LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
"Go on," she says, smiling in that way that somehow lightens my mood, and for the briefest of instants I'm able to forget about everything - Jay's murder in the parking lot at Prince George's Plaza in Hyattsville; the guilt from knowing that my brother wouldn't have been shot if I hadn't overdosed on cocaine; the unimaginable pain that my parents have had to carry with them for more than twenty years. Instead I try to remember the last time someone gave me a gift, and find irony in it coming from a wife I didn't wed and a marriage I never agreed to. "Trust me, Jason, you're really going to like it."
"What is it?"
"No way, buster. You'll have to open it to find out."
The wrapping paper is a deep red with a subtle paisley pattern running through it. I peel it off; box underneath is white, with a picture of a smartphone on the front, sleek and stylish.
"You never go anywhere without your smartphone, so I thought I'd get you a new one." She leans over the leather seat and kisses me. "Happy Anniversary, hon. I love you."
"Thanks."
"Your number is the same as before, so you won't have to worry about giving everyone a different number. It's 330-880-1009."
"So, what all does this thing do?"
"Better yet, what doesn't it do? It's just like mine - you can send email, surf the web, text, listen to music, play games, social network, shop, watch videos, take pictures, download movies...oh, and you can make phone calls with it. Video calls if you'd like to see my smiling face on the other end."
I open the box and inspect my new smartphone. In 1986 computers were big, bulky machines with tube-style monitors and cartoonish graphics. Judging by the commercials I watched in the hospital, everything about the world of computing is tons better in 2011. Things like flat panel screens, high-definition graphics, photo editing software and online gaming simply didn't exist then, much less a device like the one I'm holding in my hand. Staring at this phone now I can only admire its design and sophistication - a computer more powerful than anything 1986 had to offer, shrunk down into something the size of a wallet and connected wirelessly to everything.
Welcome to the future, I hear myself say silently.
The future. Growing up I'd wondered what things would be like in the Year 2000 - Y2K, as Emily had called it in the hospital the other day. Back then the idea of a new millennium seemed so farfetched that it didn't seem real at all. It was just something that Prince sang about on the radio. To imagine Y2K was to imagine a world like The Jetsons, with robots everywhere and people commuting to work in flying saucers with transparent bubble tops. And while it hadn't quite come to that yet, the sophisticated device in my hand now is proof positive that mankind is closer than-
"I hope you like it," Emily says, breaking my train of thought. "We'll need to charge the battery before you can use it, but the number has already been activated."
"I'm sure I will. I'm sorry that I don't have anything to give you."
"It's not like you could have ran out and picked something up. So I guess I'll let you off the hook. This year."
"I guess."
"Hey, cheer up. We're almost home. Look, there it is."
Emily points to the farmhouse a quarter mile away, sitting well off of the main road. It's a two-story structure with a wraparound porch and three dormers jutting out above. The house has slate-colored siding, white trim, a matching slate-colored roof. Gables face out in different directions. A white slat rail fence runs the perimeter of the property. There is a pond and a horse riding ring on the far side of the house, separated by cluster of pine trees, and a long, snaking driveway on the nearside. A two-car garage sits at the end of the drive, connected to the house by a matching breezeway. Two large shade trees stand sentry in the front yard, yellow ribbons tied to the trunks of both. More trees rise up above the house in the back.
"What do you think?"
"Yeah. It's nice."
"Do you remember it? Does anything look familiar?"
"No."
"It will, hon, just give it time."
The limo pulls off of the main road - Dover Road, as this stretch of Township Highway is known - and slowly makes its way to the end of the drive. I stare at the freshly cut lawn, the flowers and shrubs just off of the porch, the landscaping along the sidewalk and around the trees. A country fairytale. A postcard brought to life. I think about Jason Schuler - the real Jason Schuler, the one who grew up here and then put his own stamp on the place after taking over from his parents. Does he know I'm living his life? Does it feel as wrong to him, wherever he is, as it does to me now?
"Tom and Sandy Harrison have been taking care of our place while we've been in Cleveland," Emily says. "They live just down the road a couple of miles, close to the high school. Beautiful people, great friends. Their son Paul is on your team. He'll be a junior this season."
