The Terminator suddenly materialized naked in my high school bedroom sometime in the 1970s. "Come with me if you want to live!" he said, extending a big, powerful hand to me.
"What are you doing in my bedroom?" my high school self said. "And why are you naked?"
"Your future self sent me to protect you," the Terminator said. "And time travelers can't wear any clothes."
"I can't come with you," my high school self said. "I'm in the middle of studying for my SATs. If I don't get good grades, then I won't get into a good college. And if I don't get into a good college, then I won't get a good job. And if I don't get a good job, then my life will be ruined."
"You ace your SATs and your life is ruined anyway," the Terminator said. "The only way to change the future is to change the past--your present."
"Are you alright, darling?" my mother yelled from downstairs. "Are you studying? It sounds like you're talking to someone. You know we don't like you talking to people when you should be studying."
"Money doesn't grow on trees," my father yelled from downstairs. "And college isn't cheap. We've got a big investment in you, and we expect to make back every dime--with interest!"
"Jesus, my parents!" my high school self whispered to the Terminator. "They can't see you in my bedroom! They'll kill me! You've got to get out of here!"
"I am programmed to protect you," the Terminator said, unslinging his Ithaca 37 with extended magazine tube and sawed-off stock. He was naked but carried a pump-action shotgun.
"Wait! What are you going to do?"
"Wait here," the Terminator said, and closed the bedroom door behind him. There was the sound of several screams and shotgun blasts downstairs. Then the Terminator returned.
"We've got to get out of here," the Terminator said. He picked me up, tucked me between his arms like a football, then crashed through my second-floor bedroom window. We landed on our driveway amid shards of raining glass. Then he hotwired our full-size Ford station wagon, threw me in the passenger seat, and fishtailed away.
"Oh my god!" my high school self screamed. "I can't believe you killed my parents!"
"Those weren't your parents," the Terminator said. "Look."
My high school self looked behind us. We were being pursued by two nightmarish forms. Half of them resembled my parents; the other half--where, presumably, the shotgun blasts had struck--were some kind of mimetic poly-alloy using nano-technology.
"Holy crap! What the hell are those?"
"T-1000s impersonating your parents. They were sent back in time to prevent you from achieving your true destiny. Otherwise, they were programmed to kill you." The Terminator put the peddle to the metal, and we left the T-1000s in the dust.
"Then my real parents are--?"
"Dead. A long time ago. You probably never knew them."
My high school self faced forward and sat in silence for a long time. The Terminator had given me a lot to think about. Finally, I said--it was a line I had been rehearsing for my high school valedictorian speech, and was rather proud of--"Where do we go from here?"
"To find your true destiny," the Terminator said, and continued driving.
***
We drove all night. We arrived at dawn in the East Village. It didn't look too promising: even at that early hour, the streets were filled with hookers and junkies and punks and club kids, all desperate to score. If I didn't have a naked Terminator with a shotgun sitting next to me, I would be terrified. We parked in front of a six floor walkup on Avenue C.
"This doesn't make any sense," my high school self said. "Why would my future self send me here?"
"Your future self worked for a big robotics corporation called Skynet, Inc. He helped design humanoid robots to replace workers. He designed me. Then he got replaced by a robot."
"We call that 'irony.'" Irony was one of the vocabulary words on my SATs.
"Fortunately, Skynet was also working on time travel. Your future self broke into their temporal laboratory, reprogrammed me, and sent me back to change the past, your present, his future."
"And the T-1000s that replaced my parents?"
"Skynet must have found out what your future self will do. They sent back the T-1000s to prevent you from fulfilling your destiny. That means your future self will be dead."
"Oh." My high school self took a moment to absorb this information, and sort out all the tenses. "And the T-1000s--won't they follow me here?"
"They're strictly suburban models," the Terminator said with just a soupcon--that was another SAT word--of contempt in his otherwise flat delivery. "They won't set foot in the inner city. Come on."
He led me to the front door of the six floor walkup. A junkie looked up, saw we weren't the Candyman, then went back on the nod. "Wait a minute! We can't leave the car here! Somebody will steal it!"
"You don't need it anymore," the Terminator said. "You have arrived at your destiny."
The Terminator walked my high school self all the way up to the sixth floor--I was in much better condition back then--and knocked on a graffittied apartment door. A naked punk girl with a mohawk, a nose ring, and a RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE tattoo over one pert breast opened the door, as if she had been expecting us.
"I'm Sarah Connor," the girl said. "I've been expecting you."
"Are you a time traveler too?" my high school self said, trying not to gawk. I felt myself immediately falling in love with her. I fell in love much quicker back then too.
"No, I'm a nude figure model," Sarah Connor said, shrugging . "It pays the bills."
She led us through the rundown apartment to a makeshift desk made out of a couple of milk cartons and plywood boards. On top of the desk sat an old Royal manual typewriter salvaged from the dump. It had a spring-loaded platen you had to return all the way to the left after typing each line of text; like the Terminator's shotgun, the typewriter was pump action.
"It's not much, but the rent is cheap," Sarah Connor said. "I'm basically squatting the place. You can stay here as long as you like while you complete your masterpiece."
"My masterpiece?"
"Of course. You are destined to write the Great American Novel and overthrow our corporate overlords. I will be your muse." She looked down shyly at the floor.
This was a lot to take in. I had always wanted to be a creative writing major, of course, but my parents--the T-1000s, my high school self corrected me--had discouraged me. They wanted me to take something practical, like cybernetics. As for having a naked punk muse...
The Terminator turned and started to leave. "Hey, wait a minute! Where are you going?"
"My mission is done here," the Terminator said. "Sarah will protect you. Now I have free will and can pursue my own destiny. I'm going to California and run for Governor. Hasta la vista, baby."