Backpedal

So I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m going to: I can travel back in time. Not in a cool way, but in a lame and basically disappointing way: I can go back exactly twenty-three seconds. 

I guess all time travel is cool, but it would obviously be a lot more fun if I could go back, like, ten years, or ten thousand. I sometimes wonder if high school me was as unbearable as I remember, or if dinosaurs were as impressive as everyone thinks. But no, twenty-three seconds. Like you accidentally left your Netflix on when your mom called, and you had to backtrack because that conversation in the hangar was actually kind of crucial to the plot. 

It’s not terrible, as far as superpowers go. It’s just not as useful as you might think. Physically, it makes me a little sick to my stomach. And it doesn’t give you a second to get your bearings once you go back. Time just keeps going, so unless you were alone in a room by yourself, things can get ugly real fast. 

For example, it’s always a bad idea when you’re driving. Even if you think you were just idling at a red light twenty-three seconds ago, you’ll forget to put your foot on the brake. Or maybe you miscalculated, and it turns out you were actually going through a busy intersection, and your life flashes before your eyes. I almost killed an old lady once when I missed the turn for Taco Bell and decided I wanted it after all.

I guess if I’d hit her, I could’ve backtracked again once the twenty-three seconds were over. But that smashing would’ve still been pretty unpleasant for her while it was happening. And I honestly don’t know what happens if you accidentally kill someone. Can they get un-killed?

Anyway, I don’t use it much. It’s neat if you burn popcorn or stub your toe or knock over a wine glass. But mostly, it just makes me feel bad. Like I’m sitting on the world’s biggest, dumbest secret, and my life should probably be more exciting than it is. 

It’d probably be interesting to theoretical physicists or The New York Times or gamblers or people who like sci-fi, but I don’t hang out with any of those types. My sister Darcy’s pretty unimpressed with it at this point, and she’s the only one I’ve gotten around to telling. We never told Mom and Dad when we were kids, and now it’d be too awkward. And I don’t have a girlfriend, and my college friends wouldn’t take it well, so that pretty much rounds out the list of people who could hypothetically be entrusted with this secret. 

~

There’s this girl. She lives a couple floors up I think. She owns a three-legged dog, a French bulldog unambitiously named Tripod. I have maybe a decent-sized crush. On the girl, obviously, not the dog. I don’t know the girl’s name. She talks to the dog a fair amount, but the dog never responds in English or refers to her by name, so I have no way of knowing, short of asking her myself. 

Most mornings—or at least, a statistically surprising number of mornings—she’s on the elevator when I get on. Like, how often would you expect that to happen, in a world not impacted by fate or soul mates on a collision course? Maybe once a month, tops. So what if I told you this happened two or three times a week? You’d assume fate was involved. Or least some sort of karmic nudging. These things happen. 

That said, I’ve got a few things working against me:

1) Seven o’clock in the morning is not an ideal time to forge a romantic connection with anyone. 

2) Elevator rides are notoriously brief.

3) She’s one of those people who doesn’t make eye contact in elevators.

4) I hate her stupid dog and am not good at pretending to love things that I hate.

There’s nothing wrong with the dog, per se, except that it has a tendency to make these grotesque snorting noises, like an asthmatic pig, and I’m not thrilled with the way it pogos around. French bulldogs aren’t inherently bad—there are some cute ones in the building—but Tripod’s face is deeply disconcerting, frozen in a rictus of disgruntlement. 

And yeah, the girl is stunning. I sometimes wonder if it’s a Picture of Dorian Gray situation, where all of her ugliness has oozed out of her and into Tripod. Maybe the dog is, like, a familiar, or the physical manifestation of a family curse, or the real-life consequence of one of those Would You Rather situations. (You can be spectacularly gorgeous, but you have to walk a dumbass three-legged French bulldog around on a leash from now until you’re dead). In any case, she is intimidatingly attractive, and she almost certainly has a boyfriend, and I’m probably wasting my time. 

Not that much “time” has been wasted, not in a practical sense, unless you count emotional turmoil as billable hours. I haven’t actually spoken to her at all, though I’ve knelt down to pet Tripod a couple times. Both times, he made a sort of anguished oink, lunging out of my hands and pogoing into the corner of the elevator.

She seemed to get a kick out of that, my failed attempts at dog intimacy. It was hard to tell if she was laughing with me or at me. Maybe this is how stepfathers feel.

~

Anyway, I’m brushing my teeth in the shower one Tuesday morning when something snaps into place in my head, and I think to myself: 

This is it. Today. 

When I get out of the bathroom, Darcy is sipping coffee in the kitchen and reading an article on her phone, probably The Washington Post. Darcy still reads the newspaper like she’s an octogenarian and it’s a character-building exercise. She takes herself very seriously, probably because everyone else does. Dad once said he only had one child—me—since Darcy basically popped out of the womb in the middle of her LSAT and started making six figures on the way home from the hospital. Darcy and I pay for the apartment based on our salaries, so she pays about 80% of the rent.

