My girlfriend and i are in the ocean; we are receiving instruction from a man intent on teaching us to kayak against the currents. We are up to our waistlines in swirling, salty water. The wind defies the sun with its cooling whip across our backs.
Our teacher looks over his bare shoulders from time to time, eyeing the clouds on the horizon which hang low and darkly. I sense his concern, and within a few minutes, he’s inistent: “Ok, we have to get out of the water.”
We head up the dunes to find higher ground, and looking back over the horizon, i see the hurried advance of the stormfront. It had descended upon us much quicker than i thought possible, winds whorling in that frantic way that often predicts an impending hurricane.
We pitch my tent, and as we do so, a Jamaican family paddles to shore nearby in a small, wooden boat. They don’t even have to ask–they will be riding out the storm with us in the tent, our common desperation to survive binding us. Mother, Father and their child (Boy or girl? I can’t be sure) clamor into the tent, my girlfriend and i right behind them.
They’ve brought with them a small, portable record player. The exterior of its suitcase-style enclosure is that avocado green that bled from the 1970s, its texture one of burlap. Inside, a marigold deck supports a gooved, black turntable. Swing arm to match.
The interior of the tent is surprisingly spacious! About 20′ by 20′, i guess, and with plenty of head room. Quite comfortable, actually. We feel warm, dry, and secure, despite the distant-feeling sounds of the storm, which is (no doubt) right on top of us.
I’m talking intently with my girlfriend. She has brown eyes and hair, shoulder-length, and wears a salmon-coloured sun dress over her black bikini, tanned skin and bare feet. We’re discussing life, the universe, and everything. The other people in the room–our teacher, and the Jamaican family–have faded from each of their respective corners into non-existence.
But the record player remains, sitting between her and i, in the centre of the tent, turning constantly, but too slowly to play and 33s or 45s. I fumble with a switch on the side of the machine. The record comes to a stop and then begins to move in reverse.
As the record player spins backwards, so does…time.
I hear our conversation in reverse, and flipping the switch, I hear it forward for a second time. I feel my lips moving and hear the words come out. I see her lips move and make the same sounds i heard earlier…only this time i know in advance what will be said. She is aware of this phenomenon as well.
Both of us appear to be “aware” of time, observing these events as they occur, and unable (or not even wanting) to change them. And so as the record player goes back and forth, nothing changes save our perspective.
Using my hand i spin the platter with vigor–a thousand spins forward, two-thousand spins back, and we watch–unharmed–as the word rises and falls around us, never losing the safety of our spacious tent.
I begin to wonder how my manipulation of myself within the timeline affects my own timeline. Or how it could be possible?
—
Man, i really want that record player =)