[Wealth of Time 01.0] Wealth of Time

by Andre Gonzalez

“That’s very cool, I’m sure it’s fulfilling.”

  “It has its ups and downs for sure, but I enjoy it.”

  “What was your name?”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s Sonya,” she said as she stuck out a hand for a formal introduction. “Or Ms. Griffiths, if you ask my students.” She chuckled at herself and Martin grinned.

  “I’m Martin Briar.”

  “Briar? I thought you looked familiar. Does your daughter go to my school?”

  Holy fucking shit. Still think that alias was a bad idea?

  “Uhhh… I don’t have a daughter. You must be mistaking me for someone else.” Sweat formed around Martin’s head as he felt the heat in the room suddenly rise. The combination of tequila, sexual arousal, and nearly being caught by the random woman at the bar proved too extreme.

  “Oh,” she said, brows furrowing as she looked down at the bar. “I must be mistaking you. I’m pretty sure there is a Briar girl at my school, but I’m sure anyone could have that name.”

  Martin gulped his water in relief. Sonya had damn near caught him in a complicated web of lies, but she fortunately blew it off.

  “So what is it you do?”

  Your lie won’t work here. This isn’t going to be a brief conversation.

  “I work at the post office.”

  “How cool! The one here in town.”

  “No, actually in Denver, but I live here.”

  “Ah, I see. That’s too bad, I’m at the post office at least once a week. Would be nice to see a friendly face for once.”

  “We’re not all bad,” Martin said, leaning in with a tipsy grin. The tequila started to kick in and ballooned his confidence. “So, is there a reason you’re out alone? Or do you just insist on the quiet time?”

  “My teacher friends don’t really like going out. Well, at least on a Monday. It’s not exactly quiet here, just feels good to be around normal functioning adults every once in a while.”

  “Do you have any family here?” Martin asked, really wanting to know if she had a significant other.

  “My parents are down in the Springs, but that’s it. I’m a lone child. Got a couple cousins out in California, but that’s really it.”

  The sizzle of fajitas arrived to disrupt their conversation after Martin had forgotten he had ordered them. Steam filled the air in front of him as the sizzle slowly died down.

  “That smells so good!” Sonya said, not having removed her eyes from his plate. “Makes me feel like I missed out since I ordered a boring enchilada.”

  “You can have a bite of mine.” Martin shot her a soft grin.

  “You don’t need to do that. I’m gonna be going soon – I ordered mine to go. Didn’t think I’d meet such great company tonight or I would’ve planned to stay.” She chugged the rest of the mojito she had ordered and slammed the glass down on the bar. “Do you have a phone number?”

  Martin’s heart raced, realizing he didn’t have any way to be contacted. “I actually haven’t set one up yet. Just moved in a week ago and still have a lot to take care of.”

  “Oh, I see.” Sonya paused and studied her fingers as an awkward silence hung between the two. “Well, how about this. Let’s meet here next week. Same time, same place.”

  “Deal,” Martin said quickly.

  A waitress brought Sonya a white box with the enchilada inside.

  “Great, it’s a date. I’ll see you next Monday, and next time I’m getting those fajitas.”

  Martin grinned. “Fajita date it is!”

  She giggled as she stood from the stool and rubbed a hand along his back. “Have a good night, Martin.” She disappeared into the crowded dining room and he watched her blond head bob toward the exit.

  He returned to his dinner with a dumb smirk stuck on his face.

  Did I just get hit on by someone way out of my league?

  Her body language showed interest, and she did ask for his number. Meeting someone romantically had never occurred to Martin as a possibility when he prepared for his trip back in time. What could be better for a six-month stretch with nothing to do?

  17

  Chapter 17

  The rest of the week proceeded with anxious anticipation. Martin couldn’t remove Sonya from his mind for one second. The purpose of this trip was not to fall in love. While Sonya provided a great mental distraction, he needed to regroup and focus on his mission.

  After the close call at his old house, he needed to plan for what should happen, what could happen, and the worst-case scenario, should Izzy see and approach him.

  Staying in his car was critical. If she saw him, he would drive off again and hope to God his head wouldn’t explode. Even though Chris had told him to not encounter his past self, he didn’t want to chance bumping into anyone he might know. Chris apparently liked to leave out important details, so Martin would take caution with every action moving forward.

  By Friday, Martin felt his plan was as close to perfection as possible. Every conceivable situation was addressed, scribbled down sloppily in a small notepad. He remembered seeing Calvin at the liquor store with a stuffed notebook and supposed everyone who bounced around time had to keep some sort of log and rules to keep their matters in line. Now he had his.

  He kept his apartment free of booze, wanting to create his plans with a clear and focused mind. The temptation for a glass of whiskey always crept up, especially at night when he lay on his couch to watch TV, but anything that might compromise his mission could go and fuck itself.

  After lunch he took a brief nap, setting his alarm for 2 P.M. When he woke, he slipped into his shoes and was out the door without a second thought. It was time to see Izzy.