“I’m going to ask her this morning,” I say, pouring my coffee with one hand and holding my towel with the other. 

Darcy winces. “You’re going to ask that woman out at—” she checks her phone—“6:39 a.m.?”

“It’ll be at least 6:55 by the time I’m out the door.”

“What if she isn’t in the elevator?”

“Then I’ll know fate has reviewed my proposal and rejected it.”

“Matt. This isn’t a fate thing. She’s a grown woman. She’ll decide if you’re worth dating.”

“Do you think I’m worth dating?”

“Depends on what she’s into.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’ve got a great puppy dog energy. Some women like that.”

“Jesus.”

“What if she’s got a boyfriend? For all we know, she’s living with her boyfriend in this building. Wouldn’t it be worth figuring that out first?”

“And how do you propose we figure that out? Maybe follow her into her unit one day after work? Set up a few surveillance cameras?”

“I guess I’m just worried about you. What if she says no? Those elevator rides are going to be painful.”

“I can take the stairs.”

“What, eight floors?”

“It’s easy to walk down stairs. Gravity and such.”

Darcy puts her phone facedown on the table, like she does when she wants you to know you have her undivided attention. “Can’t you just talk to her first? Why would she want to date the guy who’s taken the elevator a dozen times with her and never said a word?”

“I’ve played with her dog.”

“I thought you hated her dog.”

“That dog gives me nightmares.”

“If she says yes, you’ll be spending a lot more time with that dog.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“Wear a tie at least. Make it look like you’re going somewhere serious.”

~

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in front of the elevator. I’m wearing the dolphin tie. Darcy said that’s not what she meant by “serious,” but it’s clearly my best tie, and I like to think it highlights an important feature of my personality. I’m not thrilled with the phrase “puppy dog energy,” but if someone said I had “dolphin energy,” I think I’d take it as a compliment. If she likes me, she’ll like me when I’m covered in dolphins giving thumbs ups. I take a deep breath.

The elevator dings. The door opens. 

She’s there. 

Tripod snuffles out the door, like he thinks he’s arrived. Idiot. She tugs him back, gently, kindly.

I don’t think I actually believed she’d be here. If I’m being honest with myself, I secretly hoped she wouldn’t be, so my resolve could crumble like a potato chip underfoot and my life could go back to normal. The likelihood of her not being there had been very high. 

I avoid eye contact and sidle past the dog into the corner of the elevator. Instinctively, I scan the elevator buttons, my finger aloft like I’m trying to decide which floor to go to. Then I see the “1” button is lit up, and I remember that there would be zero reason for me to go anywhere but the ground floor, and I chuckle a little, and no one else in the elevator laughs, and my soul dies, and the elevator doors close.

We begin to move downward.

It’s vaguely possible that the doors will open again and someone else will get on, which would put this plan to a merciful end. But it’s unlikely. The opportunity is as golden as they come. Then again, I haven’t even made eye contact, which would probably have been a good idea at the outset. In any case, I should say something. The question is: what does a stranger say to another stranger on an elevator at 6:57 in the morning? 

I should probably have planned this out in advance.

I consider mentioning my tie. Check out these dolphins. No. Insane.

Sixth floor. Fifth floor.

The obvious choice is her dog. Say something about Tripod. If I’d thought of it earlier, I could’ve said something about the dog getting off on the wrong floor. But that ship has sailed. Tripod’s asthmatic breathing fills the silence. What’s wrong with Tripod? No. I probably shouldn’t even refer to him by name; that might imply an unearned familiarity, a creepy attentiveness to their private human-dog conversations. 

Third floor. Second floor. 

Fuck.

First floor. The elevator dings and heaves gently. The doors hold their breath.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“What?” she says. 

We make eye contact.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just wondering. Do you have a boyfriend?”

The doors open. 

“Um. No?” she says. 

The dog hops out of the elevator, tugging on his leash, urging her onward. Saboteur. She lets herself be led, but not before glancing back, like she’s waiting for me to respond. It occurs to me that I should probably say something. I’m still in the elevator. Why am I still in the elevator?

The elevator doors close. 

I snap my fingers.

~

The only way I know of to initiate time travel is to snap my fingers. Before I figured this out, my third-grade music class was like a bad dream, especially during the jazz unit, when they taught us syncopation by snapping along to Ella Fitzgerald. Eventually, I just pretended I didn’t know how to snap my fingers, and they let me clap my hands instead, which made me stick out like a sore fucking thumb, especially since I have a bad sense for rhythm, and Ms. Hastings would say things like, “Can you do that any quieter?” 

