Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc. Read online

I have to wonder if this isn’t part of some twisted self-fulfilling prophecy. Too weird that Tristan’s rock hero is also an addict.

  My tone is delicate, tentative as I tread over fragile territory. “Your role model struggles with addiction too?”

  I don’t mean it as a low blow. I know what Hendrix means to him artistically, musically—plus the connection to his dad.

  Tristan shakes his head. “No, see, that’s where you’re wrong. He’s not a role model, he’s a source of inspiration. Despite his weaknesses, he’s still a fucking brilliant talent. Trust me, musicians don’t ask to be role models. We just ask to share our art.”

  I make no response. He’s right. Society makes artists into role models whether they like it or not.

  He interrupts my awkward silence, his gaze pointed. “I know it’s probably against some kind of time travel regulation that I mentioned his OD to him, but … I just had to. Not that he believed us anyway. I had to try.”

  His face is so serious that a chill travels up my spine. “I know.”

  He surprises me by closing the distance between us, but even more when his hand finds mine, his fingers closing around it while we tread water. He lingers at eye level across from me, his chin at the water’s surface. “I’m sorry about missing the time window and getting stuck. But this day is so … sublime. Best day ever. I can’t wait to work on my music, get writing again. And I’ve got you to thank for it.” He squeezes my hand. “Thank you.”

  I’m unsure how to respond—if he’s genuinely thankful or elevating the flirtation to another level. So I return the squeeze, play it cool. “I should be thanking you. I’d have missed all this if you hadn’t suggested it.”

  “It was so spur of the moment, too. First thing that popped in my head,” he says. His fingers are still intertwined with mine, our legs moving to stay afloat. “Which is why it blows my mind it’s linked with your relatives somehow.”

  I let out a long sigh.

  “I don’t want you to feel like you’ve gotta face it all alone.” The blue in his eyes dances with the flecks of gray. “All the government really wants is money anyway, and I’ve got that covered. I may not have loads of talent, but I do have loads of money.”

  “You are talented,” I say, but my tone holds an element of doubt that I hope Tristan doesn’t notice. “Like you say, you just need some better lyrics, better tunes. Your voice is decent.”

  “Decent, huh?” He half-smiles, though his stare is more serious. “But no Dirk Stiles.”

  “Nobody can wail like Dirk Stiles. But his style wouldn’t work for you anyway. Too far off the spectrum.”

  Tristan lies back again so his head floats, and gently, his fingers release mine. “So tell me, in your own words, what is it about Dirk Stiles’ voice that sucks you in?”

  I notice the emptiness in my hand now, the loss of his touch, in a bigger way than I expected. I move toward him, letting my arms tread far and wide in hopes of grazing his fingers again, re-latching onto his hand.

  But they never seem to meet.

  “Just that he puts his own spin on his music,” I say. “His voice, Nate Kirkland’s guitar … the whole band feeds off each other. Maybe that’s what you need. Maybe you haven’t found the right group who really gets you.”

  “I’ve been learning guitar—I told you that, right? Gave me something to do at rehab. I’m no Jimi Hendrix, that’s for damn sure, but someday I’ll play my own songs, write my own lyrics—all of it.” His gaze is on the sky as he drifts, talks. “I’m tellin’ you, there’s something to this classic shit that can’t be found anywhere else. That’s why I’m soaking it all in.”

  I catch myself lingering on his lazy smile too long and lie back on the surface, watching wisps of clouds gather over the treetops on the buttery blue horizon. “Hope you’re right. Whatever happens with all this—my future, yours—I hope it was worth it.”

  “It will be. One day, not long from now, my song’ll be ready. Only takes one song to breakout. Get it right, and no one ever forgets it. He rights himself, facing me. “That’s how they become classics.”

  I glance at him. His boyish blond hair is flat, away from his face, and darkened from the wetness, giving him a more mannish mug. Seems like every time I look at him, he’s changed some more.

  “What about your life, Butterman?” he asks. “Are you destined to be a time traveler for life? Let’s hear it.”

