My Humane Meat is selling so well, I’ve launched another new, direct to consumer product. Just email your order, along with your shipping details, and credit card number. And don’t forget the 3 numbers on the signature strip! Once you watch the video, you will want to stock up!
Category Archives: Bonus Content
What will they think of next?
Unbelievable! Leaked video promo for a new UK TV channel! (sound on!)
Now, Hear This
The hippy looks back at the roots of his lifetime love of modern music, through the songs he grew up with, and technology of the day that played it for him.
His journey began when he was 2 years old, and it started with the Beatles, and a couple of years later, Motown and more.
As you’ll see, these memories turned out to be a lot more bittersweet than expected.
Age 2
Growing up, my mother told me this story many times, of not long after I first began talking, I also started singing. And the very first song I ever sang was “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” by the Beatles.
The single was released around 10 months after I was born, and it was still a hot hit on the radio when I was 2 years old. My mother told me we used to hear it a lot in the car.
One day without prompting, I sang along with the chorus, which delighted my parents. Even at the age of 2, I had excellent taste in popular music. I like to think at the tender age of 60, that I still do.
Age 4
My family moved from north Jersey to down the shore in Asbury Park when I was 1 year old. We lived there for three years, until I was about four. We lived in a two family house.
My earliest memories of my life are based in that very house, and around Asbury Park. I can still picture the kitchen, the living room, my bedroom, and the steep main staircase that led up to the entrance of our place.
The upstairs bit was my ours, and the downstairs part of the house was rented to another family. They were a married couple, a little older than my parents, and they had a couple of grown children; a son and a daughter.
Their names were Carmen, and Emily, and their daughter’s name was Sara. I think their son’s name was Anthony, but I’m not sure. I didn’t really know him.
Carmen owned the Mobile petrol station in Asbury. I remember going there with my dad as a child, and petting the gas station guard dog, a friendly, happy German Shepherd, who wasn’t quite as friendly on his own, when he protected the station at night.
Carmen and Emily already lived in the house when my parents purchased it, and they would all go on to become very good friends. They remained close for decades, until Carmen and Emily passed away many years later. They were nice people.
When I was around 4, my mother called me into the living room, and Emily and her daughter Sara were already there. Sara would have been in her early 20s at the time.
They told me Sara was losing her hearing, and she wanted to give me her collection of 45rpm pop music records, because she couldn’t listen to them any more. It was a tall stack of singles, in some sort of plastic carrying case.
My mother said, “What do you say when someone gives you a gift, Doug?”
“Thank you, Sara!”, I replied enthusiastically. It was like an unexpected Christmas morning!
I didn’t really understand the tragic context of this gift, I was only 4 years old, but I was certainly excited. I couldn’t wait to go into my bedroom, and play both sides of every one of those records on my Show’N’Tell. It was my very first record player.
A Show’N’Tell was a popular kid’s record player from the 1960s. that had a built-in screen, and was used to tell stories with still pictures projected on the internal display. You put a cardboard strip with the graphics on film into the top, then played the record. You had to advance the pictures manually when the story narration beeped by pushing the strip down further. It was easy. I had a bunch of stories for it, but the only one I can recall with any certainty is Puss’N’Boots.
My mother showed me how to use the 45rpm adaptor, and adjust the RPM rate on the turntable, so I could play the 45rpm records on my little kiddie Show’N’Tell.
I was entranced, these were grown-up records. It was lots of early rock and roll, like the Beatles, and the Stones, plus the very best of Motown, and Atlantic Records too. It was a fantastic, and comprehensive collection, that looking back, I very much wish I still had.
It’s weird the details I can still recall from this seminal moment in my young development. I didn’t know where to start, so I just randomly picked a record. It’s not like I knew how to read. It was 1967, and I was 4 years old.
I carefully placed my first single on the platter, and I turned the record player on. Once it was spinning, I gently placed the needle on the outer groove.
My ears were suddenly awash with the most amazing sound I’d ever heard in my very young life. It was nothing like I’d ever experienced before. It didn’t sound like the Beatles, it didn’t sound like the children’s songs on my Show’N’Tell records either. It was so unique, and it made me feel like I was a real big boy, listening to grown-up music. I loved it!
That first song I played was “You Really Got A Hold On Me” by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, and I think of it as the first single I ever owned. I know it came in a collection of many others, but it was the first one I played, and I don’t think I can overstate the impact it had on me at the time. The words went way over my head, but the sound. Oh my god, that sound!
I still get the same feeling of pure joy when I listen to it today. You will too, from that classic opening piano hook, to the soaring, mournful vocals. That girl had a tight grip on Smokey’s heart, and you could feel it in every line.
“I don’t like you, but I love you”. It hits even harder when the words mean something, but even when they didn’t as a child, I still felt it.
This carefully curated collection was the very best pop music from early to mid 1960s. I struggle to recall every single tune, but there were some standouts.
I mentioned Atlantic Records, because of the Drifters. “Under the Boardwalk”, “Up On the Roof” and “Save the Last Dance” were all there.
At the age of 4, I thought the boardwalk in Asbury Park was the only boardwalk on the planet. I also thought it was the most magical place in the world, and I just knew they were singing about it in that song. As I swayed to the music, I closed my eyes, and pictured the amusements along the shore.
Clearly I did not understand the true nature of the activities taking place under the boardwalk. That went way over my head too.
There were quite a few early Beatles singles as well, and I can recall the old green Apple logo on the labels. Baby, you can “Drive My Car” is the one I remember most. Beep-beep beep-beep yeah!
By far, the majority of the singles in the collection were Motown. Besides Smokey and the Miracles, there were The Supremes, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, The 4 Tops, The Temptations, the Jackson 5, Martha and the Vandellas, and probably a whole lot more that I can’t recall. I played all of those records over, and over on my Show’N’Tell.
We left Asbury not long after that. My new record collection got packed away when we moved to Oakhurst, in Ocean Township. We got out of Asbury a few years before riots rocked the city.
Age 13
The Show’N’Tell was replaced by a cheap, portable record player that I used for a few years, but when I was 13 years old, my parents bought me my first proper stereo.
Many of my friends were Jewish, and age 13 was their bar mitzvah year. I think my parents thought I felt a bit left out, since I kept being invited to these massive bar mitzvah receptions, as my friends were showered with many big lavish gifts. I always guessed that’s why they made more of a fuss than usual over my 13th birthday.
My father and I went to a hi-fi shop up on Route 35, and we went into the sound room, to check out different systems. The salesman convinced my father to buy me a Sanyo quadraphonic system, with all the bells and whistles.
The system had a record changer that could play multiple discs, an AM/FM stereo radio receiver, and an 8-track tape deck that could record as well as play them. I knew I’d be driving in a few years, and I could make my own 8-tracks for the car.
