On the way home I was listening to 70's music on satellite radio. I don't subscribe to satellite radio and my radio itself says I should call a toll-free number to pay for the service, but I could still hear the Bee Gees and Englebert Humperdink's "After the Lovin'" clear as a bell.
I started to think about time travel and what to do if my current brain occupied my eight year-old self. Now that I think about it, I'd essentially be murdering little Greggy. Or would I? I have most of his memories intact. Right? I wasn't fantasizing about killing a kid. . . right?
Anyway, I really latched on to this idea and started to pour serious thought into what'd I need to do. It occurred to me that I really didn't know enough about technology to communicate to an engineer how to pull off a DVD, microprocessor or fidget spinner. I don't know enough about history to manipulate major events. And, as an eight year-old, I really didn't have the money to invest in the stock market in a meaningful way.
Basically, I'd just have to re-endure growing up again. Sure, I'd be a little better at math and I'd know some secrets about aunts and uncles that would really blow their minds at Christmas. . . but I'm not sure if it'd be a true boon.
I'd have to find Deb all over again. By the time I synced up with her, I would have already been a rock star via the Elvis Costello, XTC and Foo Fighters songs I had stolen. And the Oscars I'd won for plagiarizing most of the decent screenplays I sort of remembered might not be an advantage as I attempt to re-woo her.
I quickly dropped the time travel idea. I realized that I was sucking the agreeable nostalgia out of the songs. Hearing them used to remind me of the plastic smell of a transistor radio and staining my bedroom floor with a chemistry set I earned by selling seeds packets around the neighborhood. I don't need to dissect that time. I need to keep visits there casual and infrequent. I want to preserve the power those songs have to make me feel like I'm eight years-old again and digging into the bottom of a cereal box for the prize.