  * * *

  School let out some time around three by his memory, so he wanted plenty of time to find a good hiding spot while he waited for the final bell to ring. He drove to Larkwood Middle School, a mere three blocks from his old house.

  Martin arrived in a couple minutes, the brick school standing tall just as he remembered. Being the only middle school in town, he assumed Sonya was also inside the building.

  Two school buses lined up in front of the school, meaning the final bell was indeed close to ringing. Martin found a spot under a tree across the street. He made a U-turn to face the direction where his daughter would walk, and slipped on a fedora and sunglasses.

  He brought the latest edition of Sports Illustrated Magazine with Dennis Rodman on the cover, posing the question if he was the best rebounder ever. The pages flipped between his fingers, but his eyes remained glued to the school; he couldn’t take a chance in missing Izzy walk out.

  The clock on his dashboard read 2:32, and Martin put the magazine down to enjoy the beautiful day by rolling down his window for fresh air. This would also allow him to hear the bell ring.

  He waited as cars passed and parents walked by. The air felt still, and Martin couldn’t help but wonder if the past was somehow preparing for his secret encounter with his daughter. As the neighborhood fell eerily silent, the bell rang, echoing around the schoolyard and surrounding houses.

  About twenty seconds passed before the school’s front doors swung open and students poured out of the floodgates.

  “Holy shit,” Martin whispered to himself. Within a minute there were at least fifty students scattered around the entrance, some lining up for the bus, others walking back to the parking lot to meet their parents, and the rest walking off the schoolyard to cross the street where he waited.

  He felt like a detective as he slouched in his seat, allowing only his eyes to see out of his rolled down window. Izzy would be one of the smaller girls to cross the street, having always been behind the curve in terms of size. When she was twelve she could have passed as nine by looking at her, but once she opened her mouth and let her wit and intelligence flow out, one might think she was actually sixteen.

  Little boys and girls crossed the street, adamantly looking both ways before doing so. Giggles and screams bounced around as Martin narrowed his focus
on the main crosswalk. It was half a block ahead of him, a clear view. When Izzy entered the crosswalk, he’d pull onto the road and drive behind her as she walked the three blocks home, following like a secret guardian.

  Countless little people crossed the street as the crowd on the school’s front lawn slowly died down.

  “Where are you, Izzy?”

  Both buses pulled away, and Martin’s heart stopped mid-beat as his hands started to tremble. There she stood, backpack slung over her shoulders, hands crossed over a thick textbook in front of her chest, as beautiful as he remembered with her sandy hair tied in a ponytail that bobbed with each movement she made. She hugged another girl and started toward the crosswalk.

  Martin wiped away the tears that streamed from his eyes. “Izzy,” he mustered, a bowling ball lodged in his throat. Seeing her proved way more intense than anticipated; Martin couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. His lips quivered as he could no longer hold back his emotions. The slow welling of tears burst into a flowing river down his face.

  Twenty-two years.

  He thought he’d never see her again, but there she was, crossing the street. Martin turned on the car through blurred vision. He slouched as the engine fired up, hoping it hadn’t drawn any attention to himself, but Izzy crossed the street, oblivious that her father from the future had his eyes locked on her.

  He pulled onto the street, coasted one block, and turned right to follow her, remaining roughly five houses behind her as she strolled through the neighborhood, ponytail swinging from left to right with each step.

  Martin physically couldn’t take his eyes off her. What was she thinking about on her walk home? Did she know her life would change in just a few months? Did she know her parents would never stop searching for her, even when the police had given up hope? Did she know just how much she was loved and adored?

  He desperately wanted to run her down, squeeze her, kiss her face, and never let go. The past and future be damned, he wanted to hold his daughter right now. But the reminder from his prior encounter with himself kept him gun-shy from making any other moves.

  Aside from the fact that he was looking at his daughter, the walk home was uneventful. She moved at a steady pace with her head down, not stopping to greet the dogs that ran up to her at the fences she passed, not looking at the cars that passed by. She’d always had that tunnel vision, an intense focus on the task at hand, and apparently walking home from school was treated no differently.

  The walk took an entire five minutes as he watched her turn into the front yard and climb the porch steps to the door. He stopped before the car would be visible to his old house, not wanting to chance anything after such a beautiful moment of stalking. A wall of bushes that separated his house from his neighbor’s provided the cover he needed. He could see her through the bushes, rummaging through her backpack for the house key.

  No one’s home.

  The temptation to knock on the door swelled even more, but it was only day one.

  “You’re not here to kidnap your daughter. Father Time probably wouldn’t like that too much.” Martin had to constantly remind himself that he was only here to learn what happened. And intervene when the time comes.

  She entered the front door and closed it behind her, leaving Martin to ponder what she was doing inside as he drove away, knowing himself and Lela would come down the block within the next hour.

  18

  Chapter 18

  Martin spent his weekend unable to focus on anything, not that anything required serious attention to begin with. After finally seeing Izzy and knowing she was okay, he couldn’t bear the thought of waiting in anticipation of her future disappearance. There has to be a way to both prevent it and keep the time travel gods happy.

