The Traveler: A Time Travel Thriller

by Fredric Shernoff

  I had an idea. I pushed open the glass doors of the bank and heard the jingle of a small bell. The sound sent a chill through my body. The brain has such a carefully mapped out representation of everything we experience so that tiny changes, like a bell that didn’t exist in 2013, register as something unsettling. I walked across the room. Elevator music emanated from tinny speakers nestled in the corner of the ceiling. I felt sweat form in my palms. I began to think of worst-case scenarios. It was scary to be preparing to interact with people from the past. I had to be so careful about everything I said and did. What if I raised some kind of suspicion and was detained by security? A jump back to the present could get me in a ton of trouble at both ends. I’d be caught on camera in the past vanishing from sight, and then I’d reappear in the middle of the bank in the present. Not good.

  A pleasant-looking woman smiled at me as I approached the counter. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’d like to exchange some money…it’s kind of old.”

  “Do you have an account with us?”

  “No, ma’am, is that a problem?” I knew that my expression said that I expected there to be a problem. I wished that I had more of a poker face.

  “No problem, I can still help you.” She typed something—a login code, maybe—into her computer. I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the monochrome monitor readout.

  “What’s your social security number?”

  Oh, hell. This was what I was dreading. My social was tied to a boy who had just turned twelve. I stammered it out anyway, getting ready to run as fast and as far as I could. She started to type it in but I interrupted her. “I’m sorry, is this necessary?”

  “Well I assumed you wanted to open an account.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Not necessary, thank you.”

  “Oh, I do apologize, sir.”

  I smiled. “Not a problem. So there shouldn’t be any issues exchanging the money?”

  “I don’t think so. How old are we talking?”

  I showed her the World War II money.

  “Wow,” she said, “that’s very special. You’d probably get much more as a collectible than in a currency exchange. Can I ask you why you want to part with it, sir?”

  “Well,” I stumbled, “my…grandfather gave it to me, and he promised me before he died that I would find a way to pass it around so other people could enjoy it.” Ugh.

  She smiled warmly. “That’s very sweet. Would you mind if I called my manager over?”

  I froze in place but managed to nod my approval.

  The manager, a tall man in his late fifties, approached with a stern look on his face. I wondered what I could have done wrong.

  “Hello, Mr…” he started.

  “Wells,” I said. “Daniel Wells.” As I said it I made a mental note to create a fake identity as soon as possible.

  “Mr. Wells, would you be interested in selling me your money? I’m not a collector, per se, but I could find a great place for bills like those.” He pointed to the three bills that I had arranged on the counter. They had survived being place in my wallet and dragged back through time with nary a crease.

  I agreed, and before long I had made back the hundred dollars I’d spent in 2013 when I bought the classic cash. My experimenting had netted me almost eleven hundred dollars for one week. Not a huge windfall but enough to fund my vacation. I was still sweating as I thanked the teller and her manager and left the bank with my money. I decided to consider the whole thing a valuable lesson. I had learned a few techniques that worked well but I had exposed myself through my telling expressions and almost getting tripped up over a social security number.

  I wandered south along route 611. I felt free; liberated even. I was a little bit limited by not having a car but I had no desire to travel too far. I could do my traveling in the future, I thought, and then I laughed. How quickly my sense of place in the timestream had altered! 2013 had already started to feel like the future. I imagined that would only happen more and more as I worked my way through the week.

  I remembered there had been an old hotel or motel or something of the sort right around where the road entered Jenkintown. It had been demolished in the early 21st century and a modern strip center was built with a donut shop and some other stores I’d never visited. But there it was, coming out of the distance ahead of me. The Jenkintown Hotel. You’d think I’d have remembered that obvious a name.

  I approached the hotel with far more confidence than I had felt while entering the bank. Other than that I had no luggage—I made a mental note to do some shopping—I didn’t expect to come across as anything other than a business man in town for a few days.

  I entered the old building. I took note of the quality work that had produced the structure. It made me sad to think that it was not long for the world. I wondered how many simple treasures of the past had disappeared in my lifetime without my slightest concern. The world of the past was real and vibrant. Even Levi’s house had seemed full of life.

  In our photos and movies from past eras everything takes on this haze of antiquity that doesn’t seem to compare to the shocking brightness and contrast of the present. I only had to take one look around the weathered interior of the old hotel to know that photos could never do justice to the past. This place…I don’t really know how to describe it to you. The worn wood carvings that adorned the walls…the marble pillars that matched a floor that had been cleaned, buffed and refinished over and over… this was real. This was life. It spoke to me from a different time. I thought maybe I’d go back on another trip and see how the hotel looked when it was new. It made such an impression on me.

  In the meantime, I proceeded to the desk. A heavyset man with a lousy combover set behind the counter. As soon as I was three feet from him I smelled the sharp stench of cigarettes. His breathing was audible as he greeted me with a broad smile. “Good day, weary traveller! Welcome to the Jenkintown Hotel. Name’s Carl. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like a room, please, for one week.”

  His eyes widened in pleased surprise. “A week! What’s the occasion?”

