Arnesto Modesto: The World's Most Ineffectual Time Traveler

by Darren Johnson

  The next day, Harold said he couldn’t find anything, so Arnesto made his resignation official.

  He took a couple weeks off to decompress by doing nothing but sleep in and play video games, but then decided to look for work before his former coworkers got laid off and started competing with him for jobs. If he had followed in his own footsteps, right now he would be working for Cumulonimbus Electronic Entertainment where the pay was better, but the crunch modes were even worse than they were at Smiling Axolotl. That would make it even harder to break away should history require his attention. On the other hand, if he didn’t work there, he would never meet his friends from that particular company.

  He opened a new tab on his desktop and started to type in, “Cumulonimbus,” but then changed his mind and decided to check his financial status and entered the name of his bank instead. When he saw his balance, his jaw fell open. It seemed some of his investments had done rather well. He wasn’t insider-trading-congressman rich, but he was in the ballpark. That made his next decision simple.

  Arnesto leaned back, reached his arms out toward the ceiling, and yelled, “I am retired!”

  For the moment, he felt as free and happy as he had since he was a child the first day of summer vacation. It would take the plight of those less fortunate than himself to ground him again.

  Over the next few months, the dreaded layoff emails flowed into his inbox. They were as sad to read the second time around.

  A couple more months passed and the gaming sites announced the acquisition of Smiling Axolotl by a much larger conglomerate. The company was saved!

  A week later, the day before Christmas, the entire studio was shut down.

  This didn’t bother Arnesto as much as he expected. For one, he already knew it was coming. For another, it was hard to worry about a game studio shutting down when one of the world’s worst natural disasters was less than forty-eight hours away.

  Making Waves

  Coastal Waters

  Sumatra, Indonesia

  Sunday, December 26, 2004

  7:59 a.m.

  Around eight o’clock in the morning on December 26, 2004, the third-largest earthquake ever recorded began off the coast of Sumatra.

  It wouldn’t stop for ten minutes.

  The entire earth vibrated about a centimeter.

  Arnesto and the rest of the world remained glued to live coverage of the event. Arnesto started with the channel featuring Father Martin as a special guest and watched with pride as the priest spoke with eloquence and diplomacy. It couldn’t have been easy to answer the same questions over and over with no new answers to give. Sometimes they would ask him how humanitarian efforts were going in the countries that hadn’t been hit yet, which gave him some respite. Once they turned to the subject of his source, Arnesto felt uncomfortable hearing about himself and changed the channel.

  He was astounded by what he saw this time around.

  He remembered from his past life the shocking amateur videos of the huge tsunami waves smashing through everything in their path, but those videos were nothing compared to the countless hours of professional, high-definition video taken this time. There were waves up to one hundred feet high! The best part, though, was how few people were seen in the videos.

  Still, there were many casualties. Not all evacuations were successful, often due to miscalculations on the part of the people in charge. Some underestimated the speed and/or power of the water. Some evacuations of the more remote villages took longer than expected. A few were unwilling to leave their homes which they had known all their lives, and of course, there were those who thought God would protect them while others thought it was God’s will that they perish. Some just flat out didn’t believe the warnings.

  All in all, hundreds were confirmed dead or went missing. Arnesto was grateful his warning via Father Martin had saved ninety-nine percent of those involved. But the event was still a tragedy, and after seeing images of the dead and the widespread damage and homelessness, it didn’t feel like a win.

  Bad Parking

  Glendale, California

  Wednesday, January 26, 2005

  5:58 a.m.

  Arnesto called the police and Metrolink to warn them about the SUV parked on the tracks. The only problem, if you can call it that, was that there was no SUV. He parked his own car a little ways down Chevy Chase Boulevard and walked over to the tracks to verify this. It was dark and rainy out, but he could see well enough to know the area was clear… for the moment. A Union Pacific freight train sat stationary on the third set of tracks.

  Not wanting to look any more suspicious than he already did, Arnesto started back to his car. He passed by a sign that read, “DO NOT STOP ON TRACKS.” If only! He heard a vehicle coming up the street behind him. He kept walking but listened for the sound of the vehicle either passing him or stopping. Instead, he heard gravel.

  He spun around and saw a Jeep Cherokee Sport that had just turned off the road and was now driving on the gravel parallel to the tracks. About fifty yards down, the Jeep turned and put its front wheels between the rails.

  “Hey, train’s coming!” Arnesto yelled, waving frantically as he ran toward the vehicle. Arnesto knew the driver knew that, but the driver didn’t know that Arnesto knew the driver knew. Arnesto hoped that seeing a freak running toward the Jeep screaming and shouting would confuse the driver and prompt him to drive off. Instead, the driver got out and fled on foot earlier than expected.

  Arnesto ran to the Jeep. It was unlocked, but the engine was off and the keys were missing. He couldn’t even put it into neutral in order to push the vehicle out of the way. Still, nothing to worry about. Arnesto’s anonymous call from minutes before meant the police would arrive soon. If nothing else, somebody must have notified the trains’ conductors by now.

