At the time, I was living in a studio apartment on the tenth floor of The Howell House on Peachtree Street NW in Atlanta, Georgia, a half a block from the famous Fox Theater. Time Magazine's Atlanta Bureau Chief, Rudolph Rauch III, had called my answering service a few days after I'd met with him without an appointment at his office at the Time Magazine Atlanta Bureau Headquarters in one of the Gaslight Towers.
I called him back and he offered me the job. I accepted his gracious offer and made a quick trip to Pennsylvania where I'd flown to tell my family the news and to see my four-year-old son who had been living with his mother since our divorce. He didn't even know who I was and I'd only been gone a couple of months. That did it for me.
I flew back to Atlanta where I called Rudolph Rauch III and told him I wouldn't be able to take the stringer job after all. Then I packed my bags for Pennsylvania for the last time. Mr. Rauch probably thought I was crazy or something after the way I'd so brazenly pitched myself and my writing ability to him. But, I had my priorities, and making my writing career the biggest reason for my being alive wasn't my top priority.
When I look back on my missed opportunity to write for Time Magazine, I see myself trapped in a roving wormhole that opened briefly to spit me back out before it haphazardly attached itself again to another point in the space-time continuum. Trying to remember it as anything else would be a fruitless search for a past that never existed.