Chapter One Jeff.Before Winston died, he was on the phone with his wife. The wife was talking about what we needed, but Jeff couldn't hear what they needed anymore, something heavy hit him in the chest and he took his last breath.The phone slipped from his hand and shattered the cellophane weight on the desk. A week ago, she said something similar, she said, Jeff, do you know what we need?Then there was a pause, a noticeable pause, but not like this fatal pause that was endless and inalterable.He was sitting at the dining table, the breakfast nook Linda always called, although it wasn't a separate space at all, just a small Pyrex table and two chairs awkwardly placed to the left of the refrigerator and the dry room. In the corner in front of the clothes machine.Linda was chopping onions on the sink when he said this, maybe the tears in the corners of his eyes gave her question more weight than originally expected, so he felt the need to think about it.

Jeff, do you know what we need? He should have been reading Hugh.Sadie wrote her TIME column discussing the presidential election, responding to her in a casual, unconcerned tone, What do we need, honey?But Jeff wasn't distracted that day, and he didn't give damn about Sadie's bullshit.In fact, he hadn't been so focused and focused in a long, long time.So he didn't say a word for a few moments, just staring at the fake tears in the corner of Linda's eyes, trying to think about what he and she need? They needed to get out and get some fresh air, a change of life, a flight to some warm, green island, maybe Jamaica, or Barbados.They haven't had a good vacation since their long-planned and somewhat disappointing trip to Europe five years ago.Jeff didn't count the annual trips to Florida, visits to his parents in Orlando and Linda's family in Boca Raton were nothing more than visits to a past that kept fading away.No, what they need is a week or a month to go to a decadent and depraved exotic island to enjoy themselves: having sex on endless stretches of uninhabited beaches, listening to reggae music in the air like the aroma of fiery red flowers at night.

A nice house would be a good idea, too, maybe a mansion on the Montclair Mountain Drive, which they longed for so many times they drove by on Sundays.Or the house in White Plains, a twelve-room Tudor on Ridgeway Avenue, near the golf course.It's not that he wants to play ball, but compared to the houses on the slopes of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway or the landing flight of LaGuardia Airport, the lazy greens called Maple Fields and Westchester Hills are better. It is a more pleasant living environment. They needed a baby too, and Linda was probably more anxious than he was.In Jeff's imagination, their unborn child was always eight years old, skipping the insatiable infancy but not yet the annoying adolescence.A good kid, not overly pretty or old.It doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl, as long as it's the two of them, he asks amusing questions, sits too close to the TV, and occasionally has a developing personality in his demeanor.

But they will not have children.They had known it was impossible for years, starting with Linda's ectopic pregnancy in 1975.Nor can they afford houses in Montclair or White Plains.Jeff's position is the news director of the WFYI all-news radio channel in New York. In fact, his reputation and income are not as loud and lucrative as it sounds.Maybe he should jump ship to TV, but at the age of forty-three, that's unlikely. We need, need to talk, he thought.They need to look each other straight in the eye and simply say: We can't go on.Romance, passion, good plans, none of them work.Everything has become bland, and there's no one to blame.That's how it happened.

Of course they didn't talk.This is their greatest failure. They rarely talk about their deepest needs, never touch the incompleteness that always exists between the two of them. Linda wiped away meaningless tears from the onion with the back of her hand.Did you hear what I said, Jeff? Yes, I hear you. What we need, she said, looking in his direction but not on him, is a new shower curtain. In the phone call before he was about to die, nine times out of ten, what she wanted to express was only this level of needs.A beaten egg, and maybe that's the end of the story, or maybe a box of coffee filters.

But why is he thinking about this?he wondered.He was dying, and for goodness sake, shouldn't he have thought something deeper and more philosophical at last?Or a quick replay of his lifetime orgasm, forty-three years of highlights.Didn't everyone go through this when they drowned?It felt like drowning, and stretched seconds passed as he thought: the horrific pressure, the desperate struggle to catch his breath, the damp steam that drenched him as if from his forehead. The salty sweat trickling down and stinging his eyes. He was drowning, dying.No, eat shit, no, that's not a real word, only flowers, or pets, or whatever.Only the old, the sick, the unfortunate die.

His face dropped to the desk, his right cheek pressed against the folder he was about to start working on when Linda called.In front of one of his open eyes, the gap in the paperweight is like a huge cavern, a crack in the world itself, a broken mirror that reflects the anguish inside him.Through the broken glass, he saw the bright red numbers on the digital clock above the bookshelf: 1:06 PM OCT 1888 Then there is nothing to avoid thinking, the thought process is terminated. Jeff couldn't breathe. Of course he couldn't help it, he was dead. But if he was already dead, why did he realize he couldn't breathe?or realize anything?As far as dying, it shouldn't have happened.

