He looked outside and saw other planes taxiing into their gates. They appeared pretty much the same as he’d remembered, except some of the logos were different, some were new, some missing. The last time he’d been on one of these machines, he was shackled and heading straight to Russia under guard of The Sons of Stalin.
Unless none of that had been real. If that was the case, what was he doing on this plane? How had he gotten here? His sinking heart told him the answer. It had been real, and now, it was over.
The ‘flight attendant’ from earlier emerged from the cockpit and opened the plane door. Outside, a set of steps on wheels was rolled into position. Ethan stood up and moved to the front. He nodded at the serious-looking man then walked out into a cold, brisk breeze. New York. He was home.
Another black stretch limo was waiting for him across the tarmac. As he approached, the driver got out and opened the door for him. He slipped inside, settling himself into the luxurious cushioning of the seat. He could get used to this.
The rest he’d gotten on the plane had finally begun to loosen the tension in his body, and Ethan started to feel less like he was in a constant state of alert. A small sigh escaped his throat as he laid his head back and closed his eyes.
The driver left the partition window open and commenced conversation as he started up the limo and pulled away. “So, did you have a long trip, sir?”
Ethan opened his eyes, and sat up straighter. You could say that. “Slept most of the way.”
“I don’t blame you. I’ve always been terrified of flying. The wife hates it too.”
Ethan decided to shift the conversation to something more normal. “Hey, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“How did the Steelers do this year? I’ve been out of town for a while.”
“On business?”
“I guess so.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t really follow football. I’m more into college basketball. For me, it’s always been Duke. People can’t handle the Devils, man.”
Ethan hated college ball. “Thanks anyway,” he said, feeling a little let down.
“Say, why don’t you just look it up on your cell phone?”
“My what?”
“Lost yours, huh? I’ve done it a few times myself.” The driver put a hand in his coat, executing some deft but dangerous maneuvers with the steering wheel as he fumbled for something in his pocket. Then he extended his arm backward through the panel, handing Ethan a small rectangular device.
Ethan took the item and regarded it skeptically.
“Just access the internet. Look it up on Google or Sports Center dot com.”
“What is this thing?”
“It’s my cell phone — an iPhone — everyone’s got one.” The guy shot him a strange look through the rearview mirror.
Saving face, Ethan gave the contraption back. “It’s no big deal, I’ll just check later.” He looked out the window, and thankfully the driver didn’t keep talking.
Ethan tried to absorb the changes around him. He had trouble taking it all in — that he was here, in this time. At first glance, besides the vehicles on the street looking sleeker than the ones in 1986, there weren’t a whole lot of changes that stuck out. At the same time, an unsettled feeling had penetrated his subconscious as he stared outside. He couldn’t identify this feeling, but figured it had something to do with the life-changing events he’d just experienced.
The quick drive on the interstate went smoothly and soon the limousine was pulling to the curb of The Elysium Terrace, which to his surprise didn’t appear to have changed at all; on the outside, at least.
It felt good to be home, but what Ethan couldn’t stop thinking about was the twenty-three years that had passed. Dread stirred in his heart. How was he just supposed to pick back up where he left off? Art would be decades older now, and a quick sadness filled him. All that time lost. The well of anxiety deepened. Is Art even still alive?
Brakes squeaked as the limo came to a smooth stop. “Thanks for the ride,” Ethan said, handing the driver some bills from the envelope Ben had left him on the plane.
“No problem, sir. I’ll text my boss to let him know we’ve arrived.”
Text? What the hell is that? But Ethan feigned understanding. “Sure; do what you have to do. Thanks again.”
He got out of the car and inhaled the familiar scents around him with a deep breath. Yep. He was back in New York.
Opening the double doors in front of him, Ethan strode into the lobby, praying to God that Disco Donnie had long since left his station. He didn’t want to try to make up an excuse that dieting and exercise had halted his aging process.
A new receptionist sat behind a desk in the remodeled entryway. The outside may not have changed, but Ethan barely recognized the interior. The unsettled feeling intensified, as though underscoring the point that he’d been gone for a long, long time.
“May I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked, not unkindly. The gold colored tag pinned to her suit jacket read ‘Michelle’ in black letters.
“Just heading home, Michelle.”
Her face assumed a guarded expression. “And your name?”
“Why? I live here. Isn’t that enough?”
“I’m sorry sir, it’s just … I don’t recognize your face and we have explicit instructions at The Elysium Terrace that no —”
The phone rang, interrupting her. For a moment she looked torn between two duties. Ethan thought she was going to ignore the ringing and keep drilling him, but its insistent blaring must have been too much. She picked up the receiver and he took the moment’s reprieve to head for the elevators.
She covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand and called after him, “Sir, a moment please. I —” The woman stopped speaking, her attention back on the phone.
As Ethan punched the elevator call button, he heard her mumble, “Yes, sir,” and hang up. She said nothing further as he stepped in when the doors parted.
The ride up gifted him with virtually the same distasteful music he remembered. Somehow, this gave him comfort. Then the doors opened and he emerged into the hallway. It had been revamped as well, but Ethan found his door without incident.
A young looking kid, perhaps in his late teens, was leaning against the doorframe, looking smug. Ethan took in the kid’s appearance with a detached sense of amusement. Baggy shirt, tight pants, hat cocked to the side bearing a strange reflective sticker on its bill. An eyebrow ring glistened against pale skin, and a matching ring dangled between his nostrils like he was a raging bull — absent the rage. He had huge, holed loops that created a void in his ear lobes where skin should be.
The kid looked like a clown, out of place against the backdrop. Something occurred to Ethan then, one that he didn’t want to accept: perhaps he was the one out of place. The idea fluttered from his mind a second later. If this is what it took to fit into society today, he’d choose not to play the part. Or maybe this kid was just one of those flashy homosexuals, in which case Ethan figured he didn’t have to worry about conformity.
At any rate, another suspicion had occurred to him after seeing this joker at his door. Are my things even still here? I’ve been gone so long …
Then the kid spoke, clearing his doubts. “Hey bro, are you a … Mr. Ethan Tannor?”
Ethan eyed him a moment longer. “Who are you?”
“I’m with Hand Delivery, where we handle all items with care,” he said, looking bored as he rattled off the memorized catchphrase. “I just need you to sign for this.” He set a package down by the door and handed Ethan something that resembled a thick clipboard and a pen-like device that was missing its writing tip.