Wealth of Time

by Andre Gonzalez

  More yellowed grass stretched twenty yards to the back fence where thick bushes blocked the view of the neighbor’s yard. A cement patio ran along the house with a basketball hoop at the far end. Martin had liked to come home from a long day and shoot around to release the tension, sometimes playing into the darkness if he arrived late from an overtime shift. He envisioned the younger version of himself, dribbling, shooting, and shouting as he worked to perfect his skills on the court.

  A breeze swirled around and rattled the house’s screen door, loose on its hinges, a small project that took him months to fix. He remembered how Lela curled into a ball beside him in bed the first night the door made constant banging sounds. She giggled when Martin inspected and returned with the cause of the noise. They had made their own banging sounds in the bed that night once the initial fear had worn off.

  Martin walked up the two short steps to the door and pushed it closed, keeping his hand on its cool, metal surface. He wanted nothing more than to walk through that door and see his old home, smell its familiar scent, and bask in its charm.

  The time will come. It’s day two. Go home and plan out what you’re going to do for the next six months.

  A gust of wind whistled overhead, rocking the power lines and blowing his hair over his eyes. The screen door would have surely slammed against the house had he not been holding it. Just one of the small things I’m preventing here in the past.

  Martin smirked joyfully before kissing the door and returning to his car. Tears welled in his eyes as he pulled out of the driveway to return to his “new” home.

  12

  Chapter 12

  Martin spent the next three days planning the rest of his time in 1996. He only left the apartment to get food, basic furniture like a bed and couch, and more clothes to last him a couple weeks between loads of laundry. His cash supply had dwindled after the car purchase and rent, so the first task on his list was to establish some sort of income. He planned to place a couple of small bets with a local bookie and had a hunch Vinny could point him in the right direction. With his winnings, he’d reinvest into bigger bets with a more established bookie downtown. He calculated his cost of living to be $1,000 per month, including extra cash for entertainment. He loved movies and 1996 was a huge year with the releases of Scream, Twister, Independence Day, and Mission Impossible. Spending the summer in a movie theater sounded all right in his book. Unfortunately, alcohol wasn’t allowed in theaters like it was in 2018, but he would manage.

  I haven’t had a real urge to drink since arriving. Martin figured he had simply been too distracted to go out of his way to the liquor store. Perhaps travelling through Chris’s fucked-up time vortex killed his inner alcoholic. Or maybe you just have hope again, he thought. The drinking hadn’t really begun until the reality sunk in that Izzy was never coming back.

  Whenever he returned to life in 2018, he wanted things to be different. No more binge drinking. Drink responsibly and stop before the world turns black. What better time than the past to work on yourself? He also wanted to follow through with investing. He could arrive back in 2018 with a broker account loaded with millions, and tell the post office to go fuck themselves.

  Until then, Martin’s first matter of business on March 24 was to win money. It just so happened one of the many bets he had written down was taking place this evening. He went to see Vinny in his office.

  Vinny was sipping a glass of scotch when Martin entered. His office hours on Sunday ran from nine to noon, and it was already eleven.

  “Martin. Happy Sunday, my friend,” Vinny said with a wide grin. Martin noticed the screen saver of bubbles bouncing around the computer monitor. “What can I do for ya today?”

  “Good morning, Vinny. I was hoping to place a bet on a basketball game tonight, and wondered if you might know where I could do that.”

  “Ahhh, you’re a betting man? What did you have in mind?”

  “I have a hunch Toronto is gonna upset Chicago tonight.”

  Vinny gulped down the scotch and burst out in laughter. “That’s a fool’s bet!”

  It was a fool’s bet. Chicago sported a 60-7 record and was about to make NBA history as the best team ever. Toronto had only won 17 games compared to 49 losses. There was no reason for Chicago to lose this particular game other than an act of God, but Martin had it noted for a reason, knowing it would have a huge payout for betting on Toronto.

  “I know it sounds crazy. I just think the Bulls are gonna go in there too laid-back. Toronto will be ready and surprise them.”

  “If you say so. Go see a buddy of mine, Delmar Graff, down at The Devil. You know where it is?”

  “I sure do.” The Devil still existed in 2018 and was the same old dive bar it had always been.

  “Ask the bartender for Delmar. Tell him Vinny sent you.”

  “Got it, thanks.”

  “I’ll pour you a glass after you lose this bet. I almost feel bad for ya.”

  “And I’ll buy you a new bottle with all of my winnings.”

  Vinny threw his head back and howled as Martin left him to finish his scotch in peace. He could still hear his landlord laughing through the walls when he arrived to his car, and couldn’t help but chuckle. Vinny must have thought Martin was a lunatic, but when he arrived tomorrow with a brand new bottle of scotch, he’d have a new friend for the next six months.

  The drive to The Devil took a quick five minutes west from the complex, and Martin arrived to find it hadn’t really changed in its two decades of existence. The pub was a small wooden building with neon lights in the windows advertising different beers. A white sign ran the length of the entrance with red letters that read THE DEVIL, a pitchfork on each end of the name.

