The Last Mixtape

With a loud sound, the shovel bit into the damp earth with force, as if my heart had been crushed to its core. Ten years. The time capsule we had hidden beneath was covered in the bravery of eighteen-year-olds a decade ago. Me, Leo, and Sarah. This was the day we made an oath to open it all together. While Leo was designing buildings that etched the clouds in Tokyo, Sarah disappeared without him. We buried our dreams two years prior in a waterproof ammo box, but then the accident happened.

I was the only one left to find ghosts.

As the sun set, the oak trees in our old hangout area diminished and the clearing behind the high school seemed smaller. My life was a mere tool for playing the guitar and learning to play in bars, but my own desires were still hidden within this box. Maybe that's why I came. To recollect the feeling of having an impending end.

The shovel clanged against metal. My breath hitched. As I knelt, I extracted the rusty container from the earthy dirt. Inside were what we consider to be the relics of our youth: my faded band t-shirt, Leo's first draft pencil and Sarah's well-worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Above everything else, there was a cassette tape.

My brow furrowed. A tape? The idea of including a CD mix had been discussed, but we decided not to. It was mentioned that technology changes too rapidly. We agreed. This shouldn't be here.

The TDK SA-90 label made me feel cold, even though it was a regular model. My writing wasn't the sprightly, glossy masterpiece of my teenage years. This was my handwriting, but it was sharper, more mature, and strained. It read: For Eli. October 31st. PLAY ME NOW.

Today was October 31st.

There was something about the autumnal air that sent a chill down my spine. This was a prank. It had to be. Upon his return, Leo likely planted it early. The penmanship was remarkably accurate, almost imitating my own written identity.

Upon arriving home, I found the box of memories in the passenger seat and the tape burning through my jacket pocket. Against the backdrop of guitar cases and stacks of unopened bills, my old Sony boombox appeared to be an ancient object in my dimly lit apartment. I inserted the tape with my fists and played it. A moment of panic ensued.

Blank tape hissed. Then, a voice. My voice. But older, limp and strewn with so much wear and tear that I felt as though I was in pain but had never heard such words.

“Eli.

The sound you hear is a result of your digging.” Good. You always had a sense of nostalgia for responsibilities. It doesn't matter. The crucial aspect is the subsequent step. You have 24 hours.”

With my blood drained, I fell onto the couch.

“On November 1st, you will be performing at The Hollowed Fret.

You'll play your set. You'll pack up your gear. You'll just go to your car and walk down the alley behind the venue. Don't take the alley. They'll be waiting. The evening's takings are what they are after, and even more than that. Your left hand they will take. The bones will be so deeply shattered that playing chords is impossible.”

My hand, the one that danced across the fretboards, fisted itself. This was insane. A sick joke.

"This isn't a joke, Eli," the voice said as if to convey my point of view. "I'm you. Five years from now. I'm enduring the silence you're about to bring. The music is gone. The light is gone. Everything is… grey. You have to believe me. Take the front door. Walk through the crowd. Even if it's inconvenient. Even if you're tired. Everything pivots on this particular option. This is your last mixtape. All we have is a cautionary trail.”

A definitive click was heard as the tape ended.

I spent a considerable amount of time in silence, the boombox's noise becoming too loud. My logical brain was filled with lies, psychotic behavior, and sleeplessness. The voice's profound, gut-wrenching despair was not something you could pretend to hear.

The following day presented a distinct form of hell. I called Leo. I was left a voicemail; he was still on the way. I tried to practice, but my fingers were clumsy due to fear. Everyone on the street seemed to be a threat. The future's gaze was so piercing, it felt as though it had hit me on the shoulder.

The Hollowed Fret was crowded that night. My set was infused with a fearsome, uncontrolled passion that I had never encountered before. The crowd loved it. They cheered. After counting the amount of money on the merch table, which was sufficient to pay for rent, my stomach began to feel heavy.

It was time to go.

With my hands clutching a cash envelope and my guitar case, I stood at the back door. The alleyway was dark, a shortcut I'd taken countless times before. Walking through the front door was a task that involved maneuvering through people, making small talk and receiving compliments I thought were undeserved.

Take the front door.

I remember hearing a voice on the tape.

A resolute and rebellious notion emerged. Might it be true that this is a foregone conclusion of our lives? In the event that I modified my behavior, could it have contributed to something more detrimental than what was initially intended? What would happen if the front door was present and the alleyway was secure? The future wasn't set. Was it?

My heart was pounding against my ribs. I made a decision. I opened the alley and walked into the cold, rainy night.

The alley was empty. Silent. The feeling of relief, warmth, and dizziness washed over me. It was a hoax. It had to be. The brick walls echoed with my unsteady laughter. I was a fool. I took a step forward.

A shadow escaped from the deeper darkness near the dumpster. Then another. A pair of figures, with faces concealed by hoods.

A man exclaimed, "Good job," with a raspy tone. "Let's take the money."

My blood froze. The tape was real. Every word was true. I was living it. I dropped my guitar case and held up my hands, with an envelope in hand. "Take it away. Just take it and go.”

The second person moved closer, and the moon shone through a metal object in his hand. A pipe.

He pointed out, "The hand is also a lesson for those who believe they are exempt from paying for protection."

This was it. The moment my future ended. I braced myself, my mind pounding with meaningless alarm.

A loud roar was heard from the street. The alley was filled with headlights that blinded us. A car door slammed.

“HEY!

Get away from him! Cops are on the way!”

After a brief hesitation, the two individuals turned and fled, disappearing into the darkness from where they had come.

The figure from the car approached me, and I felt a surge of fear. It was Mike, the bar owner.

He greeted me with a hand on my shoulder and said, "They're out the window. Don't worry, kid. Always depart from the front. This alley's been trouble lately.”

I couldn't speak. Then I nodded, my body vibrating with the aftermath of a nightmare-like future.

Home was where I observed the boombox. Mike's intervention had saved me. The alleyway was taken by me, and yet my hand remained unharmed. The prophecy was broken. The tape was wrong.

But then the voice came to mind. The absolute devastation it evoked. The timeline suggests that Mike might not have been staring out the window. Maybe he had been on the phone with someone. A single variable, changed. The tape wasn't an omen; it was a prospect. A message from a part of me who wasn't as lucky.

I ejected the tape. The label, in my future-handwriting, appeared to be more of a request than an order. It wasn't about predestination. It was about agency. Despite being in his grey silence, I had somehow managed to shout back the warning through time. To empower me, not to manipulate me. He provided me with a choice that was not within his control.

How was the tape brought into that box? I'm not sure. I am unaware of how the miracle works. Still, I keep it on my desk, adjacent to my strobe. This is not a remnant of a future that almost was. It's a reminder. A reminder that the music is a gift. Every decision is a part of your life's soundtrack.

The alley is something I never, ever take.