My uncle could stay in a time period for days or weeks. That’s how he profited on stocks and sports, in addition to coins. He did a little research on the stock market or the sports scores and he’d be in the money.
You could say that 1914 was kind of a bland time, but there were opportunities to make money. I arrived in Boston on July 4th, 1914. The Boston Braves were in last place in the National League. I found various places to make a bet and all my dollars went on the Braves to not only win the National League pennant, and not only win the World Series, but to sweep the series over the Philadelphia A’s in four games. I made a fortune, but I had to quickly get out of town because there were some mean Irishmen looking to bust my head in. I also took a few handfuls of Indian head pennies – made about $200 from those, but the big money, and the danger, was in sports betting.
I would focus on coin collecting. I preferred to leave the danger to someone else.
I made three more trips throughout the summer and fall. Unless I told my wife, I wouldn’t be able to stay in any specific time for very long. If I had been late for dinner, her female antenna would have picked up unwanted signals and I’d be trying to explain the unexplainable. It would be easier to admit to some false affair than to tell her where I really had been.
I picked up several Liberty Head gold quarters from 1850 or so and made about $1,000 in total. I lucked out and obtained an 1879 Coiled Hair Stella $4 gold coin – a very rare coin. I was sitting in a New York City bar in 1881 and some guy was talking about this four-dollar coin and showing it to the bartender. I tried to focus my memory on this coin. I had heard of it in my readings, but couldn’t quite place its value. I figured it had to be worth more than forty dollars.
“I’ll give you forty dollars for it right now.” I said as I walked over to the two men.
“Forty dollars for this.” He looked up at me, assessing my appearance and my demeanor. “It’s gold and all, but can’t be worth that much.”
“I’m a collector. Coin collector. This is a beautiful coin. I’d love to have it for my collection.”
“You from around here? I ain’t seen you before.”
“Um, no, I’m from Long Island. Just come in to the city for some work. Thought I’d get a drink before I went back. But, I’ve been a coin collector all my life and that’s a mighty fine one. It’s probably only worth the gold that it’s made with, but it would make a great addition to my collection.”
The man hesitated, fearing he was being played. “What do you think, Sal?” He asked the bartender, a big burly Italian guy with a handlebar mustache. Before Sal could answer, I upped my price.
“How about forty bucks and three rounds of whatever you’re drinking.”
“Sold. It’s all yours pal.”
Forty dollars is equal to nearly one thousand in today’s money, so my friend at the bar got quite a deal. I sold the coin for six figures when I returned, so I guess we both came out as winners.
Uncle Frankie had provided detailed instructions on how to make money with time travel coin collecting.
Purchase old money before you leave. You can purchase them in bulk online or buy from a coin shop. You have to purchase money that matches the time period, or at least looks the same as the time period. So, do your research and know the money of the era, and know what coins are valuable.
I had to front quite a bit of money to purchase old bills. That was my overhead and would have to be deducted from whatever I made off the coins to make sure my adventures were profitable. They were.
In four trips I had made nearly $280,000, thanks to that rare four-dollar gold coin I bought in that bar. I had collected handfuls of coins, some valuable, some not. But, every old coin sold for over face value, so profit could be made on almost every coin I brought back. I also had no competition in this business.
I planned to make one trip to the near past soon – just to check out my ability to play the stock market. Should have been easy if I already knew the results. But, I never got the chance.
I made one fateful mistake. One stupid, ruinous error. If I had ever gotten accustomed to using the calendar function on my smartphone, I may not have made this mistake. Because I made that unfortunate mistake, you are reading this.
They took everything – my machine, my uncle’s papers, even the thick metal chain I used to keep the garage door closed. They had a warrant, so I guess it was all legal. The landlord cut the lock one day, and unsure of what he had found, called the police. It seems that these warehouses had been used to store illegal contraband and drugs from time to time, so the manager was simply notifying law enforcement of any suspicious activity or time machines.
