I Don't Want To Replay, Ch 1.

I woke up to the familiar sight of my childhood bedroom, with the single bed, the built-in cabinet/desk occupying two entire walls, the four 6' long bookshelves over the desk filled with books and magazines and useful junk.

I start to panic. I must be dreaming. I'm a certified geezer, complete with Medicare and AARP cards. And bad vision, bad hearing, high blood pressure, and knees that haven't allowed me to run or even walk far in years. I haven't seen this room in five decades. Hell, it hasn't even existed for most of that time. I can't be here. If I'm dreaming, I'm not really here. If I'm here, I'm not really dreaming. Why does it feel so real?

Finally I force myself to calm down. I don't remember ever dreaming a panic attack, if that's what this is. One vote for reality. Of course, I would cast an infinite number of votes for this being a dream; this can't possibly be real.

I've read Ken Grimwood's Replay. I've seen Groundhog Day. Pure Hollywood wish-fulfillment fantasy.
Nothing special happened when I went to bed last night. No saying "I wish I were a teenager again" while rubbing an old lamp in an antique shop. No heart attack at my desk. No ancient Chinese guy gasping for breath asking me for my greatest wish. Hell, I couldn't even remember the day of the week; they all run together anymore. I know it was July 2015. It was several days past the 4th, I know that much. I had actually looked at the schedule for fireworks displays locally, even though I didn't bother going to any. I used to enjoy them so much. What changed? When did I become a geezer?

Enough woolgathering. I've never had a dream that felt this logical. OK, if it's a dream, then nothing I think will change anything real and I can't do anything anyway because I'm dreaming. If this is real, then I have to do something reasonable because it will matter. Somehow.

("You know, this sure feels real. You've never had a dream this lifelike. Maybe old Grimwood was onto something."

"Shut up! I'm having a panic attack here and you're trying to be reasonable. Besides, he was on something, not onto something!")

OK, if this is real, when is it? We moved into this house when I was 10 and moved out during spring break my junior year of college. I don't remember when my parents got me the built-in desk, but it must have been only shortly after we moved in because I can't remember what kind of furniture I had before that. So it must be sometime between 1960 and, what, 1973? That's a long time. Time to check out the body. Hmmm. Short, skinny, hair on my head, no muscles, ... . Well, that didn't change much during that time; not much help there. Not much of a morning woody. So, after puberty but not much after. Call it 12 to 14?

Time to reconnoiter more. I'm glad my door is closed; people can't see me yet. As long as I'm quiet, they'll think I'm still asleep. Which was normal for me; I hated mornings back then. Well, I hated pretty much every time, but mornings were the worst. I don't hear much yet; either it's early or it's a Sunday. Look for a clock. No joy. Look for school books. Hah, here they are, obviously undisturbed since I got home. OK, I'm in 7th grade, according to the book covers. 1962-1963 school year.

Fuck! I don't have many fond memories of school before I got to college. This was definitely one of the better years. NOT!

Don't even think about how much of an anachronism that expression is.

Oh, shit. I hear Dad up and around. So much for the idea that it might be Sunday; he always slept late on Sunday. So is this a school day or a Saturday work-at-the-store day? Had he dragged me off to the store on Saturdays that year? I tried so hard to forget those (these?) years; I mostly had succeeded.

Wait; I'm in 7th grade. Does that mean I have to grow up with those miserable excuses for parents again? I survived the first time, but I didn't really come to terms with it until a few years ago. Or most of fifty years in the future.

At least I had gone from thinking of my parents as evil monsters who maltreated their three kids to thinking of them as ordinary grade morons who treated their kids the same fucked-up way their parents had treated them. And the way those parents had probably been treated by their parents. God-whom-I-don't-believe-in knows how many generations back the rot went. At least I hadn't had kids to spread the rot to.

So, God-whom-I-don't-believe-in, what the fuck have you done to me? A predictable universe couldn't have done this to me. Random chance couldn't have done this; it must have been a malicious Intelligent Designer. (Another anachronism. Quit thinking about them. Quit thinking them; they will get me into trouble. Think in the vocabulary and culture of my childhood. Such as it was.) Maybe Chandler was right; God is a malicious bastard who enjoys torturing lesser beings.

