Yours Truly, 2095

Day 1: Here is the News Nine twenty-nine. I rubbed my eyes and focused on the time of the radio alarm clock. Still 9:29. There was no denying the morning sunlight that pierced my window. It was so bright that I couldn’t distinctly make out anything in my bedroom. I tightly closed my eyes and then opened them again to make sure. Nine twenty-nine. Yep. The alarm clock flipped another minute. As soon as 9:30 appeared on the screen, an unfamiliar voice poured through the speakers. “Spaceworkers arrived in London yesterday. An unexpected last-minute strike by air shuttle officers subsequently stranded over two thousand passengers for almost ten hours …” The rest of the news faded into background noise. Did I hear that correctly? Did he just say, spaceworkers? I must have misunderstood. I cleared my throat, stretched, and the blanket and sheets fell back onto the bed as I stood up. I panicked. This wasn’t my bedroom. Where the hell was I? The ivory floor beneath my bare feet was a far cry from the shaggy carpet that I was used to. I looked down at what I could see of my body. I was grateful that I was wearing pajamas, even though I didn’t recognize them. But Julie. Where was Julie? Okay. Maybe, just maybe, I was still dreaming. Maybe I was having one of those astral-projection moments. If being here isn’t real, then it must be a dream. There isn’t anything in between—is there? Suddenly I became too afraid to even open the door to discover what other changes could lay ahead in the stillness of the house. The unsettling absence of sound immediately reminded me of my childhood when I would be asked to retrieve an item from my family’s dark attic, holding my breath in fright and scurrying as fast as I could back down the stairs to the safety of the house. Julie. Where the heck was she? More important, where was I? Surprisingly, I could build enough courage to break the eerie silence. I took a deep breath and hesitantly called out, “Julie?” More silence. I waited, and there was no answer. “Julie?” The panic set in. I called out one more time with urgency. “Sweetie?” Nothing. Nine thirty-two. The news broadcast that had begun at 9:30 was over. “Julie?” Just as my voice’s echo subsided, I heard movement outside, and I froze. I didn’t want to know who or what was out there. I looked behind me for a potential place to hide, if it came down to it. As my fear began to subside, it was slowly replaced with anger. Who the hell put me in this place? How did they get me here without waking me up? For what possible reason would I be … stolen? That’s how I began to feel. I had been ripped away from my house and placed here, and I demanded some answers. Someone was going to explain this to me right now. The doorknob felt solid enough in my hand when I grasped it. That was a good sign that this wasn’t a dream. I heard the click of the door as it released its hold on the door frame. I took a deep breath and didn’t exhale—as if holding my breath would somehow create a protective shield around me. As I swung open the door, my gaze fell upon a standard living room, just as sterile as the bedroom but adorned with more items and furniture. There was a couch covered in white cushions that faced a wall made up of some kind of black vinyl material. The other walls were all merely white, like the bedroom. There was a clear vase holding a bouquet of plastic flowers sitting on top of an otherwise barren writing desk in the corner. I approached it to inspect its contents. Each desk drawer produced the same disappointment: emptiness. There wasn’t even a pen or a piece of paper anywhere. Just as I was about to admit that the chance of discovering the owner of this place was slim-to-none, I noticed a door I hadn’t seen before off the far living room wall. I smiled with relief when I opened the door and saw the toilet. I hadn’t realized how badly I had to urinate. As I felt my bladder drain, I thought about what I was going to do about the outside world that I would have to eventually face. Maybe I could check the apartment for mail? That would tell me whose place this was. The thought worried me though. What if the person who lived here came home and found me in pajamas, standing in their living room, looking through their mail? I was scared to face whatever consequence might come from being the illusion of a burglar in someone’s residence. How could I explain that I had just woken up here? I needed to make a decision and fast. As I studied the topography of the room again, I didn’t see anything that resembled mail or documents of any kind. The apartment contained less personalization than a standard hotel room. I noticed another door. Was that the front door? I had to get out of here. The urgency to leave before anyone came home overpowered any other rational thought of where I would go when I left. I opened the door hastily and froze. At first I didn’t close the door behind me. I just couldn’t. My hand was stuck to the knob, and I stood in the door frame. The Beatles playing “Hey Jude” on the front lawn would’ve been an easier scenario to swallow than what I actually saw. Yet, despite my surprise, somewhere inside my head, I knew that this was not a dream. It was all too real. I could taste it. I could see it. I was looking at Isabella Creek, all right. I could always recognize Isabella Creek. The only time I hadn’t called this small town home was during my four years at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. Even then I still came back every summer to see Julie. Isabella Creek was what once may have been considered a sleepy town. It might not have had any designated tourist attractions, but families from all over New England visited in the summer to relax and enjoy the tranquil atmosphere. What I saw in front of me was not the Isabella Creek of 1981 that I knew and loved. This version of my town seemed pumped full of