[Wealth of Time 01.0] Wealth of Time

by Andre Gonzalez

  It only took a few minutes to arrive at Wealth of Time. If ten minutes were all that would pass during his adventure, he’d be in great shape to make it to work on time.

  He’d never asked Chris if he would be at the store at 7 A.M., but figured it didn’t really matter. Chris probably knew when Martin would arrive and would be waiting patiently behind his counter with that devilish smirk.

  The storefront glowed under the clear sky as he pulled into the empty parking lot. The building seemed to pull at Martin with a magnetic force. Chills ran throughout his body, but he assumed those were remnants from his massive hangover.

  “This is all for you, Izzy.” Martin parked his car in the front row and looked through the store windows. The lights were on, and he knew Chris was waiting.

  The usual chime greeted him, and the silence from the room soothed his throbbing head. He could only hear the sound of his own breathing and heart pounding in his ears.

  “Good morning, Martin!” Chris’s voice carried from the back of the store. “Come on over!”

  The voice was distant, and Martin knew the old man was waiting in the back room. He took weary steps toward the counter to find the blackness of the open door. Chris sat at the desk, below the hanging light. With that smirk.

  “Looks like you had a rough night,” Chris said.

  Martin wasn’t sure if Chris had somehow “visited” him the night before, or if he truly looked like shit. Probably both.

  “I’m doing this. For my daughter. Whatever it takes.” Martin spoke as confidently as he could.

  “Do you have everything you need? Money? Resources for future income? A plan?”

  “Yep.” Martin had all of the above except for an actual plan. He’d have enough time to get a grasp for how this time travel ordeal worked, but the plan was simple: observe his house from a distance and follow Izzy.

  “Perfect. Now, six months is a long time. You’ll likely reach a point where you forget all about your current life and get caught up in the midst of being in the past. It’ll feel normal. Don’t forget to come back. I’ll be around to remind you.”

  “Where can I find you when I’m there?” Martin asked.

  “You won’t be able to find me. I’ll find you, don’t worry.”

  Martin stared at him silently, not pleased with the answer, but realizing there was nothing he could do about it. “Fine,” he said like a defeated child.

  “You sure you’re ready?” Chris asked.

  “Yes. Are you trying to talk me out of this now?”

  “Of course not. This is a big deal. You’re sacrificing a lot, but it will be worth it. Once you make a deal with me, there’s no going back.”

  “Sure. I understand the risks. I’ll be emotionless when I get back. No big deal.”

  Not like I’ve had emotions the last two decades, anyway.

  “All right then, let’s get started, shall we?”

  Chris stood and extended a hand to his vacant chair. “Have a seat.”

  Sweat dripped down Martin’s arms as his heart raced. The world seemed to vanish as he focused on the chair. It hadn’t been an entire day since he sat in that same chair and traveled back in time two hours. He would sit in that chair again for ten minutes while he went back to 1996 to get the answers he had longed for his entire life.

  Martin stepped behind the counter and into the old man’s office. Chris remained frozen with his arm extended while Martin made his way to the desk. He stepped aside as Martin sat down, and hobbled to the dark corner where he kept his stash of pills.

  Chris moved in the darkness, rummaging through drawers and talking to himself. Martin wondered how the hell the old man could know what he was grabbing, but decided probing him any further would only reveal truths he didn’t really want to know.

  “Shall we?” Chris asked as he emerged from the darkness with that fucking grin. Martin was ready to wipe the leer off the old man’s face if he had to look at it any longer.

  Martin waited in the chair, his trembling hands on the armrests, and watched as Chris placed two pills in front of him. This time they were light blue.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Chris said, the smirk gone.

  Martin stared at the pills, grabbed one and slid it into his pocket. He wore jeans with deep pockets on purpose and would worry about stashing the pill securely when he arrived in the past.

  “I’m arriving in March of 1996? In this same location?” he asked Chris, whose eyes had grown in excitement.

  “Correct.”

  Martin thought back to this particular location, but his mind was too flustered to recall what the hell had been on this land.

  It’s time. Just go for it.

  “See you in hell,” Martin said to Chris and mimicked the grin he had grown so irritated of.

  He popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed it in one motion.

  No going back now.

  “I’ll see you in ten minutes!” Chris cried.

  Ten minutes. 1996. Find Izzy. Don’t encounter yourself.

  He repeated these thoughts as he leaned back in the chair and felt all his worries melt away. The hangover faded, followed by his nerves settling. His eyes grew heavy as he fought the grip of sleep while bobbing his head. Then he slouched all the way back in the chair as darkness took control.

  9

  Chapter 9

  Martin woke up in a deserted lot, lying flat on his back on a rough, dirt ground. His headache was gone, the alcohol absent from his breath, and overall he felt energetic and refreshed.

  He hurried to his feet and regained his balance after the woozy sensation passed. Looking around, he wondered if he landed on a different planet. The dirt filled an entire open lot for the surrounding three blocks as far as he could see. A quiet neighborhood of one-level homes was to the south, separated from the lot by a stand of oak trees.