  Martin approached the front door, music booming behind its walls, and pulled it open to let the sound pour outside for a brief moment. It was Sunday morning, a few minutes before noon, and six men already sat around the bar with their beer mugs filled and their cigarettes burning. A smoky haze filled the bar and mixed with the stench of alcohol.

  The bar was oval-shaped. In the center of the pub, a young black man worked his way around to serve each customer. No one paid any attention to Martin and sipped their beers as if they didn’t notice a man from 2018 stroll into their haven. TVs surrounded the room, each showing various spring training baseball games from Florida that were underway. The bartender made brief eye contact with Martin before returning to pour a beer.

  Martin sat at the end of the bar, his back facing the entrance.

  Two older men sat to his left and carried on a conversation about the upcoming election between Bill Clinton and Bob Dole.

  The bartender strolled over, staring Martin directly in the eyes.

  “Good morning, sir. What can I get for you?” the young man asked. He was clearly college-age, likely working this job to pay his way through school.

  Martin’s mouth watered at the thought of a drink, but wanted to stay disciplined as long as he could. Deep down he knew he’d eventually give in, but for now he felt sharp and healthy, and intended to keep it that way.

  “I’ll just have a Coke. I actually came to meet with Delmar. Is he in?”

  The bartender hesitated, confused as to why someone would come in to a bar at noon to order a soda, and then poured the Coke without any questions.

  “Mr. Graff is in. I can have him come out to meet you.” The young man avoided eye contact as he pushed the plastic cup across the bar.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  The bartender left without another word.

  Martin pulled in his soda, suds bubbling over the edge, and took a long sip through the straw.

  “Damn, this could use some Jack in it.”

  Keep your eye on the prize, his inner angel reminded. You’re here for a serious reason, not to get drunk.

  Martin watched the bartender cross to the other end of the bar and pick up a phone off its cradle, bobbing his head as he spoke. After hanging up, he returned to another
customer and topped off a beer.

  Martin sat back and watched baseball for the next ten minutes, wondering what to expect of this bookie he would soon meet.

  * * *

  A man dressed in dark jeans and a gray blazer strode from the back corner of the bar and approached the bartender. The two spoke, the bartender looked over his shoulder and nodded in Martin’s direction, and the man waved him over.

  Martin did a quick double take before hopping off his stool and walking around the bar. The two old men shouted at each other, one in clear favor of Clinton, the other adamant that Dole needed to bring America back to its roots.

  “Delmar Graff at your service,” the well-dressed man said, sticking a pudgy hand out. He was heavier up close than he had looked across the room.

  “Mr. Graff, I’m Martin Briar. Vinny from the Larkwood Suites sent me here to meet you.”

  “Vinny!” Delmar barked in a scruffy voice. “I love that guy. Great businessman. So what can I help you with?”

  “I was hoping to place a bet,” Martin said in a lowered voice, despite the booming music, and wishing he had used an alias to meet with this obvious mobster.

  “Let’s go back to my office so we can actually hear each other,” Delmar said as he put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin noticed a ring on each thick finger, gleaming through the indoor smog. Delmar turned and started toward a door that had a frosted glass window with OFFICE centered in neat lettering.

  Delmar held the door open as Martin entered the office where a behemoth of a man in an all-black suit stood in the far corner watching a baseball game. He wore sunglasses above a perfectly groomed goatee, and had his hands crossed in front of him, gold rings on every finger. The man didn’t budge as the two entered.

  “Please, have a seat.” Delmar crossed behind a desk in the crammed room. Martin thought it might have been a custodial closet at one point that had been redone as a fully functioning office space. The desk was cleared except for a stack of papers on its edge and a thick notebook in the middle with dozens of sticky notes protruding from its tattered edges. Martin shot uncomfortable glances toward the silent man in the corner. “Don’t mind Hammer over there. He’s my trusted adviser and personal banker.”

  Hammer? This guy is definitely a mobster. Martin’s senses heightened at the thought and he wondered if this was a mistake.

  “I do some bookmaking here. What did you have in mind?” Delmar asked, shifting the focus back to business.

  “I was hoping to bet on the Toronto Raptors tonight.”

  Delmar nodded and flipped open the notebook on his desk, running a finger down multiple pages until he found what he wanted.

  “I have Toronto as a 14 point underdog, I’ll give you even odds on that.”

  Martin nodded as the bookie stared at him. There was no laughing like Vinny had done; this was serious business for all parties involved.

  “I was actually hoping to bet on them straight up, no spread.”

  This caused a slight eyebrow raise from Delmar, but he remained composed otherwise. A straight bet meant that the Raptors would have to win the game outright and Martin would forfeit the 14-point cushion originally offered.

  A fool’s bet.

  “How much were you wanting to bet?” Delmar asked as his finger paused on a different line in his notebook.

  “Three hundred dollars.”

  Delmar looked at Hammer and nodded for him to come over.

  Hammer took three steps sideways and craned his neck to see what his boss was pointing at. He took a moment, stood up straight, then nodded before returning to his corner.

  “15 to 1 odds on that bet,” Delmar said flatly.

  Martin did quick math. $4500. That’ll cover some groceries.

  “Deal.”

  Delmar stuck his hand out and the men shook to solidify their wager.

