Time Shifting

By Cal Sikstrom

I was in an experimental mood coming out of Biosciences near midnight. I had been in my zoology lab observing the gonopodial thrusting of male green swordtails. I locked the lab door and left the building holding the thumbnail sized key to my newly painted ’61 MGA. I was really tired but brightened when I saw Jingles’ ’63 Austin-Healey in the parking lot. “Why not a beer?” I thought. Dinnie’s Den would be open late. Jingles would never leave until closing time.

I unlatched my car door. While I had been busy preserving my car, Jingles had torn his apart, jamming a 283 Chevy V8 engine into it. And there it was, parked next to my MG. It was hand-painted Union Tractor orange and only half assembled.

I thumbed my ignition key, which I knew looked a lot like the one Jingles carried. Both were worn smooth by years of use. “Those switches must be pretty worn too,” I thought. “How different could two British sports cars be?”

There was only one way to find out. I climbed into Jingles’ car. My key turned easily. The ignition light glowed steady red. I pushed the starter button. The Healey ran rough at first, with the deep rumble of straight exhaust pipes, but she smoothed as the engine warmed up.

Why not take her for a spin?

The transmission tunnel was uncovered to fit a Powerglide automatic transmission. A lever arm stuck out close to the gas pedal on the left side of the bell housing. Jingles had not yet installed a shifter. I used my right foot to kick the lever up and down. I kept the brakes on with my left foot while I found the two forward gears.

At this point I was having a good time. This was April. The parking lot was empty, and Jingles wouldn’t turn down another beer. I idled onto East Collegiate Drive. In the sky was a formation of a warm Chinook arch stretching to the moon. I was in convertible heaven.

At the university entrance, I turned on to 24th Avenue, where I wondered if maybe Einstein was wrong. Maybe this Healey could travel faster than light? Right?

It sure felt that way with its flared rear fenders, slick tires, and V8 horsepower. I pressed deep into the accelerator and the slicks spun like gyroscopes, despite being designed for maximum traction. They seemed to stabilize the beast: keeping it on a straight line.

At the university’s west entrance I applied the brakes and turned up Collegiate Avenue again. “Maybe I could give Jingles a ride back to the lot. Boy would he be surprised!”

I revved the engine, turning up Collegiate towards Student’s Union and the Den. I was still laying rubber as I neared the loop. The last bus of the day was approaching on the other side of the road divider. I tried to downshift with my foot. Some glide! I accidentally shifted into reverse. The wheels locked up. My amygdala shifted into high gear.

Swerving left and screeching right, I jumped the curb divider. My brain constructed a new dimension. Burning rubber gyroscopes seized. Sodium-yellow street lamps—now monochrome—a visual disagreement. City bus approaching at twice Healey speed. Faces with mouths gaping. Lamp post just missed. Back to full color. I yanked the banjo steering wheel right. Slow motion spinning. Boulders like marbles. Distorted duration. Shoulders shaking the three-point seat belt.

The silence of a dead engine. Loud clicking turn-signal. Enhanced temporal resolution. Flash bulb memories of a red ignition light. Head spinning. Time to reset my amygdala and re-start the car.

I nursed the wounded beast off the boulders and back to Biosciences. What to do? The front sway bar was broken, and the car leaned that way. It sounded like a tractor. Jingles was wobbling up the walkway towards me.

“Hey, what’s happenin’ man?”
“Waiting for you,” I said.
“How come?”
“You and Healey are in no shape to drive home…”
“Am too.”
“No, you’re not… Hand me your keys…”

I pointed. He fumbled in his jeans pocket and pulled out his keys. I held out my hand and he dutifully gave them to me. I used them to start my MGA. Then, I drove him home while he smoked a joint and stared at the moon.

Almost a Darwin Award for me that night. Not only did I distort time, but I kept Jingles safe. I had nothing more to prove: my MGA key fit his Healey ignition and his Healey key fit mine.

“Somethin’s goin’ on here,” Jingles mused.

“Right on. Right on,” I replied.