Seventeen shoved him aside and went up nose to nose with the confused newcomer. One life is like a pack of cigarettes, like I said. There are twenty in a pack, right? You smoke one, there are nineteen left. What do you do with the butt? Like you now.
One life. One man. I mean, is he dead? He just lit a new cig from your old butt. He had nowhere else to turn but to the man who had touched him kindly before. He looked at the crowd. There he was across all those years and so it had to be true.
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There was no other explanation. Groovy, huh? God Almighty, when was the last time he had used that stupid word? The Seventies?
A Groovy Kind of Love. A boy in a Cub Scout uniform, him, started a campfire. Another in pajamas brought out boxes of hot dogs and rolls. Seventeen used his switchblade to open everything. Many of them sat around the campfire talking and eating. Some fell asleep, particularly the young ones. Someone tried to get the rest to sing his favorite old songs but another said shut up — not all of us know those songs. The good part was it felt like the greatest class reunion anyone ever attended. Someone there knew every detail of their one life.
The man who had been kidnapped a few hours before had a million questions because naturally he had forgotten so much. They knew the answers to every one of those questions. It was like finding all the little treasures again he had lost along the way. After hours together, he had his favorites amongst them but that was only logical. Who likes himself all the time?
cars.cleantechnica.com/a-travs-de-las-estrellas.php Having cookouts and reminiscing with the boys…. It was horrible, terrible!
It was Waiting for Godot, only there was no Godot or God to wait for, only another version of him and how much of himself could he take? As the first rays of sun shone through the dense forest, they told him to get into the car. He was so exhausted and empty by then he would have done anything they said. This time different ones drove him back to town. Seventeen had disappeared into the woods hours before and the other kidnapper held a sleeping baby-him on his lap.
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They drove in silence into the familiar town. They passed his apartment, the building where he had worked, the lanes where he had bowled, the church where he had married. Just watch. A few minutes later a metallic blue Toyota Corolla pulled up and Van Dyke stumbled out. With Cora from the bar? What difference did it make? He struggled towards the front door. Instantly an amazing thing happened: Van Dyke stopped in his tracks and put a hand to the back of his neck, as if sensing something wrong and strange was very near.
He was facing away but slowly turned in their direction. Because it was his own face; they were the same person. The only difference was one had a beard, a tattoo, and an attitude.
Somewhere along the line he changed and became an outlaw or an asshole or something in between. How had that happened? But living proof was thirty feet away with a hand on his neck and big doubt in his drunken eyes. For better or worse, the cuckold realized his wife had neither betrayed nor left him.
She just loved him as Mr. Bad now. Was she nuts? Everything about this other guy reeked of dirty jokes, cowboy boots, cheap beer and a broken remote control. How often had this happened? How could he do this to her?
The man in the front seat ground his teeth in fury and without thinking, started to get out. The driver grabbed his arm and held him back. He was outraged, heartbroken, yet oddly reassured. He stared at the lucky drunk on the street and hated him as much as he had ever hated anyone in his life. Even though it was himself, he hated him. But then something delicious dawned on him and his face lit up like the morning sun outside the car windows. The driver smiled knowingly, that old clever smile, the one he had used all his life.
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