steroids. When the doorknob slipped out of my hand, the front door slammed shut, and I jumped. I realized that the home behind me was a town house, not an apartment as I had originally thought. I was somewhere on Greenwood Avenue. I could see the familiar sharp curve in the road about fifty yards to my right. Sacred Heart Church on the corner of Greenwood and Cohen Avenues looked familiar at least. It was the same building all right, but it looked about a hundred years older. I walked across the green grass in front of the town house. Something didn’t feel quite right underneath my feet. The grass felt too stiff. The trees that lined Greenwood Avenue looked too perfect. Isabella Creek normally didn’t have any excess funds to manicure public landscaping this well. As I reached the sidewalk, I looked down the street toward the intersection again. Every house was square, sterile, and a shade of white. Near the curve in the road and back toward Sacred Heart, one house after another was white and square, white and square, white and square. Only the vibrant colors of flowers broke up the monotony. I wondered if the flowers were really that bright. Maybe they just appeared that way. I felt like I was staring at cardboard cutouts. I couldn’t put my finger on why. I touched the grass, which was as stiff and coarse as I had expected. I gently tried to break off a blade, but it wouldn’t budge. I inspected it even more closely. Beyond the blade of grass wasn’t dirt, as I had suspected, but some kind of rubber substance. AstroTurf, maybe? I inhaled sharply through my nose. Plastic. Anyone driving by might have thought I had lost my marbles, so I stood up quickly and decided that the lawn was really none of my concern. It then occurred to me that I hadn’t seen a single car go by since I had stepped outside. The roadway looked different too, like it was broken. The farther I walked, the easier it was for me to see the neglect. Not only had a car not driven on this street in a very long time but the road had not been fixed or maintained in even longer. I shook my head in dismay. It was all very surreal. As I walked closer to the curb of the street and bent down to get a better look at the sidewalk, I noticed real weeds among the broken concrete. What was going on with Isabella Creek? It occurred to me that I didn’t have a plan if I did happen upon someone else. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to see me. As I fantasized about being invisible inside some alternate version of Isabella Creek, what I saw next looked like something out of a Star Wars movie. I managed to get a good look at it, although it went by too fast for me to really focus on any specific detail. It floated about ten feet above the pavement in the air. I tried to study the specifics as best as I could before it reached the bend and disappeared from my view. It was definitely sleeker and more aerodynamic than any car I had ever seen. It was almost completely silent too, except for a slight hum. Whatever engine was in there must have had a top-of-the-line muffler. Once the vehicle had disappeared, I was left alone once again among the carbon-copy houses and plastic flowers on the deteriorating street. At least I now knew why the street was allowed to remain in such bad shape. Whatever world I had stepped into no longer required the upkeep of roadways. I was now convinced that I was not in 1981 anymore. I turned my attention yet again to the intersection of Greenwood and Cohen. Although Greenwood was no longer a high-traffic street, Cohen was bustling with flying cars. As the intersection came into focus the closer I got, a door to one of the houses opened to my left, and I froze midstep. A man dressed in flannel pajamas took a few steps out of his front door and picked up a rather odd piece of black paper that was on his front step. The object didn’t blow in the breeze or even bend or flop around. It was erect the entire time. As he turned away, I couldn’t help but notice his left hand slide across the top of the thing in a swiping motion. I caught a glimpse of an image appearing on it before he went back in his house and closed the door behind him. I was alone again. I played the image over and over in my head before I could move onward. I was close enough to finally make out more of the particulars of the flying cars. They came in every color and model imaginable. It was overwhelming. Some engines rumbled in contrast to the ones that hummed lightly. Only a small part of the layout of the town reminded me that I was still in Isabella Creek. I was almost positive that this was Cohen Avenue, but it had been completely rebuilt. Most notably the factories that once lined the street were all gone. Other than the Sacred Heart Church looking a hundred years older than it should have, the other buildings appeared new. There were stores where houses should have been and apartment buildings where playgrounds once stood. When the traffic light at the intersection turned red, the flying cars came to a stop. The crosswalk light turned white and, without even thinking about it, I crossed the street underneath. I headed toward where I presumed downtown should be. Despite my attire, nobody I passed even gave me a second glance. I wondered again if I might be invisible. A young woman dressed in a business suit seemed to be talking to herself as she came out of an office building I had never seen before. She bumped into my right shoulder with enough force to knock me sideways. “Oh, excuse me. I’m terribly sorry!” “That’s all right.” As she hurried away, I looked back at her. I could still hear her talking to herself. A few minutes later, when I turned the corner from Cohen Avenue to Main Street, I stopped and gasped. Main Street was always considered the heart of Isabella Creek because of its central access to a gas station, movie theatre, and a handful of restaurants.