  He noticed the smell of gasoline. Was the Jeep leaking? It didn’t appear so, but it was wet, and not from the rain. The vehicle had been soaked in gasoline. As concerning as this was to Arnesto, it wasn’t as bad as what he heard.

  It was a train horn. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear it coming from the north. And it wasn’t far off.

  His confidence in his plan was crumbling. What if emergency services hadn’t passed along the information? Or what if they thought it was a prank? Wouldn’t they still investigate, though? Was he willing to risk the lives of eleven people?

  As if to answer for him, the train blared its horn a second time. Arnesto couldn’t be sure in his excited state of mind, but it sounded louder, closer this time. He squinted his eyes and looked down the tracks where he could just make out the approaching train’s headlights.

  He looked inside the Jeep for something he could use, like a spare set of keys. Ha, wishful thinking. There was, however, a lighter in the glove box. He grabbed it and the vehicle registration, then using the cuff on his sweatshirt, quickly wiped away all his fingerprints, just in case.

  He heard another train horn, but this one sounded different. To his chagrin, this one was coming from the south.

  How many freakin’ trains are coming here?!

  Knowing it was what the driver intended anyway, he lit the registration on fire, then holding it at arm’s length, used it to catch the hood on fire before sprinting as fast as he possibly could back to his car.

  They would say a few years from then that, “Cool guys don’t look at explosions.” This did not apply to Arnesto, who instinctively turned around, mouth wide open, upon hearing the blast behind him. After several seconds staring in shock, he resumed his hustle. As he ran from the scene, he could make out the front of one of the trains coming down the tracks before he turned down the road toward his car.

  The train conductors must have seen the smoldering wreck on the tracks ahead of them. Arnesto could already hear the squealing of brakes as he sat in his car and closed the door.

  The northbound train stopped in time; however, the southbound train had too much momentum. It slammed into the Jeep, pushing it southward but st
opping right before the train switch which would have caused the Jeep to become lodged under the leading car. The extra bit of braking time meant there was no derailment or collision with the other trains.

  More importantly, there were no deaths or injuries, though there were plenty of frayed nerves, particularly on the part of Arnesto, who was fleeing the scene as fast as he could.

  Storming In

  Downtown

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Saturday, March 5, 2005

  3:00 p.m.

  “My fellow New Orleanians, I have some bad news. In late August of this year, our wonderful city is going to be struck by a hurricane named Katrina. It’s going to hit, and it’s going to hit hard. The levees that keep the water out of our lovely city... will fail. New Orleans will be flooded. I encourage everyone to make whatever preparations are needed to steer well clear of the storm. I will now open the floor to questions.”

  Every hand in the press conference went up in a flash. Father Martin had wanted to keep this a local matter but knew that was impossible. He was one of the most famous people on earth now. The mere fact that he had decided to hold a press conference made him, once again, the top story. Now that he had made his announcement, all hell, much like the levees, was about to break loose.

  The questions came fast and furious.

  “Did you get this information from your anonymous source?”

  “Yes, I did,” Father Martin answered.

  “How does your source know the levees will break?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is your source running some sort of elaborate computer simulation?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you be evacuating before the storm hits?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “How long have you known about this?”

  “I just found out about it myself.”

  “What do you think will happen to property values as a result of your announcement?”

  Father Martin sighed at this one. “I can’t speculate on that. I’m not here to guess on what may happen; I’m only here to warn people what will happen,” he answered.

  “Is this some sort of ploy to get more people to attend your services?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Father Martin, while your earthquake list has no doubt saved thousands of lives, how do you explain the fact that hundreds of people have since died from earthquakes that were not on the list?”

  Father Martin leaned in slightly. “I want to make this clear. I know for a fact that if my source had even a clue about those earthquakes or any other disaster, I would have been notified, and I would have informed all of you. The fact that so many have come together to save tens — if not hundreds — of thousands of lives is nothing short of a miracle. Next question, please.”

  “If the levees were strengthened, could New Orleans be saved?”

  Finally. This was the question he had been waiting for. After a brief pause for effect, he began, “Again, I don’t want to speculate; I’m not an engineer. However...” He gave another brief pause and for the first time since the briefing began, mustered a slight smile. “It stands to reason: if you build a wall strong enough, it will be able to hold back the water.

  “We know what will happen if we do nothing. I know it will take time and resources and money, and it may still not be enough, but isn’t it worth taking that chance? I know as a community, we can work together to make the levees strong. I will do my part to raise funds for what I’m sure will be a huge undertaking. But isn’t it better to regret having made the levees too strong than to regret having made them too weak? Thank you, there will be no further questions at this time. God bless.”

  The meetings between officials began immediately. If anyone but Father Martin had delivered the news, the number of denials would have been higher. It only took an external review board three weeks to determine that, “Given a hurricane of sufficient force, either a direct impact or water overflowing the tops of the levees and subsequently eroding the soil on the other side would lead to a catastrophic failure of the majority of the levees protecting New Orleans.”