  I hoped my story would sound convincing. “My company is presenting at the convention at the expo center this weekend.”

  “Oh,” he said, “the computer show!”

  “Yes, the computer show. I have to give a few talks and make sure everything’s set this week and oversee the weekend events.”

  He nodded. “I have some experience with trade shows myself. Do you have any bags with you?”

  I made a show of looking like I’d made the world’s biggest boneheaded move. “Oh, shit. You’re right. I’ll have to drive home later and pick up my suitcase. Damn. Thanks for reminding me! I would have been in some trouble if I didn’t have my things.”

  “Glad I could help.” He sounded sincere, not nearly as suspicious as I had expected him to be. “Long drive from where you live?”

  “No, I live in New Jersey. That’s where my company’s based. Not too far but I thought it would be easier to stay in the area for the expo.”

  “Sounds like you’re a pretty important guy, Mr…”

  “Wells,” I said. “Daniel Wells.” The name popped out before I could stop it. If there’s one thing that’s a tough reflex to break, it’s the programmed response of one’s name. “I don’t know about important but I’ve been handed a good bit of responsibility.”

  “Interesting.” He paused in thought. “Surprised you didn’t choose one of the chain hotels off the turnpike. Pleasantly surprised, I must add.”

  “Well…” I thought quickly. “I heard that your building had some old fashioned charm. I see I was correct.”

  He laughed at that. His laugh was really more of a wheeze. “Charm! Yes, I suppose so. Well, however you came by your decision, we’re happy to have you.”

  I noticed he didn’t have a computer. He fumbled with several paper lists on his desk. “Ah, yes,” he said, “we can put y
ou up in the best room in the house, on the third floor. Room 319.”

  I shrugged. “That works for me.”

  “Good, good,” he said. “So Mr. Wells, what do you think about that Mars mission that NASA messed up?”

  I hadn’t read up on any news from the time period. I had assumed I could get by on having lived through 1993, but I quickly realized my mistake: As a child of that era I had lived almost completely sheltered from world events and news.

  “I…uh…Mars mission?”

  Carl laughed again. He found me a humorous diversion, I guess. “You know, they sent that satellite up there and lost it.”

  I had heard something about that somewhere. “Yeah, that’s right. Pretty crazy.”

  He nodded. “Crazy is right. I heard somebody say something about people living on Mars in twenty years. Seems to me they’d better get their act together if that’s going to happen.”

  This time it was me who laughed. “Something tells me that twenty years isn’t a realistic timeframe.”

  He shrugged. “Guess you’re right. What do all those rocket scientists know anyway?” He laughed again and coughed. Carl was not a healthy man.

  “Damn right,” I said. “But I’ll tell you something, Carl, I think you’ll see some pretty amazing shit right here on earth in twenty years.”

  I don’t know what made me say that. I guess there was some appeal to having all this advanced knowledge. It made me feel important. It also had to do with my suspicion that poor Carl wasn’t going to get to see any of that amazing shit in twenty years. If he made it to the new millennium I’d be one surprised son of a bitch, as my Uncle Mack used to say. I made a mental note to try to track him down in the future.

  “You don’t say,” said Carl. “You think we’ll have flying cars?”

  “Nah, they always push that as the big sign that the future has really arrived, but if you stop and think about it, there’s more involved than the technology. I bet somebody’s figured out how to do it already. The problem is that our laws aren’t cut out for all those cars zooming around. People don’t have the skills to drive flying cars. Air traffic control would get overwhelmed. Not to mention what happens when people drink and fly.”

  That last bit set him into a fit of laughter, wheezing and coughing. He dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief and blotted the corner of his small eyes for good measure. “Drink and fly! Drink and fly!” He caught himself. “Sorry, don’t mean to disrespect you by laughing. You do make some good points, Mr. Wells. I guess a computer bigwig like you has an inside track on the latest developments. So what kind of futuristic technology are we talking about?”

  “Well, you know those tricorder type things in all those sci-fi TV shows and movies? The devices that have access to all the world’s information in one little box? You’ll see something a lot like that. Trust me.”

  “Well, damn,” he said, “that might be worth waiting around for.” He fiddled under the desk and took out a metal key. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Here’s your key. Like I said, room 319. You get bored, come down and shoot the breeze for a while. I’ll be here into the evening.”

  I thanked him and walked toward the elevator. As I left, I heard him muttering to himself. “All the world’s info in a box…I’ll be goddamned.”

  I took the elevator to the third floor. The doors opened on a carpeted hall. I could see the carpet was worn and stained. For all the aged splendor of the lobby, the upstairs had not been properly cared for over the many years. The wallpaper looked like it had been added as part of a renovation in maybe the 1960’s or 1970’s. It was showing its age. It peeled back in numerous spots and the glue residue appeared underneath, crusty and yellow. Carl must have had a good laugh at my expense when I talked about the charm of the old building. My room was not in any better condition than the hall. Again, instead of the antique quality of the downstairs, the room showed the results of a haphazard renovation and the wear of many intervening years.