I couldn’t tell you how the snapping works, scientifically speaking. Something to do with friction, maybe. But it has to be audible and firm. Over the years, I’ve learned how to do a nice, resonant snap. I sometimes wonder what would happen if I got my hands run over by a tractor or something. I guess that’d be the end of that.

Anyway, I snap my fingers, and I’m back on the 8th floor.

I blink a few times and shake the bleariness out of my head. 

I’ve timed the elevator ride before. It’s about 18 seconds, so I should have two or three seconds to spare. I take a deep breath. Sometimes the whole process makes me a little nauseous, and I’m feeling that now.

So she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Or does she? She’d said it with a weird lilt, like it was a question rather than a statement of fact, like she was asking me to confirm its validity. It seems hard to believe she wouldn’t have one. Unless they’d just split up. I wonder what might’ve led to them breaking it off. The dog, probably.

The elevator dings. 

This time, I make eye contact as the doors open. 

I smile. She smiles. 

I trip over the dog as it hops out of the elevator.

Tripod lets out a tortured squeal, like he’s being neutered. Putting on a show. Fair enough. Two can play at this acting game. I kneel and comfort him like he’s my long-lost son, stroking him with one hand while holding his squirming, mutant body securely with the other. 

“Sorry about that,” I say. “Didn’t expect this guy to make a break for it.”

I look up at her. She brushes her bangs away from her face. Her golden-brown hair tumbles over her shoulder. She smiles: a full, genuine smile. I melt, sticky and sweet, like a popsicle. 

The doors close.

“Let’s assume he’s sorry for tripping you, too,” she says. “He should know by now that you’re the eighth-floor guy.”

The eighth-floor guy. 

“That’s actually on my birth certificate,” I say. “Believe it or not.”

“Sorry?”

“First name: Eighth. Middle name: Floor. Last name: Guy.”

She smiles the way you might at a precocious eight-year-old, which I probably deserve.

“Sorry—bad joke. I’m Matt.”

I turn and hold out my hand. She turns and shakes it. Her gaze lingers a moment on my tie before meeting my eyes. 

“February,” she says.

“February?” I say. “That’s your name?”

“It is.”

It feels too good to be true. Her name isn’t a name at all. It’s a conversation piece.

“That’s smart of your parents,” I say. “The ultimate ice breaker.”

“Well,” says February, “for about twenty seconds, at least.”

“That’s all you need for an ice breaker, though, right?”

“Depends on whether you hit it off, I guess.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“June.”

“Well, shit. That’s a way more normal name.”

February laughs. 

“Honestly, your parents weren’t even close, month-wise,” I say. “Was it a counting problem?”

“Yeah, they were never much good at that.”

“Morons.”

She laughs. I laugh.

The elevator dings. First floor. The doors open. 

On cue, Tripod lunges through, yanking February with him. Time for me to get out of the elevator. Time for me to say something. I stumble into the lobby behind her. She glances back at me.

“See you around,” she says. “This guy’s desperate to pee.”

“Actually, one last thing—” I say.

She turns back.

I take a deep breath. 

“How do you feel about this dolphin tie? I’m dressing to impress today.”

She leans in to get a closer look. My heart pounds wildly in my chest. 

“Hmm,” she says. “I guess I liked it better before I realized the dolphins were all giving a thumbs up.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I feel that.”

“Dolphins don’t have thumbs, do they?”

“Just these ones.”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s cute. Do you work at an aquarium or something?”

“Basically.”

“Basically?”

“I mean. Yes. Yeah, I do, actually.”

Oof.

I snap my fingers.

~

I work at a pet store. So, kind of an aquarium in the sense that there are a bunch of fish. But not like an aquarium in the sense that all the fish are trash, and there’s no real reason to look at them, unless you’re feeling particularly morose. Fortunately, the bulk of my duties are not fish related. I train and groom dogs for the most part. Sometimes I just man the cash register. It’s a mom-and-pop-type store—Fur Real Pets, which is barely even a pun, because what’s a fake pet?—so they basically use me in whatever capacity they need me. 

The pay is dog shit, and no, I don’t really have to wear a tie. But I go back and forth on whether or not I should be ashamed. There’s a sort of dopey charm in being a dog trainer, after all. A quiet dignity. You can trust dog trainers. They don’t promote the interests of evil conglomerates. They don’t spread propaganda or breathlessly ascend corporate ladders. They teach fluffy mammals how to be less annoying. It’s not a white-collar job per se, but it’s not not a white-collar job.

Still, I’m painfully aware that a white-collar professional like February might be less interested once she learns I spend most of my weekdays wearing a bright green apron.

I’m not sure why I assume she’s white collar. The way she dresses, probably. And the fact that she lives in Darcy’s building. A dog groomer wouldn’t be able to afford the rent, obviously. And if she doesn’t live with a boyfriend—

Anyway, I’m back on the 8th floor. The elevator dings. 