I called Barnham, Phelps, and Stout, LLC and Gerard Barnham himself showed up to represent me. With attorney-client privilege, I figured it was best to tell the truth to my high-priced lawyer. Gerard didn’t care much about the backstory; he only cared about the check I wrote for his services. He’s probably heard whoppers before, though I can’t imagine any of his clients had used a time travel excuse before.
I don’t think I’ll be in prison for too long; there are no charges against me that will stick. Time traveling? Illegal coin collecting? Mr. Barnham thinks I’ll have plenty of explaining to do, and that they may confiscate a portion of my bank account. I’ll probably lose my job, but there is no way they can take the $1.1 million I inherited from my uncle.
I also told my wife about the time traveling. My wife took some convincing and a bottle of wine, but she trusted me and my fanciful story. I didn’t tell the police. They read my uncle’s papers, but believed me when I said that I had never taken the machine for a ride. Time travel, right? That was an easy lie in the interrogation room.
I thought my wife would be mad as hell, but I was surprised to find that it kind of excited her. My borderline criminal activity and my time traveling adventures acted as an aphrodisiac, I guess. At least that’s what she told me when she whispered in my ear in the jailhouse meeting room. Hopefully, I’ll find out soon.
The papers were all over this, and one of the guards here told me that I was on the front page of the New York Post - The Headline: Time Travel – Easy Automatic Bill Pay – Too Difficult. In the article, they called me an “idiot” three times.
That’s right - my mistake was forgetting to pay the bill at warehouse. My uncle had paid for a year in advance. If I had put in the future date into my smartphone calendar, that amazing piece of technology would have reminded me.
The New York Post is right – I am an idiot. But, Gerard Barnham assures me I’ll be out soon, I have over one million dollars in the bank, my son thinks I’m cool, and I’m quite confident my wife wants more than obligatory weekly sex when I get out.
I was just getting to enjoy coin collecting. I was thinking about introducing my son to the hobby, even though it’s low-tech in a decidedly high-tech world. Coin collecting is kind of an archaic hobby, but there’s nothing like selling a coin for over $150,000 after buying it for forty bucks and three shots of whiskey.
Now that you finished reading, what do you think? Would you have done what I did? Would you have traveled through time? Would you have used your uncle’s time travel machine to become a coin collector? I bet you would have. But, I bet you would have remembered to pay the bill.
The Closet
I awoke in a pile of garbage in a littered alleyway behind a concrete wall. I looked up at sharply vertical buildings on both sides of me, and realized I was in the middle of a city. My hands and arms were dirty, and I assumed my face was a mess, though I didn’t have a mirror in which to verify my assumption. I had no idea where I was, how I got here, and most importantly, I had no idea who I was. I couldn’t think of my name; I couldn’t even summon up a memory, an image, or a fragment of a remembrance. Last night – no clue. Last year – no idea. My childhood – a serious blank. My name – an empty thought.
Where was I seemed far less important than who was I.
I wandered out of the alle
y on wobbling legs, slowly regaining equilibrium. The area was run down yet vibrant. Cars sped past on wide thoroughfares, pawn shops, liquor stores, tattoos parlors, and smoke shops lined the sidewalks. I didn’t see an empty parking space, but foot traffic was minimal, save for the few scraggly homeless pushing shopping carts to and fro. I fit right in, except I lacked the shopping cart.
“Hey buddy.” I asked the first homeless person I encountered. “Where am I?”
All he could do was laugh, and then ask me for some spare change. I guess I didn’t fit in all the way – I still stood out as someone with extra money burning a hole in my pocket. Aha – my pockets. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of bills folded in half. In the middle of those bills was a driver’s license and a Visa card. This is who I was unless I was a thief: Nathan Enzo. I lived at 1245 Oak St. I had my first clue – and it was a big one.
“Hey buddy, you done with that spot?” I looked up to see a different homeless man approaching me. “You leavin’?”
