Over the course of the remainder of the day, we all get a chance to make more jumps. We work up to jumping a five minute period at once. We’ve logged about seven jumps apiece by the time we call it a day.
“Celebration time!” Carson exclaims as we exit the lab onto the street. “I think this day deserves some beers.”
“Where do you want to go?” Francesca asks. “Ooh, I saw a flyer for this place called the Forty-ninth Street Mining Company that had some cheap drink specials, and I think they even had karaoke.”
“Let’s just wander out and see what happens,” Blake suggests.
Robbie pulls up in Mr. Cameron’s car to pick us up, and we pile in. I roll down the window of the back seat and watch the St. Pete of 1986 stream by out the window. We pull up to a stoplight and a couple of girls in a dented BMW smile at me. I smile back and wonder if they can tell there is something different about us. I imagine myself buying them drinks at the bar.
“And what do you do?”
“Time Traveler.”
10
“Don’t time travel immediately after eating. You’ll waste a good meal and leave everyone a nasty mess.”
-Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2017
“Look around you. What do you see?”
We’re in Quickly’s neighborhood, a few blocks away from his house, just after noon, standing in the street in our jumpsuits. Quickly is interrogating us, uninterested in the fact that we look like utility workers. At least today we aren’t shoeless. We’ve acquired our flip-flops back after he stole them before our morning lesson and treated them for jumping. I feel very conspicuous, but the streets are quiet, and no one has taken much notice of us.
“It looks like an average neighborhood,” Blake suggests.
“Indeed,” Quickly responds. “Just the sort of neighborhood you would expect to find in just about any town in the country in the last or next half century. We are out here because if you’re going to learn the skills you need to survive as time travelers, you are most commonly going to be using them here: quiet, average places. So how do we time travel in suburban twentieth century America? What is my first requirement?”
“We need objects fixed in time,” I say, proud to use my new knowledge from our hours of lessons.
“We need clear space to work,” Blake adds.
“We should avoid inclement weather so we don’t get fused with falling ice or rain when we arrive,” Francesca says.
“Good,” Quickly responds. “What do we have here that meets those requirements?”
I consider our surroundings, trying to pick out something that looks like an anchor.
“Mailbox,” Francesca suggests.
“Not bad,” Quickly answers. “How would you do it?”
“Um. I guess I would stand in the yard so I don’t get hit by a car when I arrive.”
“Good thought. What about the grass? Do you see the danger there?”
“What, like kids playing in the yard?” Carson suggests.
“Potentially, but what I’m referring to here is that when you leave, you are pushing the blades of grass down with your feet. When you arrive back in that location, are they still going to be pushed down for you? You have to watch for that or you’ll end up with a bunch of grass growing through your feet.”
“That sounds really painful,” I say.
“It is. I had a long stem of grass fused through my calf for the better part of a week once. It was very painful.”
“What did you do to get rid of it?” Francesca asks.
“I fretted over it a few days and even saw a doctor, before I did what I should’ve done the instant I discovered it. I made another jump.”
“That removed the grass?” I ask.
“Yes. Since the grass hadn’t been infused with the gravitites, and my body had, when I made the jump, I was able to leave it behind. It still took some time for my body to heal from the unwanted intrusion, but overall I could have fared much worse. It was a valuable learning experience.”
“So what would you do in the case of the mailbox?” Blake asks.
“It’s not a bad choice overall, but I would use it cautiously. This post is immediately next to a driveway, so you can stand on something solid without being in the street and in danger from passing cars. You would still have to consider the possibilities of encountering a car coming in the drive, or of course the person retrieving the mail, or the mail persons themselves doing the delivery. You might have kids to factor in, or the occasional errant skateboard, but overall your probability of safety is pretty high. I would help my odds by planning to arrive at night, when you aren’t likely to encounter many of these hazards. You always want to increase the odds in your favor as much as you possibly can. What else have we got to work with?”
I scan our surroundings and look for more unseen hazards, trying to picture the activity on the street. In my mind I see owners with lawn mowers, kids on bikes, sprinkler systems and rolling trashcans. I try to imagine where I would find the least activity. My eyes finally settle on a TV antenna. “What about a roof?”
“Excellent!” Quickly exclaims. “The roof of a suburban home is one of the least hazardous and least occupied spaces you can find in any town. They are often adorned with metal antennas or satellite dishes that are good conductors for jumping, and the footing, while usually sloped, is typically smooth enough to protect your feet if you are wearing adequate shoes. Most importantly, hardly anyone ever looks up there, let alone goes up there.”
“What about falling off the roof?” Francesca asks
“There is that I suppose,” Quickly says. “And getting up and down can be a bit tricky. These are minor details when you think about it. You have to think big picture. I will grant you that I’m climbing fewer roofs these days than I once was. Still, you are young people, prime of life. The roof is a very good choice. You can make fairly long jumps through time there with relative safety.
“I want you to work as teams. You will work in tandem to keep your partner safe. Find a location on this street to use as a jump anchor and make a jump. See if you can do thirty-minute intervals to start. Blake and Benjamin, Francesca and Carson, let’s see what you’ve got.”
