Bridgetown, Issue #1: Arrival

by Giovanni Iacobucci

  Just like a wine glass succumbing to an screeching opera diva, the ceramic earpiece shattered and the signal was cut short. Wayne was jolted. Breathless, quaking.

  The distant lightning ceased, and the thunder rippled out for the last time. Then it went silent, as suddenly as it had started.

  Wayne didn't move for several minutes. He was too caught up in studying the mountain for any sign of continued phenomena. When he was certain the show was over, he got up to his feet and dusted off his pants.

  He wasn't ready to go back to the house. Not yet. He had something he had to do, another itch to scratch.

  He began walking eastward, past a stone that acted as a marker only he would recognize. Two trees down, and past the second stone marker now. He hung a left, crossed a fallen log, and arrived at the third and final stone. He lifted it up as much as he could, just enough to move it aside. Then he brushed away a layer of camouflage California scrub and weeds, revealing an iron square. A door.

  Wayne reached under his shirt collar and pulled out a keychain. He couldn't help himself but to glance around to his left and to his right, assuring himself no one else was out here, watching him. He inserted one of the unmarked keys into the lock and opened the hatch.

  Peering down the shaft, one could only see a ladder receding into darkness. Good, Wayne thought. Maybe, even if another person ever made it this far, they'd think it was just a routine sewage system and avoid the descent.

  Wayne clung to the ladder, pulling the door shut above him, and clambered down the shaft about thirty feet. He found himself at the base, feeling in the pitch-dark with his feet to ensure he was where he thought he was before letting go of the ladder. It was musty, the dank odor of cold and slightly moist cement omnipresent. He pawed along the wall until he found the protruding lightswitch. He flicked it on.

  The lights awoke, coming to life in sequence and illuminating the secret space before him. It was a panic room, a survival chamber.

  The space was a chamber ten feet wide by thirty feet long, stocked with a collection of reading materials and food. There was a workbench, too, identical to the one Wayne had back in the main building. At the far end of the panic room was a bathroom with full plumbing. He could stay down here for weeks, as if it were a bomb shelter, if need be. Wayne had a cot, and a telephone to the outside world, connected by an entirely separate line to the main one at the house, buried under dirt. He'd remembered reading, in his prior life which was now so far away, about how the Manson family had severed the phone line at Cielo Drive.

  His edict to create this place had been either a stroke of masterful foresight, or just the beginnings of the kind of paranoia rich men who lived on hills occasionally succumbed to. Wayne couldn't be sure yet which one it was. He supposed, with a wry smile, he'd be able to tell if he ever started collecting his piss in jars.

  He'd decided there was a need for such a place three years earlier. At the time, the ranch house was still under construction, and the factory was just a twinkle in Wayne's eye. But Wayne was amassing his fortune on wristwatches and radios. It was the radio tower that had first attracted Black's attention.

  Wayne opened a drawer beneath his workbench and pulled out a black lockbox. He opened it with a separate key, and pulled out the yellowing paper inside. Telegrams, and letters, addressed to him.

  September 23, 1894

  Mr. Wayne Cole:

  No doubt by now you have found the site where your palace is being erected marked with the symbol of an hourglass. I have instructed that these marks be left at your home. This is to be taken as evidence that I speak the truth when I say that the Lotus Boys are all around you.

  It was easy enough to do. By your actions and your collusion with the forces of "law" in Bridgetown, you are turning its people against you. You have taken from them, and yet you threaten to cause much, much greater harm than they can even conceive of.

  As I have made very clear in past correspondence, your intention to bring foreign technology to the people of this time is setting the world down a path towards war. I know of what I speak, for I know of the world you come from. I know you that all your life prior to your arrival here, you lived under the specter of nuclear war with Russia. You cannot think I am mad, or an apocalyptic fanatic. I have proven I am aware of time beyond this one.

  Your actions pose great risk for all living and all yet born in this world. A crisis of human tragedy on a scale unimaginable. You must reconsider your actions. You must heed my words.

