SHORT STORY: AFTER THOUGHT

The force exacted by an object is equal to the mass times its acceleration. Simple high school physics, I thought as I flew through the air. My body weighed just under two hundred pounds and my acceleration was zero to sixty miles per hour in less than a second. I was impressed as I crunched the numbers in my head and turned over in the air. I was getting closer to the ground now, approaching a tree at an incredible rate. I continued turning and saw, just before I hit the tree, the neon blue sports car that had hit me. The front end was crunched slightly and—

“Jim! Hey Jim!”

A voice called to me. I knew it was calling to me, though how I knew I didn't know since my name isn't Jim. Perhaps I was in heaven now and, for some reason, they' decided to change my name. I guess if anyone had a right to rename me after thirty some years of life, it was Him.

“Jim, throw us the ball already!”

Not God, then. Perhaps I was dreaming. Maybe I hadn't left for work yet and was still in bed. This could be one of those dreams where you can't open your eyes because you're half awake, half asleep and your body can't figure out what to do yet.

I opened my eyes.

I shut my eyes. I had to be dreaming.

“What, are you blind, Jim?” The voice called to me.

I opened my eyes just a sliver. The playground came into focus, as did half a dozen kids. They all looked to be between the ages of five and ten.

Elementary school, I thought, I'm at an elementary school.

I eased my eyes open a bit more so I could make out the kids faces. The one closest to me, the one who'd been shouting for me to throw the ball, was my son, Nicholas. He turned nine last month....or maybe the month before that. I wasn't sure, his mother, Cathy, and I split when he was two but she kept me up to date with pictures of him.

“Are you hurt or something?” Nicholas asked.

I sat down on the ground which, I noticed, was a lot closer than I was use to. The little blue ball that everyone seemed to be waiting for me to throw slid out of my hands and rolled away. One of the boys chased after it, calling me a name but I wasn't paying him any attention. The world felt too real, looked too real to be a dream. I wanted to cry and had to screw up my face to prevent the tears from coming. I couldn't believe how childish I was behaving. I was a grown man, a successful scientist and talented musician. I gave speeches, taught classes, wrote papers for prestigious journals. And all I wanted to do right now was ball my eyes out like a child.

“Hey, it's okay, Jim. You don't have to play if you don't want to,” Nicholas said and came and sat down beside me. He was bigger than me.

“What's going on, Nicholas?” I asked him once I knew I wasn't in danger of crying anymore.

Nicholas frowned.

“Why'd you call me Nicholas?” He asked.

“It's your name isn't it?” I asked in return.

“Nobody calls me that,” He said.

“Then what do people call you?”

Nicholas eyed me with concern.

“Maybe we should go see Ms Barrett.”

Nicholas made to stand up but I held him down.

“Really,” I said, “What do people call you?”

“Oliver,” He said, “You know that.”

“Since when?” Anger rose within me. Oliver was Cathy's maiden name.

“Everyone's always called me Oliver,” Nicholas said, “Ever since I can remember.”

“What about your dad?” I asked. I knew I had him there, I always called him Nicholas.

Nicholas shrugged.

“I don't know,” He said.

“What do mean you don't know?” I asked, fuming. “I always called you Nicholas...I mean,” I corrected myself, “I thought that's what he always called you.”

“How would you know? And besides,” Nicholas went on, getting upset himself now, “I can't even remember him.”

Nicholas got up and left to rejoin his friends in their game of dodge ball.

He couldn't even remember me. It couldn't have been that long ago that I'd visited last. Of course, when I did visit, how much time did I actually spend with him, and not out back, arguing with Cathy? In the beginning she wanted me to visit every weekend. Well, we both knew that was out of the questions since I worked most weekends but I usually made it over once a month, or every other month. After a while she stopped asking me to come by every weekend, but instead asked that I at least make it once a month, then every other month, then only on his birthdays. Looking back I can't say it's her fault, she tried to include me in Nicholas' life, or rather Oliver's.

I stood, the eight year old legs beneath me were awkward and uncoordinated, and made my way over to the dodge ball game. I may be late, but I was going to play with my son.

“He's can't play with us,” One of the kids called out.

“I can too play,” I yelled back, my face flushing and my heart beginning to pound as a childish anger welled up.

“No you can't,” Another kid said.

“Says who?” Oliver called out, coming to my rescue.

“Says me,” The first kid shouted, his mean little voice rising “He's too delicate.”

Oliver picked up the blue ball, hefted it, and then threw it at the other kid, hitting him square in the face.

“No head shots!” The mean kid cried as he scrambled for the ball.

“Says who?” Oliver taunted him, waving for me to join.

The game resumed. Every time the mean little kid got the ball he felt it was his duty to try and hit Oliver or me as hard as he could but Oliver and I kept watch out for each other and made sure he could never get his revenge. I'd forgotten how agile little bodies could be and thrilled to be young again. My heart raced every time I got the ball and Oliver and I would high five one another each time either of us got someone out.

At last, a teacher somewhere blew a whistle and kids started going back inside. Oliver and I began to make our way back to the school when the teacher called to us.

“Bring in the ball you were playing with,” she said.

I was tired from all the running and dodging, and thought a nap would do me some good. But I'd had the ball last so it was only fair that I go and get it. I turned and jogged back to get the ball from the far side of the playground where it had rolled beneath a tree.

I didn't seem to be getting any closer to the ball. I sped up and still the ball and the tree were far away. I broke out into a sprint and watched in amazement as the ground spread out before me, keeping me away from the blue little ball beneath the tree. I began taking huge, lunging jumps, trying to get ahead of the expanding ground and finally found myself getting closer to my goal. But now, the tree and the ball were speeding toward me, fast. I tried to stop but it was too late. My momentum was carrying me forward. In fact, I wasn't even touching the ground any more; my last jump had carried me high into the air. I over shot the ball and was careening onward towards the tree. At my current speed, hitting the tree would be fatal.

I spun, hoping to call back to Oliver or the teacher for help. I saw a blue sports car where the ball should have been, its front end was crunched slightly.

The car must have been going over seventy miles an hour to have thrown me this far, this fast, I thought. And with an average weight of two thousand pounds the force it mus—