  A couple floats past us, the girl’s arms wrapped around the guy’s neck, their lips locked. Tristan and I watch them a second. Then, another trio of long-haired guys splash into the area to the other side of us, all of them butt naked.

  “Eww,” I say. “Hairy balls flashing before my eyes.”

  Tristan laughs. “Just like Mother Nature intended.”

  There’s a slight flutter inside my chest and I have to confess, this conversation excites me—not the hairy balls part, but the openness of sharing personal thoughts. He wants to know more about me, as if he’s genuinely interested, as if I’m more than his trip guide now.

  I try to hide my eagerness to bond further with him, letting my fingers dabble at the water’s surface in mock piano playing to steady my nerves. Even though no one else in the water seems to notice us, I seize the opportunity to move in closer. Secrets divulged require intimacy, and I can’t refuse the fact I’m drawn to him right now—hungry for more of that touch he teased me with.

  In front of him now, I lower my voice. “Can you keep a secret?”

  He rolls his eyes, grins. “Duh.”

  My toes graze his leg as I tread, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Face to face, the space between us is minimal. “My Induction Day’s coming up. And I get to do something worthwhile, outside of DOT regulation, just as every Butterman before me has done.”

  “And? What’re you gonna do?”

  I probably shouldn’t be telling him, but who’d believe him anyway?

  “Save the Titanic.”

  He flicks a brow. “What, like the actual Titanic? From two-hundred years ago?”

  “157 years ago, from our present day of 2069. But from right now, only fifty-seven.”

  “Why Titanic?” he asks. “Why not the Holocaust? Or Superbowl ‘66?”

  Of course he’d assume I should go for bigger. Thousands of innocent Jews being exterminated is beyond tragic, and unsuspecting football fans becoming victims of extremist terrorism is heart-wrenching, but history is loaded with these types of travesties. “It’s not as easy as picking the worst occasion and preventing it. Lots of factors weigh in and have to be considered. Besides that, I’d say families drowning in freezing water is pretty heinous. It haunts me.”

  “And the others don’t?”

  “Not like Titanic.” I pause, trying to figure out how to explain my attraction to Titanic, and why it’s so important to me. How do you explain destiny, or compulsion? Or the way a picture of someone you don’t even know can creep into your soul, make you lose sleep at night?

  “Guess it just stuck with me once I learned about it,” I continue. “My mom and dad say that’s how it goes when a particular historical tidbit lodges itself in your brain. When I was nine, I read about it during World History and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Read everything I could find on it. It all affected me in the worst way. Started learning everything about the passengers, and crew. Older I got, I knew. That’s what my Induction would be. Almost feels like I know those people.”

  Tristan’s silent a moment, peering intently at me like he knows exactly what I mean, then says, “Wait a minute, doesn’t that go against the regulations you’re always spouting off? Interrupting the timeline kinda thing? That’s pretty huge.”

  I’m telling him more than I should, that’s what Dad would say, but since Dad’s not here, and we’re sharing secrets now, I’m willing to keep Butter-dud on the D.L.

  “If my calculations are correct, there won’t be a huge upset to our timeline—it’ll only create a parallel shift, but one that our presen
t course will never notice.”

  “Maybe that’s what happened back in Manhattan, and my note won’t affect the 2069 we return to. Wait a minute, though, I thought the DOT didn’t allow that kind of thing.” Tristan shakes his head.

  “The DOT won’t know about Titanic ‘cause their regulations are only on commercial time travel. At least, that’s what it’s supposed to be.”

  After all this though, who knows what the DOT will move to regulate next. If Tristan did create a parallel shift with his note to his past-self, I have no doubt they’ll cite us on it.

  I continue, “Anyway, I’ve located the exact coordinates on the Earth’s meridian and mapped a port for entrance onto the Titanic’s nautical course before it hits the berg. I’ll have a set time window to get word to the captain and veer them off course. Any original survivors will go on to live their lives, and those who drowned, will get the chance to live theirs—maybe do something great.”

  He thinks on this a minute. “What if the DOT does find about it, though? Tap into your time string like that Garth lady did to us?”