He turned his head away from the rolled blanket and began to breathe.The stuffy air was filled with the smell of sweat emanating from his body. So he didn't die.Somehow, the realization didn't excite him too much, any more than the previous hypothetical death had frightened him. Perhaps he had secretly rejoiced at the end of his life.Now it's business as usual: he suffers from the torment of his failed ambitions and hopes, and he no longer remembers whether his failed marriage was a cause or an effect. He pushed aside the blanket over his face and kicked the crumpled sheets.Music was playing in the dark room, the music was inaudible.An old song, titled <Du La La>, from Phil.A women's band sponsored by Specbeckett.

Jeff fumbled for the light switch, completely disoriented in the dark.He was either lying in a hospital bed recovering from what had just happened in the office, or he was at home waking up from a worse-than-usual nightmare.He touched the bedside lamp with his hand and turned on the light.He found himself in a small, untidy room, with clothes and books strewn about or piled haphazardly on two adjacent desks and chairs.It wasn't a hospital or his and Linda's bedroom. For some reason, it felt familiar. A smiling nude woman is looking back at him from a large photograph taped to the wall, a Playboy foldout poster, in the early style.The brunette with the big breasts lay on an air mattress on the back deck of a boat with demure demure, her red and white polka-dot bikini tied to the railing.On her head was a handsome round sailor's cap, and her black hair had been carefully arranged and styled to give her an uncanny resemblance to a young Jackie.

He saw that other walls were decorated with outdated teenage styles: bullfight posters, large stacks of XK︱E black sports car photos, Dave.Brubeck's old record covers.Above a desk was a red, white and blue banner with the words Fuck!communism.Jeff smiled when he saw the sign, and he remembered that he had also heard from Paul.Kresner ordered one from the popular niche magazine The Realist, just like this one, when he was in college, when He sat up straight suddenly, and there was a sudden pulse in his ears. He remembered the old gooseneck lamp on the desk near the door, which kept coming loose from the bottom whenever he moved it.Also remember the big blood-red stain on the carpet next to Martin's bed, yes, that's where Jeff once stole Judy.Gordon went upstairs, and Judy danced around the room to Drifter's music, knocking over a bottle of Italian red wine.