  The Great Levee Rebuild Project was initiated at once.

  On April 23, a brand new video-sharing website called YouTube appeared. A recording of Father Martin’s press conference became the second video ever posted to the site, after co-founder Jawed Karim’s, “Me at the zoo.” Father Martin’s two video warnings about the earthquakes were posted the following day, and before long, his videos became the first on the site to go “viral.”

  Though the number of homes for sale in New Orleans did increase, there was no mass exodus, only a temporary evacuation. In fact, property values increased. Savvy investors realized that either the rebuild project would be successful and home values would go up, or the levees would still fail and they would be eligible to partake in the class-action lawsuits.

  On the other hand, homeowner’s insurance was hard to come by. Several insurance companies began to preemptively cancel policies.

  Sandbag companies sprang up overnight. Legitimate sandbag companies took a little longer.

  And as with the other Father Martin disasters, there was the influx of tourism.

  On August 23, 2005, a tropical depression formed over the Bahamas.

  The next day, it intensified into Tropical Storm Katia. It was named Katia instead of Katrina at the government’s insistence as if that would somehow undermine Father Martin’s warning and prevent the inevitable.

  Hurricane Katia hit Florida the day after, enraging Floridians that they had failed to receive the same warning as New Orleans.

  Katia headed back out to sea and gained strength over the gulf for the next few days before finally turning northward and slamming into Louisiana and the Gulf Coast on August 29. That afternoon, the storm tore a hole in the Superdome, but nobody was inside. At that point, most of the city’s inhabitants had already been evacuated.

  There also was no mass flooding of the city as the new levees held. In fact, the only levee that failed was from the original set, which was left in place as a test as the new wall was built behind it.

  Though not flooded, New Orleans was still scarred by Katia, which left behind billions of dollars in damage and dozens of deaths across multiple states.

  Traumatizing

  Santa Clara International Airport

  Santa Clara, California

  Wednesday, September 13, 2006

  5:45 a.m.

  Owen Porter parked his car on the top level of the airport parking garage. At that early hour, there were plenty of open parking spaces on all but the lowest level. However, the top level was uncovered and offered the best view of planes arriving and departing. He got out of his car and walked over to the ledge where he watched as a 747 crabbed slightly into the strong crosswind.

  Being a pilot himself, he knew quite a bit about aviation, though he hadn’t flown in years. He had served many years in the air force before flying as a civilian. His daughter loved flying almost as much as he did and was once his favorite passenger in the Cessna he rented. How long had it been? Four years? Five? Those were better times, happier times. A DC-10 rolled onto the runway, accelerated, and took off for a destination unknown.

  It was time. He removed his hands from the ledge. That’s when he noticed he wasn’t alone. There was another man leaning on the ledge about thirty feet to his left. Where did HE come from? Owen thought.

  The stranger smiled and waved. “Good morning!” he said. Owen said nothing but gave a subtle nod in return. “Quite a crosswind today!”

  What an idiot, there’s almost always a strong crosswind at this airfield. Owen rested his hands back on the ledge. He’s gotta leave soon.

  “You look like a pilot. Are you a pilot? I’ve been thinking about getting my license.” Owen looked at the stranger in disbelief. On any other day, he’d have chatted the stranger’s ears off about the wonders of flight. But today, he wanted to be alo
ne.

  It was clear that wasn’t going to happen. “Excuse me, I have a plane to catch,” Owen said, turning to walk back toward his car.

  “I… uh… I don’t think you do, Mr. Porter!” the stranger shouted, struggling to be heard over a departing 737. Owen quickened his pace. “Mr. Porter!” Owen ignored him.

  Of all the days, I had to be recognized by this clown. Do I know him? Doesn’t matter. I’ll get in the car, drive around for a bit, and come back— is he following me?

  “Owen Porter, I’m here about your daughter, Jenna!” That was enough for Owen, who stopped as he was about to reach for his car door handle. He spun around and glared at the stranger.

  “What about Jenna?!” Owen growled, his hands balling into fists. He was ready. For what, he wasn’t quite sure. The stranger didn’t appear to be a threat. In fact, he seemed oddly nervous.

  “Jenna is about to suffer a traumatic event, namely, the death of her father.” After a brief but uncomfortable pause, the stranger continued. “Please, sir, help me spare your daughter years of grief.”

  Owen eyed the stranger. How does he know this? “She hates me,” he finally said, looking down.

  “No, sir. I know she yelled at you last night, but really, you’re the only—”

  Owen unlocked his car, sat in the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut. After a moment he rolled the window down. “Get in,” he said.

  The stranger hesitated, then walked over and sat in the passenger’s seat. “The name’s Troy. Troy Clark,” Arnesto said, holding out his hand.

  Owen took it. “Jenna’s okay?”

  “She’s fine, but she won’t be if... you kill yourself.”

  “She’d be better off without me. I’m a burden to her,” Owen said, staring straight ahead.