#pinecrestsquarevince

A Navy ship was the last thing I expected to find in the fire lane. Once per shift, we have to walk a lap around the outside of the mall. It’s like a ceremonial thing more than anything else. The worst thing I usually find is trash on the sidewalk. Not today.

I’m coming around the corner behind Macy’s when I hear a big “whoomp” and see a misty green fog pile up on the ground, and then a huge ship appears right in the parking lot. In the fire lane, specifically. It made a grinding noise as it settled on the pavement and leaned to the side. It smelled like rust and dead fish. Had “DE-173” painted high on the port bow. I recognized it as a Navy destroyer escort. Never expected to see one illegally docked in the fire lane.

I look around. Somebody else must be seeing this, right? The parking lot was empty except for a scattering of employees’ cars, and some seagulls squabbling over an empty Shake Shack bag. Except the seagulls were silently frozen mid-air, mid-peck, mid-squawk.

Suddenly, I hear screaming, the real serious kind, so I drop my radio and run to the ship. The top half of a man in an old-fashioned sailor’s uniform is sticking out of the ship’s hull. Not sticking out through a porthole. Stuck in the hull itself. I don’t know what’s going on with his bottom half. I guess he doesn’t either.

I lunged towards him, reaching into the green fog. It felt like electrified syrup. I grabbed the sailor’s hands and tried pulling him free. The sailor looks me right in the eyes, begging for his life. I’ll be seeing his face in nightmares for the rest of my life. I feel a pulsing, like gravity is wobbling, like I’m playing tug-of-war with the destroyer escort. I’m hanging onto the sailor for dear life, then I’m falling face-first into the void.

I landed on my hands and knees, hard. I wasn’t lying in a parking lot, I was inside, on a polished concrete floor. My brain identified it by smell before my eyes could catch up and process everything: I was in a 7-11. It smelled like sweaty hot dogs rolling under a heat lamp, stale coffee, and despair. The clock on the wall tells me it’s ten minutes ago. The store is empty except for the clerk at the register. She’s giving me a sour look, like I was the weird one here.

I grab a newspaper off the rack. I’m staring at it, trying to figure out why it has a bunch of news about Virginia Beach on the front page when there’s another feeling like someone twisted the universe like a balloon animal, and I’m back in the mall parking lot.

The ship is gone, the green fog is gone, and no one’s screaming. The only differences are I’m soaked in sweat, I have today’s newspaper from Norfolk Virginia in one hand, a button from the sailor’s uniform in the other, and my radio is on the ground in a dozen pieces. Over the ringing in my ears, I can hear the seagulls fighting over stale French fries. Situation normal.

The only thing I ever want from these situations is proof. The button and my newspaper aren’t proof to anyone but me, but that’ll have to do.

So there I am, minding my own business, eating the sandwich I packed for lunch, watching the security cameras, when I see a scuffle break out at a kiosk between Lush and the sneaker store.

I got up from my desk and slogged down to the kiosk. It’s all the way the other side of the mall, of course. Halfway between Starbucks and the east entrance. What can I say? I need this job.

I shuffle down to the kiosk. It sells bee stuff - candles and soap, that kind of thing. I hate this part of the mall. It reeks of Cinnabon. I find the employee glaring at a little old lady. The employee starts loudly explaining how this little old lady was trying to steal propolis (whatever that was), and the little old lady claimed she was a time traveler who needed “tinctures” (whatever those are) so she could save the world.

The whole time, the little old lady was standing there with her jaw set and her fists full of those little brown glass bottles with the squeeze bulb on top. Tinctures, I guess. Bee stuff. I don’t know. She wasn’t trying to get away, but she also wasn’t about to drop her loot.

When Karen finally ran out of steam, I turned to the little old lady. “Hey, lady, why don’t you come with me down to the office, and we can sort this out. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding, right?”

I had at least a foot and a half on her, but she squared her shoulders and glared up at me like a prize fighter. Having grown up with a healthy respect for my nana, my instinct was to take a step back. Luckily, my 25 years of career military and professional training kicked in, and I held my ground.

“My name is Evelyn Burroughs. You may address me as Mrs. Burroughs.”

“Fair enough, Mrs. Burroughs. Please put the bottles down and follow me.”

She launched into this whole cockamamie story about how she was a time traveler from the future, and they had a critical need for propolis, and she would be snapping back into the future in 32 minutes, thank you very much young man.

I knew better than to contradict her. “Okay, Mrs. Burroughs,” I rested my hands on my utility belt. “But we’re causing a disturbance having this conversation out here in the middle of the mall. How about if you come with me, we sit in my office and have a chat, and your spaceship can pick you up there.”

My feet were killing me, and I’m sure hers were, too. The mall’s terrazzo floor is murder on these old joints. I could tell my appeal to her sense of dignity hit home, too. She glanced around and seemed to realize for the first time that she was causing quite a scene.

I told Karen I would return her bottles of bee stuff later. Karen wanted me to grab them out of the old lady’s hands, but we both knew I’m not allowed to touch people as part of my job, and the little old lady wasn’t about to let go of the goods.

I walked Mrs. Burroughs all the way back to the security office. She was acting like a real tourist the whole time, saying things like “Oh my!” or “Would you look at that?” Like she’d never been in a mall before. I figured she was just trying to sell the bit. Working it a little too hard, if you asked me, but at least she wasn’t making more trouble.

Once I closed the door behind us, she had a proposition for me. “I’ll leave right now if you come with me,” she said. “Here, hold my hand.”

I sighed. If this is what she needed to get this over with, then fine. I took her hand. She smiled. I felt a sliding sensation like the whole world tipped hard to the left and went dark. When I opened my eyes, I was in the future.

You’re not going to believe me, but that doesn’t change it. I was definitely in the future. It smelled better, for one thing. I was in the same office, but I was sitting in a new chair I didn’t recognize. The lighting looked amazing, like we were outside on a sunny afternoon. The ancient coffee maker on the counter had been replaced by a big sleek stainless steel appliance with a bunch of buttons. Some squat little thing on my desk whirred like a fan. Maybe it was some kind of high-tech air purifier. Maybe that’s why the room smelled so much better.

Mrs. Burroughs grinned as she watched me goggling around just like she had on our walk back. Then she stood up, tucked all the little bottles into her pockets, and held out a ticket. When I took it, she tapped me on the wrist. When she did that, I felt that sliding feeling again, and then I was back in my office, holding a used lottery ticket dated two years from now. The ticket was a loser, but someone had written the winning numbers on the back in tidy, fancy old lady handwriting.

Like I said, I’m sure you don’t believe me, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen the future. It smells nice. There’s a little old lady who really needs bee stuff, but I don’t know why. And when I win the lottery in 19 months, maybe you’ll change your mind.