  I sat cautiously on the bed, worried about cleanliness. It seemed, though, that the room was just old. It wasn’t dirty in the way one would associate with shady roadside motels. There was a television, definitely a relic from the early ’80s. I turned it on and used the simple remote control to switch through the channels on the tiny cable box sitting on top of the screen.

  I tried to concentrate on something as I flipped through the shows, but the various ‘80s movies didn’t interest me and I wasn’t so keen on the pastor from some baptist church spreading his message about conserving money. Wasn’t I trying to get by for a week on a modest sum? I had the conserving part down, thanks. I finally gave up and switched off the television. I watched the image shrink into a small burst of colored light that gradually faded into the blackness of the glass.

  I hopped off the bed and slipped back into my shoes. I realized that I hadn’t packed the right footwear for a week of walking, but then, how bad would it have been to have waltzed into the hotel wearing the latest in lightweight running sneakers in an era when everybody was rocking the hightops with the pump on the tongue?

  I decided to buy something comfortable to wear when I went shopping for a change of clothes. After all, I couldn’t wear the same thing the entire week. I took the elevator back down and strolled into the lobby. Carl waved as I passed the front desk.

  “Going out, Mr. Wells?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I thought I’d see the sights. Might make a trip home for my clothes.”

  “Alright, be seeing you later, then.”

  I stepped out of the hotel. It was still sunny out, and I thought I might be able to make it to the middle school before the sun set. I remembered from my time as a student there that the place was usually open to the public in the later hours. There were sometimes adult classes and other things like that going on. It was a good opportunity for me to snoop around without all the students in the building. I took a moment to orient myself and work out the directions without the benefit of GPS. I took a deep breath of the air of the past and I started walking.

  2

  On my long route between the Jenkintown Hotel and my old school I passed a Mobil station and decided to veer off my course long enough to purchase a soda. Inside the small shop behind the gas pumps, a couple mechanics huddled in deep conversation.

  “It wouldn’ta fuckin’ mattered is what I’m saying,” said the one, his voice raised. “It’s not like my life’s so bad anyhow.”

  “I get you, man,” said the other, “but don’t you ever think like for a second that you could have done different? Applied yourself and all?”

  I walked around to the refrigerator and procured a Coke. The men continued their debate.

  “Man, you didn’t know my teachers. Those fucking assholes didn’t give half a rat’s ass about me applying myself. They didn’t like me and I didn’t like them and I’m happy to be long done with the whole goddamn lot of ‘em.”

  I approached the counter, hoping I wouldn’t interrupt their debate too much. The one who seemed to have a nice, healthy dose of regret looked up at me. He looked about forty and had dirty blond hair, scruffy facial hair and countless tattoos. In the midst of a great amount of fire and lightning I could make out a small grim reaper, scythe and all, riding on the back of a naked woman as if she were a horse. I knew I didn’t have the testicular fortitude to ask what that was supposed to represent.

  “Do me a favor, pal,” the man said as he took my bottle of soda and scanned it into the register, “tell my friend here to accept some responsibility for his life.”

  His “friend,” larger and slightly younger with a bushy bowl of brown hair and a small patch of facial hair beneath his lip looked suitably annoyed. “And do me a favor and tell this son of a bitch to do his job and stop giving me shit for what’s in the past.”

  If I’d walked into the conversation in the present day I am sure I would have smiled and nodded. Being in the past made me want to mingle and converse, even though I knew from the L
evi Berm thing that my interference wasn’t a good idea.

  “You know,” I started, “I kind of agree with both of you. I think that we are all responsible for what we’ve done in the past and what that means for our lives and the lives of people around us. At the same time, what’s done is done and kicking yourself about that kind of thing is not going to get you anywhere.” I felt smug and confident in my lecture. I was certainly the pot calling the kettle black, but I believed what I said. I hadn’t spent so much time dwelling on the past and now actually visiting the past because I thought it was a good idea.

  Both men stared at me. I think they never expected me to actually have an opinion on the subject. My bold response was way beyond what they had anticipated. Finally, the bigger guy smiled. “Well, damn. I think he’s got a point, Nate.”

  Nate feigned shock. “Holy shit, you got Will Essex to concede a point. Good for you, friend.”

  “I’m curious,” I said as I handed Nate my money and he made change, “what led you guys to work here?”

  Will shrugged. “I dunno, man. Didn’t do my homework. Didn’t graduate. Didn’t go to college. I didn’t have a ton of options.”

  “Same here,” said Nate. “Should have been Mifflin class of 1970 but instead I’m king of the Mobil.”

  Will gave him a friendly shove. “The hell you say. I’m the king.”

  “All I was saying when you walked in,” said Nate, “was that I feel pretty bad that I didn’t do better for myself, you know? I wish sometimes I could go back.”

  I nodded. “I know just what you mean. I feel the same way a lot of the time. Guess there have always been people who think that way.”

  “You don’t seem like much of a screwup,” said Will.

  “I don’t know, I guess I turned out alright,” I said. “I just look back sometimes and wish I hadn’t been such a loser. Wish I’d had more confidence. You know, with girls and whatnot. And I wish I could have stood up to the shits that bullied me back then.”