On June 19th 2013, I was drinking in P J Clarke’s on 3rd Avenue, Manhattan. After a few glasses of wine, I ventured into the men’s. There, positioned inside the south wall of the building along 55th Street, are two tall almost monumental urinals. Standing against one, you are completely embraced by porcelain as if for a few moments the world around has ceased to exist. Other than me, the room was empty as I stood against the right-hand urinal. I stared at myself in the mirror. The same increasingly ageing face looked back. I stepped out through the door and entered the bar again. It was packed when I had arrived, but now the bar had somehow emptied out so that I was almost the only person in there. This was strange, as every time I've been in PJ’s it's always required no end of apologetic squeezing and shoving to get through the crowd to the bar. I looked up the empty room toward the window.
Down the end of the bar stood an elderly guy, “Hey you, Kid” he said. “Come sit here. I got something important to tell you.”
I pointed at my chest. He said, “Yes, you dummy. There ain’t no one else in here is there.”
There was no one, except the Bartender. So, I sat down on the high stool next to the old timer as the Bartender pushed a glass of red wine toward me.
“The usual, Sir.”
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“Thank you” I said, puzzled.
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“You’re welcome.”
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“What time is it?” said the old man.
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“Almost seven. Why is it so quiet? It should be packed.”
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“It’s not been like that for some time in here. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
I took a gulp of the wine. ”How come?”
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“Take a look outside.”
I stood up and walked to the front door. There was a weatherproof porch attached. I stepped into it and opened the outside door onto 3rd Avenue. Or rather, what I remember being 3rd Avenue. Now there was a lake out there as far as the eye could see. I peered down to the left and about half a mile away I could just make out what looked like the tip of the Chrysler Building rising above the water. I closed the outer door and came back in. Sitting down on the stool I downed the glass of red wine.
“Another one Sir?”
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“You bet.” I turned to the old man again. “OK what’s happening out there?”
“Out there, time has run out.”
“Smart move that, the owner buying the air rights” chipped in the Bartender, pushing my new full glass across the bar.
“Well, what are we going to do? It’s flooded. How could that have happened? I’ve only been in here half an hour.”
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“No, not exactly. You’ve been in here 55 years.”
The old man turned to look at me and I recognised something about his face. It was like my face but many years older. Possibly, about 55 years older.
“But how did I get here?”
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“Don’t you remember?”
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I looked back at him blankly.
“Have another glass of red. A large one and I’ll tell you.”
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“Wait a minute. I’ve got to take a leak.”
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“Use the left one this time.”
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“Left one, what do you mean?”
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“The urinal, on the left. You'll be back.”
I went back into the men’s and once again it was empty. The two porcelain urinals loomed in front of me. I stepped up against the left one and took a long pee. Who was this guy pretending to be me? What on Earth was going on outside? Had there been a massive downpour while I had been in PJ’s? Was this a dream? I washed my hands, the faucet reassuringly still working, my face looking the same if a little confused. I stepped through the door to the bar again. Immediately I found myself back in the throng. The noise was wonderful to hear after all that silence. It must have all been a dream, then.
I elbowed my way up the bar to where the old man had been sitting. There was an empty stool and a large, full glass of red wine. I looked around, everyone seemed deep in their own conversations, thank Heavens. People were crowding in from outside. There was no lake outside. All looked normal out there. I glanced at my watch. It was seven thirty. Well, whatever I had seen before, whoever the old man had been, it was perhaps some sort of chance glimpse into the future. A very unwelcome, very wet future by the look of it. I drank the glass of red in one gulp and caught the Bartender’s eye.
“Another glass of the usual Sir?”
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“Why not?”
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“Why not indeed Sir.”
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“Was there an old man sitting here? Just now?”
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“No Sir. Just you.” He placed another full glass of red in front of me. I took a sip. The people all around me seemed a jolly bunch. Laughing, joking about people at work, glad to be away from their responsibilities. Talking about catching their trains from Grand Central. Chatting about visiting friends in the East Village. One couple near me seemed to be worrying about the change in the climate, how it seemed to be getting warmer and wetter than usual for the time of year.
“It’s almost tropical in the city these days,” said the girl. I realised I was staring at her while she spoke. “Do I know you?” she said in that sneering kind of way big city girls pick up fast.
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“No. No I’m sorry. I overheard what you were saying about the weather.”
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“Well, it sure is getting worse, isn’t it?” she snapped. “Come on Bud, let’s split.” And off they went, down the bar, through the door and out into the street. It was raining out there now, quite heavily.