I look at Blake and feel the sudden onset of stress. Quickly is certainly not shy about throwing us into these sink or swim situations. I have to believe he knows what he’s doing. Blake is someone I can count on for anything, so I have no worries that he won’t have my back. The stress comes from how new all of this is to me. Each day I’m learning to defy everything I’ve known about reality. Quickly walks down the street to give us some space, and he makes some notes in a notebook while Blake and I confer.
“What do you want to go for?” Blake asks.
“I’m not an especially big fan of heights, but I guess it would be good to go the safe route and try for a roof if we can get up on one.”
We look at the houses around us. A couple of them are definitely occupied. There are two or three that look like no one is home. I point to a green stucco rancher that has a wooden fence attached to the garage.
“What about just using that one?” It’s the same house I spotted the TV antenna on earlier.
It’s just a one-story. I should be able to handle that.
Blake nods and we head across the street into the yard, trying not to look suspicious. A van drives by and we linger awkwardly in the driveway until it’s past before heading for the fence. We find the gate unlocked. We slip into the side yard, and after a tense moment of expectation that we’re going to be mauled by a vicious dog, we find only trashcans and an empty, blue plastic kiddie pool. I’m happy that the garage is between the main house and us, so that even if we were mistaken about someone being home, no one is likely to hear us. We close the gate and I peek over the fence to see that no one is watching. Blake checks around the corner to the backyard to see if there is anything we need to be concerned about, but comes back immediately.
“Just a s
wing set.”
I scale the corner of the fence, then gingerly stand up. I sway precariously for a moment, then get my balance and grab the roof.
Don’t look down, Ben.
I realize that other than the gutter, there’s not much to grab onto. I use my height to my advantage and jump, flopping the top half of me onto the roof. I get one knee up and stay low to keep from sliding back off. From this position I’m able to lean my weight forward and get my other leg onto the roof.
Hallelujah.
Blake has scaled the fence now and is positioning himself to grab the roof. I brace my feet on the gritty shingles and lean over to help. Reaching out to clasp his arm, I pull him onto the roof as he flings himself up. For a moment, my flip-flops slip on the shingles and I slide forward, sending bits of sand and rock dancing into the aluminum gutter, but we’re able to keep our weight low and hang on as Blake rolls onto the roof. Satisfied with our success, we crawl cautiously up to the ridgeline.
Once on the ridge, I pause and look into the street. Francesca and Carson are nowhere in sight, but I can just make out Dr. Quickly through a gap in some trees. He appears to be collecting dandelions from someone’s front yard.
“So he’s not watching us at all?” Blake asks.
“I guess not.”
“He’s kind of a weird guy.”
“I agree. Seems awfully trusting we can do this.”
“I guess we’d better get it right.”
We continue down the ridgeline, walking as lightly as we can until we reach the antenna mounted on the far end of the house. Another car passes, but the driver doesn’t look up. Blake and I position ourselves around the antenna.
“Okay. Half an hour from now,” Blake says, setting his chronometer.
I rotate the dials on mine also. “Okay, are we able to go at the same time using the same anchor or do we need to go separately?”
“Um. I don’t know actually,” Blake responds. “I don’t think he covered that in class.”
“I guess we’d better do separate. You want to go first and I’ll follow?”
“Sure. Do you want me to get out of the way first or just stay in position till you arrive?”
“Good question. I guess as long as we’re in different positions here, we’ll be fine then too,” I say.
“Okay. I just won’t move till you show up, then we can climb back down together.”
I get in position with my arm below Blake’s, but not grabbing the antenna yet. He grabs the pole near the top with his left hand and uses his right to reach for the chronometer on his wrist. He exhales heavily and looks at me. “Here we go.”
His fingers squeeze the pin on the chronometer, and the next moment he’s gone. My heart is pounding. The climb onto the roof had gotten it started, but the sight of Blake vanishing amplifies that by at least double. I take a couple deep breaths to calm myself and then get into position, careful not to put any part of myself where Blake has just been. I release the safety on the chronometer and take a look back to the street. I can no longer see Quickly. I wonder where Francesca and Carson are, then turn my attention back to my task. I squeeze the pin.
The world goes black. The antenna shakes in my hand and something strikes me in the face. I close my eyes and fall back from a noisy chaos around my head, grabbing frantically for a hold on the roof. I land forcefully and painfully on the ridgeline. I roll over and grab at both sides of it, opening my eyes and trying to balance myself. I get stabilized and catch the last glimpses of a flock of birds disappearing into the darkened sky.
My body shakes as the adrenaline pounds through me. I stay straddling the ridgeline and put my head down on my hands to calm my nerves.
What happened? How am I here at night?
I try to look at the chronometer settings on my wrist, but in the dim light I can’t make out how the concentric rings are aligned. Did I get my settings wrong? Is something wrong with it? I realize that I don’t even know when I’ve arrived. How badly did I screw this up? I could be a year off for all I know.
A car drives by and pulls into a driveway down the street. A couple of lights are on in a few houses, so I know there are some people still awake. I wish I could tell the time from the night sky. I shimmy down the roof toward the garage where Blake and I came up. A dim light is shining into the backyard from inside the house. Someone has apparently come home since I climbed up.
