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My Time Machine

By November 19, 2012Depression

I built a time machine in my mind: my flux capacitor, 1.1 gigawatts of a synapse between the neurons of my brain. I am my own DeLorean, the vessel with which I travel about time.

How would I go about changing the space-time continuum? What would I do or say? Could I be the Ghosts of Christmas Future, take David with me, and show him the follies in his ways? Could I be Clarence the Angel in It’s a Wonderful Life, grant David his wish, and show him the impact he has had on so many?

I have a vivid imagination. I have been blessed with the ability to shift my vision to that of the director, able to see the specific shot and lighting. Able to create the perfect script and dialogue that provides me the opportunity to accept a little golden trophy after the box office release:

I sit in my seat, the cameras upon me while Morgan Freeman reads off the nominees. “And the award for Best Picture goes to…” The dramatic pause, the cameras pan to my face on the big screen among the other nominees. I play it cool and try to pretend as if this is just any other day. Morgan looks right at me and says “Life is Priceless.”

Applause and booming cheers! The instrumental soundtrack we used for the opening scene plays in the background. As I make my way to the stage, I stop and quickly shake hands with Scorsese and Tarantino. I give a quick kiss on the cheek of Scarlet Johansson and Mila Kunis who just happen to be sitting next to each other. George Lucas extends his hand to me, but I walk by. I’ll never be able to forgive him for what he did to the Star Wars franchise… “Damn Jar Jar Binks,” I think to myself. As I walk onto stage, I give a quick presidential point to Spielberg and Streep.

“I would like to thank the Academy,” I say, just as I practiced in the hotel room earlier that day. “David would really appreciate what we have done… I sure wish he was here to see it. I also want to thank my aunts and all my friends and family who made this day possible…” I find myself babbling away, trying to remember all the people who made this day possible. The wrap-it-up music begins to play, and I am highly aware my seven seconds are quickly expiring. Did I blow it? Tom Cruise and Jack Black are walking towards me to show me off stage. I think to myself, “Tom really nailed the essence of who David was, but I thought Jack could have done a better job portraying me.” I hold my little trophy up high, a small group of tears welling up inside as I wave and walk towards the two leading men who tried to portray our lives.

We walk off the stage together. The house lights go down, and the live-broadcast orchestra comes on as national TV runs the spots as they prepare for the final act of the night. I shake hands with Morgan and thank him for his work. We make some small talk about Shawshank, and I find that unmanned double-steel door that I imagine exists at all venues, through which I am able to walk out into the night air to a limo that is conveniently waiting for me without any paparazzi seeing me.

I step into the limo and sit down. The driver pulls off, and I find myself staring at the little golden trophy in my hand. I crack the window to let air in just enough so that no prying eyes can see me. I look out the tinted window, watching the streetlights become tracers as we build speed.

I roll down the window and throw the trophy out the window. As if in slow motion, it tumbles to the ground, the asphalt snapping Oscar from his base. A sad song begins to play as they pan from the broken little trophy to my face. Tears streaming down my cheeks. I look forward towards the driver as I roll up the window. “Doc (that’s the limo drivers name), change of plans. I need you to take me back to reality.” Doc complies, and I feel the acceleration of the limo slowly creeping towards 88 miles per hour.

I look up to the control panel, the date clearly locked in October 15, 2011. I’ve got some unfinished business.

The Mask
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