her. If only I could spend a lifetime.