I was back in the men’s. All this red wine was having an effect. The closet was empty. Did all these other customers have bigger bladders? Or maybe they just couldn’t tear themselves away from their conversations. Anyway, there I was back at the left-hand urinal. And what a relief, to find the bar still as busy as ever when I re-joined the throng. In fact, it seemed pushier than ever too. There must have been a ‘50’s revival party going on somewhere and all of them had ended up in here. Girls in brightly coloured swirling skirts and men with greasy pompadour hairstyles. I tried to battle my way to the bar again when I noticed a tall skinny guy in a sharp grey suit coming toward me through the crowd. He was helping a girl get through with him, a Mexican girl. He was over six feet tall and wearing thick glasses. He looked just like Buddy Holly, I thought.
As he came up to me, he drawled, “Excuse me Sir, my gal and I need to pass by. We have a table waiting in back.”
I stepped aside so he and his girl could move through to the restaurant part of the bar. It was cosy in there with red check tablecloths and intimate lighting. I turned and fought my way back to the bar. I managed to catch the Bartender’s eye again.
“The usual, please.”
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“What is your usual, Sir?”
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“You know. A glass of your house red wine. Italian, I believe it is.”
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“I think we may have a bottle of that somewhere. Hold on Sir.”
These people in the rock and roll costumes seemed very excited. As if they were members of some secret new club.“Did you see him, there, just now?” said the girl with the ponytail to her friend in the tight black sweater.​“He’s the coolest. The coolest, next to Dion that is.” They both swooned.
I was getting curious.“Excuse me girls, who is the coolest? Who is this guy you’re talking about?”
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“Buddy. Buddy Holly. The guy who just walked right past you, dumbo.”
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“Yeah with some Mex,” the girl in the black sweater sneered, taking a drag on her cigarette.
Some sort of impossible truth was starting to dawn, light emerging through dense fog.
​“He’s even cooler than Elvis.”
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'It can't be, surely," I said.
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“It sure can," joked Miss Ponytail. "But he's not as cute as Ricky, though.”
"That's not what I meant. What's he doing in here? Now? Today?" My head was spinning. Was it the red wine? I had to grasp the implications of this.“What's the date today?”
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“June nineteenth dumbo.”
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“What year, though?”
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“Nineteen fifty-eight, whaddya think? Jeez what a lunkhead.”
They turned away, no point wasting time on a lunkhead like me. But there it was, forcing me to accept it. Somehow in the last hour I had travelled forwards and then backwards in time, by about 55 years in each direction. No, by exactly 55 years. Forwards to a flooded New York, swamped in a climate-changed disaster in what must have been the year 2068. And there in the future, I had met myself. And now I have somehow travelled the same distance back in time twice and seen Buddy Holly with his bride-to-be Maria Santiago here in P J Clarke’s where, if memory serves me, on this very date, June nineteenth, 1958 he will propose to her by offering her a ring on the stem of a red rose. Right here, at a table in the back room of P J Clarke’s, right now in fact, seven months before he will embark on the fateful Winter Dance Party Tour. And all this is all going on for real just twenty feet from where I am standing.
“Your usual, Sir,”said the Barman pushing a full glass across the bar.
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“What?”
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“Your red wine, Sir. Italian, I believe it was.”
What to do? And suddenly there he was again, walking straight toward me. The girls couldn’t take their eyes off him now and started giggling again. He strode, almost loped past, and disappeared into the men’s closet. The door closed behind him. Well even pop stars have to pee, but I couldn’t really go in there after him, could I? What would he think? Some sort of pervert following him around. He might be from Texas, but Midnight Cowboy won’t be out yet for another ten years. No, I’ll wait for him to emerge. And yet, and yet, where else can I have a private conversation with him? This was a chance to tell him some very important things. Some potentially life changing things. I plunged in.
“Hello Buddy”. Never had I imagined myself ever saying those words.
“Hi. Do I know you Sir?”
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“Are you happy with the record you made today? The Bobby Darin record?”
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“Sounds pretty good to me, just a cover version though,” he said washing his hands.
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“To get Coral Records out of a contract battle with Ahmet Ertegun of Atlantic. I know. Maria set it up for you.”
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“How do you know all that? Do you work for Coral? Who are you anyways?”
He was looking a little edgy all of a sudden and unless I was careful, he might just bolt.
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“I’m sorry to disturb you like this. It must be very odd. It’s odd for me too. You see, I’m from the future. I know what is going to happen… in the future… for you.” Awkward fumbling with words here, not helping at all.
Buddy kinda got it."Yeah, you're from one of those flying saucers. We have them down in New Mexico. In Roswell. UFOs.”
I had an idea. I took my iPhone from my pocket. It caught his eye.“Hey what is that?”
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“Something from the future too. It’s a telephone and a camera and a computer – you can even get TV on it. Look.”
