Chapter 1: The Spam Chronicles

Greetings, friends! Lately, I've been immersed in writing fiction, and I’m excited to share a piece that I hope won’t end up lost in your spam folder, even though it revolves around spam emails. Spam!

I’ve kept the protagonist's name as Alex Dobrenko, inspired by actual emails from my spam folder, and frankly, I was too lazy to change it. Beyond that—and the many parallels between me and the Alex in the narrative—this is purely a work of fiction.

Alex often realizes he’s in a tough spot when he scrolls through the "Spam" section of his email. “You never know what you might overlook,” he tells himself, as he sifts through a staggering seven hundred twenty-five (725) emails. The subjects range from:

98. 𝗥𝗘: ALEX.DOBRENKO ⭐ 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 $25,000.00 𝗦𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗖𝗵𝗲𝗰𝗸 𝗔𝗿𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗱 👉 , 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗗𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗺 ✔

💗🍆🍌👙𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝟏 𝐌𝐢𝐧 ⏱ 𝐓𝐨 𝐔𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐭𝐡🔼💥

And today’s standout:

Hello

The simplicity of that last one, a mere 'Hello' from SGT Stephen Gionis, amidst the chaos of emails from names like "LOVE CAM 💓R" and "ₜₒₑₙₐᵢₗFᵤₙgᵤ," momentarily tricked Alex into thinking it might be real.

He opened Stephen's email, which read:

"My name is SGT Stephen Gionis (US ARMY). I would greatly appreciate your help, which could be mutually beneficial. I will reward you with a 40% commission for your assistance. Please reply for more details."

Ah, a classic request for help, how original.

Alex chuckled at the absurdity of these emails. Who would actually fall for such obvious scams? They were so transparently fake, almost satirical. Yet, there they were, filling his inbox.

Despite never finding anything of value in the spam folder, Alex remained undeterred. In fact, he once explained to his now ex-girlfriend Simone that there had to be a first time for everything. He likened it to the concept of zero, first introduced by Brahmagupta in India during the 7th century AD. Before that, nobody had even conceived of nothingness. Brahmagupta changed the game.

Alex was determined that his groundbreaking discovery would emerge from the spam folder. He fantasized about being discovered for his comedic talent, finally recognized for his skills. What if David Lynch was sending bizarre emails, testing who would be crazy enough to respond? Perhaps that's how Lynch cast his films—recruiting unknown actors who dared to check their spam.

Sipping his half-caf Americano—a peculiar order from his local café, not the diner chain—he continued scrolling.

The emails were often adorned with emojis:

alex.dobrenko 🩺💡📈 Former Nazi Doctor Makes Manhoods 𝟖𝟖% 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫___3113 💪👩🌋

The erupting volcano? Quite the creative touch.

alex.dobrenko Your 🦠🕵️‍♀️McAfee subscription expired today 27/03/2022 😬😬😬

️𝟏𝟎𝟎 🎲🎡🎰 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋! 🤑💰💹.6970

However, one email truly caught his attention:

"Hey, it's Alex Dobrenko 👋"

This was unexpected. It was the only email with a single emoji and it was from himself.

He read it.

"Hello Alex,

I know this might sound insane, but I'm you. I’m not a different guy with your—our—name, though there is a shipbuilder in Russia with the same name. Not real ships, just miniatures. Anyway, I’m writing from the year 2077 and still haven’t figured out if we’re related to him.

I’m not reaching out to share some earth-shattering news or warn you about the Hilton hotel on December 5th. I don’t have any fantastic stock tips either. Well, I could, but that’s not really a thing we do in the future. Everyone focuses on the future and whatever "Side" means—I'm getting too old to care.

Alex checked the "From:" section and saw the email was from Alex Dobrenko ([email protected]).

"What in the world?"

And so, the purpose of this email? To check in and see how you’re doing.

You’re probably thinking this is nonsense—a new age scam artist—but I assure you, I’m not.

I hope to hear from you soon,

sorry, I couldn’t resist,

Alex

He reread the email. The tone was oddly familiar. It seemed like a scam, yet it resonated with him. Could this be a fun project like those YouTube channels that catch scammers? Perhaps he could even craft a screenplay from this experience.

A few days later, following an audition he felt good about but knew he wouldn’t land, he read the email again. It was as if a spell had been cast, compelling him to respond.

Alex replied,

"If you are me, prove it."

And hit send.

The next day, silence.

The day after that, still nothing. He received a rejection for a commercial gig, where he had played "Dad Obsessed With Pedialyte."

Then, right between an email from Squirting, Squirting and Lawsuit_compensation, a response appeared.

"Alex,

You worry too much about what others think. You're smarter than you realize. Although you’ve had an excellent education, you’re holding yourself back. Self-love is crucial; without it, you might end up resenting yourself like I do. If only you could feel the love others have for you, it would blow your mind. Your ideas are good, and though they don’t all go viral, remember—there’s enjoyment in art, not just pleasure. Seek enjoyment, and you’ll be okay.

I bet you didn’t expect that. You probably wanted a classic birthmark detail, right? Fine: When you were eight or nine, you thought you had three testicles. You panicked and told your parents, leading to a doctor’s visit. Turns out, you had two and a large air bubble. You kept the anesthesia mask until college.

Is that enough detail?

I still deal with the same issues as you, except for the third testicle, thank goodness. But it does get easier.

So, how are you?

Alex"

As if scripted from a Hallmark movie, Alex blinked, a tear slipping onto his keyboard.

