March 18, 1978
The students living in the D building dorm, and students from other dorms gather in D building's common area. Word had spread about Andrea's death, and they all gather here this evening for a wake.
As they gather in the room, some sitting down, some standing, they try to fathom what had just happened. Some details about her life- and her death- come out.
"I just can't believe it," says one of the girls.
Jason Treborn walks away from the wake and enters his room. He reflects on the events of this day. No one else is in the room, and neither the television nor radio is on.
Just last week he had met her over coffee in the Student Union. He ponders what might have been, had she not died.
It doesn't have to be this way!
He grabs a copy of today's newspaper. He reads the article. Without mentioning her name, the article mentions that a college student was killed in an auto accident, and that her name has not been released pending notification of next of kin.
If I could somehow delay her for even a second….
He will have to gather more details about this, find out exactly what happened.
What if there is a fire and I lose my photo album? What if I die?
Jason buries these thoughts and feelings. He knows that he can not screw this up.
Ooooooooooo
March 21, 1978
"Here's the information you wanted," says the Westchester County police officer, handing a copy of the files to Jason. "Why did you want this again?"
"It's for the school," replies Jason. "We just want to find out what happened."
"Basically, some guy plowed through the intersection at a red light," says the deputy.
"Thanks."
Jason leaves the police station, going to the public parking lot where his green Pontiac is parked.
Oooooooooooooo
March 25, 1978
Jason sits inside his dorm room, lit only by a single incandescent lamp.
He looks at his notebook which sits upon a huge pile of school textbooks. He reviews all the information he wrote about the car crash.
He then opens up a photo album., taking a good look at a photo dated 3/1/78
Here we go.
Oooooooooooooooo
March 1, 1978
Jason looks around, disoriented. The first thing he notices is a many people around his age, dressed in sweaters. He finds himself sitting behind the desk. Looking forward he sees the professor of his biology class.
I must have been displaced by my older self. Jason recalls having taken a picture of himself in his dorm room before leaving for classes.
He opens his notebook and reads the date header from a message, which is dated March 25, 1978. The message, however, does not contain investment tips nor sports scores like last time.
It is a message about Andrea's death.
Jason feels as a vice grips his heart. He takes a deep breath and skims through the page, learning detailed information.
After class is over, he wades through the sea of students, going towards his dorm room. Inside his room, he looks at a calendar pinned to the wall.
March 18 will be on a Saturday.
I wonder if there is more. I have seventeen, no sixteen days to find a way out of this.
Ooooooooooooo
March 15, 1978
Jason walks across campus carrying a backpack packed with textbooks. He is far from his usual route. His next class is an hour away.
Standing near a steel support column, he sees Andrea walking out of a building along with many other students.
"Hi, Andrea," he says.
"Oh, hi Jason," she replies, carrying a yellow plastic binder stuffed with papers. "What are you up to?"
"Well, right now I'm gonna head to the library to study. I was wondering if we can hang out Friday night."
"Friday night? You mean St. Patrick's Day?"
"Yeah, we can have a dinner and then see a late night movie, perhaps Gray Lady Down?
"Uh, no. I've made plans to go with my friends that night."
"Oh really?"
"Haven't seen them in a while."
"Well, uh, have a nice day. See you later, I guess."
Jason walks towards the brick building that serves as the university's library. Andrea is obviously still going to go out with her friends, as it reads in that note from the future.
Sitting inside the relative quiet of the library, he ponders his options.
Ooooooooooooooo
March 16, 1978
Walter Jackson leaves the store, carrying paper bags filled with clothes. He loads these bags into the back of a 1966 Ford pickup truck which is parked on a street in Yorktown in Westchester County.
"Excuse me," a voice says.
Jackson turns around and sees a boy appearing to be in his late teens, with light brown hair and wearing blue jeans and a sweater. "What do you want, kid?" he asks. "This truck ain't for sale."
"Oh, I was just wondering if you had your brakes checked," says the boy.
"Oh. You must have heard the squealin'. I am gonna have the brakes replaced- tomorrow in fact. It's this place down in New Castle. They've been doing brake jobs on my truck since I first bought it back in '69."
"Uh, what's the name of this place?"
"Bender Auto Services. Are you looking for a place to have your car tuned up or something?"
"Maybe."
"They're in the phone book, I think. Just find one with New Castle listings and it ought to be there."
"Uh, thanks, mister."
Jackson gets into his truck and drives off; the squealing sound of the brakes can easily be heard just before he pulls the truck out onto the street.
Jason watches as the blue Ford pickup truck disappears from view. From what he had read from the future note, Walter Jackson had claimed that the brakes failed. Either Mr. Jackson forgot - will forget- to have the brakes fixed, or the mechanics did- will do- a shoddy job.
Ooooooooooooooo
March 17, 1978
Jason sits down on a bench, feeling a cold breeze as he looks at the other side of the street. Across the street is Bender Auto services, a full-service auto repair shop in New Castle which does alignments, tire changes, oil changes, and brake pad changes.
He had been waiting for about four hours. His stomach growls, indicating his hunger.
He knows that tonight, Andrea will go bar-hopping with some of her friends, and would get killed in an auto accident on the way home. Walter Jackson had claimed his brakes had failed.
Maybe he'll forget to take his truck in.