On the iPhone we look at the New York City weather map, a static image of rain scudding across the State.
“Hot dog, wait till I tell Jerry about this thing.”
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“Damn. It’s not working properly in here.“ There was no signal, it being 1958 of course.
“OK, it also has songs on it, like a jukebox. Records you have made. Here’s Early In The Morning the song you recorded today.” The music plays and Buddy listens.
“That’s damn good. Better than Darin’s version. What else have you got on that thing?”
He was getting quite enthusiastic by now. I handed the iPhone to him.“How do you work it?”
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“Just swipe your finger down the list of artists, or up. Look there, that’s the Beatles. They’re British but they’ll be the biggest act in the world soon. And they owe it all to you.”
We hear a burst of I Wanna Hold Your Hand. “Man, that’s good. Beatles huh? Like Crickets.”
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“Exactly. In your honor. Same line-up, two guitars, bass, drums.”
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“They’ve recorded Words Of Love. My first solo single. That shoulda been a hit. They gave the song to the Diamonds. Those jerks screwed it up.”
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“The Rolling Stones have a big hit with your Not Fade Away. It’s out any day now.”
He listens closely to the Stones version of his Not Fade Away.“Wow. That’s more Bo Diddley than mine. It’s great “.
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“There’s so much I need to tell you”
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“I’m sorry flying saucer man, but right now I gotta go.”
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“You’re about to propose to Maria, I know.”
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“There’s a guy bringing a red rose here for me to give her. You gonna be landing again here tomorrow?”
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“Well, I’m not sure. Not sure how this time travel thing works. It only seems to work in here.”
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“That is so strange.”
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“If we step outside, the year could change.“
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“Wow. So, I could go to the future too?”
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“I don’t know. Or the past. It’s possible.”
An idea came to me. “Look, keep the iPhone. There’s so much music on here you’ll love it. You’ve always been ahead of your time.”
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“Gee man, thanks.”
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“One condition, though. Do you have to go on all those tours? Stick around here in New York with Maria. There’ll be a guy you’ll want to meet turning up in Greenwich Village any day now. Name of Bob Dylan. He's a big fan.”
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“We’re looking at an apartment down there, the Brevoort. Man, touring is the only way I can afford it.”
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“Number 4H, I know. On the Southwest corner. But you’ll record some great songs in there. Songs about Echo McGuire.”
“Gee Echo. She married some guy from college.”
“You wrote Think It Over for her.”
“She still married him. Didn't work.” He looked at his watch, shook it and held it to his ear. “Must have stopped. This has been really something. They’re telling me Rock and Roll won’t last.”
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“In its pure form, rockabilly, no it won’t. But your style will. Your band format, writing your own material, producing it yourself. That’s the future. They just call it rock now.”
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“So, these Beatles are the future? Maybe I should hop over to Britain again and meet them?”
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“Great idea. They came to see your British concerts. And meet the Stones, they saw you too. But they'll all be over here in a couple of years.”
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“Sure, sounds more interesting than touring with Frankie Avalon and Fabian. Hey future kid, I gotta go.”
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“Take care of yourself Buddy.”
I couldn’t help it. “One more thing. Stay away from small planes please.”
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“I’m learning to fly right now. Out of Teterboro.”
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“I know. It might come in handy.”
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“Well, so long. And thanks.”
And out he went, back into his real 1958 life. I wondered whether I should have been more specific about the Winter Dance Party Tour and the plane crash, but didn’t Doc in Back To The Future say you shouldn’t mess with the space-time continuum or some stuff? But while I was in here, I thought I should take one more peek at my own future. It all looked pretty hopeless, as if the world were drowning. I stepped up to the right-hand urinal then out of the closet. Yep, 2013, my time again. I took a breath, came in again and took my position at the right-side urinal a second time. Outside in the bar again it was empty, except for the Bartender down the end talking to the old man and now another even older guy wearing dark glasses.
I walked up to them. The Bartender moved away. The guy who looked like an older me smiled and the other guy with the shades reached into his pocket and placed an iPhone on the bar. He stood up very slowly; he was tall, came up to me and shook my hand.
“Thanks, UFO kid.”
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“My pleasure, Buddy.”
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“Here’s your iPhone back. I’ve added one or two new songs of my own. There are a couple with George Harrison I think you’ll like.”
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“I always wondered what you’d write in the ‘60s.”
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“Yeah, there are quite a few of those. But the ones I think you’ll love are from the ‘80s with the Travelling Wilburys. Me, George, Jeff Lynne, Roy Orbison, Dylan, Tom Petty.”
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“Oh boy.”
From the outside, under a rainy grey sky of the future, P J Clarke’s was afloat on a vast ocean. It didn't matter anymore.
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