THE NOSTALGINAUTS
by S. N. Dyer
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Copyright © 1996 by Sharon N. Farber
Reprinted in Year's Best SF 3
HarperPrism
ISBN 0-06-105901-3

eBook scanned & proofed by binwiped 11-10-02 [v1.0]

So, you wanna go to the prom?"
"Why?" I asked. "Like, I thought the Chess Club was going to hang on Geek-web."
It was going to be a worldwide hook-up of dateless losers. You can't say we don't know how to have a good time.
"I just think I ought to be there," Gar said. "At the prom." He shrugged. I shrugged.
We were on the steps of the old Carnegie-built library— its motto: One hundred years, nothing controversial yet—and were watching the church across the street. A wedding. That meant the possibility of time travelers. Or not. Entertaining either way.
"So why me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why not Net Girl?"
"She's too popular."
True. She's only a junior and already has five electronic boyfriends. She also weighs three hundred pounds. But a hell of a website.
"Besides," he said. "You clean up nice. Remember Halloween? You were hot on Halloween."
There was action inside the church now, people opening the doors, spilling outside. We craned forward.
The happy couple emerged. Hands paused, loaded with rice...
Everyone looked around. The question on everyone's lips: Would they be there? Would the happy couple, a quarter-century older, time travel back to reexperience this day of joy? Gar and I crossed our fingers sarcastically.
Because if they didn't show, it meant they were either dead, or divorced, or dirt poor. Talk about killing the festivities by your absence.
"Any bets?" I asked.
"Loser buys at T-Bell? I say they'll come."
Suddenly the air by a late-model Honda began to crackle and fluoresce. A middle-aged duo clicked into focus, promptly waving at the newlyweds. A collectively held breath exhaled in unison. The couple waved back, and everyone cheered. From across the street, we joined in. Let's hear it for lasting marital bliss.
And then, just as suddenly, the old pair's thirty seconds were up, they clicked out—and here came more travelers. The cheery offspring. Five of them, ranging in age from near-teen to must-have-been-pregnant-on-the-big-day. The crowd went wild.
"Hot damn," I said. More life-affirming than an entire week of Nick at Nite.
"So, will you?"
"On Halloween I was a vampire in black velvet and red satin."
"Works for me," said Gar.
So we shook on it, and headed to T-Bell.

"You know how the lights go weird right before the dumdums show?"
When time travelers first started showing up they were called phantoms. When scientists figured out what they were, the media called them time tourists, or nostalginauts. We stuck with phantom, pronounced phan-dumb, and finally just dumdums.
I mean, what a phenomenally stupid invention. Time travel that only takes you twenty-five years into the past, lasts half a minute, and you're insubstantial too. It makes a quest for rubber beverage containers look intelligent. Eyelash massagers. Trampoline deodorizers. Computer ventriloquists.
"But it is important," Gar kept saying. "It means Time is quantized. So what if the first level is trivial…. Maybe you can visit longer levels."
"Then we'd have boring visitors from the far future, not just people with anniversaries and reunions."
"Maybe guys from further out dress so they won't scare us or give anything away. Or the future scientists could be viewing, oh, australopithecines or trilobites or the big asteroid crash. But it means We Understand Time. Unified Theory of Everything."
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Gar has a lot of emotion invested in time travel. He's convinced he's going to invent it. That's okay with me. He'll need something to keep him busy next fall when he's at MIT and doesn't have his geeky pals from the Chess Club to keep him real. (And no, we don't play chess. We call it that to scare away stupid people. It works.)
A couple of classmates of the Neanderthal persuasion stopped by our table. "Hey dorks, drowning your sorrows 'cause you don't have prom dates?"
"No," I said. "We're drowning our sorrows because it's lonely being the only ones in town with active synaptic potentials."
"Oooh, big words. I'm sooo scared!"
The bigger one tore open a couple of hot sauce packets and smeared them on my softaco. Ha ha.
I caught the moron's eye, grinned, grabbed half a dozen more packets, added them on, and took a nice happy bite.
The Neanderthals turned pale and left.
"I can't believe it," Gar said. "They're scared of spicy food!"
Good thing I hang on the Weird Cuisine SIG. And it's why I have to leave town. I want to find out if Thai restaurants really do exist in nature. But I went back to the problem at hand.
"So why are you set on the senior prom, Gar? It's not like you've ever been to a game or bought a yearbook or anything."
"Last week, something weird happened. I was in my room thinking about Time, and how the lights before the dumdums come are kind of like when I put my metal-rimmed Pinky and the Brain mug in the microwave, and my jaw was hanging open really stupid ... and I realized there was someone else in my room. A dumdum."
"Wrong address?"
He shook his head. "He was looking at me, and smiling." He shuddered. Our crowd wasn't used to real smiles.
He was right. If true, it was most definitely weird.
"Maybe you were about to be murdered?"
"Yeah, of course, that's it. And now I'm dead."
Because that's the only non-nostalgia use for time travel so far—checking out unsolved crimes. Deterrent value is zero. Face it. If a dumdum shows up while you're busy ventilating a little old lady with an icepick, you don't say, Whoa, I'm caught. You say Cool, I got away with it for twenty-five years! Which to your average criminal and your average teenager is like forever.
"Okay, let's go with this as your grand moment of revelation. Kekule and the snake. Newton and the fig."
I wasn't going to let Gar's ego get any bigger. So his IQ was bigger than the gross national product of Chechnya. He was still a dateless nerd. A laughingstock. A loser whose best friends were so socially inept they could really only talk to him via modem. And of course me, the rebel without a Santa Claus. The girl for whom the guidance counselors had made up a stamp that said bad attitude.
"You going to remember your old friends when you've got a Nobel prize in every room?"
And then something happened. The air fluoresced and a dumdum appeared at the next table. And stared at us, staring back, for the longest thirty seconds of my life, before disappearing again.
"Wow," I said. "Maybe I should save the hot sauce wrappers. They may be worth something someday."