  Or I will be forced to wipe you from history, for the greater good of Man.

  The letter did not include an attribution, but it didn't need to. It was obvious who had sent it.

  Wayne allowed a momentary lapse in his resolve.

  Was Black right?

  Using deductive reasoning and logic, Wayne could assemble a rough biography of Black. No man could see the future, but Wayne could not deny this place did allow for the possibility of travel into the past. Black, by way of his referring to events in Wayne's time, surely had been a fellow twentieth century castaway. Black likely had the same uneasy feeling about changing the past that Susanna had once had, and it was this that had driven him to strike up a vendetta against Wayne. A primitive fear of the unknown, mixed with and heightened by jealousy over Wayne's wealth.

  Wayne knew he wasn't changing the past for personal glory. He was accelerating enlightenment. He was bringing a clarity to the world that might even mean the Cold War, and its related struggles, would never occur. If anything, Wayne was improving the future.

  His stomach growled.

  Moral confidence now reasserted, Wayne folded the telegram and put it back in its box with the others. He put the lockbox away under the workbench, and walked back to towards the ladder. With one last look at the bunker, he switched off the lights and began the climb back up.

  He covered the secret entrance and walked back to the house. The sky was dimming, now a deep purple with stars beginning to poke through the veil of light.

  He went in the side entrance, landing in the kitchen.

  "Martha, I'm going to go ahead and get dinner started myself. I feel like working with my hands tonight," he announced. She must not have heard him—probably bathing W.J. No matter. Wayne got to work. He went into the linen closet and pulled out a checkered white-and-red tablecloth.

  Wayne understood that in the history of American domesticity, few objects had been as central, or as overlooked, as the humble tablecloth. Its role was both aesthetic and functional. It protected a heirloom table's porous oak surface from red wine spills. It spruced up what might otherwise be a drab setting with a splash of color and pattern, easily updated to reflect the season. And it was a symbol. The act of spreading the tablecloth was a ritual sacrament, and the one who performed this task, the one who smoothed out the wrinkles and checked all sides for an even overhang, was the cantor of a holy communion between Man and Bread. Hence, he chose to set the table himself that evening, his intention to demonstrate sincere regret to Susanna.

  He could not have her resenting him. Wayne missed her. He'd missed the unburdened love between them for some time now. It was an intimacy that had been borne out of a shared secret knowledge of a world only they knew about.

  Things hadn't been the same since Jesse returned. Susanna now compared every action Wayne made against the unrealistic ideal that her seventeen-year-old self had held about Jesse. And he feared this would not only push her away from him, but draw her closer to his brother.

  He did not want to be accusatory. He would not cause a scene. He wanted to show her, to demonstrate to her, that he was more than an out of touch, coldly calculating businessman. That he was, instead, a Husband Who Cared. So he made dinner, set the table, lit the candles, and awaited her arrival.

  She always came home at seven o'clock.

  6:55. He heard the familiar sound of her car pulling into the driveway, a few minutes early, perfectly in keeping with her character. She was so...efficient. That was
sexy. He listened for her footsteps as she walked to the side entrance and, with the jangle of her keys, let herself in.

  She was warm, tired, and hungry. The aroma of a full-bodied spaghetti sauce hit her nose. Real cuisine was something they had brought with them to Bridgetown. Any meal that wasn't just some combination of steak, potatoes, and corn was a godsend.

  He heard her hurry her pace as she walked to the kitchen.

  Wayne was there when she arrived, an expectant glow in his eyes. "I made your favorite," he said, beaming.

  "Oh, come on, where's Martha?"

  "No, no, Martha didn't make this. I mean, the recipe for the sauce is hers, but I wanted to make a meal for us."

  "What about W.J.?"

  "She's washing him up."

  All she allowed out was, "Hmm."

  Wayne plucked a dark bottle off the countertop and presented it to her with a bit of flourish. "The house red, m'dam?"

  "I'll just have water, thanks."

  Wayne wouldn't be so easily abated. "So how did things go today?"