Quadraphonic systems never took off, as you might have guessed, since many of you will have never heard the term before. It meant it had 4 speakers, instead of the usual two like a traditional stereo. The salesman said that all LPs and singles would soon be released in a compatible format, so it was future-proof. That never happened, but it was still a great sound system.
We got it home, and set it up in my bedroom. I didn’t have many records to play, but then I remembered the old collection of 45s from my early childhood. I knew I still had them, and I fished them out of my bedroom closet. They were still in the same old plastic carrying case.
And then I spent the rest of my 13th birthday blasting out all my old favourite classic Motown hits, and more… And they never sounded better!
Age 16 and a 1/2
I got my learner’s permit 6 months before my 17th birthday, and I was excited to start driving. My first car was a Pontiac Firebird Formula. I didn’t keep it long, it was way overpowered for a teenager, and it was a gas guzzler, but it did have an 8-track tape deck.
Someone gave me a copy of James Taylor’s 1979 album, “Flag”, and on it was his cover version of “Up on the Roof”. It immediately brought back memories of the original.
And then once again, I remembered the 45rpm record collection that Sara had given me, and I got it out of the closet. Only this time, I recorded many of the songs onto 8-track tapes.
It finally hit me, how I got this collection. In the 12 or so years I’d had all those records, I never really considered how they came to be in my possession. I’d never really considered the tragedy that inspired Sara’s generosity. Sara’s hearing loss, was my musical gain.
I knew my mother was still friends with Sara mother, Emily. So I asked my mom about her.
My mom explained that Sara was completely deaf now, but she didn’t let it slow her down. She was married, she had children, and she had recently been the first runner-up in the Mrs. New Jersey contest, “in spite of being hard of hearing”. The words in quotes aren’t mine, but are lifted directly from the Asbury Park Press photo caption at the time.
And not Miss New Jersey, but Mrs. New Jersey, a beauty pageant of some sort for married women that was staged back in the 1970s. A quick search online tells me it is still going on today. Who knew?
In all that time, it never dawned on me to ask about Sara, or to consider the painful circumstances that inspired her gift to me. I can remember feeling a profound sense of gratitude. She literally gave me the music I grew up with; it was the soundtrack of my youth.
I’d developed my own tastes over the years, and have already written about my deep appreciation of Bruce Springsteen. He grew up on the some of the same music I did, as did his friend Southside Jonny.
Southside Jonny and the Asbury Jukes were just starting to break big around this time, and I had one of their early records. On it, he covered Sam Cooke’s “Havin’ A Party”, which was yet another track in my collection of 45s. I love both versions, but Southside made that song his own.
The foundation of my musical tastes is so deeply rooted in that collection of 45rpm records. I don’t know what happened to them. When I moved out of my parents’ house, I don’t think I took them with me. And that, was that.
Age 60
Last spring, my original set of AirPods died. They were 5 years old, and served me well, so I replaced them with a new pair of AirPod Pros. With the purchase came a free 6 month trial of Apple Music.
When I bought my first iPod in 2005, I ripped MP3s from every CD I could find in the house, and every CD I bought after that. I started buying digital tracks and albums a few years later, and played them all on my iPhone.
I had a decent collection, but clearly I didn’t have every track ever recorded. A trial with Apple Music came close to fixing that, so I signed up. It pretty much played whatever songs I asked for, and could even find some obscure versions of rare tracks. Colour me impressed.
“Hey Siri, shuffle Springsteen”, or “shuffle Southside Jonny and the Asbury Jukes.” No problem. Led Zep? The Beatles? The Kinks? The Stones? All good.
And then I tried some genres, and I thought of one I hadn’t listened to in ages. “Hey, Siri, shuffle Motown”.
She replied, “Alright, now shuffling Motown essentials.”
After a few tracks, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles came up, and I heard the first single I’d ever owned, as “You Really Got A Hold On Me” roared out of my speakers. It was the first time I’d heard it in ages. I stopped whatever I was doing, and listened intently.
I still loved the track that day just as much as I did that first time I heard it when I was 4 years old. It was some 56 years later, and it still filled me with as much joy as it did that first time. And then I sobbed.
I sobbed with mixture of joy, and sadness. I was happy that the music of my childhood, and youth, still resonated with me. It still filled my heart with joy. And I was also overcome with sadness; the sadness of loss, and the tangible realisation of the passage of so much time, and of so many people I’ve cared about over the years who are no longer there.
And then I remembered poor, dear Sara. I hadn’t thought of her in such a long time. Her generosity, born from her loss, shaped my musical tastes for my entire life. And in that moment of realisation, the idea for this piece was born.
My musical journey began with a stack of carefully curated 45rpm records. That collection had some of the finest popular music of the early to mid 1960s and it was given to me by a deaf woman, when I was a pre-schooler. No wonder it took me so long to grasp the significance.
That collection was assembled by someone that lost their ability to enjoy the music they so clearly loved, because they gradually were becoming profoundly deaf. And from their unfathomable loss, the foundation of my musical tastes was born.
It was a priceless gift, given from someone who paid a price higher than I can possibly imagine. It took me years to fully appreciate all of this, and even now, I’m not sure if I can truly express how much these songs changed my life. And thanks to the evolution of technology, those tunes all remain part of my life to this day.
Sara
I really didn’t know Sara. I’m sure the day she gave me the records wasn’t the only time I met her, but I doubt I saw her more than half a dozen times in total. Her mother, Emily, and my mother were close friends for years.
I looked for Sara online, and am pretty sure I found her. It’s scary easy to find people online in America with just a few details. She’s still alive, but she no longer lives in NJ.
I also found Sara’s first engagement announcement from the local newspaper in 1962, before we lived in Asbury. It’s how I found the address of my family’s house in Asbury Park. I knew the street name, but I couldn’t for the life of me recall the house number. Remember, I was only 4 years old when we moved out.
It’s also how I learned Sara’s parents were living there when my parents bought the place. I didn’t realise they lived in the house before we did. I guess I never thought about it.
It said she was engaged to a guy serving in the military, in the early 1960s. That could have meant Vietnam. I don’t know what happened, but when she was a contestant in the Mrs. New Jersey contest more than a decade later, she had a different surname from her fiancé mentioned in the clipping. Did they break up? Did he get killed in action? I have no idea.
I also found that photo from the local paper of her being a runner-up in the Mrs. NJ contest. In truth, I misremembered, I thought she was the winner of the contest, and I was trying to fact-check myself. I’m glad I did, for the sake of accuracy, and for finding the photo. That was a bonus.
I debated contacting Sara, sending her a letter, and sharing my story, but in the end I decided against it.
Maybe she would remember me, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t want to be reminded of such a sad time in her life. Would she even remember such a small, inconsequential moment? It’s me that found meaning in it, perhaps it was one of the worst days of her life.