Mom was in the kitchen doing her June Cleaver thing. "Hey Mom!" I yelled, plopping down in front of the TV and going right to Home Shopping so I could make fun of the boomer collectibles. Eighty bucks for a model of a bicycle. "Hey Mom, can I go to the prom tomorrow night?"
I was sort of permanently grounded since I called the principal a neototalitarian babbitoid. I would have been expelled too, but someone finally explained it to him and it just wasn't bad enough.
A fossilized survivor of the Partridge Family was shilling vinyl souvenirs. Makes you proud to be American.
"The prom?"
I jumped. Mom was right behind me. She'd run out from the kitchen, hands still covered in flour, and was wide-eyed like she was going to cry.
"The prom," I said. "It's not like Lassie just came home."
She started nervously wiping her hands on her apron. "We'll run out right now and get your hair done and a dress and..."
"Hey, it's just Gar, and I'll wear my black dress."
Her face fell. I almost felt bad. I hadn't realized the way the word prom would hit her. Stimulus response. For one microsecond I was a normal daughter, wanting the normal world of dresses and boys and family, not a changeling who wanted to go to film school and raise tattoos.
They really did get my blood tested once. They were that convinced I'd been switched in the nursery.
"So can I go?"
She sighed. "Go. Do what you want. Remember, there are only seventy-two Family Shaming Days before you go away to college."
"Thanks, Mom. When you make a joke like that, I almost believe we're related."
She flinched, started back to the kitchen, then turned.
"You know what I hope?" she said. "I hope you show up at the prom—your future self, I mean—and I hope you tell yourself what a mess you're going to make of your life. I hope to God you straighten out."
And then I shuddered. Because I thought of all those old farts at their twenty-fifth reunion, coming back en masse to look at the glory days of the prom—anyone who wasn't dead or broke or a total reject—and I didn't want it. I didn't want to be one of the jerks smiling and waving and holding snapshots of big families and big cars and big houses.
"I wouldn't do that," I muttered. "I wouldn't do anything so—so ordinary."
On the other hand, if I did feel like I had to revisit my prom, maybe I'd be cool enough to do it dressed entirely in vinyl Partridge Family souvenirs.