His thought is dispelled a minute later when a blue Ford pickup truck pulls into Bender Auto Services. Walter Jackson steps out of the driver's seat, speaking to one of the mechanics working there.
Jason ponders what will happen. The mechanics might make a mistake, causing the truck's brakes to fail at that critical moment. Or Jackson lied to the police about what happened.
The teenager walks a few yards to his green '61 Pontiac, pondering these questions.
Ooooooooooooo
11:15.
That is what the clock radio reads.
Jason lies down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what to do. His roommate Charles Heppleman is out with his girlfriend. An open textbook on economics sits on the wooden desk.
He revisits an idea, and then rejects it. Stealing Walter Jackson's truck would only cause trouble. And yet, he feels the need to do something.
He grabs some notes he had written about what would happen. He then opens the closet, removing a heavy coat, and then heads out of the dormitory.
oooooooooooooo
March 18, 1978
Even in the early morning hours, the bars are still packed with people celebrating St. Patrick's Day. About half of these people are under twenty-three years of age, and some of them are even younger. Some yellow taxicabs arrive at the curb to pick up drunks.
Outside, Jason Treborn waits, feeling cold even through the heavy black coat. The bouncers are checking for identification, and the college student does not have a fake ID, unlike some other people in the bars.
The gray 1976 Cadillac which Andrea would ride in is parked in a small parking lot just down the block. Jason had considered stealing it, but he does not know how to steal a car, and grabbing the keys from one of the girls seemed too risky.
He watches his watch as the time of the crash draws closer. What could he do? He begins to feel desperation.
oooooooooo
Walter Jackson walks out of a dive bar located on a country road. He bar is popular with people around this rural section of Westchester County, serving an older clientele than the bars catering to college students. The man bartends there on Tuesday and Thursday evenings; he has a day job as an electrician down in Yonkers.
"Thanks, Walt," says a man in his thirties, his speech slurred. "I really appreciate it."
"No problem, Charlie," replies Jackson as the two men head towards his Ford pickup truck.
"Could you take me here so ah can pick up me car?" asks Charlie as the engine is started.
ooooooooooooo
Jason continues to wait outside. Only ten minutes left. He then sees Andrea coming out of the bar, accompanied by some girls, all of them wearing heavy coats. He walks to match their movements, knowing that his visage would be partially concealed by the visored cap he is wearing. He sees them walk to the parking lot where the gray Cadillac is.
Terror grips his heart. He frantically thinks. He considers trying to steal the keys away from them.
Then he comes up with an idea.
He rushes to a pay phone, pulls out a scrap of paper from his coat pocket, and dials a number.
"Westchester County Police," answers a voice.
"I'd like to report my truck stolen," says Jason. "It's a blue Ford pickup."
Ooooooooooo
Walter Jackson drives along the dark road, the truck's headlights lighting the way. His eyes dart carefully; he has no desire to be hit by a drunk driver.
"Aw shit," says Charlie.
Jackson looks into the rear view mirror, seeing flashing red-and-blue lights.
They probably think I'm drunk. I'd better pull over.
Jackson signals and steers the wheel to the right. Depressing the brake pedal, he feels something unusual.
There's no pressure! Shit!
Jackson engages the parking brake; it only has a slight effect on the speed of the truck. He figures he will just let the truck roll to a complete stop, meet with the police, and then have the truck towed. It would not be safe to drive without working brakes. After this is over, he will have a word with the people who had worked on his brakes yesterday.
Looking ahead, he sees a red light. The truck is still moving too fast to stop at the intersection.
He turns the wheel hard to the left, hoping to turn the truck around.
He feels himself slamming against the door, hearing the screech of metal.
Even without looking around, he can feel that he is tipped over on his side.
The police officer who had been trying to pull him over immediately radios for an ambulance.
Minutes later, Jason Treborn arrives at the scene in his green Pontiac. He looks and sees an overturned pickup truck, but no wrecked Cadillac.
Ooooooooooooo
March 25, 1978
Jason feels the blood trickle from his nose after flashing forward, receiving the rush of new memories. He looks around. It will take some time before the new memories are integrated in his mind. He wonders if Andrea had survived. He can only recall vague images.
Walking out of the dorm room, he walks to the common area. He can hear the common television on, a local news program to be precise.
"Andrea," he says, upon seeing her sitting on the couch. Relief floods his very soul. He – his younger self- had succeeded, and he will find out how as the memories adjust.
"I'm just up watching TV," says Andrea. "I'm having a little trouble sleeping."
Jason sits down without saying a word, silently thanking God for this.
"And that was the latest word on the aftermath of the Amoco Cadiz oil spill on the coast of France," says a television news reporter. "In local news, Westchester County Police arrested a woman who sabotaged the brakes of her estranged boyfriend's pickup truck."
Jason looks with interest.
"Police say that Amy Cash, 33, cut the brake lines of her ex-boyfriend's '66 Ford pickup while it was parked outside a bar in Cortlandt in Westchester County," continues the reporter. "Jealousy is the suspected motive. Cash's attorneys have refused to comment so far. She is scheduled to appear in Westchester County Court Monday on charges of reckless endangerment and attempted murder. Now, on a happier note, a group of foster children had a field trip in the Bronx Zoo…"
"Some people," says Andrea. "What some girls would do if jilted."
"It's fucked up," replies Jason, knowing exactly how that could have turned out.