If I could communicate with Sara, I’d want her to know that she’s one of the few people in my life that made such a huge contribution to who I am today, without ever knowing it. She changed my life in such a positive way. She gave me the priceless gift of music, just as she was losing her ability to enjoy it herself.
I hope you had a good life, Sara. One day when I was four years old, you changed mine in a massive way. I wish you knew. Thank you, Sara. Thank you.
* * *
After a 30 year career as a journalist, working for some of the largest news organisations in the world, including Associated Press and Reuters, and 15 years as a duty news editor for BBC News, Doug – the northlondonhippy is now a full time hippy, and writer. And for the last few years, he’s been #EpilepsyHippy. His life was a whole lot more fun before gaining that new title. For real.
Doug is also the author of “Personal Use by the northlondonhippy.” “Personal Use” chronicles Doug’s years of experience with mind altering substances, while calling for urgent drug law reform. It’s a cracking read, you will laugh, you will cry, and you can bet your ass that you will wish you were a hippy too!
You can also find Doug – the northlondonhippy on Twitter: @nthlondonhippy but only if you look really hard.
And if you want even more, (and who wouldn’t?) you could always check out Hippy Highlights – which is the best of the best stuff on the site, and it’s all free to read. What are you waiting for?
The Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll Collection
All Written by Doug – the northlondonhippy
The Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll Collection is a loosely connected series of the northlondonhippy’s most recent written pieces. It was all produced in a 5 week period.
Think of this new, inter-linked collection of material as the hippy’s second book. Effectively it is the sequel to his first book, Personal Use.
You can read all this brand new material for free right now.
December 2023 Update:
The hippy has added another piece to the collection, called “Now, Hear This”.
“Now, Hear This” was first published in November 2023, but the original idea was conceived back in March. It belongs here with the rest of the collection, and is now the introductory piece.
Now, Hear This
The hippy looks back at the roots of his lifetime love of modern music, through the songs he grew up with, and technology of the day that played it for him.
His journey began when he was 2 years old, and it started with the Beatles, and a couple of years later, Motown and more.
You’ll see, these memories turned out to be a lot more bittersweet than expected, as you read, and listen to “Now, Hear This”.
My Summer of Springsteen
During the Summer of 1982, when the hippy was still living on the Jersey Shore, he ran into Bruce Springsteen regularly.
Bruce wasn’t just a local hero back then, he was already a major, international rock god. He’d released his first five classic albums, toured the world repeatedly, and only played the largest venues available.
That summer, the hippy saw the Boss hanging out, and performing in small bars down the shore, nearly every weekend. Some nights, more than once. And Bruce saw the hippy, too.
These are his memories of “My Summer of Springsteen”.
MTV Redux
In this four part series, the hippy takes you back to a fairly amazing period of his young adult life.
In the mid 1980s, the hippy was loosely associated with MTV Music Television as an intern, and then occasionally employed by them as a freelance production assistant.
It’s also a tale of unrealised potential, and squandered opportunity, but it has taken the hippy a while to work all that out.
Part One – What? And Give Up Showbiz?
Part Two – Name Dropping
Part Three – Crappy New Year!
Part Four – The Death of the Dream
Time Aside – A Short Story
***Bonus Content***
Let’s pause the real life nostalgia briefly, and take a deep dive into some alternative personal history.
There’s no sex, drugs, or rock & roll in this one. “Time Aside” is a twisty tale of time travel, anti-natalism, and regret that’s rooted in the hippy’s real life back story.
It’s bonus content, so check it out! Or you could wait for the movie?
Tales from the Pre-Internet
Everyone thinks of dating apps, and websites when they think of meeting people online, but before the internet, in the 1980s, some folks were already playing around online. People were meeting up, and having naughty fun too. And the northlondonhippy was one of them.
The hippy refers to this period of time as the “Pre-Internet” in his recent series called MTV Redux. Thinking about that time was the inspiration for this series.
In the three part series, “Consenting Online Adults”the hippy overshares about many of his experiences.
And in Bonus Part Four, the hippy shares an additional tale from the Pre-Internet that deserves to stand on its own. This piece will leave you with one big question, but in Part Four – “I’ll Never Tell”.
Consenting Online Adults
Part One – The Prologue (1975-1983)
Part Two – Connecting (1980-1987)
Part Three – All Good Things (1985-1997)
Bonus – Part Four – I’ll Never Tell (1986)
Historic Hippy
Here’s a short selection from the hippy’s archive, if you want to know more…
I was a Background Artist on the BBC 10 O’Clock News – That’s who he was for the longest time
Piecing It All Together – This is why he is not that guy any more. TLDR: Epilepsy
Countdown to the End of the World – This is what the hippy would like to be doing next, if he had a choice.
Doing Some Good
While we’ve got your attention…
The Ceasefire Initiative – It’s just a small, simple idea to begin the process of finally putting an end to the pointless, useless “war on drugs”. We’re not seeking donations, just your support.
Follow us on Twitter: @ceasefire4good
#ceasefire4good #ceasefire4ever
(All words © Copyright 2023-2024 – Doug – the northlondonhippy. All rights reserved)
Tales from the Pre-Internet – A Series
Written by Doug – the northlondonhippy
Everyone thinks of dating apps, and websites when they think of meeting people online, but before the internet, in the 1980s, some folks were already playing around online. People were meeting up, and having naughty fun too. And I was one of them.
I refer to this period of time as the “Pre-Internet” in my other recent series, MTV Redux. Thinking about those days was the inspiration for this series.
In the three part piece, “Consenting Online Adults”, I’m going to overshare about many of my experiences from back in the day.
And in Bonus Part Four, I have an additional tale from the Pre-Internet that deserves to stand on its own. You may or may not believe it. This piece will leave you with one question, but “I’ll Never Tell”.
Trigger warning – I talk very frankly about sex, and human sexuality. I have a lot of sex too. If that sort of things offends you, please click here.
Are we still cool? Please proceed:
Consenting Online Adults
Part One – The Prologue (1975-1983)
Part Two – Connecting (1980-1987)
Part Three – All Good Things (1985-1997)
Bonus Sections:
Part Four – I’ll Never Tell (1986)
(All words © Copyright 2023 – Doug – the northlondonhippy. All rights reserved)
Tales from the Pre-Internet – Bonus – Part Four
Written by Doug – the northlondonhippy
I’ll Never Tell (1986)
Of the many encounters I had from the pre-internet in the 1980s, this is by far the weirdest. You might not believe it, but I swear to you it’s true.
One of the first things Lisa told me about herself during our first online conversation is that she is constantly mistaken for a very famous actress while out in public. She said she looked so much like this actress, the intrusions from members of the public were constant, and she didn’t like going out because of it.
We’d been chatting, and flirting on CompuServe, the largest online community in America at the time. Being online was still quite a niche pastime in the mid 80s, but I had been online for a couple of years at this point, and had met lots of people. My new friend was a little newer to this sort of thing.
