Overtime
Dallas, November 22 1963 James Mayer had just put Oswald
against a corner to sleep off the effects of the drug while he opened his
department issue pocket watch. The watch always reminded him of the pitted
timepiece that used to sit on his grandparents’ mantelshelf in their house in
Austria. It was nearly 12.30 and Mayer
peeked out the window and saw the presidential motorcade turn a corner on their
way into Dealey Plaza.
Mayer took a deep breath before cradling Oswald’s rifle in
his hands and sighting down the scope. He looked down at the man most of the
world would idolize for generations and pulled the trigger. They didn’t start
screaming at first though one or two heads began turning in confusion, then he
fired the rifle again and again before pulling an old rag from his jacket
pocket and wiping his prints off. He placed the gun in Oswald’s hands and
considered that the lunatic should probably thank him. He never would have
managed to hit the target with his poor skills.
Mayer was half a block from the scene of the shooting by the
time they had Oswald in custody. He walked into a little bar on 42nd
and ignored the tense silence that practically screamed fear and panic.
Everyone’s eyes were stuck to the tv which probably explained why the bartender
didn’t hassle him about reaching behind the bar and grabbing a mug which he
promptly filled with one of the beers on tap. Mayer dropped a ten dollar bill
on the counter and found himself a booth in the back.
An alert came through on his mini tablet congratulating him
on his recent success. A woman suddenly cried out as they showed Kennedy being
pulled out of an ambulance, she turned to what might have been her husband or a
boyfriend. He was a no nonsense looking guy with stubble on his jaw and shovel size
hands but when he took the woman in his arms Mayer observed fat tears fall down
his cheeks.
They weren’t the only ones who gave in to their emotions,
soon the whole bar began a chorus of sobs and gasps and Mayer could imagine
that the whole nation was already joining them in their grief. That grief would
soon become a long period of mourning when the president finally died.
Another alert came through to his tablet as Mayer sipped his
beer. They wanted him to go to Memphis, April 4th 1968. Ahhh, the
King assassination. Another amateur with bad hand eye coordination was waiting
to be replaced with a competent shooter. Mayer considered putting in for
overtime, he hadn’t seen the 23rd century in two months and
gallivanting from one time period to another hadn’t left him with a lot of time
to check on his cat.
He grumbled a little under his breath before upending his
mug and finishing off his beer. He stood up and moved towards the exit as invisible
as a ghost, everyone still caught up by the events on the screen. The shooting
of the president was being played on a loop as if somehow by doing that they
could rewind everything and change what had happened. Mayer could understand
the feeling, when his dad died he’d often dreamt of breaking regulations and
maybe going back to the day of his car accident. It had been his mom who’d
helped him realize that some things just happened and death wasn’t something
you could avoid.
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