This time, the nausea is almost overwhelming. I lean over and rest my hand on the wall. It’s been a while since I did this twice in a row. Whatever mistake I make the first time is usually pretty easily fixed. Be careful when you’re cutting that sweet potato. Open the microwave with twenty seconds left on the timer. I was more cavalier about taking multiple redos when I was in college. Often, they happened on nights when I was out drinking, and I had a hard time figuring out whether the vomit was time travel- or alcohol-related. I’m still not totally sure.

So make eye contact, but watch out for the dog. Or maybe do trip over the dog. That had actually been sort of useful last time. But it’s awkward to trip over a dog on purpose. I don’t know that I’m a good enough actor to pull that off. It might just look like I’m kicking him.

Honestly, I’m already starting to kick myself for redoing last time. All things considered, it had been a promising attempt. Maybe no one has to ask anyone out just yet. It’s probably enough just to introduce myself and talk about her weird name. I panicked when it looked like the pet store might come up, but that was stupid. If everything goes according to plan, she’ll find out eventually. May as well wear it as a badge of honor. 

“Getting on?” says a voice.

The doors are open. Tripod is snuffling around my shoes. I’m still leaning against the wall. I murmur an apology and get on the elevator. My stomach rolls again. I wince and lean over. The doors close.

“Not feeling so good?” says February.

“A little sick, I think. It’ll pass.” I straighten up. “Not hungover, I promise.”

“I would forgive you even if you were.”

“I’m Matt, by the way. I feel like I’ve seen you a few times.”

February smiles. “We know. You’re the eighth-floor guy.”

“And you are?”

“Tenth-floor lady. And Tripod.”

I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Tripod.”

February laughs. “Believe it or not, that’s Tripod down there. I’m February.”

It’s hard to act surprised by a name the second time. But I do my best.

“February? That’s your real name?”

“It is.”

“Are your parents . . . calendar-makers?”

“Is that a job?”

“I don’t know. Where do you think all the calendars come from?”

“Good point.” 

Neither of us says anything for a few moments. 

Shit. Calendar makers? I try to think of something else to say, but I feel totally drained. I wonder how February would feel if she knew this was my third run-through. Flattered? Disturbed? Amused? 

This gives me an idea.

“So I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” I say. “But I can travel back twenty-three seconds in time. It’s like a weird superpower. I can’t explain it scientifically or anything, but if I snap my fingers, something about the friction—well, I’m not exactly sure how it works—but I’ve actually replayed this elevator ride twice this morning already.”

I try to read February’s eyes and fail. 

Is that amusement? Disdain?

“What would you do that for?” she says.

I shrug. “I keep trying to convince myself to ask you out. But it’s harder than you might think. And probably inappropriate for this time of day. And I’m still not totally sure if you have a boyfriend or not.”

The elevator dings. First floor. The doors open. 

“Funny you should mention that,” says February. “I can do the same thing.”

“What?”

“I thought I was the only one. But this is actually my fifth time taking that elevator ride.”

“You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke about that?” 

“Why would you redo the elevator ride so many times?”

“Maybe I was waiting for you to ask me out.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Here,” she says. “Let’s try it one last time. Get it right for once.”

It seems too good to be true. I stare at her for a moment. 

“Snap our fingers on three?” I say.

“On three.”

“Fourth time’s the charm. All right: three . . . two . . . one.”

I snap my fingers. 

~

It occurs to me too late that she must have been bantering. She thought I was joking, so she ran with it. Of course she did. What was more likely: that I’d met the only other person in the world with an impossible condition, or that February had a sense of humor?

I wonder, as I occasionally do, what alternate-reality-me is doing. What alternate-reality-February is doing. I’m not much of a quantum theorist, but it seems hard to believe these versions of reality just vanish the minute I abandon them. All those poor consciousnesses flushed down the drain. 

Did I vanish from the lobby while February stayed put? Was my past littered with awkward moments where everyone wondered where the hell Matt went? Had I been torturing alternate versions of my parents for my whole life? Forcing them to file Missing Persons reports every time I spilled a drink and didn’t feel like cleaning it up?

I try not to think too hard about it. 

But it also seems possible that there are alternate realities where the finger-snapping thing just stops working one day, and I’m forced to live out that reality, wherever it leads. And maybe the one I just abandoned led to February and me trading numbers, and eating tacos at trendy restaurants, and having a charming, nerdy child, and attending parent teacher conferences where they say they’re worried because she has no friends and all she does is read books, and February and I exchange knowing smiles and take her out for pancakes on the morning of her high school graduation, where she introduces us to her girlfriend, and we all play Settlers of Catan on the patio while the sun sets. 

The elevator dings. The doors open.