  "Oh, you know, just another day in the salt mines," Susanna said with a disarming sigh. "Deciding what color the drapes should be. It's just all so mentally taxing."

  Wayne made himself chuckle. He had to work his way out of this. He couldn't survive the whole dinner dodging her knives. "Well, I was giving more thought to our discussion about taking a trip soon, once things settle down some," he said. "If you're really serious about it I can have a departure date set up."

  "I don't know, Wayne. I might be too busy rearranging furniture or passing out on the fainting couch."

  Wayne sighed, and rested his palms on the table. "Come on, Susanna, I'm trying."

  "Not hard enough," she shot back.

  "Is it because he's back?"

  There was silence in the kitchen for a long moment.

  "You took away what I've been working towards ever since we arrived, Wayne. Not Jesse."

  Wayne shook his head. "You've been acting differently. Like you want some reason to be angry with me, some justification for closing yourself off to me."

  Susanna threw her hands up in the air. "That is such bullshit! And what are you driving at, anyway? Either accuse me of something or admit it's ridiculous."

  "It's not ridiculous at all. History is history, Susanna."

  "Yeah, well, history changes. You of all people should know that." Sudden realization washed over her face. "You told Jesse to leave, didn't you?"

  Wayne curled up his face. "What? That's outrageous. He's my brother."

  "Yeah, well, he got the message without you having to say anything. If his body turns up in a ditch, it'll be your fault."

  Susanna got up to leave.

  "Where are you going?" Wayne demanded.

  "I'm not hungry after all," she said, neither stopping nor turning.

  "I'm sorry."

  That got her to stop, at least. Still, she didn't turn to face him. "Look, am I getting my job back or not?"

  Wayne looked at the floor. He said nothing.

  Susanna made it beyond the threshold of the kitchen and to the staircase before Wayne blurted out, "He's not in a ditch."

  "Then where is he?"

  "I think he's with them."

  Susanna came down the stairs, and stopped in the doorway. "He's with who?"

  "Black. The Lotus Boys."

  "Why the hell would he do that?"

  "You're going to get caught in the middle of this thing, Susanna. I want you to be ready. There's a war coming. A war for Bridgetown."

  Susanna took this in with a small nod. Then she walked away, and went back up the stairs to their room. "Whatever," she said.

  Wayne put his hand to his chin, and rubbed his sprouting five o'clock shadow. He walked back to the table, and began to eat his spaghetti in silence.

  * * *

  "Next stop, Chicago!"

  The conductor' yell only momentarily broke Jesse's nigh-religious awe at the vista that lay beyond the train car's window: The skyline of late nineteenth-century Chicago.

  Jesse wasn't sure what a big city in 1897 should look like. As best as he could tell, Cole Co.'s innovations, like the telephone and the radio, had yet to fully penetrate the nation's way of life. He had seen no other radio towers during his three-day train ride through the West, and this particular train was certainly not afforded any amenities of modern living.

  So it was with no small amount of marvel that Jesse drank in the immense scale and splendor of the city before him. Structures of steel and concrete shot high into the sky, buildings that put most of the architecture of even Jesse's modern Los Angeles to shame.

  The train crossed a utility bridge and approached Grand Central Station. It came to a halt, its massive brake pads screeching. Passengers began to disembark with the alacrity of chickens cooped up for too long and suddenly let loose. Jesse was more measured. He could only take it all in one step at a time. He didn't have to struggle with any big suitcases; all of his essentials for this business trip were in a single nap sack.

  When he stepped off the train onto the platform, he was immediately hit with a peculiar odor. It was a combination of urine, brine, machine oil, and rotting meat. The scent of the city.

  Perhaps hoping to distract from this olfactory assault, Chicago had commissioned one hell of a spectacle for its train station. The rail platforms were housed inside a tremendous, arched train shed, a greenhouse of glass and steel. Jesse exited the platform into the cool graces of the station terminal. Its architects had erected a chamber of marble and flora, with Roman columns that shot up to the thirty-foot ceiling. There was something aspirational about the architecture, a kind of civic yearning for a greatness just out of reach, isolated here in granite. The mood was only exacerbated by how few people Jesse saw walking the halls of the terminal. It seemed to him the station's makers had overbuilt, expecting crowds that never came.

