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Authors: Annabelle Costa
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is still intact. Thank God. I zip up my hoodie sweatshirt, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I wish Adam had given me a mint to take with me.
1997. I’ve traveled to 1997.
Or have I? Honestly, 1997 looks an awful lot like 2013.
I spot a newsstand on the corner and trot towards it. The newsie sees me and gives me a little wave, which I return shakily. The stand smells like ink and cigarettes, which makes my stomach turn slightly. I nearly back away, but before I do, I look down at a fresh newspaper lying in a pile, still bound with twine. I see President Bill Clinton’s face smiling up at me in black and white ink. The date on the paper is September 23, 1997.
Holy shit. He did it. The smart bastard actually sent me back to 1997.
I look at my watch, which Adam set for me to correspond to the time in 1997. It’s now just after six a.m., so I have plenty of time, but I don’t want to mess this up. I’ve got to find the nearest bus and get my butt to Murray Hill. But before that, I use some of the change Adam gave me to buy a package of breath mints. Because no matter how “pretty” I am, twenty-two-year-old Adam isn’t going to like me if my breath smells like puke.
He was right about the bus accepting my change, no problem. As I head downtown, I can’t help but think how similar yet different 1997 looks compared to 2013. It’s the little differences, you know?
Like for example, nobody is wearing skinny jeans. If this were 2013, all the young girls would be wearing those skintight tapered jeans, even though I’m convinced those jeans don’t look good on anyone. I hate skinny jeans. If you have even an ounce of body fat, you look like a cow in those things—and I’ve got a little bit more than an ounce on my legs. Plus I’m way too old to even attempt to pull it off. But now, everyone’s got boot-cut jeans like me. Definitely an improvement.
Also, in 2013, everyone on the bus would be on their phones. Everyone would be texting, playing games, sending emails, surfing the web. Now nobody is doing that. Everyone is just … looking at each other. Or reading books. On paper. Or the newspaper, also on paper. It’s so weird.
When I get to 34 th Street, I get on the crosstown bus using a transfer. Like I have to hand the driver a piece of paper saying I was on the other bus and I’m transferring to this bus. It’s so retro! Really, I don’t miss 1997. Well, aside from the fact that I was twenty years old in 1997. I kind of miss that part.
I spot Adam’s old building from the bus and I hit the button for it to stop. Naturally, it misses my stop, and I have to hoof it one avenue block back to where I was. On the way, I pass a Borders Bookstore, which I stare at in amazement. A real bookstore, geez. I used to love browsing bookstores, pulling titles off the shelves and plopping down on a beanbag chair to skim the first few pages. I’m a little tempted to go inside, but I can’t very well tell Adam that I missed him because I was eating biscotti at Borders.
I park myself on the steps of a brownstone next to Adam’s building. There’s a huge green awning sticking out with the building number inscribed on it in white script. There are half a dozen steps to the front door, and a ramp beside the steps. My eyes automatically focus in on the ramp until I remember that twenty-two-year-old Adam didn’t need ramps. Although he’s got his bike, so maybe he does.
It’s still well before eight, and I’m beginning to really miss my phone. Honestly, you don’t realize how much smart phones have revolutionized our lives. Back in the nineties, if you were waiting for someone, all you could do was … wait.
So I start fantasizing a little bit. I imagine coming back to the future after successfully achieving my mission. I’m having trouble imagining Adam being out of the wheelchair, but I can clearly see how happy his face will be. How grateful he’ll be to me. I imagine him taking my hand and pulling a
1997. I’ve traveled to 1997.
Or have I? Honestly, 1997 looks an awful lot like 2013.
I spot a newsstand on the corner and trot towards it. The newsie sees me and gives me a little wave, which I return shakily. The stand smells like ink and cigarettes, which makes my stomach turn slightly. I nearly back away, but before I do, I look down at a fresh newspaper lying in a pile, still bound with twine. I see President Bill Clinton’s face smiling up at me in black and white ink. The date on the paper is September 23, 1997.
Holy shit. He did it. The smart bastard actually sent me back to 1997.
I look at my watch, which Adam set for me to correspond to the time in 1997. It’s now just after six a.m., so I have plenty of time, but I don’t want to mess this up. I’ve got to find the nearest bus and get my butt to Murray Hill. But before that, I use some of the change Adam gave me to buy a package of breath mints. Because no matter how “pretty” I am, twenty-two-year-old Adam isn’t going to like me if my breath smells like puke.
He was right about the bus accepting my change, no problem. As I head downtown, I can’t help but think how similar yet different 1997 looks compared to 2013. It’s the little differences, you know?
Like for example, nobody is wearing skinny jeans. If this were 2013, all the young girls would be wearing those skintight tapered jeans, even though I’m convinced those jeans don’t look good on anyone. I hate skinny jeans. If you have even an ounce of body fat, you look like a cow in those things—and I’ve got a little bit more than an ounce on my legs. Plus I’m way too old to even attempt to pull it off. But now, everyone’s got boot-cut jeans like me. Definitely an improvement.
Also, in 2013, everyone on the bus would be on their phones. Everyone would be texting, playing games, sending emails, surfing the web. Now nobody is doing that. Everyone is just … looking at each other. Or reading books. On paper. Or the newspaper, also on paper. It’s so weird.
When I get to 34 th Street, I get on the crosstown bus using a transfer. Like I have to hand the driver a piece of paper saying I was on the other bus and I’m transferring to this bus. It’s so retro! Really, I don’t miss 1997. Well, aside from the fact that I was twenty years old in 1997. I kind of miss that part.
I spot Adam’s old building from the bus and I hit the button for it to stop. Naturally, it misses my stop, and I have to hoof it one avenue block back to where I was. On the way, I pass a Borders Bookstore, which I stare at in amazement. A real bookstore, geez. I used to love browsing bookstores, pulling titles off the shelves and plopping down on a beanbag chair to skim the first few pages. I’m a little tempted to go inside, but I can’t very well tell Adam that I missed him because I was eating biscotti at Borders.
I park myself on the steps of a brownstone next to Adam’s building. There’s a huge green awning sticking out with the building number inscribed on it in white script. There are half a dozen steps to the front door, and a ramp beside the steps. My eyes automatically focus in on the ramp until I remember that twenty-two-year-old Adam didn’t need ramps. Although he’s got his bike, so maybe he does.
It’s still well before eight, and I’m beginning to really miss my phone. Honestly, you don’t realize how much smart phones have revolutionized our lives. Back in the nineties, if you were waiting for someone, all you could do was … wait.
So I start fantasizing a little bit. I imagine coming back to the future after successfully achieving my mission. I’m having trouble imagining Adam being out of the wheelchair, but I can clearly see how happy his face will be. How grateful he’ll be to me. I imagine him taking my hand and pulling a
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