Showtime

by Matt Nute

"Look before you leap."

Why did they always say that to me? I mean, they used to. It's not like I ever leaped anywhere I wasn't meaning to. Out of the way, in the way - I always knew where I was going to be, where I had to be. In the limelight, in the line of fire, in the frying pan, out of the frying pan, into the fire, in a pickle, in sync, out of time.

I'm just lucky like that.

When this all started, I didn't remember a lot. I seem to have that problem from time to time. It's like I started knowing nothing, then I learned things, then I remembered, then I forgot, then I was back to nothing again. A blank slate, like a newborn baby.

My wife called me that. 'Baby'. We had one, too. Or - we will have one. I can't remember if she's had the child yet, or if she even will. You see, memory's a funny thing here, because time does really strange things - except when it doesn't.

Now I'm babbling like Spiral, bless her cursed soul. I loved her once, too. But when she was someone different.

Me? Oh, they call me Longshot. And to hear them tell it, I'm the luckiest man alive.

Technically, there's a lot of me alive now, so I wonder which one of me is the luckiest. I ran into a man once who told me that reality was broken. And I laughed at him, because every child knows there's no such thing as 'reality', not really. But he'd never seen the differences in worlds I'd seen, hopping from the media-driven Mojoverse to Earth and back again. I'd met some odd people, both places.

Quark, Doctor Strange, the X-Men... Rita...

And my wife. She was a queen, too. I remember that. I can remember everything about her; her face, the way she smelled, the way she'd elbow me in the chest just before she woke up, the curve of her hip, the sound of her laugh.

Everything except her name.

So I walk along, occasionally crossing paths with myself and comparing notes. I'm always happy to see me, because I've usually got something new to tell myself.

I'm my own biggest fan, how about that?

So I walk along and...

Three, two, one... showtime.

The shift hits like the heat of the floodlights, and I walk to the next stage. The streets change from paneled metal, pitted with rust - to worn cobblestone weaving between bombed-out buildings. The street signs are in a language I don't understand, and...

And my wife loved to wear blue. I remember that now.

Every time I shift, I remember something new. I heard that these shifts take things away from everyone, but for me - they give gifts. And they give a new chance to search another world for her.

I pick up a rock, and ask it if she's been by. Each time, this gets more complicated. At first, I could pick up images from things, where they'd been, where they were going. I could read anything like... like a televideo show.

Each time the shifts passed, it was like trying to watch another channel simultaneously. Now, it's like standing in front of one of Mojo's massive Walls of Video, each set tuned to a separate show. She's on a few, but not the her that's mine.

Sometimes I find someone like her, but she doesn't know me. I don't ask her name, because it's not her, not really. I only want mine. Somewhere, maybe she's looking for me. She can't have forgotten. She can't.

So I walk down the road, wondering if she's passed by. And I see a bar, with a sign still lit. And I remember now, she liked to sing in bars from time to time. Queen of a world, mistress of the stage, and she loved nothing better than a good, throaty torch song.

In the bar, there's just one person sitting on a stool. Not her. I sigh, but keep my spirits up. After all, how lucky can I get to find someone to talk to? For the last three shifts, I haven't seen another living soul. Perhaps this new friend will want to talk.

Or not. He's sitting there staring at his drink. No bubbles in the beer tell me that he's been staring for a good long time. I take a look at him, and he looks kinda familiar. Maybe I've seen him on the vids. Strong jaw, huge arms. Black hair that's grown out into a curl, but hasn't seen a comb in weeks.

I don't know why, but the words "farmboy" come to mind. Then he starts talking, not like a drunk, but like someone who's just lonely.

"Have you seen her?" And I know he doesn't mean my wife, but the one he's missing. The tone of his voice tells me I haven't, and I shake my head. I brush a lock of blond hair out of my eyes and extend a four-fingered hand over to him. He shakes it once, then goes back to staring into his drink.

Me, I just look at the stage. I can picture her there, and for a moment, it's like she really is. I hop off the stool, walk across the bar, and brush some of the dust off of a jukebox. Slowly, I look over at my newfound silent partner and I smile. Get lucky, man.

I ball up my fist and pound the jukebox once, twice, three times. For luck, you see.

It cranks up, a sudden cacophony of sound and light. I remember the way Logan used to always do this in Harry's, and I bounce my hip against the machine. The records slip, clack, and clutter in a random-seeming order. Come on, come on, just give me the song, I ask.

And it starts playing. It's not one of hers, I can tell that. But it's pretty all the same. The words aren't even important, just this woman's voice coming out of the jukebox. Then there's a backbeat, slow, like a heartbeat. The sound's scratchy, but it's got soul. It's all about being lonely, about wanting someone, about wishing on a star.

Then I see the guy on the stool move, like a landslide starting. He pushes himself away from the bar, and turns around. His eyes are closed, and I can tell he's just listening to the music. And then it hits me.

I didn't find her song. I found his. He's moving his lips, singing along quietly. The music catches me, too, and I listen.

Can you read my mind?
Can you picture the things I'm thinking of?
Wondering why you are
All the wonderful things you are...

She's all his wonderful things. I can see it in the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders relax. Because he's thinking about her. Thinking of that first time they met, or the first time they kissed. The song's not bringing her back to him, not right here - but it's bringing back his memory of her, pure as the first time, strong as the last time.

The song winds down, and the jukebox slowly fades into a dull drone, then stops. The lights blink once, twice, then out. For a moment, we can both hear the dust settle, then a slow rumble in the distance.

Another shift. He cocks his head, like he can hear where it's coming from, or maybe where it's going. Maybe it'll bring him to her.

I fish around in my pocket, and drop a dollar on the bar by his untouched drink, one traveler settling a tab for another. He smiles, kind of embarrassed, then reaches into his jacket.

"What was her name?" I ask him, hoping that the shift roaring towards us will give me my answer as well.

The noise of the shift grows closer, and he smiles, placing a pair of simple black-framed glasses over his eyes. His fingers brush the one errant spit-curl at his forehead, and he laughs gently. A mild-mannered sound that tells me everything about him.

"Her name," he says, "is Lois."

The shift hits.

Three... two... one...

Showtime.

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