“What spot? You mean-”
“Where you was sleepin’. You been there for a few days. Sleepin’ like a baby most of the time.”
“Days?”
“Days man. I never seen you move. Never seen you eat. You got a good spot and you never leave it, I guess.”
“Good spot?”
“Yeah man, protected from the wind and you can kinda see anyone comin’ to rob you or beat you. I slept down the alley a bit from you a couplea nights. Ya know, was trying to get a little wind protection and I figured I’d protect you from some of the maniacs out here. Two of us is safer than one I suppose. You done wit it?”
“Um, um, yea. It’s all yours. And thanks.”
With that, the man walked away toward the protected alleyway in which I had been sleeping. I watched as he took his pack off his back, pulled out an old tattered rug and placed it on the ground as a bed. I watched as he sat down on his bed, pulled out a coverless paperback and a bottle. He was immediately lost in a good book and a bottle of gin. I walked down the alley, pulled out a couple of fives from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Here, get yourself something good to eat.”
“You know I’ll probably just drink most of it away.”
“Well, make sure it’s something good.”
“You probably shouldn’t be flashin’ much cash around here if yer sleeping on the street. May get you a quick beatin’ if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You take care now. Hey, you know what the day is?”
“Hell if I know. They’re all the same to me.”
I walked into the first open shop – a pawn shop called Lucky’s Pawn and Antiques. A bell rang as I entered. The proprietor, an old man probably in his 70’s came out from the back. Unfazed by my filthy clothes, he asked, “Can I help you?”
“Sure, I just need to find an address. Um, Oak Street. 1245.”
“Well, Oak St, is clear on the other side of town. The good side of town. Turn left at the corner and keep going. Two, three miles or so.”
“Thanks. Hey, um, you know what day it is?”
“Wednesday.” He answered as if it was a routine question, though he didn’t elaborate as to the date, month or year.
Though I had no idea who I was, I could tell I was reasonably young. Probably in my twenties. I stared at my reflection in a store window, and the face that started back, though dirty and topped with disheveled hair, looked far too young for middle age, and too old for adolescence. My muscles still felt taught and my torso lean. Perhaps not an Adonis, but far from flabby, old geezer.
Three miles wasn’t too far, especially for someone who I assumed was in their twenties, but the time gave me the opportunity to reflect instead of just react. My reaction was to head straight to 1245 Oak St, but upon reflection, I wondered if this was the right idea. What if this wasn’t me? I pulled the license out of my pocket again. The photo looked similar to the man I had seen in the store window. The age (DOB: 11/10/1990) on the license matched my presumed age range. It had to be me – but what if it wasn’t? What if I had stolen it from this guy, or worse, what if I had killed this guy? Or, what if it was me and I was on the run from the cops? What if the cops were waiting in the shadows to apprehend me when I returned to, either the scene of the crime, or to my place of residence?
I approached 1245 Oak Street with caution. Luckily, Oak Street was lined with, as the name suggests, oak trees. It was littered with fallen leaves from those enormous oak trees and lined with parked cars, offering some camouflage as I made my way to a possible answer to my identity. Now that I had made it here, the burning questions was what should I do. Should I have walked up and knocked or should I have just hung out and waited to see what happened? I decided that some surveillance was in order so I waited…and waited…and waited.
Darkness had fallen before there was any activity at 1245 Oak St. I watched as a man, dressed in a suit, walked up the steps, put a key in the lock, pushed the door open, and disappeared inside. The man didn’t look like me, he was much taller and heavier. Just then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a young woman walk out into the street, unaware of any cars, as if in a trance. One car, a blue sedan, almost hit her. “Hey lady, get outta the street. Jesus, look where you’re going.”
She looked back at the car, and then saw me hiding behind one of the stately oaks. I saw a flash of panic on her face, and she took off running, her blonde, scraggly hair bouncing against her shoulders as she sprinted down Oak St. “Hey.” I yelled out to her, but she neither looked back or stopped.