She sounded great, she lived in Manhattan, and was around my age. She told me her job was boring, and not worth talking about, even when I pressed her for more info. She seemed sweet, and she seemed into me.
I’m a better writer, than I am a conversationalist, so for me chatting online was a bonus, and I usually made a decent impression. Around this time (late 1986 I think, November or December), I was still studying film & TV at New York University, while getting occasional freelance work from MTV. She liked that.
The actress she said she looked exactly like was particularly popular in the 1980s. One film she was in, one of her earlier roles, caught my attention when I screened it on HBO. I had a little crush on the actress, so the fact that she said she was her double, intrigued me. This actress also starred in one of the most popular, and trendiest films of the middle of the decade.
Remember, the pre-internet was text-based only. There was no photo swapping, or video calls. The height of intimacy at this point, short of meeting, was to exchange landline numbers, which we eventually did. We spoke for hours, about everything, and anything. We really clicked.
She wanted to meet me, but she didn’t want to meet in a bar, or restaurant, as she said we would be constantly interrupted by people mistaking her for that famous actress. She didn’t want to invite me to her place. And she didn’t want to come to my place all the way in Hoboken either. It was a bit of quandary, because after chatting online, and on the telephone for a few weeks, I really wanted to meet her too.
I came up with a solution. Someone I knew had a ground floor, studio apartment in the West Village, just off Bleeker Street. He worked during the day, so I asked if I could use his place for an afternoon coffee date. He agreed, loaned me his spare keys, and I arranged for her to meet me there a few days later.
I arrived a bit early, with some coffee, and some fresh cookies. His place was fairly tidy, and presentable. As it was a studio, it had a futon, which was in the upright, sofa position. Everything was respectable.
I had some weed with me too, because back then I always had weed with me. She knew I smoked regularly, and she said she occasionally did too, so it was all cool.
I was nervous while I was waiting, so I sparked up a J, as I was sitting on the futon. She was right on time, the intercom rang, and I buzzed her in through the front door.
I met her in the hallway, and I was immediately taken aback. She was stunning. And she didn’t just look like this famous actress. I was immediately 99% sure that she was that famous actress. Internally, I attempted to convince myself I was imagining things, but deep down I knew I wasn’t. It was actually her.
I tried to hide it, but I’m sure she picked up on my stunned reaction. I invited her inside my friend’s apartment.
When we spoke on the telephone, I also thought I was imagining things, when I realised she sounded a bit like this famous actress. I didn’t mention it, since it seemed like such a sore subject. If anything, I disregarded it, and laughed at myself for thinking something so silly. Clearly it wasn’t so silly after all.
When she didn’t hug me as we first met, I already knew it was going badly. She had said on the telephone that as soon as we were together, she was going to “hug the stuffing out of me”. She said it more than once, but when the opportunity presented itself, there was no hug.
I could tell she was disappointed with my looks. She didn’t really try to hide it. The warm, kind person from the online chats, and telephone, didn’t seem to arrive with her. She was cold. I adjourned to the kitchen to make a couple of coffees, and put the cookies on a plate.
While in the kitchen, I thought about my options. At this point, I was certain I had an extremely famous, popular, and drop-dead gorgeous actress waiting for a coffee in the other room. I also knew she was pretending not to be this famous actress, and had been playing at this weird ruse since our first online conversation.
And I also knew I fancied the hell out of her. If you asked me for a list of “dream celebrity girlfriends of the 1980s”, she would have been in the top three.
I was not intellectually, nor emotionally equipped to navigate this awkward situation. I was so out of my depth, it was laughable. And I could tell now that she met me, that she was just not that into me.
I returned to the main room, with a couple of coffees, and the cookies. She had turned on the television, it was some bullshit on Oprah Winfrey, I don’t remember the topic. She was completely invested in whatever it was, to the point of ignoring me while she sipped her coffee, and nibbled a cookie.
I tried to make conversation, but she literally shushed me, so she could listen to Oprah. It wasn’t just going badly; our intimate, romantic coffee date was a total disaster. She made me feel like a total piece of shit with her rudeness.
She finished her coffee, said it was nice to meet me, but it wasn’t going to work out, and she said she was going to go on her way. I didn’t try to stop her, I was kind of lost for words.
As she was walking out the door, I said something along the lines of, “Be honest you’re [name of famous actress], aren’t you? You might as well admit it. You don’t just look like her, you are her!”
She turned back, looked me sternly in my eyes, and shouted, “No! And don’t you dare tell anyone that I am, either!”. And with that, she was out the front door, and out of my life. Her “don’t you dare” admonishment only further convinced me of her identity. Don’t. You. Dare.
And that was that, it ended in romantic disappointment for both of us. I didn’t end up with a famous celebrity girlfriend, or even a look-a-like. I didn’t end up with anyone after this encounter, just a hard knock to my already fairly fragile self-esteem. I never contacted her again, and obviously she didn’t stay in touch with me.
It didn’t deter me from meeting other people from the pre-internet, but it did leave a sour taste in my mouth. I have not thought about this incident in like, forever. I tried to put it out of my mind.
This actress still works, though she is not as prolific as she once was. For years after we met, whenever I would see her in something, I would remember our meeting. Over the years, that started to fade, and I hadn’t thought about this encounter in a very long time. It’s only because I’ve been poking around in my memories of this period in my life, that this one floated up to the surface. I told you it was a weird story.
I know what you want to know. I know what anyone who reads this would want to know. It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? You want to know who the famous actress is. It’s only natural to want to know such a basic fact.
This happened over 35 years ago, I certainly don’t hold a grudge. I’m way above, and beyond that now. That would be the only reason to name, and shame her today. I’m not going to do it. I’ll never tell. Her identity stays a secret. I’m taking it with me to the grave. I hope she had a good life. I think I did alright myself.
The only person I have ever shared this story with until now, was the guy who loaned me his studio flat for the meeting. He was skeptical at first, but in the end he believed me. What convinced him was her entitled attitude when we met.
But to me, that’s not the convincing detail, though it doesn’t hurt. For me, if I was hearing this story, what would convince me is the amount of effort she put into building the foundation of her lie. It started during our first online chat, when we exchanged written physical descriptions. I don’t think I was the first person to play this game with her. I don’t think I was the first one to lose that game, either.
If I’m playing amateur shrink, I’d say she struggled with her early fame, and thought anyone attracted to her, was attracted by her celebrity, and success. She wanted to meet as a nobody, and have someone fall in love with her for her personality. I was definitely sliding in that direction, right up until we met. She adored my personality, until she saw me, and then she didn’t like my looks. That’s how it goes sometimes with blind dates.
Over the years, my 99% certainty has notched up to 100%. Yes, I am certain, and sure it was her. It was my most intimate brush with celebrity, and we didn’t even make physical contact. I used to wonder what my life would have been like, if our meeting went differently, but that’s a fool’s errand. It was what it was.