  The sun beat down on him. It had to be at least 80 degrees as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He felt nervous as he looked around and saw no signs of life.

  “If this is 1996, the church will be in the same place,” he reminded himself. He walked away from the neighborhood where the church would await three blocks to the north. Another neighborhood was at the north end of the lot where he could see actual homes, quiet and undisturbed in the warm day.

  It has to be the middle of the day. He said I’d arrive in the same location, but not necessarily the same time.

  Martin pulled his cell phone out and powered on the screen. Everything appeared to be properly functioning except for actual cell reception. And the time. He blinked his eyes and rubbed them to ensure he was seeing the time correctly as 00:00.

  “What the fuck?” he whispered, chills breaking out down his arms.

  First matter of business is to confirm the date and time. Then I can plan from there.

  A sliver of doubt remained within, but every instinct and voice of reason in Martin’s mind assured him this was all real.

  Even if this is a dream, or some sort of hallucination from the pills, I’m still here. At least, I think I’m here.

  That was good enough for Martin and he walked to the north neighborhood, kicking up dust with each heavy step. A chain-link fence forced him to walk around the rows of houses instead of cutting through someone’s backyard.

  It took ten minutes to navigate around the neighborhood. The sun was straight above him and he figured the time was close to noon. When he passed the final house he saw civilization, and a wave of relief swept over him.

  The dirt gave way to asphalt before changing to concrete on a sidewalk that ran along a paved road. The road stretched two blocks down and connected with a main road. “That should be 72nd, and the church should be one more block.”

  The church lot was surrounded by more trees, some bare, some green. It’s definitely March. He paced faster toward the trees and crossed the street after another block. Cars zipped by on the main road ahead as he crossed into the trees, coming out the other side and seeing
the building he was aiming for.

  Martin skidded to an abrupt halt when he saw what remained of the church. The roof was collapsed and charred. Chunks of its once brick exterior lay scattered across the ground in messy piles of rubble. He could see inside the church where only the altar remained, also fried to a crisp.

  “Holy shit,” Martin said. “The fire of ‘96.”

  He thought back to this time when his mother had called him in a panic, sobbing uncontrollably into the phone.

  “The church is gone!” she cried. “It’s all gone!”

  Martin didn’t know how to respond at the time, and didn’t know what to do in the present. The church would be repaired by December through tireless work from the parishioners and community. Izzy’s memorial service was held there that month, two weeks after the reopening.

  I forgot this happened.

  All doubt vanished. His feet stood on ground from two decades earlier, and his lungs breathed air from a much simpler time in his life. There was no faking the burnt down church.

  “It’s 1996.” He said this to make it feel real. His mind worked in overdrive to process the events of the last ten minutes, leaving him a bit lightheaded.

  Snap out of it. What are you going to do now?

  He reached into his pocket and brushed a finger over the pill, his return flight home. The idea of taking it crossed his mind. Why should a reckless alcoholic get the opportunity for time travel?

  Without thinking about it, Martin started toward the church, feeling an urge to stand in the rubble. His mother had begged and pleaded for his help in rebuilding the church all those years ago, but between a packed work schedule and constant activities with Izzy, his free time was limited.

  Martin stood at what used to be the church’s main entrance and gawked at the collapsed doors. The smell of burnt wood oozed out of the piles of debris. The pews were buried underneath the roof. Stained-glass windows that once depicted each Station of the Cross lay shattered in ruins.

  “Excuse me, sir, may I help you?” an older man’s voice came from behind, causing Martin to jump and pivot around.

  “Father Alfonso, you scared me,” Martin said, not realizing his reflex reaction toward his former priest.

  The old man squinted his eyes and put a hand over his brow to block the sun. “Martin Briar?”

  Oh shit. Just run. Turn and run. Don’t let him see you like this. How could I already fuck this up? I’ve only been in the past ten minutes and I’m about to blow my cover.

  “Yes, Father, how are you? Long time since I’ve seen you.” Martin forced every word out of his tense throat. Play it cool, he may not notice anything different.

  “I’m doing just fine, aside from my church being a pile of ashes.” The priest offered a soft grin. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you around here in years. You look . . . different.”

  No shit. I’m 54 but you still think I’m 32.

  “I’ve been good. Busy with the family and work.”

  “Too busy to give an hour to God each week?”

  Martin looked to the dirt. Fucking Catholic guilt.

  “I know I haven’t been around, and I’m sorry. I rarely have a day off.”

  Father Alfonso spread a wide smile, revealing immaculate teeth. “I’m just kidding with you, lighten up, young man.”

  Young man? Have I not aged all this time?

  Martin offered a shy grin, wanting to get as far away from this situation as possible. “I really should be going. I just wanted to come see this damage for myself.”

  “It’s a shame. I expect I’ll see you around on some of the repair crews?”

  “I’ll do what I can. I know my mom’ll be here for sure.”

  “Bless her. Well you take care of yourself. Hope to see you around.”

  The old priest extended a fragile hand, which Martin shook quickly.

  “Great seeing you, Father.”

  Martin turned away and strolled toward 72nd Avenue without looking back.

