Coming or Going?

I was taking my usual morning walk—early, so as to be alone. I never was good with people, and you don’t cross footpaths with many at 5 in the morning. This is why my usual social anxiety disorder senses began to tingle when I saw the man in the distance. He was so far that I couldn’t make out any features—just that he was walking, too, in the opposite direction; that is, heading right for me.

Unlike me and my slight limp, he was steady and smooth.

My heart raced, realizing I would have to engage at some level. Perhaps just a wave, a “how ya doing?” or a “beautiful morning.”

My walks usually progressed at a predictable pace, but here we were, halving the timeline by closing our distance twice as fast as what my endpoint destination usually entailed.

We drew closer. I limped as he walked briskly toward me.

I thought I’d wave first, to get it over with, so all my obligations of civility would already be in the can by the time we passed each other. But he waved at exactly the same time.

I nodded.

He nodded.

And he was me! I could see that now. How?

He was as surprised as I was. Of course, we both stopped to engage in something much more cosmic and existential than reciprocal salutation.

“Hello, Bob,” he said, with a nervous laugh. I shared his apprehension. Neither of me were prepared to intersect our parallel lives.

Not exactly parallel. He seemed younger. He was younger.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, as the only thing I knew to say.

“Nor me, Bob. Do you mind if I call you Bob?”

“No, Bob, I don’t,” I replied, and then we both giggled fecklessly.

“Where are you going, Bob?” I asked him.

“I think the same place you are, Bob,” he said.

“But we’re going in opposite directions,” I pointed out.

“True. I’m just living my life,” he said.

“Me, too, I suppose,” I said.

We shook hands.

“Nice to meet me, Bob,” I offered.

“And it’s nice to meet me, too, Bob.”

When we touched, it became obvious what was going on: time was going on for both of us in opposite directions; and this story of simultaneity proved the physics that time flowed forward just as easily as it flowed backwards.

“You’re going back in time,” I told him.

“No, you are.”

“One of us is very wrong, Bob,” I said.

“True,” he agreed, “but it’s all normal to me.”

“You’re from our future tract.”

“You’re from my past,” he replied.

“And that seems normal to you?”

“Quite.”

“I see,” I said, not seeing at all. “Tell me, Bob—if you can—”

“I can’t,” Bob told me. “That would be some type of observation, which would collapse our lifetimes.”

“Look who’s turned into the existential philosopher!”

“You’re not the only one who watches TED talks.”

“I love TED talks.”

“Me too.”

We felt the only natural thing to do now was to resume our respective journeys. He into my past; me into his future.

“One thing, Bob,” I called to him.

“Yes?” he answered. His voice was lower, as if he were Dopplering with increasing distance.

“How do I die? Isn’t that where you started? Can you share that with me?”

“Only if you tell me why I died a lonely, old, bitter man.” He paused, then, “I like this path better than where I started. Things are getting better for me the farther I go.”

“What about what I asked you? How do I die?”

“Let’s just say you get what’s coming to you. Maybe you tell me how I get that limp.”

“What’s coming to me! Oh, my God!” I exclaimed. “That doesn’t sound inviting.”

“Don’t fret, Bob. With a little luck, I’ll be able to reverse-engineer a few things.”

“How will I know, Bob?”

“You’ll know, Bob, you’ll know.”

We began separating farther. I’ll know, he had said to me, and I found that comforting.

“Oh, and Bob—” he called out to me from afar.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t give us any trouble when I try to fix things. Don’t screw it up.”

“How will I know?” I shouted.

“You’ll know, Bob,” he shouted back. “You’ll know.”