You can believe me, or not believe me, it’s up to you, but I hope you enjoyed this odd tale from the pre-internet.
The End
If you enjoyed that, why not check out the rest of the series. Parts 1, 2, and 3 if you haven’t already.
Or you could read my four part series about working at MTV in the mid 80s, called MTV Redux.
It’s all part of my “Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll Collection” – a series of loosely connected pieces, all written in a 5 week period.
There’s even a bonus short story, that might blow your mind.
And if you’ve already read MTV Redux, why not check out Hippy Highlights – a curated list of pieces designed to entertain, inform, and amuse you. So many choices!
(All words © Copyright 2023 – Doug – the northlondonhippy. All rights reserved)
Time Aside – A Short Story
Written by Doug – the northlondonhippy
What would YOU do if you figured out how to travel through time?
The Discovery
If you’ve come here looking for me to reveal the secrets of time travel, you might as well stop reading. The key to unlocking it is surprisingly simple, and it still shocks me that I am the first, and as far as I know, only person to have made this discovery. Twice.
As you will soon learn, I used my knowledge unwisely, and paid quite a high price for it. And now, I will take that knowledge of how I did it with me to the grave.
I was 25 years old when I made this discovery, but it would take me a decade and a half, before I’d be able to apply it in the real world. Turning the theoretical into the practical became my life’s work.
This sort of research didn’t come cheap, so I had a cover story involving quantum theory that was very well funded. I set up my lab in a large research facility complex. Most people didn’t even know I was there. I mostly kept to myself.
I actually published a couple of papers on the quantum theory. My cover work didn’t go to waste, but no one had a clue what I was really up to in my lab. Well, almost no one.
Jennifer knew. She was a lab assistant at the facility, and we had become friendly. In time I grew to trust Jennifer, and I finally showed her around my lab, and explained my true research to her.
Jennifer was initially dismissive, but I revealed just enough to get her to believe, and I convinced her to help me with my first real-world experiment.
The first time I travelled back in time, I went to 1958, which is 5 years before my real time target, early summer 1962. I spent nearly a year in 1958, before returning back to 2003, and my lab. I spent that year putting a plan into action, that I aimed to execute in 1962. It started with robbing a bank.
No, seriously! I needed cash, and obviously couldn’t bring any from the future, so I did a bank job. I couldn’t think of any other way to raise an initial stake in the past.
Just because I couldn’t bring cash, didn’t mean I couldn’t bring back a weapon. It was my father’s .38 pearl-handled revolver, that he gave me on my 18th birthday. He had won it in a shooting contest in the 1940s, so it wouldn’t have been out of place, had it been discovered. In the end, I didn’t need to fire a shot.
The bank I robbed was in the mid west, I’m not going to say where. I needed to be in New Jersey, which is where I’m from originally. So after my big score, I hopped on a train, and took my satchel of cash to a big bank on the Jersey Shore, where I opened an account.
I also made some clever, high yield investments. They didn’t even ask for any ID, which was annoying, because I did the old Frederick Forsyth trick of getting a birth certificate for a baby that had died close to birth, who if still alive would have been around my age. Real Day of the Jackal shit! It was so easy too.
Let’s just say if I told you what price I paid for Polaroid, and Kodak stock, and what I would sell it for 5 years later, it would make your eyes water! I made a killing.
My first time travel trip was a success. Not only did I prove that my theory worked, but I was able to lay the groundwork for my real mission, and why I wanted to invent time travel in the first place.
And even though I was away for a year, from Jennifer’s perspective, I was only gone for a few minutes. The remote return module I designed worked perfectly as well.
The Mission
Jennifer told me I was crazy, when I finally explained to her why I invented time travel. I understood her reaction, even if I vehemently disagreed with it.
My plan was simple. I wanted to go back, and convince my mother not to give birth to me. I had it all worked out, preventing my birth would spare me the pain of life.
I was born 6 weeks prematurely in January 1963, and have been paying the price ever since. I was a sickly child, or so I was repeatedly told. As an adult, it has been even worse, and I have suffered from a myriad of unpleasant physical, and mental health issues for my entire life. It was bad, and it was only going to continue to get worse, the older I got.
I never understood why my parents had me. They had been married for nearly a decade before I came along. They couldn’t afford a kid either, yet they had me anyway. I’ve spent my entire life wishing they didn’t. Until I realised, through my breakthrough, that I might be able to do something about it.
I knew abortion back then wasn’t common, but I also knew it wasn’t completely impossible, if one had funds. That’s why I needed the money. It’s also why I invented time travel. I was hoping I could erase myself from existence, along with my discovery.
Time travel is too dangerous, and open to abuse to be allowed to exist. Much like me. I’m dangerous too, and I shouldn’t exist either.
So that was my plan, I was going to travel back in time again, and convince my mother to have an abortion before she told my father she was even expecting. And I had the funds waiting for me in 1962 to pay for it, too.
Jennifer said wishing to erase myself from existence was insane.
I told her I wanted to set time aside, so it would be as if I never existed.
She said what I wanted to do is commit timicide.
Both are pretty clever, setting “time aside”, and committing “timicide”, but maybe Jennifer’s made-up word has the edge.
I told Jennifer if it worked, if I was able to commit timicide, I wouldn’t be returning. I told her there was even a chance I could reset the whole universe, and she might not even remember I existed.
The truth is I wasn’t entirely sure what would happen if it worked, but it was a risk I was willing to take. I told you I was dangerous too.
Whatever the outcome, I told Jennifer that if I wasn’t back 10 minutes after my departure, then my mission was a success, and to be happy for me.
Away We Go
I had everything I needed packed, and ready to go. I was dressed in a retro suit and tie that would blend right into the era.
Jennifer hugged me goodbye, just a little longer than I was comfortable with, and her eyes welled with tears. Does she have a little crush on me? Why am I only realising this now?
I time travelled. I’m not going to describe the tech, or the process, but I can tell you that for me, it was instantaneous.
I arrived in a small park after dark, in the the seaside city of Asbury Park. That could be a song lyric!
I carefully hid my remote return module in the park. No one could find it, unless they knew exactly where, and how to look. It was safe. I checked into the Berkeley Carteret Hotel on the sea front, and got a room with an ocean view.
My family moved to Asbury when I was about 1 year old, so being back there in 1962, about 2 years before I would actually live there, didn’t feel unfamiliar at all. In many ways, it felt like coming home.
We moved out of Asbury in 1967, before the riots, and trouble, and I only lived there for three years. That said, it was the first place I lived on the Jersey Shore. That’s why I chose it. Nostalgia.
The next day, I sold all my stocks, filled my bank account, and bought a late model used car. It was clunky to drive, and lacked the amenities of the future, like power steering, and power brakes, but it was basic transport, and that’s all I needed.
