Chương 32: Renee (07/22/1982)

DATE: Thursday, July 22, 1982 LOCATION: Carlsbad, California LOCAL TIME: 09: 15 PM | 7-Eleven Payphone The humid summer air smelled of hot asphalt and the syrupy, artificial cherry scent drifting out of the 7-Eleven's open doors. Inside, my dad was trying to decide between a six-pack of Coors and Budweiser. I had told him I was going to wait by the ice machine. Instead, I dragged an empty plastic milk crate over to the bank of payphones on the side of the building, keeping one eye on the glass storefront.

I fed a stolen dime into the slot. I didn't call the police. The police would just send a patrol car to ask questions, and John Landis would charm them away. I needed a bureaucratic kill-shot. I dialed the emergency after-hours line for the California Department of Industrial Relations, cross-routing it with the Los Angeles County Fire Marshal. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"State Labor Board, Night Duty Officer," a tired voice answered. I didn't try to sound like an adult. A six-year-old child calling in a labor violation is an anomaly, and anomalies get investigated.

"My name is Renee," I said, pitching my voice to a frightened, breathy whisper. I used the name of the six-year-old girl who, in my original timeline, was going to be crushed by a Bell UH-1 Iroquois helicopter at exactly 2: 20 AM tonight.

"Who is this? Are you okay, sweetheart?" the dispatcher asked, her tone instantly sharpening.

"I'm at Indian Dunes," I whimpered, gripping the heavy metal cord.

"In Valencia. The movie men gave daddy an envelope with money. They said I have to go in the river tonight. But it's really dark, and the helicopters are flying so low. The bombs are too loud. I'm scared."

"Bombs? Sweetheart, listen to me. What movie is this?"

"The Twilight Zone," I said, forcing a wet, manufactured sob.

"Mr. Landis is yelling. There's no teacher here. Please don't let them put me in the water with the bombs." I didn't wait for her to trace the call. I gently pressed the receiver back onto the hook. Click. I stepped down from the milk crate, kicked it back toward the ice machine, and walked into the bright fluorescent light of the 7-Eleven just as my dad turned away from the coolers.

"Hey, pal," Doug said, walking up to the counter with his beer.

"Grab a Slurpee. We gotta get home."

"Okay, Dad," I chirped, grabbing a paper cup like nothing happened.