My second encounter with a time traveler...

It begins...

I had just finished spending my Christmas giftcards at Borders. I had a huge bag of books, but I wasn’t completely satisfied, so naturally I decided to hoof it across the street to Barnes & Nobles and spend my other giftcards on more books (ME = NERD). By the way, you heard correctly: I walked instead of drove across the street. Why? Because I’m over thirty and dammit I need the exercise.

So when I arrive, this nice old man holds the door for me and my fifty pound bag of paperbacks. Then he spoke in this thick accent:

“I was the one who let you cross the street.” His grin told me this made him very proud.

“Oh,” I said, thinking, What the hell is this geezer talking about! Then I sort of recalled crossing the road, and maybe a car stopped for me, but you know, who remembers that sort of crap? “Well, thanks.”

I started walking toward the you-know-what section (science-fiction, dummies!). But the old man was still talking, so I took baby steps and offered him a courteous ear.

“I do that too,” he said. “Walk across the street.” His eyes were intense, as he shuffled behind me.

“Oh,” I replied, flipping him an imaginary Brownie Button. “Cool.” Then I gave him a curt smile that sort of acted like the period to a sentence, and took off at Mach 8 for the Sci-Fi books.

After about ten minutes of sitting Indian style with a handful of Anne McCaffrey books on my lap, I heard that thick accent again:

“Oh, so you’re one of the smart ones,” he said, hovering over my shoulder like a tax auditor.

I looked up from my book. Is this guy for real? “No, not really,” I said.

“You like science fiction?” he asked, leaning against the bookshelf.

“Yes, but...”

“D’you like to write, too?”

This really took me off guard. In my head, I was saying, YES, but how could you know that? What are you psychic? Or are you one of those creepy old perverts who stalks young men? So I decided to lie. “No, not really.”

His head cocked to the side, surprised. “You say you don’t like to write?”
“I’m not very good at it,” I said.

“So you’ve never published anything?”

“No.” This was true at least.

“Can you speak another language?”

“No.” Ok, man, what the hell’s going on with this old dude?

“What about Hebrew?”

“Huh?”

“You speak Hebrew?”

“No.” At this point, I was becoming blatantly rude. I stuck my nose in the book and just barked my negative answers over my shoulder.

“Ok, I can see you want to read. I was just stealing time.”

I glanced up. “What was that?”

“I’m just stealing time, but I’ll let you get back to your book.”

I watched him shuffle back down the aisle.

Stealing time? What is that? Did he mean killing time? Then it dawned on me: He’s a time traveler! That’s how he knew that I liked to write. That’s why he was so damn persistent when I lied about writing and about knowing another language. He came back in time to visit me, the famous author, when I was young and my career was just budding.

So there it is, my second encounter with a time traveler. And for all you touristy time travelers who are reading my blog, come and visit me. I promise not to be so rude.