The Man Who Folded Himself (21 page)

And again he tries to talk me out of it.

Damn him anyway!

Somewhere there is a Dan who is getting older and older. And he's working his way back through time, chasing Diane.

And each time Diane is that much younger and he's that much older. The gulf between them widens.

Oh, my poor, poor Dan. But he won't listen. He just won't listen.

I'm afraid to think of where he is heading. He'll work his way back through all the days of Diane, and every day she'll reject him. And Dan, poor Dan, he'll experience them all. Each time she rejects him will be the last day she'll spend in the fading past. So every day he'll go back one more day, and every day he'll be too old for her—

Until he gets back to the very first day. And then she'll be gone. There won't be any Diane at all. Just a memory.

And, in the end, he'll be there waiting for her—even before the first Danny. Waiting patiently for her first appearance, trying to recreate his lost love. But she won't show up. No, she'll have warned herself. Don't go back in time looking for a variant Diane. A grizzled old ghoul waits for you. No she'll never come back at all.

Poor Dan. Poor, poor Dan.

And yet, the one I feel sorriest for is young Dan. He'll never know what he's missing.

Because, when he gets there, there won't be anyone there at all.

He'll never have a Diane. Ever. Old Dan will have chased them all away.

I wish I could change it all. I wish I could.

But I can't.

Dammit.

Now I know what it's like to have an indelible past—one that can't be erased and changed at will. It's frustrating. It's maddening. And it makes me wish I had been more careful and thoughtful.

But when you can erase your mistakes in a minute, you tend to get careless.

Until you make one you can't erase.

I feel uneasy because I think I didn't try hard enough, and yet, I can't think of anything I didn't do. I tried everything I could do to stop old Danny.

But it wasn't enough, and now I'm left with the results of what he's done.

We're all left with those results.

I could find young Danny in a minute, and I could warn him to go back to Diane right away, before it's too late, before he gets too old; but it wouldn't do any good. All he would find would be old Danny, sitting and waiting. Sitting and waiting.

Diane is gone. Forever. There's no way we can reach her. Old Danny has seen to that.

And there's no other place to look for her.

Any time. Any place. Any when that Diane might have thought to visit, there's an old Danny. Sitting and waiting.

I'll never see my Diane again.

(Can I content myself with Danny? My Danny? I'll have to.)

And yet, I wonder....

Perhaps somewhere there is an older Diane, one who has aged like me. . . .

I wonder how I might find her.

Ah, but that way lies old Danny and madness.

It's not the answer.

There is a party at my house, the big place in 1999, a time when you could still buy privacy. A hundred and fifty-three acres of forest, lake, and meadow. I don't know how many me's there are. The number varies.

The party is spread out across the whole summer. Several days in April and May, quite a few in June and July, and also some in August. I think there may be a few in September too. Generally, it starts about ten in the morning and lasts until I don't know when. It seems as if there's always a constant number of Dans and Dons arriving and leaving.

It's like Grand Central Terminal, with passengers arriving and departing all the time, to and from destinations all over the world. Only, all the passengers are me and all the destinations are the same place, only years removed.

The younger Dans show up in May and June. They like the swimming and water-skiing and motorcycling. They like the company of each other.

I prefer July. Most of the younger versions have faded by then. They're too nervous for me and they remind me too much of—Diane. They're too active, I can't keep up with them, and sometimes I think they're talking on a different plane. I prefer the men of July; they're more my age, they're more comfortable, and they're more moderate. We still do a lot of swimming and riding; I remember, I used to enjoy that very much; but most of the time we just like to take it easy.

I don't like the men of August. I've been there a few times, and they're too sedentary. No, they're too old. They just sit around and drink. And talk. And drink some more. Some of them look positively wasted.

Actually, it's the men of late August I really don't like. The men of early August aren't that bad. It's just the old ones that bother me. Some of them are—filthy. Their minds, their mouths, their bodies. They want to touch me too much. And they call me their Danny, their little boy. (Several of them even seem senile.)

The men of early August are all right. They make me a little uncomfortable, but lately I've been visiting them more and more. Partly because it seems as if the younger men are taking over July and partly because I'm in August enough now to compensate for the older ones.

Several of them are very nice though. Very understanding. We've had some interesting talks. (And that surprises me too—that there are still things I can talk about with myself. I had thought I would have exhausted all subjects of conversation long ago. Apparently not.)

In the evenings we go indoors (there's a pool inside too) and listen to music (I have several different listening rooms) or play poker, or billiards, or chess.

When I get tired (and when I want to sleep alone), there's a chart on the wall indicating which days and which beds are still unused. (The chart covers a span of several years. Well, I have to sleep somewhere….) I make a mark in any space still blank and that closes that date. Then I bounce to that point in time. (Generally I try and use those days in serial order. I have servants in the house then and it wouldn't do to confuse them.)

I'm still doing most of my living in the eighties, but when I'm in the mood for a party—and that's been more and more lately—I know where to find one. The poker games, for instance, are marathons. Or maybe it's only one poker game that's been going on since the party started. Whenever I get tired and want to quit, there's always a later me waiting for the seat.

But my endurance isn't what it used to be. I get tired too fast these days. That's why I find the men of August so restful.