No corsage, but he brought me a red carnation that went with my color scheme. We started out at the Chess Club alternate prom party. Eight people, seven computers, a lot of Doritos, and two bottles of Annie Green Springs.
"God, you both look great," said Net Girl. "I love the tux. You two could be Fred and Ginger."
"Yeah, the Transylvanian dance team," said Jean-Luc. "Make it so." Poor guy had three strikes against him: he was brilliant, he was going bald at seventeen, and he liked to write philosophical essays in Klingon. But there was something in his eyes I wasn't accustomed to ...
Great. I was now the sex goddess of the pathetic loser crowd.
"We'll be back after the dance," said Gar. "Assuming we're not hospitalized or murdered or anything."
Then we gritted our collective dentition and drove to the school gym. "I couldn't believe it when I heard you were coming," said Mrs. Trout, my homeroom teacher. She hated my guts. It was mutual. "I should have known you'd pull something like this."
"It's my best dress, ma'am," I said.
We didn't dance. I don't know how, and Gar looked dangerous to my podiatric integrity. So we stood by the wall, occasionally shouted something sarcastic at each other over the din, and were bored to tears.
Until the dumdums started to appear. You can get a lot of mileage watching eighteen-year-olds confront their forty-three-year-old selves. Like they never realized they'd get that old. And the dumdums thinking they still looked buff or cool, not realizing they were just ancient. Embarrassing.
Most of them were holding little signs or pictures of all the detritus they'd accumulated. The pictures of families, mansions, and what we could only assume were expensive cars.
I made a gagging sound. I couldn't imagine anything worse than knowing where you were going to live, how many kids you'd have. It would be like trying to read an Agatha Christie when you've already snuck a look at the last chapter.
Gar kept looking around. I guess he thought he'd show up with his Nobel around his neck. Maybe a physics groupie on each arm. It could happen. Sooner or later he'd have to grow into his face.
The class president stood at the mike and tapped it until everyone quieted down. He'd just seen his own red-nosed future self holding pictures of a car dealership and what was either a second wife or a very inappropriately clad daughter. He was primed.
The pitiful country band quieted down. Fine with me. You ever heard redneck rap?
"Now it's time to announce the Prom King and Queen ..."
And he named us.
"Oh hell," I said. I didn't like the sound of this.
We found ourselves being pushed up to the stage. The president and my homeroom teacher pulled us up. "Your future self hasn't appeared yet, has she?" she sneered. Obviously meaning: because you couldn't afford it, or you died of a drug overdose in a gutter, or you're embarrassed by your lack of success.
"Hell no," I said. "Think I'd want to relive this boring and now humiliating piece of shit night?"
"Detention until the end of school for swearing, dear," she hissed.
The class president stuck crowns on our heads, ducked back quickly, and then the pies started to fly. But I'd been alerted, and dove behind Miss Trout, pushing her into the line of fire. Detention, hell—now it would be suspension.
Poor Gar wiped banana cream from his glasses—the idiots didn't know you were supposed to use shaving cream— and staggered to the microphone.
"You are all... infantile," he said. His voice was cracking, but it got stronger as he went. I stepped forward to put a hand on his shoulder. I felt kind of bad I hadn't had time to warn him.
"You're all unoriginal, boring, hopelessly conventional bourgeoisie."
"Yeah!" a Neanderthal shouted, and the football team whooped. They weren't sure what it meant, but if the four-eyed technonerd was against it, they were for it.
"And it's really all just jealousy. Because I'm leaving this hick town and you'll all stay, just live and die here and no one will ever remember you. But I'm going to be important...."
"America's Most Wanted Dork!"
"Good one," I shouted. "Who writes your jokes, Flipper?"
"I'm going to contribute to human knowledge, and you'll just contribute to ... to your own IRAs."
Gar never thought well on the fly. I should have anticipated the need for a retribution speech.
"And you'll only be remembered as the assholes who made fun of me, like the ones who laughed at Darwin and suppressed Galileo...."
And that's when it got weirder, as everyone realized that attendance in the room had doubled. There were future people everywhere, looking around, recording, remembering. And all the dumdums were focused on Gar, except when they were sneering at the other prom-goers.
It was too funny. I couldn't stop laughing. They'd been trying to make fun of us and now they would be famous as the Village of Short-sighted Idiots. Spending the rest of their lives as the laughingstocks of history, trying to live it down. And in the process, no doubt, becoming even more militantly shortsighted and closeminded.
I loved it. Even as I pitied the next generation in this crappy town.
And yeah, I even caught sight of Grownup Gar the Tenured Professor. He did grow into his face, and there are Nobel Groupies.
I stumbled away out of the crowd. My own cozy footnote in history assured, maybe, as Gar's vampira prom date. But he didn't need me now. He was basking in the attention of the future's intelligentsia, and the air diat was thick with 7 Told You So.
I walked out into the parking lot, breathing in the relatively fresh air, and leaned against the wall. I'd probably have to bum a ride to the Chess Club party, or walk. I had a feeling Gar was about to go home and pound out a theory of time. Excuse me, Time.
Something crackled out of the corner of my eye, and I found myself looking into my own eyes. Crow's feet, middle-aged spread, and it seemed I was apparently doomed to another quarter century of bad hair days and no fashion sense.
But I still had my patented sardonic grin, as my future self flashed up something white.
"Not pictures," I moaned.
No. It was an index card. My handwriting didn't seem to have improved either. I'd scrawled, "IT HASN'T BEEN DULL."
I shrugged at me and disappeared.
It hasn't been dull.
Cool. I can live with that.

-end-

About the author:
S. N. Dyer (Sharon Farber) has been writing competent, entertaining science fiction for years without attracting the recognition she deserves. She has a flair for tone and attitude that is much in evidence here, and characteristically tells an engaging tale, with bits of acute social observation. This is a witty concoction about kids today in the future after a transforming change, again from Asimov's, that is pretty far from hard SF (it seems to me a direct descendant of the 1950s Galaxy or F&SF stories) but still a captivating SF idea. How badly would you feel if your future selves and friends and family, and even strangers, were touristing back in time to watch you at every important moment of your life? Could you get used to it? Rise above it? Could you resist it yourself later? This is a story of teenage angst and a destabilized world. Who is to say it is not serious just because it reeks with attitude?