The hazy confusion of just waking up was gone, and he was now utterly bewildered.He hurriedly threw off the quilt on his body and got out of bed, and staggered to a desk, his desk.Scanning the pile of books on the table: "Cultural Patterns", "Cultivation of Samoans", "Statistical Matrices", all are introductory books on sociology.Is it Danford's or Dr. Sambon's class?In the musty-smelling big lecture hall at the far end of the campus, he always eats breakfast after class at eight o'clock in the morning.He picked up Benedict's book and flipped through it. Several places had already been densely drawn, and there were his handwritten notes on the margins of the book. WQXI's hit music of the week comes from the Crystal Orchestra!Then Carlo and Paula ordered Bobby's song for Marietta.These beautiful girls want to tell Bobby they think like the Chiffon Girls think he's awesome Jeff turned off the radio and wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead.He noticed with some unease that he was fully erect.I didn't expect sex to be this hard. How long ago was the last time it was like this? Well, it's time to figure it out.Someone must have carefully planned to play tricks on him, but he didn't know anyone who was playing tricks.Even if there is, who is willing to spend so much trouble?The book on which he had taken notes had been lost many years ago, and no one could have reproduced it so perfectly. There is a photocopied "Newsweek" on the desk. The cover story is West German Chancellor Konrad.Aidenor's resignation, the issue is May 6, 1963.Jeff kept staring at the number, hoping to come up with a rationale for everything. It all doesn't make sense. The door of the room flew open, and the doorknob in the bedroom slammed into the bookcase.as usual. Hey!What the hell are you doing?It's eleven o'clock in fifteen minutes.I thought you had an American Literature test at ten. Martin stood at the door, with a Coke in one hand and a pile of textbooks in the other.Martin.Bailey, Jeff's freshman roommate, remained his close friend throughout college and into the years after graduation. Martin committed suicide in 1981, after a divorce and subsequent bankruptcy. So what are you going to do?Martin asked, get a failing grade? Jeff looked at his long-dead friend, speechless with astonishment: Martin's thick black hair, his smooth face, especially the youthful glow of Martin, who had never seen pain. s eyes. Hey!what happened?Jeff, are you all right? I don't feel very well. Martin laughed and threw the book on the bed.Tell me what's going on.I now know why my dad warned me not to mix scotch with bourbon.Hey, did you meet some sweet chick at the Manuel's last night?Judy would kill you if she was there.what's that girl's name Well Come on, you're not that drunk.Are you going to call that girl? Jeff turned around in a panic.There were so many things he wanted to tell Martin, but none of them were easy to understand compared to the current madness. What's the matter, man?You look fucking awful. I, uh, I have to get out.Get some fresh air. Martin frowned at him in bewilderment.Yes, I think you do. Jeff grabbed a pair of khakis that had been thrown carelessly on the chair in front of the desk, then opened the closet next to the bed to find a light cotton T-shirt and a corduroy jacket. Go to the infirmary.Martin said.Tell them you have a cold and maybe Gary will let you make up the exam. I can.Jeff dressed hastily and put on a pair of horseskin loafers, his hyperventilation was on the verge of a bout, and he forced himself to breathe slowly. Don't forget we're going to see Hitchcock's The Birds tonight, and Judy and Paula will meet us at Dooley's.We need to eat something first. No problem, see you later.Jeff stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him.He dashed down the three flights of stairs, and when a passing young man stopped him, he gave a perfunctory yell!go back. The dormitory hall was just as he remembered it: the audio-visual room on the right, empty now, but packed with people every sports event or space shuttle launch.Several girls gathered in a group, chattering, waiting for their boyfriend to come down from the forbidden area upstairs.There were student notices on the bulletin board, selling cars, books, renting out apartments, or asking for a ride to Macon, Savannah, or Florida, and there was a Coke machine across the street. The dogwood trees outside are in full bloom, turning the campus into a beautiful pink and white world, reflecting the white marble of the magnificent Greco-Roman architecture.This is undoubtedly Emory University, the campus that the American South has carefully crafted to create a classic Ivy-style university, so that local people can be proud of having their own Ivy University.The timeless quality of this type of architecture blinds one, and as he walks slowly through the square, past the library and the law building, Jeff suddenly realizes that it's easy to mistake 1988 for 1963 here. Year.On the vast green area of ​​the campus, the students are strolling around, even from their clothes and hairstyles, there are no clues.Except for the punk style that looks like the rest of his life, the popular clothes of young people in the 1980s are not much different from his early college days. God.He thought of the time he had spent in this school, the dream that was born here but never realized.There is a small bridge leading to the seminary.He and Judy.How many times had Gordon spent time here?In the past is the psychology hall. In his junior year, he talked with Gail almost every day.Benson made an appointment to meet up there for lunch, the first and last time he had a truly intimate platonic friendship with a woman.Why hadn't he learned more from his friendship with Gail?How did it happen that he drifted at last into a distant land, through many different paths, far from the plans and aspirations that were born in this noble building on this peaceful green meadow? Jeff had run about a mile before reaching the entrance to the main campus, and he expected to be out of breath, but he wasn't.He stood on the low knoll below Grant's Memorial Church, looking down North Kathu Road and Emery Village, the small business district that supplies the needs of the campus.Rows of clothing stores and bookstores seemed familiar, and one of the Hatton Drugstores brought back wave after wave of memories: he could see pictures in his mind, magazine racks, long rows of white soda fountains, with personal notes. The red leather booth for the record player.He could still see Judy from across the table in one of the booths.Gordon's youthful face smelled of her clean blond hair. He shook his head, refocusing on the landscape in front of him.Same, still can't tell what year AD it is.He hasn't been in Atlanta since the Associated Press seminar on terrorism and the media in 1983, and he hasn't been back since, for God's sake, maybe a year or two