READER: Lately, I've found myself having the urge to rework old short stories I'd written in years' past. This one, Missing Time, is one such story. Revising a work of fiction you've previously written after many more years of living in this crazy world adds a completely different dimension to the work. It's also a whole lot of fun. I hope you enjoy it.
Joss sat at the kitchen table, fidgeting with her lighter and glaring at the back of Paul’s newspaper. Sunlight streamed across her teal dress as she lit a cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled a plume of smoke through the golden beam. The breathy tendrils made the headline—Yankees Top Dodgers 4-3 in the World Series—quiver between Paul’s calloused hands.
“Honey, what is it?” Paul muttered, taking a quick slurp of coffee. “I can feel you staring a goddamned hole right through the sports page.” He waved away the lingering cloud of smoke.
“Do you think you could put the paper down for a second? This is important.”
Paul lowered the newspaper, failing to mask the look of annoyance on his face.
“Joss, you’re always worrying about things that don’t need worrying about. It’s natural for a seven-year-old boy to be distracted, to want to be outside. Besides, the doctor says the fresh air and exercise are good for his asthma. Unlike those.” He gestured at her cigarette before snapping the paper back up.
Joss twisted her mouth into a sarcastic smile and balled up the cellophane from her cigarette pack, launching it in a high arc toward Paul’s head. Without looking, he swatted it away just before it landed in his scrambled eggs.
Timmy chuckled, staring into his half-eaten bowl of cereal—a quiet reminder that he was still in the room.
“Paul, I’m concerned. Last summer, he was content watching Captain Kangaroo and keeping me company while I cleaned. Now he can’t get out of the house fast enough in the morning. He’s out in those woods all day, with lord-knows-who, doing who-knows-what. Maybe instead of sleeping the whole day away this Saturday, you could spend some time with him?”
Paul exhaled heavily through his nose. He folded a crease down the middle of the paper and set it beside his plate.
“I guess reading the paper isn’t in the cards for me this morning,” he said, turning toward his son. “How about you and me do some man stuff this weekend, sonny boy?”
“Yes!” Timmy yelled, kicking his legs under the table.
“We’ll have fun. Now eat some sausage. Those Cheerios won’t give you muscles like these.” Paul flexed his bicep, grinning.
Joss pushed back her chair and circled the table, wrapping her arms around Paul’s neck from behind. “Now Momma can take a break and get her hair done.”
Paul shot her a sideways glance. “Raising a boy is like running a marathon. If you’re always fussing over them, you’ll wear yourself out. You have to conserve your energy, or you’ll go batshit crazy.” He rolled his eyes in slow, exaggerated circles and wiggled his ears.
Joss laughed, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “My, what a talented man you are.”
Paul wiped the waxy smudge of lipstick off with the back of his hand.
“Now off to grab a few winks before I have to do it all over again,” he muttered, pushing back from the table. “One day, you’re protecting the world from the Nazis; the next, you’re building washing machines while everyone else is tucked into a nice, warm bed.”
Joss searched his face for a moment. “Now, Paul, you have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s good, honest work.”
“I know, I know,” Paul said with a small smile. He squeezed her hand, then shuffled down the hall toward the bedroom.
A gentle gong sounded. Tim slouched on the leather couch, his eyelids heavy, his sweater riding a few inches too high at the waist.
“Okay, Tim, your session is up. When I snap my fingers, you’ll be right here with me,” the therapist said in a hushed tone.
Tim slowly surfaced, his eyes widening as he looked around. “Dr. Schiller, it was so real. I could smell the coffee brewing in the percolator. I even caught the scent of my mother’s Chanel No. 5.”
“Please, call me Rachel,” she said, peering over her glasses. “A small percentage of clients respond immediately to psychedelics-enhanced regression therapy. You appear to be one of the fortunate ones.”
Tim exhaled, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “I forgot how much of a character my dad was. He always knew how to relate to me at that age.”
Funny to think he’d almost talked himself out of answering the ad for experimental PTSD therapy. The idea of psychedelics intrigued him, but losing control—even for a few hours—terrified him. Then he learned this drug was different. The effects of N,N-Dimethyltryptamine (DMT) lasted under an hour. He’d read that some called it “the spirit molecule.” That part stuck with him.
Tim sat up, tugging at his cardigan until the buttons aligned. He felt a shift—subtle, yet undeniable. Colors seemed richer, sharper. The coral shade on Rachel’s lips dazzled, and the sunlight spilling through the blinds had a golden glow he hadn’t noticed before.
“Doc, I think we’re on the right track,” he said, slapping the brown leather cushion. “Maybe this will finally put an end to the nightmares.”
“Nightmares?” Rachel asked.
“I’ve had them for years. Same one, every time. The man I am now comes face-to-face with the man I could have been. He has everything. I have… what I have. The regret is crushing.”
Rachel stood and offered him a hand. He took it, steadying himself.
“How about we focus on making you feel better about who you are right now?” she said. “We’ve found a thread. If we tug on it carefully enough, we might unravel something vital.”
