The Fateful El Stop

Once, when I was very young, I met a stranger at the el station who beckoned me over to him.

"Psst... kid", he psst'ed.

"Wha... me?", I wha'ed, pointing a finger at my chest in the universal manner of one asking, "wha, me?".

"Yeah, you", he staccato'ed, emphasizing each word with a finger jab in my direction.

I looked over at my friend for support, but suddenly Bob didn't know me and had become very interested in an advertizement for Brill Cream posted on the wall behind us. Bob was always interested in mass marketing and advertizing as a young boy, so who could blame him.

So I trudged over to the stranger. Trudgingly.

"What do you... ", I asked incompeletly, but before I could answer the man had shoved a crumpled up piece of paper in my surprisingly soft hands and had left.

I looked down at the piece of paper crumpled up into a ball, all crumply and ballish.

Dare I open it?, I thought to my self daringly.

Bob now had his hands thrust deeply into his pockets and was whistling the theme to "Leave It To Beaver", so he was of no help. One had to admire the fine timbre of his warbling, though.

I opened the paper and began to read what was written upon it, in a rather stilted cursive:

Dear Hank. I am you. Or rather I am you 30 years from now. I am from your future. Please, disregard this note and do not think about the nature of time travel, paradoxes, and bifurcated universes in the future, because doing so will cause severe headaches begining around your 34th birthday. I do this for your own good. Signed, Hank.

I crumpled up the note and smiled to myself thinking, the stupid bastard can't even spell very well, but I will take his words to heart.

And I have to this day, yet the headaches still came for some reason. Achingly.