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been to a protest. But he was the most seriously justice-minded guy I'd ever met. He'd actually read Stirner and Bakunin and Kropotkin and Goldman, and understood them, and had opinions about them that actually
meant
something. Also, he was basically the first guy I'd met since middle school who didn't ogle me and then try to impress my pants off—or at least my bra. He just wanted to talk, to work out these ideas he had from these books.
But boy, did I want to impress
him.
So after our first date I took him up to my dorm room and showed him the slingshot I'd made out of surgical tubing and steel. We went back out and put ball bearings through the dark windows of every corporate fast-food place within walking distance of campus—we both actually were vegans back then. A militant vegan, in my case.
A slingshot is silent and these bearings, they go so fast you can kill someone with them. They pop right through the tempered glass windows with hardly a
tick,
and then the window bursts to confetti. Out in the moonlight, in the silent night streets, it's like magic. He'd never touched a slingshot before—certainly not one like mine— but he was fantastically accurate, and that lit this manic fire in his eyes. That's when I saw he was beautiful, too, and I kissed him.
But the thing is, when you're out to impress someone, you kinda always want to ratchet it up another notch every go 'round. We were
wild
to impress each other. Some folks can't date over the long haul because they aren't a good fit; me and Buffalo Bill couldn't date because we were a dangerously perfect fit.
"Now you see my point, right?" Taylor said. "I'm sure that you'll go and try to tell Buffalo Bill and the others about how bad the Twinkie idea is; they'll end up doing it anyway. But if you—someone
native
to this timeline—keeps interloping young me from enabling these Twinkie shenanigans, then maybe..." He shrugged. "You just have to meet me, young me, for lunch tomorrow—" he glanced at his watch "—today, and
Arsenic
my
Old Lace,
then none of your amigos will have access to the portal. Maybe we can start to wind this all back."
"I don't think I can kill you."
"Sure you can. A couple hours ago you were gung-ho to kill
everyone
with sugar and spice and everything nice. How is it worse to kill one guy—one guy that's
literally
asking for it—in order to save everyone else?"
I didn't say anything. I literally had nothing to say, but Taylor read it as hesitation as opposed to what it was: Moral paralysis.
"Listen: You feel that you, personally, can't end a life face-to-face—I totally get that. But you can still kill me. Tell Buffalo Bill that Taylor really
is
a narc—or that he, um, sexually assaulted you. Or whatever. I'm sure that guy would kill Taylor in a heartbeat."
He was right about that, at least.
"Why don't
you
kill Young Taylor?" I asked.
He smiled hopelessly. "I've been trying to for
ages.
Can't you help a brother out?" And then his watch started to beep. It was the same fancy digital watch Taylor had been wearing that afternoon, and it dawned on me that Young Taylor probably thought of it as an "old-fashioned digital watch," even though it maybe hadn't been built yet.
"Deke picking you up?"
"What?" He asked distractedly. "Oh, no, Deke... retired." He said the last word uncomfortably, the way you'd tell a kid his old dog had
gone to live on a farm
while the boy was at kindergarten.
"You need a ride anywhere?" I asked, dragging it out, although I couldn't say why.
Taylor laughed despite himself. "Naw, I'm good."
"Then I'll walk you out." We stood and I started digging through my bag for some cash. Taylor dropped a crisp blue bank note, like some oversized
Monopoly
money, on the table. "It's on me—" Then he snatched the bill back, muttering under his breath as he dug through his jacket pockets. He finally came up with a crumpled hundred dollar bill missing one corner. Someone had carefully inked an eye-patch, curly mustache,
meant
something. Also, he was basically the first guy I'd met since middle school who didn't ogle me and then try to impress my pants off—or at least my bra. He just wanted to talk, to work out these ideas he had from these books.
But boy, did I want to impress
him.
So after our first date I took him up to my dorm room and showed him the slingshot I'd made out of surgical tubing and steel. We went back out and put ball bearings through the dark windows of every corporate fast-food place within walking distance of campus—we both actually were vegans back then. A militant vegan, in my case.
A slingshot is silent and these bearings, they go so fast you can kill someone with them. They pop right through the tempered glass windows with hardly a
tick,
and then the window bursts to confetti. Out in the moonlight, in the silent night streets, it's like magic. He'd never touched a slingshot before—certainly not one like mine— but he was fantastically accurate, and that lit this manic fire in his eyes. That's when I saw he was beautiful, too, and I kissed him.
But the thing is, when you're out to impress someone, you kinda always want to ratchet it up another notch every go 'round. We were
wild
to impress each other. Some folks can't date over the long haul because they aren't a good fit; me and Buffalo Bill couldn't date because we were a dangerously perfect fit.
"Now you see my point, right?" Taylor said. "I'm sure that you'll go and try to tell Buffalo Bill and the others about how bad the Twinkie idea is; they'll end up doing it anyway. But if you—someone
native
to this timeline—keeps interloping young me from enabling these Twinkie shenanigans, then maybe..." He shrugged. "You just have to meet me, young me, for lunch tomorrow—" he glanced at his watch "—today, and
Arsenic
my
Old Lace,
then none of your amigos will have access to the portal. Maybe we can start to wind this all back."
"I don't think I can kill you."
"Sure you can. A couple hours ago you were gung-ho to kill
everyone
with sugar and spice and everything nice. How is it worse to kill one guy—one guy that's
literally
asking for it—in order to save everyone else?"
I didn't say anything. I literally had nothing to say, but Taylor read it as hesitation as opposed to what it was: Moral paralysis.
"Listen: You feel that you, personally, can't end a life face-to-face—I totally get that. But you can still kill me. Tell Buffalo Bill that Taylor really
is
a narc—or that he, um, sexually assaulted you. Or whatever. I'm sure that guy would kill Taylor in a heartbeat."
He was right about that, at least.
"Why don't
you
kill Young Taylor?" I asked.
He smiled hopelessly. "I've been trying to for
ages.
Can't you help a brother out?" And then his watch started to beep. It was the same fancy digital watch Taylor had been wearing that afternoon, and it dawned on me that Young Taylor probably thought of it as an "old-fashioned digital watch," even though it maybe hadn't been built yet.
"Deke picking you up?"
"What?" He asked distractedly. "Oh, no, Deke... retired." He said the last word uncomfortably, the way you'd tell a kid his old dog had
gone to live on a farm
while the boy was at kindergarten.
"You need a ride anywhere?" I asked, dragging it out, although I couldn't say why.
Taylor laughed despite himself. "Naw, I'm good."
"Then I'll walk you out." We stood and I started digging through my bag for some cash. Taylor dropped a crisp blue bank note, like some oversized
Monopoly
money, on the table. "It's on me—" Then he snatched the bill back, muttering under his breath as he dug through his jacket pockets. He finally came up with a crumpled hundred dollar bill missing one corner. Someone had carefully inked an eye-patch, curly mustache,
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