  He had already tested the boundaries, though by accident, in regards to encountering his past self. Now, he needed to know exactly how far he could get away with changing an event, ideally a drastic one, that didn’t involve his past self or family. Larkwood wasn’t exactly an eventful city, but Denver would surely have some tragedy he could try to prevent or alter. Martin pulled out his cell phone, praying by some miracle that it would work so he could research 1996, but it continued with a red X where his service bars should have been.

  He thought back to all the tragedies he could remember from the 90’s. The ones he remembered would have already happened by 1996. Then, as if someone had flipped on a light switch and slapped him across the face, he remembered what he had so closely followed in the final year of the decade: the Columbine High School shooting.

  The shooting wouldn’t occur until April of 1999, but the two shooters, who were seniors at the time of the shooting, would have been wrapping up their freshman year in the spring of 1996.

  “Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold,” Martin said to himself, sitting down on the couch. He had saved every newspaper article about the massacre in the months following it, wondering what could have turned two high school boys into such monsters. He remembered they had constructed bombs in their parents’ garages while gradually building up an arsenal for the shooting. “Can I actually stop this from happening?”

  There was no denying the effects the massacre had on society, seemingly kicking off what would become a normal part of American culture with bullied young men lashing out against innocent people.

  I can get to these boys years before they may have even thought about shooting their classmates.

  The thought sent chills up his spine. Who was he to try and stop what would be the deadliest school shooting for years to come? Would the past allow him to even contact these boys? He had no idea where to begin such a task. Should he talk to them, try to preach love and change their hearts? Should he just walk up to them in their garage one day after school and shoot them on the spot? That would certainly be the biggest attempted change to history, or the future, depending how you looked at it.

  The chills gave way to twisting knots in his gut. Doubt shuffled its way into his mind. “I can’t actually stop Columbine from happening.”

  Having skipped out on drinks all week, he poured a glass of whiskey to help settle his nerves. Maybe this is my fate. To save Izzy and save all those innocent kids.

  He refilled his glass and chugged the booze to lull himself into a long Saturday nap. All he really wanted was someone to bounce these ideas off, but he’d have to keep them buried in his mind until he saw Chris again. Come and find me, old man.

  * * *

  Martin jumped out of bed on Monday morning. He had spent the rest of the weekend keeping his mind distracted with alcohol and fighting the urge to drive by his old house and see what his once happy family was doing. He also soaked in his responsibility as the man to stop a travesty across town, three years away. The fact that the event was so far out is what ultimately convinced him to move forward with it. He wouldn’t be around in 1999 to see what eventually happened. When he returned to life in 2018, he could look up Columbine High School and see there was no tragedy that had ever occurred. He’d be the city’s biggest hero without anyone knowing why. Living with a fulfilling secret like that seemed like a much needed addition to his dismal life in 2018. Chris could take his emotions and shove them up his ass. Martin would know he had done the right thing, and emotions wouldn’t matter at that point.

  Martin dressed quickly and left for the library. The library was one block from the church and he saw its pile of ashes dwindle as construction crews filled the lot. His mom was probably there helping, but he managed to push the thought of her out of mind.

  He hadn’t been to the library since he was a child, but it all looked the same from his memory: plain brown siding, dirty windows, and not an open spot in the tiny parking lot. He parked on the street and walked a block to the main entrance that welcomed him with the musty smell of old books.

  The entrance opened to a wide, open floor, shelves of books to the right, tables in the middle, and three computers to the left where two elderly people occupied the machines. In
front of the bookshelves stood a tall desk where a heavyset woman sat behind a computer screen, her eyes peering around behind pointed glasses. She smacked her red lips as she watched Martin approach her desk.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Do I need a library card to use the computers?”

  “Yep,” she replied in a snotty voice.

  “Can I get one?”

  “Yep. You got an ID?”

  Martin paused. He did have an ID. From 2018. “What do you need an ID for?”

  “Need to verify your address.”

  Martin pulled out his wallet and held it open to the snarky librarian, keeping his thumb over the important dates on his driver’s license, but allowing her to see his address, which was still in Larkwood.

  “Thank you,” she said flatly. “Give me five minutes and I’ll have your new card ready. Feel free to grab the open computer. If you need to print anything, it’ll be five cents per sheet.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Martin said in the gentlest voice he could muster, hoping he could make this miserable woman’s day a little better.

  He crossed the library and sat down at the open computer. The elderly couple paid him no attention and continued clicking around on their screens. Martin opened the browser and punched Google into the web address. After thirty seconds of loading, the screen came back with an error message: THAT DOMAIN DOES NOT EXIST.

  Oh, shit. Do I buy that domain? What could come of that?

  The thought left his mind quickly, as he needed to gather all the information available for Columbine High School. He went to MapQuest instead, the main source for finding where to go at the time. The results came back and let him know that the school was 31 miles away, a 40-minute drive, and included turn-by-turn directions on how to get there. Martin printed these directions. There was no satellite imagery available, no way to view the school from the street. The technology of the future was something he had taken for granted as he realized his capability to research the school was limited.