Tim scheduled a follow-up, filled out the questionnaire, and headed for the subway. He pushed through the turnstile just before rush hour. Riding the train was always a test of endurance, but rush hour was especially punishing. He hobbled down the stairs onto the platform, forcing his way onto the crowded L train back to Brooklyn.
For all the talk about the golden years, there were only a few real perks to aging—one being that he rarely had to stand on the train. At least one younger rider, if they weren’t too glued to their phone, would offer up a seat.
New York was one of the few places where a person could disappear in plain sight. Tim could count on two hands the number of people in this city who knew his name, and on one hand how many actually gave a shit. Just as he wanted it.
He’d been a tumbleweed since halfway through Reagan’s second term. Small-town life had grown suffocating; people made an effort to know you. Subconsciously, he’d been drifting toward a metropolis like New York for years, though he never thought he’d actually make it.
Good fortune has a way of showing up in the unlikeliest places.
One summer day in 2010, it appeared while Tim was unloading semi-trailers in a dingy warehouse with Matt, a socially awkward kid with an affinity for porn and Metallica. Most of their conversations revolved around Matt’s clearly fictional sexual escapades, but that day, Matt was fixated on something else—bitcoin.
At first, Tim dismissed it. But for two weeks straight, Matt hounded him.
"Did you buy some yet?"
"Dude, tell me you bought some last night."
"You’re gonna regret it if you don’t get into bitcoin, mark my words."
Eventually, just to shut him up, Tim spent his meager bonus check on bitcoin. A few months later, he left town, never saw Matt again, and completely forgot about the purchase.
Seven years later, he was getting ready for work when something Katie Couric said on TV caught his attention—bitcoin. The price had skyrocketed to $17,000 per coin.
At first, he thought he misheard. Then he Googled it.
Holy. Shit.
That morning, he called in sick with the best fake cough he could muster and spent hours trying to recall his old cryptocurrency exchange password. Finally, he found the faded slip of paper in his wallet. He spent the rest of the day selling.
By sunset, Tim had nearly fifty million reasons to never take orders from anyone again.
The adrenaline rush gave way to paranoia. He decided he wouldn’t tell a soul.
The first few weeks of freedom were blissful. It felt like the first days of summer vacation as a kid.
The alarm clock? Tossed in the trash.
The Rolex? A white gold Submariner model—understated, just his style.
A European river cruise? Booked immediately.
But the honeymoon period wore off fast.
After a couple of months of sitting around his apartment, his brain fogged over. The sound of daytime TV grated on his nerves. He started forgetting why he walked into rooms. Talking to himself. Day-drinking.
By spring, his Rolex was the only thing reminding him what day it was. The daylight hours stretched endlessly, yet the weeks blurred by. He never imagined how isolating wealth could be. The rest of the world kept moving—people working, fulfilling some purpose, even if they hated it. Meanwhile, he was stuck, suffocating under his own freedom.
One morning, in the midst of an especially low mood, he made a decision—self-preservation.
Each day, he would leave his apartment and do one good deed.
It started small: picking up a tab at a diner, buying groceries for a stranger, filling someone’s gas tank. It gave him a flicker of warmth, a brief connection.
Then, after about a month, the local news caught on.
A segment aired: “The Greensburg Good Samaritan.”
A few days later, Tim packed up and left town without telling a soul.
The only person he regretted leaving behind was Deb, his favorite waitress at Applebee’s. She was sharp, kind, and attractive for her age.
He liked the way she winked when she took his order, the way her perfume lingered after she walked away. He even considered asking her out—until reason intervened. Relationships required patience, and he didn’t have it.
The subway car swayed as it sped toward his stop. Tim propped his head against the window, trying to let his mind drift. Panic attacks could strike without warning, but he’d learned how to cope. Sometimes, he’d arrive home with no recollection of how he got there.
As the train plunged into darkness, the fluorescent lights inside the car grew brighter. A wave of melancholy settled over him, then passed. He hadn’t thought about his parents like this in decades—not since Vietnam. Nothing had been the same after that. The phone calls, the visits… they just faded. Somewhere along the way, the continuity of his life had snapped.
He’d been broken for too long to remember what normal felt like.
By the time he reached his block, exhaustion overtook him. He skipped his good deed for the day but promised to make up for it tomorrow.
Being secretly rich in a city where people hustled so hard sometimes made him feel like he’d accomplished something. But those feelings never lasted. His fortune had come from dumb luck—nothing he could replicate, even if his life depended on it.
Inside his apartment, Tim locked all four deadbolts and emptied his pockets: keys, wallet, Swiss Army knife, a neatly folded stack of hundred-dollar bills.
He poured a double, inhaling the sweet burn of scotch whiskey.
Settling into his recliner, he watched the world outside his window—the flickering bodega sign, the Greek restaurant, the florist’s neon glow.
As always, he sipped at a measured pace, dancing himself to the edge of intoxication and back.
When nightfall came, he knew: he had survived another day.
TO BE CONTINUED
~Eric Vance Walton~
Be well, make the most of this day. Thank you for reading!
(Gif sourced from Giphy.com.)
