It was late day in Santa Rosario, warm and muzzy and orange like a clementine. Randy Whitt walked home from the corner gas station with a sweaty bottle of cream soda and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. It was Friday. He was ready to be done with it all.

 

Randy's apartment was on the second floor of a "gated" horseshoe complex, dimpled in the middle by a greenish, dead leaf and chlorine stew that was supposed to be a swimming pool, though nothing ever swam in it besides the occasional dead raccoon. The air was chemical and electric. It was almost definitely going to rain.

 

Half the cream soda was gone by the time Randy had locked the front door and made his way to the armchair in front of the TV. The pack of cigarettes was unmolested - an impulse purchase. Randy hadn't smoked in years.

 

As the TV winced and popped to life, the door shuddered. Randy flinched, sending the cigarettes flying. Three knocks.

 

Probably that cross-eyed Asian lady from downstairs, thought Randy. He'd never bothered to learn her name. She didn't have a phone and Randy had made the mistake of letting her use his that one time. Now it was a thing. So he lurched to the door, already feeling the day settling into his joints like a cold fluid. He wouldn't make it past 8pm.

 

It wasn't the cross-eyed Asian lady, though. It was a young man in a suit and tie.

 

"What?" said Randy, less to be rude, and more because his brain couldn't seem to find any other words in that moment.

 

"Hi!" said the man. He had short brown hair and big, straight teeth. He was just about Randy's height, too, and not shy about eye contact. "Randy Whitt?"

 

Randy frowned. "I don't know you."

 

"I need to talk to you about something," said the man. "Name's Olen."

 

"That Swedish?" said Randy.

 

Olen shrugged. "No idea. Can I come in?"

 

Randy held his ground in the door frame. "Why? What about?"

 

Olen took a breath. "Well, actually, I'm something of a salesman..."

 

The door thwanged and reverberated, as Randy's attempt to slam it shut was met with immediate resistance.

 

"What the hell kinda shoes are those?" said Randy, looking down at the saleman's foot, wedged firmly between the door and the jamb.

 

"Special polymer. Always come prepared. It won't take that long - please, Randy?"

 

There was a resolve there, written on the saleman's face - a deep, deep desperation. Randy could tell that "No" wasn't gonna cut it.

 

"Be quick," said Randy, walking away from the door. Olen followed him into the living room.

 

"So," said Olen, pulling out a briefcase. "I sell insurance."

 

"Oh fuck me," sighed Randy. It was the cross-eyed Asian lady all over again. The talkative Mexican guy who'd "borrowed" Randy's laundry card all over again. The foreman who'd asked for help adding a deck onto his house, and never paid - never even hired Randy again - all over again. Randy Whitt being a sucker all over again.

 

"This is different," said Olen. "It's Time Insurance."

 

Randy blinked. "Most people call that Life Insurance and it's not anything new."

 

"Different kind of time," said Olen. "Time displacement insurance."

 

"That's..." Randy shook his head. "You lost me."

 

Olen cleared his throat. "So. Time travel..."

 

"Fuck me," said Randy, burying his head in his hands. "Can you just stab and rob me already?"

 

"Time travel is coming," said Olen. "Pretty soon, actually. And I should know... I'm from the future. Well, your future, my present."

 

Randy nodded. He was coming to terms with the ruination of his Friday night. Now there was nothing to do but ride out the storm.

 

"I represent a firm that has been authorized to sell insurance policies tailored to cover losses or damages incurred in the event of any time travel-related disturbances or phenomena."

 

Randy raised his hand. "Right. So, if you can time travel, wouldn't selling insurance be - you know - highly unethical, because - you know - time travel?"

 

Olen nodded. "If I were insuring against known events - things that we know to have happened or not happened - that would be illegal. This insurance is against losses that may occur as a result of people - other people - altering time. Damages you... you wouldn't necessarily be aware of."

 

Randy crawled across the floor, retrieving the pack of cigarettes. Now felt like a good time to relearn an old skill. "...absolutely no idea what the hell you're talking about."

​

"People will begin traveling soon," said Olen. "In a manner of speaking, people already are traveling. The world is re-written constantly as a result of this tinkering. Lives happen... and then... don't. Do you see? Something happens, and then someone may go back in time, and that thing can no longer happen as a result. There are risks involved - risks that we haven't exactly sorted out yet. But, I can assure you, in the future steps will be taken to fix some of the mistakes that will be made - that have already been made. A tribunal will be formed. Time will be reviewed, and there will be a way to see what was lost. That's the idea here. This insurance covers you in the event that something is lost as a result of all this unchecked traveling. And... and you can get a lot of money if the policy pays out. Do you get it?"

 

"I don't have anything to lose," said Randy, chuckling as he scoured his drawers for a lighter. "I only have renter's insurance because it's required. Frankly, I don't have a single thing worth anything. Time traveling can have it all."

 

Olen swallowed. He was sweating. Shaking. "We've already been going back. There's no period that's safe. I really think you should get the insurance."

 

Randy found his old lighter at the far back of the junk drawer. It was white and had a Metallica sticker on it. Christ, how old was it? It felt like an artifact from another lifetime.

"They can feel free to fuck up every single second of my life," said Randy. "Really. I don't care."

​

The briefcase clattered to the floor. Randy jumped at the sound, dropping the lighter.

 

"My father's name is Michael Weston," said Olen. "Do you know that name?"

 

Randy frowned, dropping to his knees, reaching under the cabinet where the lighter had fallen. "Vaguely."

 

"My mother is Abby Rich."

 

Randy shot up, though his arm was still under the cabinet. "Ow! Abby? Really?"

 

Olen nodded. "Michael Weston didn't have any kids."

 

"But you just..."

 

"The first time," said Olen. "But as an old man, my father went back, and he changed some things, and as a result, he and Abby Rich got married. And they had me and my two sisters."

 

"Huh," said Randy, rubbing his forearm. "Good for you."

 

"The first time," said Olen, struggling, quaking. "The first time, though, Abby already had a family."

 

And there it was. Randy could see it. He could see it all. Like a memory of a life he'd never lived. A house he'd never seen. Two kids he'd never known. And Abby Whitt.

 

"No," said Randy. "That's..."

 

"You could make a lot of money," said Olen, softly. "I don't know what else to do for you. I don't know how else to fix it."

 

"That's... I didn't marry Abby," said Randy. "I didn't. So... yeah. That's nothing. It never happened."

​

He forgot about the lighter and struggled up to his feet. "I need to get to bed soon, alright? I'm sorry. I don't... I don't want your insurance."

 

Olen wavered a moment, then bent down and retrieved his suitcase. "Are you sure?"

 

"Yeah, yeah," said Randy, annoyed at the thickness of his own voice. "I appreciate the offer, but... like I said, I don't have anything worth insuring. And... what does money get you, anyways?"

 

"Right," said Olen. "I understand. I'm... I'm sorry."

 

"Nah," said Randy, leading the young man to the door. "Nothing to be sorry about. Just... take care of yourself, I guess. And maybe say hi to your mom." Randy laughed. "I'm thinking she probably doesn't remember me."

 

"I'm sure she does," said Olen, stepping through the door. "In fact, I know she does. Good night, Randy."

 

"Good night, Olen," said Randy. "Good luck."

 

He closed the door and stood there a while. He briefly felt ashamed of his sadness - like he was crying over a movie or a book. A work of fiction. A thing that never actually happened. But that was okay. That was fine.

 

Sometimes it was okay to be sad about things that never happened. If only for a little while.