  “They have to know about it first. And there’s no way anyone back home would alert them.”

  “Then how did she know about our trip to Manhattan?”

  “She was already at our Agency and must’ve gotten nosey, hacked into our coordinates, or threatened my parents. No way my dad would let me take a time trip to 1912 if there’s a DOT agent in the house. Truth is, DOT can hack into anywhere anytime they want, but they have to follow regulations too, or they interfere with our constitutional rights.”

  Tristan lets his gaze wander over the other swimmers. “You said you could only travel a hundred years into the past or future.”

  “I’m impressed you were listening. Glad to know I wasn’t blowing hot air all that time. The 100-year rule is DOT mandate for commercial time travel, not a Butterman guideline. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not accustomed to breaking rules whenever we want. My mom and dad are adamant about following them, believe me. Where do you think I get it from?” I flash a phony smile. “But between you and me, every Butterman gets one occasion to bend the rules and make a difference. Our Induction. And it’s not like we tamper with time strings for shits and giggles then forget about it. All Butterman Inductions are carefully plotted, and calculated, to determine the least amount of interruption.”

  “You don’t think saving thousands of people from drowning will have a huge effect, yet a worthless piece of paper from my apartment sets the DOT on our ass?” Tristan says, so close, the tiny waves his body creates reach me as soon as they emerge.

  I can see a slight imperfection of his skin near his left temple; a dark mole the size of a pinprick on his lower cheek. His wet hair exposes an uneven curvature of his ear, and I’m fascinated. It’s these little traits that dismiss the superstar aura and make him real.

  I like him this way.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” I say, “but yes. It’s an isolated incident that shouldn’t have a quantum ripple effect on our current timeline. They’ll get a new timeline all their own—at least so my calculations predict.”

  “Who’s to say one of the men who died on Titanic doesn’t go on to become a serial killer, end up taking out someone vitally important, like the nation’s first woman president or something?”

  His concern is cute and I have to tease. “Tristan, Tristan, Tristan, understanding the intricacies of time travel is limited to those of professional status—which is why it’s a limited service. Sure, if you dig deep enough, you can find some minute chance, but this is a one-time affair, in which I’ve studied every passenger on board and their forecasted destinies. I’ll be giving them a parallel universe to continue on in. If anything, it’ll result in a positive effect.”

  “Forecasted destinies?” He flicks a brow. “That’s messed up.”

  “I’m sure it seems that way to the untrained time traveler.”

  “And my song? How did something as small as that have an effect?”

  “The DOT was already aware of our time string. Once you altered the course, they could see it immediately. Creates a visible burp in the stream of events. If they weren’t already watching, they’d have never seen it, would’ve been too minuscule. Of course, stealing jetpacks doesn’t help, either.” This thought sends a hated quake to my knees. My breath catches.

  Tristan notices. “I’ll pay the fines. Everything’ll be fine.”

  “Money won’t do any good if they shut us down—not right away.” I swim toward shore where I can sit on the bottom, the surface of the water hovering at my chest.

  Tristan joins me at my side and leans back on his elbows. “Money can get you outta anything.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” I say, though more for myself than in conversation. “If all Garth wanted is to fine us, make us pay buttloads of money, why didn’t she slap my parents with a fine back home and be gone? Why’d she show up at the Broadway port?”

  “Probably just to scare you. Or she has protocol to follow—you know some kind of review that has to be done before she can legally fine you.” His shoulder brushes mine.

  I look down at our shoulders together, let my arm relax further into him. “Has to be more to it. Why would her past-self risk seeing her present-self by making sure we were going back to the Agency? It was the only place we could go. Unless—”

  Tristan’s gaze holds mine and I search the deepness of his eyes, finding a mirror reflection of my own realization.

  “She couldn’t have guessed we’d come here,” he says.

  “The CI,” I say, my tone hollow. “It was like she assumed we’d go somewhere else. She was too cautious.”

  Tristan sinks down, letting the water cover his face, then pops up, shakes his head. “Makes my head spin. I say we have some fun and deal with Garth when we get back. Whatever the cost, I’ve got it covered. Your Agency will be safe.”