I gave myself a couple of days to enjoy Asbury. It was mid-June, the schools hadn’t broken up yet, and the summer season hadn’t properly kicked off, but the weather was glorious.
I strolled along the boardwalk, ventured into the Casino, and the Palace too. I had hot dogs, I ate burgers, I even had a Kohr’s Frozen Custard. I forgot how much I loved those!
I walked through Convention Hall as well, but nothing was going on there at the time, not even the annual boat show. I walked the length of the entire boardwalk. And I filled my lungs with the fresh sea air. There is no other scent quite like it.
I walked all the way to Ocean Grove, my dad spent his summers there as a kid. We would have still had family there, somewhere in ‘62. It’s a weird Methodist summer camp slash town. It was even weirder back then. You couldn’t drive a car there on a Sunday, it was even illegal to ride a bicycle on the lord’s day within the city limits. I don’t think that changed till the 1970s.
I think I revisited my early childhood because it was the last time I was truly happy, and healthy. Once I hit age 5 or 6, the slide downhill began.
After I had my fill of the Jersey Shore, and my weirdly nostalgic visit across time, I headed for north Jersey, where I would hopefully find my mother.
Hi Mom
I had heard enough stories about my parents’ lives that I had a pretty good idea of where to find them in 1962. Well, not “them”, as I didn’t need to speak to my father. I was hoping to avoid him, and just speak to my mother.
My confidence paid off, as I knew both of my parents worked for the same company back then, Bendix. My mother only gave up her job when I came along, something she occasionally bemoaned during my childhood.
She used to tell me that on warm, sunny days, she would take her lunch break at a park right across the street from her office building. That’s where I found her.
She was sitting on a bench, on her own, at the side of the park. She was eating a sandwich, a small red tartan thermos was next to her on the bench.
As I passed by, I pretended to notice her. I said: “Ann?”
She looked up, and made eye contact. She studied my face. I could sense her feeling that there was something familiar about me, but she couldn’t quite place what it was. She must have thought I was a co-worker. It was a big company, and she was the executive assistant to the president, so most people probably knew who she was.
I asked if she minded if I sat down. She said it’s a free country, and went back to her sandwich. That was my Mom for sure.
I told her I knew her. I told her that her parents’ names were Fiorovante and Anna, and that she grew up in Paterson, and that her husband’s name was Henry, but most people called him Mac. And his family called him Bud, or Buddy…
She stopped me there, and appeared somewhat confused. “How do you know that? Nobody I know, knows his family calls him Buddy.”
“I know everything, Ann. You’re not going to believe me, but I am your guardian angel.”
She scoffed. “What’s your game, buster?”
“No game, I promise you, just some friendly advice. You’re expecting, and I reckon you’ve only just worked that out, and you haven’t told Mac yet, have you?”
She reflexively responded with “I’m just late… And how could you know that? Who are you?” She spat that last part out at me, angrily.
“I told you, I’m your guardian angel. The baby you’re carrying shouldn’t be born. You will have a difficult childbirth, he will have many health problems, and a miserable life. You can prevent all that, and I’m here to help you.”
She teared up, I didn’t expect that.
”So it’s a boy? How do you know all this? How can you be so sure? What if he grows up, and cures cancer? Or goes to the moon?”
“He won’t. And he doesn’t. He will just have a very unhappy life. I don’t believe in curses, but that’s the best way to describe his potential existence. He will be cursed to suffer for his entire life. You don’t want to be responsible for the pain of another, do you? You can prevent all of that if you just listen. You must believe me!”
Ann stood up defiantly, and shouted “Get away from me, you creep. What’s wrong with you? Just leave me alone. Go! Now!”
“No”, I replied as I too stood up. “You don’t understand, you have no idea how terrible his life will be. You can prevent it. And I can help, whatever the cost.”
“You sick man. You weirdo. You want a complete stranger to have an abortion? And you want to pay for it? What’s wrong with you? You sicko!”
“You’re not a stranger, I told you, I am your guardian angel. How else could I know so much about you? I only want to help, and spare that poor born unborn child a horrific life.”
“That’s it mister, I’m done. I’ve had enough of this. I have to get back to work. Don’t ever speak to me again”.
I was flummoxed, and off balance. I didn’t expect this reaction. I don’t know what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.
I instinctively grabbed her arm, and said “wait”, and then I don’t know what came over me, but I punched her in the stomach. Repeatedly. She screamed. I screamed. And then I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, as I was spun around.
Now, standing in front of me was my father. We would have been about the same age, give or take. And he hit me with a roundhouse right, that knocked me unconscious.
Doe
I woke up in a cell, in the local police station. My jaw was broken, and I was pretty bruised up. Even though his first punch knocked me out, my father kept the blows coming, until a couple of cops pulled him off me. Everything hurt.
They searched me while I was still down for the count, and they found my driver’s license, in the name of a child that died 40 years earlier. The cops were laughing about my name, “John Doe”. It’s not my fault that was the name of the dead kid I found.
“Doe, you’re awake?”, said one of the cops. “We’ve got a duty lawyer coming in to speak with you. You’re in a world of trouble, son.”
Of course I am.
The duty lawyer was young, maybe late 20’s, and didn’t seem experienced, but it didn’t matter to me. He explained the charges, and said based on the woman’s statement, I was more likely to be sent to a mental institution, rather than prison, if I put in an insanity plea. If I didn’t, they were going to throw the book at me, and I was going to do hard time in a state prison.
“I’m not insane”, I told him, but he didn’t believe me. And I didn’t blame him for that, since my mother’s statement said I kept claiming to be her ‘guardian angel”, and I urged her to terminate her pregnancy. That does sound kind of crazy when you think about it.
I told the lawyer I could prove I wasn’t insane. I asked him for a piece of paper, an envelope, and a pen, which he pulled from his briefcase.
I scrawled one word, plus two numbers on the paper, folded it, and put it in the envelope. And then I sealed the envelope, and I wrote “Do not open until 16th January 1963” on the front of it.
I told him as well, don’t not open the envelope before that date, I made him promise, that under no circumstances would he open it before the 16th. If he does, it could render this entire exercise pointless. He didn’t understand, but swore to me he would follow my instructions, just the same.
I also told him to watch for a birth announcement from Ann, and Mac in the local newspaper. Their baby was due at the end of February, or very early in March, but I said that he would see the announcement sooner than that. I told him when he saw it, he would understand. That left him even more perplexed, but he noted it on his legal pad.
I could tell he didn’t know what to make of any of this. It probably made him think I was even crazier.
Obviously, I couldn’t explain anything truthfully. I would only sound even more insane than I already do, if I did. I did agree to put in an insanity plea though. There’s a certain insane symmetry to all this.
Guilty by reason of insanity was accepted by the judge and I was sentenced to life at Marlboro Psychiatric Hospital.
