TIME TRAVEL: THE ORIGIN STORY, PART II: THE FUTURE IS NOW (SO IS THE PAST)

I did something today that I haven’t done since arriving back in the year 1999: I went to see Rupert Zwevoid at the Royal Video on Avenue U. Desperately needed to see a familiar face, is all.

Since he didn’t give me the "Armageddon Signal" until 2004, I figured there was no way he would recognize me. But to my surprise, the second the chime went off over the door, Rupert looked up and said, "Phil X! You remembering to stop up the drain on the ‘Mr. Peabody’ every time you take it for a spin…?"

I only neglected to stop the drain of the cast-iron bathtub once, but believe me, I haven’t repeated the mistake. Rubbing brandy where your left eyebrow used to be is supposed to make the hair grow back faster. Unfortunately, that area of skin is still raised and tender, and stings to the touch. Goddamn elaborate time-travel special effects.

Then I realized that Rupert Zwevoid shouldn’t know any of that for another five years. "Rupert!" I said. "How did you know about all that?"

And so Rupert explained how the Zwevoids are not only an alien race that live thousands and thousands of years, they are also aware, at birth, of every aspect of their extremely lengthy lifespans. Rupert ‘04 probably would have compared it to having a pan-and-scan for a DVD you’ve already seen several times.

"No way!" I said to Rupert. "Well, how good’s the detail on your recall?"

"Vivid," Rupert said.

"Prove it," I said. "What was I stopping by to rent…?"

"Nada, amigo," he said. "You dropped by because you were feeling lonely, your friends are all in 2004, and things between you and your girl are hopeless."

"Uh, okay," I said, trying to hide my surprise at how effectively he had just proven his point.
"You know, it was never any serious thing. It was just… you know, stupidity."

"You silly, silly humans," Rupert said. At this point, a customer walked in and asked if the movie "Pitch Black" was out on video yet.

"Pitch Black?" Rupert said, immediately dumbing-down and streetening up his speech. "Man, I don’t think that movie’s even in the theaters yet."

"Yeah, but, like I saw a commercial for it the otha’ day. That shit look dope."

"If you saw a commercial for it on TV, it was probably an advertisement for the movie, for when it comes out—IN THE THEATER," Rupert said.

"All I know is, that movie is gonna be the shit," the customer said.

"That it will be, brother," I chimed in from the aisle.

The guy turned around, gave me the once over, muttered "mutherfucker" as he left the store. Rupert laughed.

"’The Chronicles of Riddick’ will be an improvement," he said. "Not a great movie, by any stretch of the imagination. I mean, I pretty much fast-forwarded through all the prison-escape scenes, as it seemed highly unlikely Vin Diesel was going to spend the rest of the movie rotting in space prison."

I concurred. "I thought Riddick’s fight with the Lord of the Necromongers was pretty lame. A little too much like ‘Blade 2.’ But everything else in that last scene I liked."

Rupert was kind enough to explain "The Chronicles of Riddick 2" to me. I had to admit, it defintely sounded like the best in the series so far. But I didn’t bother asking exactly what year it will come out. Such is the nature of our strange terrestrial/ extra-terrestrial relationship. Occasionally, Rupert will toss me a line, some reason to maintain faith in this unpredictable world. For example, something to look forward to.

He had turned his attention to the TV screen behind him, where two VCR’s were working in tandem, illegally copying the store’s new VHS copy of "City of Angels"—the 1998 Nicolas Cage/Meg Ryan hit movie.

I watched the ghostly, black-garbed image of Nicolas Cage walk along the beach, until my eyes began to trail down to the box cover sitting atop the counter. Other tapes lined up behind it. These would probably be copied, too, one after another after another. Here was Rupert’s day, neatly arranged, planned out. Naturally, I began thinking about Zwevoid existence in general, and how lucky Rupert was to have already seen the finished product of his life during production, when most of us can’t even get a rough cut until the lights are about to come on.

Recent events in my life began to seep into my mind, and I found myself, quite unconsciously, talking aloud: "It must be cool to be able to… see your entire life already organized and worked out in front of you, Rupert. That must be really awesome, you know? Everything you’re going to do, everyone you’re ever going to meet. From the moment you’re in the world, you already know all of it. There’s never any confusion, never any mistakes. Never any risk that you’ll invest in something, or someone, and in the end it blows up in your face. Because you already know.

"Imagine being able to go through life with the mystery already solved. How great would that be, Rupert? All the sleepless nights in college, "Should I major in Business Management? Or English Lit? Do I follow my passion? Do I go after the steady paycheck?" Gone. All the visits to the guidance counselor, who frankly, only makes matters worse by giving you more and more options, until you could drown in your own confusion. All that’s gone, too. Because you’d already know.

"And how much easier would it make the whole mating ritual, Rupert? Every woman you ever meet, it’s like she’s already got a sign over her head, in blinking neon lights. ‘Destined to be special,’ or ‘Run, asshole, as fast as you can!’ How great would that be, Rupert, if it were really like that? No more suspense, or longing, or high hopes, or disappointment. We’d already know who the perfect person for us would be. She’d be sketched into our brains from our first moment of consciousness. And we’d ESPECIALLY know her Estimated Time of Arrival, so we could spend our women-hunting time doing more productive things instead, like reading, or learning a foreign language, instead of what we all do now, which is this constant exploring, and longing, and desperate hoping.

"I mean, isn’t it entirely possible that some of us are never destined to meet our special other? Wouldn’t it be better to know that right away? How much more humane would that be? My mom used to tell me that there’s someone out there who’s absolutely perfect for each of us. But come on, Rupert, we all know that’s bunko! The world has plenty of people who were never loved by anybody, and believe me, it shows! They’re psychos, drunks, crack-whores, and homeless people! They never found love, they never found that absolutely perfect someone, and they probably never will! All I’m saying is maybe some of us simply aren’t meant to find true love, so wouldn’t it be great if we knew it from the start? That way, if we already knew, we’d never have to worry about raising our expectations, only to have them swatted down. We’d never have to experience that kind of pain. Because it’s really, really, REALLY EXCRUCIATING PAIN, Rupert. The kind of ordeal I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy…"

Between the time I started my rant and when I finished, Rupert hadn’t turned once from the television monitor. A silence filled the store, interrrupted occasionally by bursts of Nicolas Cage’s sad drawl.

I kept waiting for Rupert to say something. Anything. Finally, he reached his left hand underneath the counter. His eyes were still fixed upon the TV screen. When Rupert’s left hand was in view again, I could see something inside it: A Mars bar.

"I’m supposed to be taking my break at 1 p.m. today," he said. "I usually eat a Snickers bar. The sugar keeps me going. Of course, according to the clock on the wall over there, it’s now 1:15, and I am unwrapping a Mars bar."

"Huh?" I said, at length.

"Phil X," Rupert said, turning around in his squealing swivel chair to face me. "Life is only unchangeable until it gets changed." Then he did a 180 again and I was left staring at Zwevoid scalp follicles.

I turned and slowly walked toward the exit. I felt tired, and crummy, and empty. Home was looking like a nice place to hide. But, as I yanked the door open, the little chime on top went off again, and I heard Rupert say, "Hey! Phil X!" I quickly turned around.

I could see Rupert Zwevoid at the other end of the video store, sitting straight-backed, wearing the kind of tranquil grin you expect to see on friendly alien visitors who, hopefully, are wiser than those they visit.

"You’re broken right now," he said. "But someday, you will be fixed."

I really hope he’s right.