I peer over the edge to see the fence I stepped up from. It looks much farther away in the darkness. I dangle a foot over the edge, trying to catch the top of the fence with my foot. It won’t reach. I slide a bit farther, balancing on my stomach and bracing my upper body on my forearms. I touch the top of the fence with my foot but it glances off and my flip-flop slips from my foot, disappearing into the darkness below.
Damn it.
I shift my body a little more and land my bare foot on top of the fence. It’s jagged and sharp on my skin and I don’t want to put any weight on it. I decide to shimmy sideways to get to the lower edge of the roof and just drop off from there. I make it to the edge and try to find a good grip with my hands. Just as I’m about to swing down, I hear a sound from the backyard. It’s a thwap thwap of something swinging open and shut. My mind places the sound just as I hear a snuffling noise from the yard. Dog door. I grip the edge of the roof, hang momentarily and drop. I crumple and roll backward, but get right back up. The snuffling noise has stopped, and a moment later, a pair of eyes shine from around the corner.
The dog doesn’t seem that large, but I don’t wait to get a closer look. It barks loudly, and as I turn and leap for the fence, it charges. I ignore the jagged wooden tops of the fence boards this time and roll over top of the fence as fast as I can. The dog catches the pant leg on my jump suit as I clamber over, but my momentum pulls me free and I manage to land on my feet on the other side. I’m short a shoe, but I have no intention of going back for it.
I make a beeline for the sidewalk and turn left, trying to get as far down the street as I can before the dog’s owners come out to investigate. My forearms are scratched and stinging. I don’t know if the scratches are from the roof or the fence but I suspect a combination of both. A couple of them are bleeding slightly, but I simply pull the sleeves on my jumpsuit down to cover them.
A half a dozen houses down I make a left onto another street, and once I’m out of view, I stop and remove my one remaining flip-flop. I briefly consider putting it in one of the jumpsuit pockets but then realize that I’ll never have a use for it again without its mate. I deposit it in a trashcan in the next alley then walk to the closest streetlight to get a better look at my chronometer.
The last quarter of an hour has been a rush of stress, so I try to relax and concentrate. I count off the rings on the chronometer. The outside bezel is set to time jump and not a specific date jump. That’s correct. Scan to the center to the time interval. I was jumping half an hour, the minute ring should be advanced to thirty.
The minute ring is still at zero.
Why is that not set right? How did I even go anywhere? I look at the next ring up and realize my mistake. I had involuntarily moved the twenty-four hour ring by half instead of the minute ring. I just jumped twelve hours.
Looking at my chronometer in disbelief at my carelessness, I see something else amiss. The little slider on the side of the chronometer that has been in the same position since our training began, has changed from the upper right to the lower right. I stare at it, trying to remember what it was for. I take the chronometer off my wrist and examine the side. I hold it up to the light and see inscribed in very small writing, the letters FWD. The word above the slider now reads, Back.
I haven’t jumped forward twelve hours. I jumped backward. I must have bumped the chronometer climbing the roof, or at some other point, and not noticed that I changed the slider’s position. Great job, Ben. Twenty-three years wasn’t far enough. You had to go back farther.
I look around and take in my situation. This changes things
. If I’ve arrived at last night, I can’t just go home to Mr. Cameron’s house. I could wake myself up and change my whole morning. That didn’t happen. I’m not really sure what would happen if I did that now. I’m not eager to find out. I could try to jump forward again using another anchor, but given my recent double error I’m not feeling confident of getting it right. I’m lucky I didn’t kill myself as it is.
I’m not far from Dr. Quickly’s house. If there’s anyone whose help I can use right now, it would be him. I don’t know if meeting him twelve hours in the past will screw anything up for us, but he seems like he would be knowledgeable enough to figure out a way out of this mess. I decide to find his house and give it a try.
The streets are quiet and I make next to no noise walking barefoot along the sidewalk. It’s cold on my feet, but other than the occasional acorn I step on, it’s an easy walk. Within fifteen minutes I’m standing in Quickly’s driveway. The house is dark. I pull back the screen door and knock a couple times. Nothing stirs. I knock again but I get the sense the house is empty. Quickly could be anywhere. I try the doorknob, but it’s locked.
I’m getting cold and wouldn’t mind getting indoors. The one plus to arriving after midnight from noon is that I’m not the least bit tired for that hour of the night. I walk back out to the street to keep moving and head east to get to a main road that might have some open businesses or gas stations. I don’t have any money but I might be able to use a payphone to call Quickly and leave a message. I rummage in the pockets of my jumpsuit and pull out the logbook and pen, the only two items I possess at the moment. I know I wrote Dr. Quickly’s and Mr. Cameron’s phone numbers in the back.
I forgot to log my jump.
I stop and open to my log page. I locate the time of arrival column and realize I’m just guessing at what time I arrived. Sloppy work, Benjamin. Quickly would be appalled. I fill in the columns as best I can with what I know about where I am. I check that the phone numbers are in the back of the book and then stuff it back into my pocket. Where do I even find a payphone? I make it out to a main road and see the lights of a gas station shining through some trees to the north.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 19