No Time Like the Present
The electric shocks, the thorazine, did their work over their years, slowly, and one day he found he’d made another time jump: from seventeen to twenty–five, remembering nothing in between. Someone helped him find a job at the library and an efficiency apartment. One day he found himself getting married. To whom? Oh yes, he remembered now. He was nice to the children when they arrived, but he preferred sitting in his swivel chair behind the counter at the library, leisurely checking out books and toting up twenty–cent overdue fines.
He was all right now, but there was one thing he never told anyone: he was living in 1959. Walking down the street, he saw big bulky round–roofed cars, and signs in restaurant windows offering two–dollar dinners; and when he watched TV with his family, the one he watched had a black–and–white screen and vacuum tubes.
He whistled as he walked down the street in his fedora hat and his wide–cuffed, sharp–creased slacks. Any time now he expected the US to send a man into space.