  I’m hung up on the way he says “we” as if he’s part of this now, as if we’re a team. Something inside my chest softens. I find my gaze lingering on his dripping wet profile.

  I’m splashed from behind as a beer-gut guy with a bandana tromps through the water.

  “Party back at the tent, you guys,” he says. “Open wide.”

  I scowl up at him, watching as he opens his hand, revealing a palm full of brownish chunks.

  On cue, Tristan scoops them up. “This what I think it is?”

  Bandana Guy chuckles. “Best shit around.”

  Tristan grins, then tosses them into his mouth, and chews.

  “Shit?” My mouth’s still hanging open. Did Tristan just eat shit?

  Tristan busts a giggle, splashes my face. “Magic mushrooms, Butterman. Completely organic high. I had a friend who grew them back home. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

  “Join the fun,” Bandana Guy says, motioning for me to open my palm.

  I hesitate, scanning both their faces, then find myself staring into a handful of slimy brown mushroom chunks. Eww.

  “Kicks in quick,” Bandana Guy says with a you’re-gonna-love-this squeal to his voice. “The real deal, my friends. Not like those nasty acid tabs going around.” He empties them into my hand.

  I glance at Tristan, whose eyes are closed, while fighting a frown. Part of me wants to scold him, advise him to be careful with his choices. But another, stronger part—the anti-Butter-dud who wants to surrender to this entire experience and be alive in this moment—wants to be captured forever young like the rest of the people here. What did Tristan say earlier? Something about being eighteen and not forty?

  I examine the soft, damp lumps in my palm. They put off a bitter, earthy scent. What makes these mushrooms magic? I’m as afraid as I am curious. If I hesitate for long, I’ll chuck them into the lake. Taking a deep breath, which I don’t plan on exhaling til the odor’s gone, I toss back the handful til my mouth is full.

  Bleh. Chewy and brittle in spots, oily and mushy in others. I don’t want to know where they
came from. Just keep chewing.

  Bandana Guy watches me, chuckling as he fills his own mouth. Then as if it dawns on him, he says, “I’m Bryan, my girl’s Rosy. Come on back with us to the tent, let’s party. Woodstock’s over, man. We gotta go out with a bang, right?”

  I nod again, not sure whether his voice just hiccupped or it was my brain.

  We hang out in a daze for a few minutes til Tristan gets up, his boxer briefs clinging to the shape of his hip and thighs. I turn my gaze once I realize I’m facing the bulge there. Getting to my feet, I wade on shore, shaking my hair dry like an animal, which makes my head spin. All at once, I can’t stop yawning—for like three minutes. With each inhalation of oxygen, my body feels more alive. Aware. The air around me closes in, thickens like inside a sauna, tighter, until at last, a cool breeze permeates my skin and lifts me clear off the sand, into the air. Well, not really, but I feel so light and pleasantly dizzy, I could become the wind itself. Be one with nature.

  Tristan erupts in laughter—maniacal laughter like I’ve never heard from him. He’s tracing something in the algae-laden sand at the edge of the water, like it’s the funniest thing on Earth. Bryan’s beside him cracking up. When I move in, try to focus on the sand sketch, all I see is interweaving lines splitting the ground open then twisting together like throbbing serpents.

  I blink. My eyes are playing so many tricks on me right now; my skin’s tingling with a static buzz. In a blur, I grab Tristan’s arm. “What the hell is happening?”

  Bryan laughs even harder beside him. “Welcome to your trip, sister. Right on.”

  Tristan grins. “Go with it. Don’t try to fight it, ‘cause you’ll never win. Ride it out.”

  Ride it out. My mind’s eye conjures an image of Jimi Hendrix standing on his guitar, riding a purple wave, giant musical notes floating by. Groovy. Grooovy. The word’s a beacon to me and I don’t know if I’m saying it aloud or thinking it.

  Then my arm lifts, and I discover Tristan’s hand wrapped in mine, pulling me. We traipse up the shore to our clothes.

  “I’m so thirsty,” I say. “Let’s go back to the time-craft, get some water.”