  He sat on one of the benches and allowed himself to feel small in the presence of the massive chamber. He was tired. He found it next to impossible to sleep on that train, and the trip had taken three days and two nights.

  At times over the course of his odyssey—mostly when it got too hot, or the bench seat too unforgiving against his sore backside—the wisdom of his plan had eluded him. Why seek out a movie camera in this time of minute-long carnival novelties? His plan to make a propaganda film and drive the people of Bridgetown against Wayne was a long shot, to be sure. Why not do something more direct?

  He told himself, each time the question had arisen in his mind, that it was because Wayne was his brother, and Jesse had to do what he could to find a peaceful solution to this situation. Like one nation leveraging economic sanctions against another, it was a way to stave off a more violent confrontation between the Lotus Boys and Wayne's company.

  Deep down, though, something else lingered. A strangely self-satisfied sense that, if Wayne was going to play to his own strengths to get fame and fortune in this land, well, Jesse could do the same.

  A little boy ran through the station hall chasing a shaggy-looking dog, leash dangling behind him. Jesse smiled, and realized his desire to get to work had overcome his weariness. He got up on his feet and walked to the the ticket seller's booth.

  "Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to this address?" Jesse handed a torn-off piece of paper to the young man behind the counter. On it was an address that Black had turned up for him.

  The worker thought about this for a moment, and pulled out him a map to the city. "Best give a look at this map, then," the boy said. "Yours for a penny."

  Jesse dug out a copper coin and wordlessly dropped it in the boy's palm. He took the map, walked over to the nearest bench, and sat down. He parsed the map for his point of interest, and began charting a route.

  One of the city's shiny new electric streetcars took Jesse from Harrison to Hamlin Boulevard. The ride was smooth, quiet, and Jesse couldn't help but wonder why the cars had disappeared from the streets of Los
Angeles back home. It seemed a kind of majestic ancient beast, doomed to be knocked down from its niche in the food chain by smaller, scrappier scavenger-creatures.

  When the streetcar came to the square he knew to be his interchange, he stepped off and made his way north on foot, passing block after block of brick cottages and Germanic storefronts. There were the signature of a new wave of European immigrants to the city, around the neighborhood of Humboldt Park. The smells were more pleasant here. Not the industrial piss and sweat of the dockside, but rather, the aroma of bread baking, and wet grass in the morning.

  A mile further, and Jesse stood before an unassuming wooden door at the top of a cobblestone stoop. He walked to the top of the stoop and rapped on the door three times. He wasn't sure if this was a walk-in kind of business or not. Since he didn't see a sign, he decided to play it safe.

  He knocked once more. This time, after a long moment, it opened with a creak.

  A tall man in his late sixties emerged from the darkness, his head topped with a cresting wave of shock-white hair that made him seem even taller. He had the mouth of a shark, and the kind of old-age onset that began to imbue some men with an androgynous, unsettlingly grandmotherly quality. He squinted at Jesse with what seemed like resent. "Can I help you?"

  "Edward Scoble? I'm Jesse. I talked to you over the telephone a couple of days ago."

  Scoble's expression instantly changed to one of opportunistic glee. His entire face seemed to light up with delight. "Oh, right, right! Of course, of course, the Man from Back West. Come on in."

  Scoble swung the door wide, revealing his gangly physique. His arms went wide in a welcoming, presentational gesture. Jesse wouldn't have been at all surprised if the man had accompanied it with a loud, "Ta-daa!"

  Jesse entered. The first floor of Scoble's shop was one long, narrow room, with a staircase at the rear. The space was filled with carnival ephemera: Garishly-painted, oversized electric signage. Performance booths, and fortune-teller's boxes. A few trunks of unknown content. The whole place had the pleasant smell of sawdust and old books. It was a comforting reprieve from Chicago's stench.