I found a local Motel 6. I paid the $59 plus tax in cash. I had $87.36 left. One more night and a little food was all the time my finances would allow me to answer the riddle of my existence.
I tossed and turned for an hour or so, but then I slept like a baby on meds. I woke to bright sun shining through the diaphanous curtains. I leapt out of bed, pulled my clothes on as quickly as possible, ran my fingers through my hair, and bolted out into the flourishing morning. I ran to 1245 Oak St in hopes of catching the mystery man before he left for work. Had I made it in time? Does he even go to work?
I had my answer in ten minutes – I watched as the man locked his door and turned left down Oak St. I followed as closely as I could without drawing attention to my amateur detective activities. He made a few turns and walked over a mile before arriving at his destination – a five-story commercial building on the corner of a major thoroughfare. The man walked through the lobby, nodded at the receptionist, and pressed “UP” at the bank of elevators. The doors quickly opened, the man entered, and they closed before I could get to his elevator. I walked back to the receptionist.
“What’s the name of the man who just walked by, right ahead of me. Gray suit jacket, blue tie?”
“Sir, I can’t give out-“
“No, no, I was just wondering. I know him from somewhere. I-I passed him as he walked in here and I recognize him, but can’t place him. God, I know him from somewhere.”
“His name’s Jason Greene. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Oh, ah, yeah, that’s right. Jason. Now I know. Thanks.”
I spent four hours at the local library; the computers were free and there was plenty of information to be found. It took a few tedious hours of advanced sleuthing to locate Jason Greene, but I eventually found that he worked as a financial advisor for Baffin, Darret & Greene, which is located on the fifth floor of that commercial building I visited in the morning. His dad was one of the owners. I also looked up the address and found that 1245 Oak St had just been purchased for $189,000. It was a four bedroom, two bath townhome with 2,300 square feet of living space. As I was about to finish up, I saw a link to an article about the strange case of missing people who lived at 1245 Oak St.
The townhome at 1245 Oak Street was newsworthy. The article described the mystery: The last two people who rented it from owner Sal Delmotta had disappeared. No bodies had been found and nothing had been heard from
either one of them. Amanda Evans rented from Mr. Delmatta for almost a year and was described as the perfect tenant by Mr. Delmatta. “She paid her rent early every month, and when I hadn’t received the check and it was five or six days late I got worried.” Mr Delmatta told the newspaper. The story continued: When police entered the home, they found nothing disturbed or suspicious. They also didn’t find Ms. Evans. It’s been nearly 18 months and there has still been no word from the missing woman. Her family is still hoping and praying she will turn up, but the police have long since ceased an active investigation. The second tenant is Nathan Enzo…
Holy shit! Nathan Enzo. That’s me, or at least that’s what my drivers’ license says. I continued to read.
Mr Enzo had recently moved to the area, worked at a real estate company where he was described as an excellent employee, and had rented the townhome for three months. “He was late every month, but only by a few days, and he seemed like a good guy.” Mr. Delmatta said. Mr. Enzo, like Ms. Evans is missing and there has been no clues or information on either missing person. Mr. Delmatta has placed the townhome on the market at a steep discount. “I just want to be rid of it. I don’t know if anyone will buy it, but I won’t rent it out ever again.”
I was a missing person. But, I knew where I was. I had to figure out how I went missing.
I was headed back to 1245 Oak St.
It was way past sunset when the man finally came home. As he was opening his door I approached him. “Excuse me.” He turned without showing any fear or apprehension. This was the good part of town, after all.
“Can I help you?’
“You might be able to. I used to live in this building.”
Without hesitation or suspicion, he replied. “Well, you might know it’s history. Its reputation allowed me to pick it for as a steal. Probably got it for half its value. Did you rent from Mr. Delmatta?”
Altering the Apocalypse: and Other Short Stories About Humans and Time Travel Page 13