  “Tell me something,” Delmar said in a softer voice. “You know something I don’t? MJ not playing tonight?”

  “No, sir. Just a hunch. The Bulls haven’t lost to a bad team all year. It’s bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “You better be right. If I find out Jordan or Pippen don’t play tonight, I’ll kill you.”

  Martin’s heart froze. He had no fucking clue who played or didn’t play in this game, but so help him God, Michael Jordan better suit up tonight.

  Delmar watched as Martin’s face turned pale. “I’m bustin’ your balls, guy. Calm down!” The bookie threw his head back and cackled. Delmar walked around the desk and threw an arm around Martin’s tense shoulders. “You hang out here and watch the game tonight, I’ll cover your tab. Least I can do since you’ll be giving me free money.” He laughed again before opening the door, letting the music return in all its glory.

  The tension somewhat left Martin and he managed a grin as he stood. “Very good one, Mr. Graff. You had me going there for a minute.”

  “Go see Teddy at the bar. Tell him to put whatever you want on my tab.”

  Delmar smacked him on the back again as Martin walked out. The door closed behind him and he could only wonder what the bookie and his “banker” were saying about his crazy bet.

  Of course I get an open bar when I’m not drinking. Maybe I’ll just have one.

  13

  Chapter 13

  Two drinks in, Martin started to feel the room spin. Did traveling through time reset his alcohol tolerance?

  Stop right now, dammit, he demanded of himself. Stop before this entire day gets out of control.

  Martin stopped after the two drinks and returned to sipping Cokes. It was ten past one when he swallowed the last remnants of whiskey. He had nothing to do for the remainder of his Sunday and decided to spend the day at the bar while he waited for his payday at the end of the night.

  Teddy, the young bartender, kept his soda topped off and small talk to a minimum.

  Martin didn’t mind as he sat by himself all afternoon, enjoying the spring training game on the big screen between the Colorado Rockies and Seattle Mariners.

  Smoke continued to fill the bar, prompting Martin to take a brief stroll outside for fresh air. The day ended up warm, low 70’s and sunny, a perfect day to be drunk on the balcony.

  “What am I doing?” Martin asked himself as he leaned on the building. He wondered if getting mixed up with a bookie was worth it. Delmar had joked about trouble if Jordan didn’t play in the game, but was he really joking? Would he find himself behind the bar tonight with his kneecaps busted?

  He desperately wanted another drink to settle his nerves. If Jordan didn’t play, maybe then he’d get blackout drunk to numb his body for any potential beating that might come.

  As the sun descended toward the mountains, Martin returned to the bustle inside the bar where the smoke, music, and loud chatter battered around his head. The afternoon baseball games were ending, and there was one more hour until tip off for the basketball game at five.

  The lull between games gave Martin the opportunity to order a greasy burger with hopes of it settling his stomach. Placing this bet was the first big change he made in the past, and not knowing how it could affect the rest of his time in 1996 kept him on constant edge.

  You shouldn’t have come here. You could have gotten a job anywhere. For fuck’s sake, you’re from the future. Go invent Google or something no one’s heard of yet!

  His inner wise man was right. The world was his oyster with the knowledge he brought from the future, yet here he was fighting off alcohol in a hole-in-the-wall bar owned by a not-so-subtle mobster.

  After a few minutes of sulking in his regret, Martin watched as the main TV above the bar switched to the Bulls and Raptors game, Delmar and Hammer walking out of the office in sync. The mobster pulled out the stool beside Martin and plopped down, placing his ring covered fingers on the bar top.

  “Thought I’d join you for the tipoff,” Delmar said with a smirk. Martin’s faced turned pale immediately. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna sit here and watch the whole ga
me with you. I’ll come back toward the end if it’s a close one.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Martin said nervously.

  Damn, I could really use a drink. His armpits soaked with perspiration as the pregame show concluded and the final commercial break came on before the start of the game. Michael Jordan came on to the screen, pushing an advertisement for Gatorade, and Martin’s heart drummed as he waited to see Jordan come on for the actual game.

  The commercials ended and the screen showed a bird’s eye view of downtown Toronto where the game was taking place. The music continued to boom through the speakers, and Martin remembered how much he hated watching sports in a bar where he couldn’t hear the game.

  A young, dark woman came on the screen, speaking into a microphone while the players warmed up on the court behind her. The players cleared the court and headed toward their respective benches in anticipation of the tipoff.

  Just show me Michael already. How have you not showed him yet?

  The fact that they hadn’t even shown a glimpse of the most famous athlete on the planet made him wonder if he was actually sitting out the game.

  Finally, Michael Jordan stepped on to the court, adjusting his red shorts as he slapped hands with his opponents.

  Thank Christ. Martin felt all the tension leave his body as he slouched in the barstool. Scottie Pippen also walked onto the hardwood and Martin knew the universe wasn’t quite ready to fuck him over.

  “You know you don’t have a chance in this bet,” Delmar leaned over.

  Martin, feeling loose and relaxed, responded, “Just you watch. Bulls are on the end of a long road trip. They want to get to the playoffs already. It’s the perfect combination for Toronto to come out and steal a win.”