since he graduated Went to Emory University.He had no idea if the stores there were still the same, perhaps replaced by a new building, maybe a shopping mall. Cars can provide clues.As soon as he noticed this, he saw that there was not a single Nissan or Toyota in sight on the street below.They were all old cars, mostly big, gas-guzzling American cars made in Detroit.The old cars he saw weren't just early 60s models, a bunch of the behemoths whizzing by were 1950s cars, but of course, whether it was 1963 or 1988 , There are as many six-year-old and eight-year-old cars on the road. He still couldn't draw a conclusion, and even wondered if the brief meeting with Martin in the dormitory was just an unusually vivid dream, a dream he had before waking up.He's sober now and he's in Atlanta, that's a fact, no doubt about it.Maybe he wanted to drink away his sorrow, to forget his dull and chaotic life, he got drunk, and then on the spur of the moment, out of nostalgia, he took a midnight flight to come here.It's just a coincidence that the outdated cars are all over the street.At any given moment someone might pass by in the little Japanese car he has become accustomed to. There is an easy way to solve the problem once and for all.He strode down the hill toward the taxi stand on Decatu Road. There were three blue and white taxis in line, and he took the first one.Driving is a young man, maybe a graduate student. Where are you going, man? Peachtree Plaza Hotel.Jeff said to him. say it again? Peachtree Plaza, in the downtown area. I don't think I know the place, do you have the address? God, what happened to the current taxi drivers?Shouldn't they have passed the exam first and at least memorized city maps and landmarks? You know the Regent Hotel, right?What about the Hyatt Hotel? Oh yes, I know.Is that where you're going? nearby. No problem, man. The taxi driver went south a few blocks, then turned right on Ponce de Leon Boulevard.Jeff reached into his hip pocket, and it occurred to him that there might be no money in the strange pants, but he found an old brown wallet, not his. At least there was money in it, two twenty-dollar bills, one five-dollar bill, and some one-dollar bills, so he didn't have to worry about not being able to pay the taxi fare. When he returned the wallet and the old clothes he grabbed and put on to the original owner, he had to remember to return the money to them, but where did these things come from?Who is the master? He opened a small compartment in his wallet for an answer, and found an Emory University student ID card, the name on it was Jeffrey. L．winston.Also found Emory's library card, also in his name.A receipt from a dry cleaner on Decatu Road; a small tissue paper with a girl's name, Cindy, and her phone number; a photo of her parents standing outside the old house in Orlando where they had lived until his father fell seriously ill. lived there; a color snapshot of Judy.Gordon was laughing and tossing snowballs, his youthful and cheerful face wrapped in a collar of white fur turned out to keep out the cold.There is also a Jeffrey.Rama.Winston's Florida driver's license was valid on February 27, 1965. In the Polaris bar, shaped like a UFO on the top floor of the Hyatt Regency, Jeff sat alone at a table for two, watching the endless Atlanta skyline circle around him every forty-five minutes.It's not that the taxi driver has never seen the world, because the seventy-story cylindrical Peachtree Plaza Hotel has not yet been built.The high-rises of the comprehensive international corporations, the Georgia Pacific Building made of gray stone, and the justice building that looked like a huge black box also disappeared.The tallest building in the entire city of Atlanta is where he is now, and the spacious patio-style hall has the taste of copying other buildings.After a few chats with the waitress, it became clear that the hotel had just been completed and was still a very unique architectural style at the time. The saddest moment is when Jeff sees himself in the rear mirror of a bar.He had done it on purpose, he knew exactly what he would look like at the time, and even so, he was shocked when he saw the pale, lanky eighteen-year-old boy in the mirror. Objectively speaking, the boy in the mirror is older than his actual age.He'd had as little trouble buying alcohol at that age as it was now with this waitress, but Jeff knew it was an illusion of his height and sunken eyes.From his own point of view, the man in the mirror is just a boy who has not been broken by the experience of the world. And that young man was himself.It's not the self in memory, but the him who lives here and now, the pair of smooth hands holding the wine glass in the mirror, the pair of sharp eyes focused on him. Honey, would you like another drink? The waitress gave him a beautiful smile, under the retro honeycomb head and eyes with thick mascara, there were bright red lips.Her clothes are futuristic, with a neon blue cropped dress that looks like something young women will be seeing in the next two or three years. Two or three years from now.That was the early 1960s. God. He had to admit what had happened and there could be no other reason.He once nearly died of a heart attack, but was revived.He was in his office one day in 1988, and now it was 1963 and he was in Atlanta. Jeff couldn't think of a reasonable explanation, not even the most far-fetched one.He also read a lot of science fiction when he was young, but none of the time-travel stories he had read had a plot like the one he was in now.There's no time machine in his stories, no crazy scientists or something wrong, and unlike the characters he reads adorably, he's reverted to his youthful body.It was as if only his mind had time-jumped through the years, and his early consciousness had been erased in order to make room in his mind for his eighteen-year-old self. Did he narrowly escape death, or did he just walk around Death God lightly?In another future timestream, is his body lying in a New York morgue, being sliced ​​open with a pathologist's scalpel? Maybe he's in a coma: desperately weaving an imaginary new life at the behest of his battered, death-bound brain.however, but Honey?The waitress asked, Shall I pour you another glass? Uh, I, I'd like a cup of coffee, can I? no problem.How about a cup of Irish coffee? Normal coffee is fine.Add some creamer, no sugar. The girl from the past served the coffee.Jeff stared out the window. Under the fading sky, the half-under-construction city was lit up with sparse lights. The sun disappeared behind the red hills stretching to Alabama, as if leading to the age of turmoil and great change, tragedy and dream. The steaming coffee scalded his lips, and he took a quick sip of ice water to cool off.The world outside the window is not a dream, as solid as its innocence and as real as its blind optimism. Spring of 1963. There are so many options waiting to be done.