  I’ll certainly never come back here. Especially with how much my mom will be here to volunteer.

  Bulky cars zoomed by Martin as he reached the main road. He paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat dripping down his face. Two more miles west and he’d find himself in his old neighborhood where the 1996 version of himself lived with a happy wife and daughter.

  With $3,000 stuffed into his wallet, Martin remembered he still had plenty to get done. If he planned to be around for six months, he’d need a car. This walking business had already grown old after traveling an entire six blocks. He’d need an apartment, preferably close to his old house.

  For now, he needed a place to stay and knew of only a couple hotels in the Larkwood area, one near his old house. He could stay a night there and plan for the rest of the week. They’d also be able to tell him the exact date and time.

  “I guess I need to buy a watch, too,” he said as he looked at his phone still reading as 00:00. He had pulled it out to call for a car through one of his apps, but forgot he had no service. And there was no such thing as ride sharing apps in the 90’s—it was still wrong to get in cars with strangers, believe it or not. Since Larkwood was a smaller town, there weren’t exactly any random taxis patrolling the area.

  Motherfucker, two miles of walking it is, then.

  Martin inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air fill his tarred lungs. Two miles wouldn’t be too bad, and he thought of how a car became his top priority as he walked to the nearest hotel.

  10

  Chapter 10

  The Sunset Dream Motel welcomed Martin as he huffed and puffed, his face flushed as red as a fire truck. Cramps throbbed in his calves and thighs from the hour-long, two-mile walk across town. His smoker’s lungs couldn’t handle the merciless abuse of fresh air and exercise.

  There were no hotels in Larkwood. Martin had gone his entire life without realizing it was a town of all motels. Being a main hub for truckers, the motel room provided an uncomfortable bed, dirty bathroom, and a TV with terrible reception. The odor of cigarette smoke clung to the walls of the entire building. A couple of diesels were parked along the back of the building of the otherwise deserted motel.

  “If you’re looking for some fun during your stay, call this number,” the front desk clerk told Martin after checking him in. He slid a paper the size of a business card across the counter with a phone number written in scribbly letters. “Hundred dollars for two hours, you won’t find a better deal around here.”

  The clerk spoke with a twang to complement his mullet and handlebar mustache. The minty odor of chewing tobacco radiated from his breath.

  “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” Martin said.

  “Glad to help. Name’s Randy if ya need anything. I’ll be here.”

  “Actually, Randy, can you tell me what the date is?”

  “Today’s March 18. You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “Thank you. And no, I’m not. Just passing through on a business trip.”

  “I see. Ya know, if you go about ten minutes south there’s a hotel for business guys like you. If you want a more upscale place to stay.”

  “I’ll be fine here. This is the perfect location.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Randy pushed a key across the counter and wished Martin a good day.

  Martin grabbed the key, left the office, and headed for his room six doors down. An old man sat passed out in a lawn chair in front of the room next to Martin’s, cigarette still lit between his chubby fingers as smoke oozed into the air.

  Martin’s room welcomed him with the stench of cigarettes and bleach, causing an immediate migraine.

  Maybe an apartment should be top priority.

  He stared at his bed and wondered how many times a trucker brought his $50 per hour hooker for a night of romance at the Sunset Dream Motel. The number had to be higher than he wanted to know. Not wanting any disease to find its way into his bloodstream, Martin pulled the two extra pillow
s from the closet and laid them across the bed. It would be a long night sleeping on top of the pillows, but he considered it a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of his journey.

  He grabbed a pen and pad of paper from the nightstand and made a checklist for the rest of the week.

  March 18, he thought. Still don’t know what day it is.

  He pulled out his cell phone and prayed the calendar application still worked. When he found it did, he scrolled for almost five minutes to 1996.

  Today’s Monday, March 18.

  He scribbled this at the top of the notepad. The clock on the nightstand informed him it was also 11:37 A.M. He continued composing his checklist.

  Apartment, car, watch, money, plan.

  He circled the word plan.

  What exactly am I gonna do for the next six months?

  He debated continuing his 2018 lifestyle. Surely alcohol and tobacco were cheaper in 1996. More bang for his buck if he could get blacked out on twenty dollars.

  Don’t do it, he reminded himself. You have a fresh start. No one here knows you. Except for your priest, apparently.

  The prospect of a job grew more appealing. He could make a little bit of money from work and gambling and take it all back to 2018.

  I should have researched stocks. I still can. I’ll know which ones hang around for the next two decades and have a pile of cash waiting when I return.

  Martin wanted a quick nap. His mind felt like it had traveled on a twenty-hour flight across the world, but the sight of the bed with its stained sheets and comforter made him want to find an apartment instead.

  He dropped the paper and pen and clicked on the TV. A fuzzy image came on, showing an old soap opera. The picture flickered constantly as Martin flipped through the channels in search of anything to watch that might distract his mind.

  CNN came up and scrolled through the day’s stock market prices, prompting him to grab his pen and write each price as fast as he could. Investing was a smarter choice than taking money from bookies. There would be no stockbrokers in Larkwood, so he’d need a car to get downtown.