I was a model in-patient, quiet, reserved, and well behaved. Docile. The staff all called me “Doe”. The other in-patients didn’t call me anything, as most of them were properly howl at the moon, barking mad. They didn’t sleep under bridges back then, you didn’t find them in train stations, or on the street. In the 60s, the severely mentally ill were institutionalised, and I was surrounded by them.
“Doe, you have a visitor”.
Those were words I never expected to hear. It was the very end of January 1963, and the young duty lawyer who helped me with my plea, had come to see me. I immediately figured I knew why.
He opened the envelope as instructed on the 16th of January, and read what I had written. That one word, plus two numbers.
Yes, that one word, which was my first name. My real first name. I knew it would be the name of Ann and Mac’s baby, who was born on the 15th of January, 6 weeks too early. And the numbers? Four and ten, because that was the baby’s weight, 4 pounds, 10 ounces.
The lawyer was holding the local newspaper, he showed me the birth announcement. “Born to Ann and Mac (redacted) on January 15th 1963, a baby boy, weighing 4lbs, 10oz, named Douglas.”
“How did you know?”, he asked me. “How could you possibly know the date the boy would be born? And his weight? And he was 6 weeks premature. And how did you know they would name him Douglas?”
“This doesn’t prove you’re not insane. I don’t know what it proves, but how the bejesus did you know all this ahead of time? It’s impossible!”
It didn’t make a difference to anything. I was just showing off.
12 Years Later
I’d been in Marlboro for 12 years. It was 1975 now, I’m 52 years old. Nothing had changed, just me. I was older, greyer, sadder, and on even more medication.
My life was pretty miserable before I travelled back to 1963, now it was positively pitiful. I guess I was getting what I deserved. I was a terrible person.
“Doe, you have a visitor”.
It had been 12 years since anyone had come to see me. I wondered who it could possibly be this time, as I made my way to the visitors lounge.
It was my father. He was greyer, and older too. I flinched when I saw him. He held up his hands in a surrender gesture, and said “I just want to talk”. We sat down.
“You’ve been in here for 12 years, keeping her secret. Keeping your secret. Why? You must have worried I might work it out. But why destroy your own life to protect her? What is she to you?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I know my dad, he was sharp, but not so sharp that he worked out my real secret… That I was a tragic time traveller from the future, who fucked up badly.
I didn’t say much of anything. I had no idea what secret of my mother’s he thought I might be hiding by staying in a mental hospital. And I wouldn’t exactly call it “staying’, as leaving really isn’t an option in a secure facility.
That said, the truth is that I probably could have escaped. The security wasn’t that good. And I could have stolen some clothing, hitchhiked back to Asbury Park, located my remote return module in that small park, and travelled back to 2003. But I didn’t. I deserved to be right where I was, and I knew I should live out my days here.
My father spoke over my silence with even more words, that became increasingly angry. He was losing his cool.
“You’ll be pleased to know that I left her, not that it will do you any good in here.”
“Huh? You left her? Why?” I said, somewhat astonished by this unexpected revelation.
He pulled a wallet sized photo out of his pocket, and slammed it on the table in front of me, and said, “Look at it. Look at it!”
I recognised the photo immediately. It was my 6th grade school photo from when I was 12 years old. It looked like a younger version of me, because it was a younger version of me. But I couldn’t explain that to my father, could I?
He drew a reasonable conclusion based on the evidence. The kid looked exactly like the guy they locked up for assaulting his wife, after trying to convince her to have an abortion. He put two, and two together and it added up to infinity.
Clearly, in his mind, I had had an affair with his wife, and I impregnated her. That’s why it took 9 years for her to conceive. He thought he was shooting blanks, and I was the daddy.
He already beat the shit out of me once, but I could tell, if given the chance, he would do it again, and then some. By this point he was seething with rage.
“Nothing to say for yourself? Thought so.” He stood up.
“You’re wrong”, I said. “She would never cheat on you. I can’t explain why your son looks like me, but I promise you, you are his real father.”
“Bullshit. You lie. You liar. I don’t know why I came here. This was a waste of time.” And with that, he turned around, and left without looking back. I never saw him again.
My father was a gentle, happy-go-lucky guy, always smiling, always laughing. He was a great father, he taught me well, took care of me, and treated me with kindness. The man that just visited me was nothing like that.
He wasn’t the man I grew up with, he was bitter, and he was grieving. He was broken, and me breaking his trust with my mother, is what broke him. I could only imagine what growing up fatherless was doing to me.
Meet yourself
I wouldn’t have another visitor for 13 more years, when I turned up to visit myself. It was 1988, I was 65 now. Doug Mark II was 25 years old.
My health continued to decline over the years, I was wheelchair bound, and taking more tablets per day than I could count. I aged badly, and looked older than my years. Haggard is the word that comes to mind when I catch my reflection in a mirror. The ward was even more dilapidated than I was.
“Doe, you have a visitor”.
It was only the third time I’d heard those words since being committed.
The nurse added, “I think it’s your son. He looks so much like you! I didn’t even know you had a son.”
“I don’t”, I said, as she wheeled me into the visitors lounge.
And there he was, it was like looking into a mirror into the past. My past. His clothing was a bit shabby, and his demeanour seemed somewhat rougher than me at that age. His father left the family home when he was 12 years old, that’s bound to have had an effect on him. How could it not?
“You’re not my father”, were the first words out of his mouth.
I said, “That’s right, I’m not. Your real father, is your real father. He got it totally wrong.”
“Yeah, and I paid the price, so did my mother. She doesn’t know, does she? She has no idea who you really are. And he told me he came to see you, so you didn’t tell my father either, did you?”
“No, neither one of them has any idea who I really am. I’m guessing you might by now, though. Am I right?”
Yep, you got it in one, old man. I worked out how to time travel, and you did too. Only you really fucking did it, didn’t you? You fucking fuckwit.”
Well, that’s me told.
“Yes, I’m you, and you’re me.”
“No, I’m not you. Not exactly. Nature, yes, but nurture, no. You grew up with our father, didn’t you? He didn’t leave your family?”
“You’re right. He didn’t. He only left your family because I tried to prevent your birth. And I tried to prevent your birth, because I’ve had a miserable life, and I wanted to spare you that…”
He interrupted, “You wanted to spare yourself that, you never, ever thought of me as a separate, living being. You never thought of me at all, and you created me! Your stupid actions had stupid consequences. Me! I am your consequences. You made my life worse than yours because you couldn’t even erase yourself properly! I can’t believe I’m such an idiot. Did you really think she’d have an abortion, just because you told her to have one? Seriously dude? That’s insane. She would never have done that in a million years. If anything, your little intervention made her more determined to have us!”
He continued, “And I’ll tell you something else. She told me that when we were born 6 weeks prematurely, they gave our mother a choice, to do extreme interventions to keep us alive, or to let nature do its thing. We weren’t meant to be born, and maybe, just maybe, our mother would have made a different choice, and let us go at birth, if you hadn’t messed things up so badly. Did you ever think of that?”