I'm not making progress toward figuring out what to do next. I can't hide here all day, much as I'd like to. Much as I wanted to the first time around too, come to think of it.

I can't go to school today. I need some time to figure out what classes I have, where they are, and what material I should know. At least I'm not a sophomore in high school taking geometry. The way they taught geometry, you have to know which theorems you've proved so far and only use those in solving problems. I would try to use theorems we haven't had in the book yet and get graded down. Assuming I could remember enough to solve anything at all.

OK, if today is a school day then I have to fake a sickness or injury. Preferably something to account for my confusion and memory failures. (Do I even remember any of my 7th grade teachers? Much less any classmates? Except for John Christian fucking Martin. At least I don't hate him anymore after we talked at the 25-year reunion and I found out what his parents did to leave him so angry and prone to bullying people. Poor guy. I'd be pissed too if someone raised me in Paris then moved back to this podunk suburb of this podunk city in this podunk state when I was 13. And just starting to notice French girls.) If it's a Saturday, I can maybe fake my way around Dad's store. The store must be the first one on the north side of the city, near the airport; I think Dad moved it out of downtown around the time we moved into this house. I think. Well, I can't drive yet, so I don't have to deal with finding it, where-ever it is. I can fake my way through some things. I'll have to look up the sales tax rate. I hope it's still 5%; that's so easy to calculate in my head.

If today is a school day, I'm not sure what to do. I know Dad drove me to Junior High sometimes; maybe he did it all the time. I took the bus home in the afternoon. (I even remember the bus number and where to pick it up. I used to joke about bus number "8-1/2 and 2/3", which, except for the '8', I made up. I don't remember why or who I made that joke with.)

Well, I could stick my finger down my throat and throw up. That should be good for a day off. But it wouldn't explain any confusion. What I really need is a concussion. But I don't think I know enough to convincingly fake one. Not to mention that I really don't want to hit my head hard enough to leave a bruise. What would I hit it on?

FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK! I DON'T want to DO this. I want to eat breakfast and hide in my room until I either figure out what to do next. Either that or wake up from this nightmare! And I'd really rather wake up. Not that that's much of a change from the first time I lived this.

OK, either I pretend this is real or I treat it as a dream. If this is a dream, I should be able to float up to the ceiling by just thinking hard...

Up. UP. Come ON! UP!
...

So much for floating up to the ceiling. Make that two votes for reality.

Oh. The classic test. Pinch myself!

Ouch! And I actually left a red mark. Three votes.

"Pat! Get your lazy butt out of bed! Don't make me come get you up!"

Shit. What is my mother doing awake at this hour? Most days we didn't have to deal with her until we got home from school. Quit hyperventilating. I've run out of time. I have to do something right the fuck now.

("You know, kids didn't talk that way in the 1960s. Not even very many adults did."

"Didn't I tell you to get lost? I don't have time to deal with this now.")

OK, Time for emergency action. Can I puke?

At least do it in the bathroom. I don't want to clean it up. And my mother certainly wouldn't. Not that I'd want her in my room anyway.

OK, out the door, down the short hall. The half bath is empty.  Does sticking my finger down my throat actually work?

Yes! OK, make it loud so everyone can hear it. I can stay in here for at least ten or fifteen minutes. And delay dealing with this non-nightmare nightmare that much longer.
---

More votes for reality: the feeling of throwing up; the colors of my room; the feel of the sheets on my bed; the feel of the bed; being able to pick up a book; hell, being able to read it. I've never had or even heard about dreams that felt this real.

I think I've bought some time to think and make plans. And maybe take a nap and see if I wake up somewhere else. Or somewhen. IhopeIhopeIhope.

I don't know how I talked my parents into buying me a World Book Encyclopedia. I think I only used it for school work once, shortly after they got it: that great report on coal mines I did in grade school, complete with drawings. But I've spent many days lost in it, reading random articles and lost in a better world. I hope it's going to be a lifesaver this time.