He marked the email as "Not Spam."

The third testicle reference? No one knew that. Only a few friends had heard, in drunken conversations. Was this one of them? No, they all had families now.

Did his parents send this? An apology for pushing their dreams of him becoming a lawyer?

Whoever it was, they understood something about Alex that he hadn’t yet grasped.

So, Alex replied, and then Future Alex responded, and so forth.

Alex shared his fears, asking about love—whether he’d ever find it. Future Alex reassured him that he did, but the timeline wouldn’t guarantee the same for present-day Alex.

It wasn’t deterministic—Alex’s life would differ from Future Alex’s. No grand explanations existed—life wasn’t a time-travel movie. People cared more about living and hugging their loved ones than the ‘whys’ of existence.

Curious, Alex inquired about the future: climate change, America, and more. Future Alex explained that many issues from 2021 would seem trivial in fifty years. There were some surprises ahead, but 2022 would be remembered as the worst year.

Feeling guilty for monopolizing their conversation, Alex asked if Future Alex had any questions.

“Well, actually, I do. What does it feel like to be 34 and have most of your life ahead of you?”

Future Alex, now 89, still enjoyed good health, thanks to advances in science, but he lacked the youthful drive and hope for the future.

Alex didn’t know how to respond. He felt over the hill, convinced that regret and a desperate need to catch up defined his remaining years.

But here was Future Alex—or perhaps just a random catfisher—offering perspective.

“Age is just a number; maturity is a choice,” Future Alex quoted, referencing the future president of the United States, Harry Styles.

For days, Alex felt a shift within him. This wasn’t real, or maybe it was, but he stopped feeling down about himself.

Thirty-four is young, he reminded himself. For a while, he believed it. Then, the old cycle of self-doubt crept back in, but when emailing with Future Alex, moments of clarity surfaced.

And that's where the story might end. But wait, there’s more.

Chapter 2: A Time-Bending Proposal

About a year later, after exchanging over 200 emails, Future Alex announced he would visit.

Every person alive after 2045—the year successful double-blind trials on time travel were completed—would be allowed one trip, forward or back. Future Alex wanted to use his chance to meet 2022 Alex.

Alex chuckled at the thought of an old version of himself gaining insight from his younger self, but then considered that maybe his problem was not believing in possibilities.

They arranged to meet in downtown Los Angeles.

On the day, Alex took an Uber to the designated spot, bringing along his dog, Larry.

He arrived at a trendy loft building on Hill Street, rode the elevator to the sixth floor, and knocked on Apt 629.

Silence.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

He checked his phone for an email explaining a delay.

Nothing.

After waiting several minutes, frustration seeped in. Was he being foolish? Would this end in embarrassment?

As he headed back to the elevator, resigned to his normal life, the door creaked open.

In slow motion, he turned to see a woman in her mid-twenties with curly red hair and glasses smiling back at him.

"You came!"

Dumbfounded, Alex stammered, “Are…you going to murder me?”

She burst into laughter, realizing he was serious. “No! No! No one has ever shown up before!”

“Really?”

“Do you…want to come inside, maybe?”

Feeling a mix of emotions, Alex hesitated. “I don’t think that’s a—”

“I made lemon bars,” she interjected, as if that would sway him.

He laughed, and she joined in, breaking the tension.

Inside, her apartment was a treasure trove of collectibles, resembling a hoarder’s paradise.

"This was my grandmother's place," she said, showcasing the remnants of her past.

“So, there are others?” Alex inquired while savoring a lemon bar.

“Yeah, I send a lot of emails. Almost no one responds, and when they do, they’re usually rude. A few are nice, but they bail when I invite them to meet their future selves.”

Intrigued, Alex asked, “How did you know about the third ball?”

"You mentioned it on a podcast," she replied with a laugh.

“Great. So, you’re a stalker?”

“No, just a fan—sort of. More like someone bored and online.”

As they chatted, Alex realized he’d been emailing this woman, Allie, and felt a strange mixture of emotions—gross and used.

“I shared personal stuff with you,” he said, annoyed.

“I loved hearing it, and I always responded as myself,” she reassured him.

Allie looked down, unable to maintain eye contact, yet Alex sensed her sincerity.

She added, “I believe that’s how time travel will work—just casual connections.”

“That strangely makes sense,” he agreed.

They paused, absorbing the moment. Photos adorned the walls, displaying a large family and many of Allie with her grandmother.

“So, Future Alex, here we are. What did you want to say to me?”

Allie giggled, adjusting her glasses. “I don’t know! Stop being such a sad sack!”

They both erupted in laughter, deep and genuine.

“And what did you want to say to me?” he asked.

“That you look great for 89,” he joked, “and also thank you. I needed this.”

“Me too,” she replied, “no one ever comes.”

They spent hours talking, indulging in lemon bars and attempting to watch the time travel film Primer, falling asleep on the couch.

When Alex awoke to nightfall, he glanced at Allie, who had curled up next to Larry.

She smiled upon waking, and although he felt he should leave, he asked if they could meet again. She hesitated but said maybe.

They shared a hug, and for a fleeting moment, he felt as if he were embracing his future self—warm, eternal, sad, and absurd.

As he entered the elevator, he turned to say, "Goodbye, Alex."

“Goodbye, Alex,” she replied.

Deep down, he knew they wouldn’t meet again, and that was okay.

Instead of taking an Uber home, Alex strolled with Larry, feeling a rare sense of fullness in his heart.