No, I hadn’t, and I admitted as much. Maybe this was the case when I was born too, only my mother never felt the need to tell me. Perhaps time is a coin toss, maybe a different version might have played out where I didn’t survive my birth? And my intervention made my survival more likely? Who’s to say? Time travel is a mind fuck, 100% would not recommend you try it, if you’re ever given the chance.
What I now learned is that I ruined two lives, his and mine. Ours. I ruined our lives. I’ve spent the last 25 years in a stinking mental hospital, and Doug Mark II grew up fatherless from the age of 12. These are not ideal outcomes for either of us, and both were my fault.
“Look, you know why I worked out time travel. I worked it out for the same reason you did, because I want to erase myself. Except now, I want to erase both of us.”
“How do you expect to do that?” I asked.
“How do you think? I’m going to travel further back in time, and kill my son of a bitch father, before he even meets our mother. Which is what you should have done in the first place, asshole. I’m a lot more determined than you were. That’s why you failed.”
He kept going, “You can sit in here till you die, and I can wait until however long it takes to turn the theoretical into the practical, and right your wrongs. Or, if you still have the means, you can send me to the future, and I can use of your perfected tech to travel back further in time, and make sure neither one of us is ever conceived. Let me fix this.”
Doug Mark II
Nine minutes had past since Doug Mark I had left 2003 for 1963, and Jennifer was starting to really panic. It was then that Doug Mark II materialised.
Jennifer was unsure why Doug looked so much younger. Had something gone wrong?
It certainly had, but not with the tech in the way she was imagining.
It took Doug Mark II a moment to get his bearings. “You must be Jennifer, he told me about you. I’m not him. I mean, I am him, but I’m a younger version. Nice to meet you.”
Doug Mark II held out his hand, and shook Jennifer’s. “I know this is weird, but he said I could trust you. He also said you know how to work his machine. I need to take one more trip to fix everything he broke.”
This was a lot for Jennifer to take in all at once, so she just sat down in silence. Time travel was weird enough, but now a different, younger version of Doug had returned. Doug Mark II?
“OK, sure. What do you need?”, was all she could finally muster.
Doug Mark II didn’t tell Jennifer everything, he left out a lot of details that she might find troubling. He didn’t tell her how his predecessor ended up, and he left out how much worse his life was as a result of Doug Mark I’s actions.
He just stressed two things to her: That the new plan was worked out meticulously between both Dougs. And that this Doug had to make it all right, by going back to 1952.
He explained, “Put it this way, right now there are two Dougs too many in the universe, and I’m in charge of Operation Doug-less.”
She didn’t get the joke.
1952
Doug Mark II was legitimately impressed with Doug Mark I’s execution of the time travel discovery. He thought it was simple, and elegant, and he couldn’t have done it any better, or differently himself, given 15 years, and the same funding.
The mission to kill his father was a simple one. Locate, and liquidate the target. Neither Doug was as certain as to where to find their father in 1952, before he met their mother to be. But they had a pretty reasonable guess.
Doug Mark II time travelled to a secluded spot near the offices of the company where they thought their Dad worked at the time.
Doug Mark II was armed with the same pearl-handled .38 revolver Doug Mark I used to stick up a bank in 1958. Doug Mark II wasn’t gifted the gun, and didn’t know it originally belonged to his father. Doug Mark II grabbed it in the lab, after being told where to find it by Doug Mark I when they planned this mission together.
Doug Mark II kept an eye on the office’s large parking lot, from a nearby bus stop. He loitered there, waiting for people to start to leave the building at the end of the day. And when they did, he moved back over to the lot, keeping a keen eye out for a younger version of his father.
Doug Mark II hated his father for leaving his mother, and for leaving him. He always knew his father was wrong, but he didn’t know how he knew. Doug Mark II could sense something was off, but it wasn’t until he worked out time travel that he understood how complicated it all was. Doug Mark II could never forgive his father for doubting his mother’s loyalty, and fidelity. This was retribution, as much as it was an attempt at time correction.
Neither Doug was sure if killing the old man would erase their existences. All they could do was hope if nothing else, it didn’t make things worse.
Doug Mark II spotted Mac as he exited the building. He was heading for an old Chevy, when Doug said “Hey, is that you Mac?”
His father turned around, and said, “Yeah, who are you?”
Doug Mark II was less than 2 yards away from his father, when he drew the gun, and levelled it at him.
His father recognised the gun instantly, he had won it in a shooting contest in the 1940s. He blurted out “You’re going to shoot a man with his own gun?”
“What?” Doug Mark II said, and in that microsecond, Mac lunged forward, and grabbed at the gun. They struggled, and fell to the ground, wrestling for control of the weapon.
A shot rang out, and then a second. And then silence.
Doug Mark II pushed Mac off of him, and up against the Chevy. He stood up, gun in hand. He then sat Mac upright and saw that both bullets had hit him in the chest, his head was drooping to one side, his eyes now open, and fixed.
A few seconds later, one of Mac’s colleagues found his body slumped against the car, and screamed for help.
The gunman, and the weapon were nowhere to be seen, and never found. Mac was dead.
Jennifer
Ten minutes had passed since Doug Mark II had travelled from 2003, back to 1952. She knew if he wasn’t back in 10 minutes, he wasn’t coming back. Still, she waited 2 more hours, before going home.
In that time, she had hoped, prayed, and dreamt that somehow Doug Mark I would return, and not Doug Mark II. But after the first 10 minutes had passed, she would have settled for Doug Mark II. Either was better than neither.
She had a crush on Doug Mark I, but had never told him. She promised herself if he returned this time, she was going to confess to her true feelings.
In her desperation, she even considered confessing her feelings to Doug Mark II, should he return. She was almost exactly between their ages. Doug Mark I was about 8 years older, while Doug Mark II was only 7 years younger. Maybe she could help shape him, make him less bitter than Doug Mark I?
When she returned to Doug’s lab at the research facility the next day, it was empty. All of Doug’s gear was gone. It was like it was never even there.
When she asked other people at the facility about it, no one seemed to know what she was talking about. Jennifer quickly realised that she was the only person to remember Doug’s lab, or Doug.
Jennifer had learned many details about Doug’s life, and family, that she still recalled. She went online, and she searched. All she found was his mother’s obituary. It was in her maiden name.
Ann’s obituary said she left behind many nieces, and nephews.
There was no mention of a husband, or child.
The End
If you enjoyed my short story, there’s plenty more of my work for you to read.
Why not check out my brand new, 4-part series – MTV Redux? It’s about how I started my career in the media with MTV back in the mid-1980s in NYC… But it’s also about a whole lot more.
(All words © Copyright 2023 – Doug – the northlondonhippy. All rights reserved)