THE BEAST ─ five hargreeves

[ 073 ] take a cold shower, grandpa

LXXIII.

t a k e a
c o l d s h o w e r ,
g r a n d p a

—WHEN MORNING CAME, the rising sun found Zara, Five, Luther, and Kiki standing on the street outside of the Dallas Irishman's Pub. Neatly dressed patrons came and went. A lively Irish jig floated out the door of the pub.

Zara put her field glasses to her eyes and pressed her face close to the window.

"Nope," she said. "Can't see him."

Five took the glasses from her. In another moment he had found the man. "There," he said, pointing. He gave the glasses back to Zara. "That's me from two weeks ago. The old guy with the briefcase."

"Ah," said Luther.

Zara frowned. She looked around the pub, but she could see no one that looked like an older Five. "What are you guys talking about? I still don't—"

Then she saw him.

She didn't know what she'd imagined—something rather like Sherlock Holmes—tall and lean with a keen, clever face. Of course, she knew he would be an old man, but she hadn't expected him to be quite as much of an old man.

When you saw him you just wanted to laugh in disbelief! He was like something from an absurd stage play. To begin with, he wasn't above five foot six—an odd, plump little man, quite old, with an enormous moustache and a balding round head. He looked like a hair dresser in a comic play.

She began to laugh. She laughed and laughed—and the tears rolled down her face.

"What is it?" asked Five dryly.

"It's—It's just—" She started laughing again and had to put a hand over her mouth to stifle herself. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Give—Give me a second."

Five gave her exactly one second. "Well?" he asked impatiently.

"You don't get any taller!" And she burst into hysterics once again.

Five glared at her. Zara stopped laughing and cleared her throat.

"Oh, let's not fight again. I've hurt your feelings, I know. I'm sorry. You make a very cute old man. Like a little round penguin."

"Excuse me?"

"What? There's nothing wrong with being a penguin. I like penguins."

Luther hastened to interrupt: "Guys, guys—save it for the bedroom. Why don't we just grab his briefcase and run?"

"I would never let that happen," said Five with an air of superiority. "We're trained to guard those briefcases with our lives. Plus, it's the inherent paradox where this gets tricky: I'm endangering my existence just being in the same room with myself."

"But . . . why?"

"Luther, try to keep up. If old me doesn't travel back to 2019 like he's supposed to, the whole thing unravels itself. I cease to exist. Got it?"

"Eh, sort of, I mean—"

"So our best chance is to talk to him—to reason with him. He'll understand." Five paused, an odd light coming into his eyes. "Trust me. I know myself better than—uh—I know myself." He scratched his neck.

"Itching," Zara said. "Stage two."

"No," replied Five. "I did not itch my neck."

"Denial," added Luther, nodding to Zara. "That's stage four."