OK, "Ci-Cz"; Clausewitz. Communism. Congo. Concord. Oops, too far. Here it is. Concussion.

... typically results in a temporary loss of consciousness, followed by a memory loss for the events just before and after the injury. More extensive memory loss occurs if the injury is severe.

Yep, sounds like just what I want.

The victim may stop breathing for a few seconds after suffering the blow. In addition, the victim's pulse slows, the muscles relax, the pupils widen, and certain reflex actions disappear.

Hmmm. The only one I can't really fake is the pupils.

... In more severe injuries, the person may not regain full alertness for several days. ... some people develop dizziness, headaches, ringing in the ears, or changes in behavior. ... difficulty concentrating ... may affect ... for months.

OK, I want to fake a severe concussion that affects me for months. I can fake the ringing. God-whom-I'm-slowly-being-forced-to-believe-in knows I've lived with tinnitus for decades after working bucking rivets without hearing protection in that stupid airplane factory one summer. Not to mention the loud rock music. Well, at least the rock music was worth it.

I can't fake my pupils. To have that, I have to have a real concussion, at least a mild one. How can I possibly calibrate the degree of concussion I actually give myself? What if I go too far? I can just see the irony now: I accidentally kill myself trying to fake a concussion trying to hide the fact that I'm a geezer trapped in the body of a teenager.

("Funny; most of your recent life you've felt like a teenager trapped in the body of a geezer. A double irony here? How many more layers can you find?"

"Buzz off. If you can't be helpful, at least shut up.")

I should wait a few hours before I do this. I don't want the memory loss to take out the memory of me deciding to fake the concussion. I might forget to fake worse symptoms than I actually have.

I can make it look good by taking something off the top shelf and dropping it on the floor and draping myself artfully around it, like I had slipped coming down off my desk. That would generate the requisite noise, too. But I have to hit myself at the same time. Or at least before mother comes to investigate the noise.

How do I know when to do this? I must have a clock around somewhere.

Aha, I have been hearing a ticking sound, just very faint. Oh, it's in the drawer. Damn, it's loud. I guess that's why I keep it in the drawer. I wonder when I last wound it? I'd better do that. OK, 8:30am. Dad has taken the other kids to school. Mother has either gone back to bed or is watching TV with the volume down. I guess that fits; she's not very drunk yet. Or maybe it wasn't that bad this year. When was it she spent the evening worshiping at the porcelain throne and me cleaning up after her? I 'm pretty sure it was when she bought something she really wanted and Dad pitched a hissy fit because of the money. Was it the 5' tall rock mosaic of the warrior that hung behind the front door? I remember it cost $75, which was quite a bit of money in 1963.

("Getting pretty off-topic here, aren't you?"

"Damn right! This is a topic I want to stay completely off of. Forever. Of course, if I do wake up a geezer, I can look back at the realistic dream and think for the rest of my short life about what I might have done if it had really been real. I'd love that infinitely more than being trapped here to live it again.")

---

Well, that didn't work out too badly. I think I managed to fool my mother. Dunno about the doctor but he's acting like he believes me. I keep complaining about ringing in my ears and acting confused. They keep shining those bright lights in my eyes; if I didn't have much of a headache before, I've certainly got one now. And they keep waking me up to check me out. I guess they're watching for bleeding in the brain. "Subdural hematoma." I've heard them mutter that a few times, mostly saying they don't see any signs of it.

I also found out what day it is. April 10th. Happy fucking thirteenth birthday. Oy-vay; if only I were Jewish. I could say, "Today, I am a man." And really mean it. Much more than any Jewish kid ever has. I'm drowning in a sea of irony. People probably wouldn't understand if I said, "Today, I am a geezer."

And, yes, it was a school day. Wednesday, to be precise. If I put on a good enough act, I won't have to go back to school until Monday. I'll be able to figure out what classes I'm taking and review at least some of the textbooks.
And maybe I'll either quit having moments of panic. Or I'll wake up somewhen else. Or God-the-malignant will decide that he's gotten all the possible fun out of me. Yeah, right.