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agony, and got me addicted to pain medication in college, causing me to flunk out of Purdue University, making my late teens and 20s a time I wasn’t too keen to revisit. 
    The pain stayed, then, and got worse.
    I sat back down on the twin bed and consciously relaxed, closing my eyes and imagining myself outside in a big, green, short-cropped grass field.
    Nothing.
    Crap. This isn’t a lucid dream, and I know I’m not asleep, so I knew it wasn’t a standard, run of the mill dream, either.
    I seemed to be in my old bedroom in our house on the West side of Indianapolis. So weird, I thought as the memory of the accident came flooding back in, and I again considered the possibility I was dead. I remember thinking if this is my life flashing before my eyes, why is it taking so long, and why start at age 17?
    Again, like in the clearing in "Hawaii," this didn’t seem to be the right answer. I was stumped.
    About then, I heard footsteps outside my room, someone coming closer. Masculine steps. So, if I’m home, back in high school, the steps would be…
    Someone opened the door separating the house’s entryway from the hall running past my bedroom, walked three steps and rapped on the sliding doors that provided my privacy. "Richard," a deep male voice said. "7 o’clock."
    I opened both sliding doors, and standing in my briefs with no shirt, saw a sight I hadn’t seen in 30 years, my father at the same age I am, writing this. 47 years old. He appeared to be closer to 37, hair dark with little grey and a lot of The Dry Look men’s hairspray. His sideburns were fashionably long, and glasses fashionably big. "Dad!"
    My face must have given away a lot more than I intended, because the expression on my father suggested he thought I must still be asleep and sleepwalking. "Morning, Rich, uh…It’s 7. Time to get moving." His expression went from surprise to suspicion, and he surveyed the room behind me, clearly wondering what was going on.
    "I’m up," I replied. "Just got up a few minutes ago."
    Pause.
    "Okay," he said. "Well, I’ve got to get going." He started to move on down the hall toward the garage.
    "Hey Dad," I said, realizing I didn’t have a clue what I should be doing on that day, or even if this hallucination, dream, or whatever would even last another 5 minutes. "What’s the date today?"
    “It’s April 27, Tuesday," he said suspiciously.
    "Thanks!" I cheerily replied to his back as he continued on to the garage. "And for the bonus…What’s the year?"
    "1976, wiseass, and you’d better get dressed."
    Some things never change. I considered my sparse attire, and think I said aloud "when do I switch to boxers, anyway?" Today, reading the previous sentence seems like the whole experience was kind of a light sitcom or "Back to the Future" moment, but that’s not true. At best, I was disoriented, at worst, scared to death. I had virtually no control here, and in retrospect, I guess all I could think to do was crack jokes, The unreality of everything, however, warped my normal perceptions and so I alternated between intense fear, curiosity and the feeling that it wasn’t even me at the center of this thing.

 
     
     
     
    THREE
    Living in the Past
     
    7:42 AM.
    A long “country” road I knew in 2007 ran through a river of office buildings and modular retail businesses, but today, in 1976, stretched out in front of us surrounded by cornfields. I drove a 1975 Chevy El Camino, carrying two passengers, twins Dean and Betsy Sawyer, who lived nest door to us and rode with me each day. Two years younger than I, our families were friends, so I somewhat reluctantly had agreed to let them commute with me to school each morning. I wouldn't have my beloved Plymouth Fury for a few months yet, but used an El Camino owned my father’s company. Juniors and Seniors at Ben Davis High School in 1976 wouldn't be caught dead riding the bus to school.
    Like most mornings, we rode in silence, the only sound in the car coming from