I quickly dialed the number.
The voicemail picked up and I listened to a list of specific directions. I realized that buying a time machine off Craigslist might be like looking for a unicorn at the zoo, but it was worth a try, even if just for the laughs.
The first bit of information on the voice message was a lock combination – 1-1-9-6. I was then instructed to go to a bar during daylight hours in one of the local beach areas. Find a bartender named Rudy, order a Samuel Adams on draught, and tip Rudy $100. He would give me a small box with a combination lock. Upon using the 1-1-9-6 combination to open the box, I would find an address and a key to a storage shed. In that shed would be a time machine, slightly used. It was first come first served. If Rudy at the bar had no box and refused your $100 tip, someone had beaten you to it and you were shit out of luck. In that case, the voice instructed me to tip him $20 for his time, anyway. This bartender had a good deal going. There was a good chance it was his ad – he probably figured he could make $20 several times off suckers like me before the scam grew cold.
There were so many variables, so many things that could go wrong. But one thing I knew for sure was that my life was no prize. I had no job, no girlfriend, no parents left, and a sibling who avoided me like I was a tax collector. I had also maxed out two credit cards and I was a few months tardy on the payments. I had recently contemplated suicide, but had decided to give life one more try. I was going to buy a shinier, better functioning car with the $7,296 I had left in my savings account and head out on the job-hunting trail. After that, I would work on getting a girlfriend. However, I had never thought about time travel. I mean, who honestly thinks about time travel? It’s merely the stuff of science fiction, right?
Fiction or not, it was clear - a new option had presented itself. If some loser was going to take a chance on this opportunity having any veracity, that loser might as well be me.
I checked my wallet. Luckily, I had just taken out three hundred dollars to buy a new suit for the job-hunting trail, so I wouldn’t have to make an ATM pit stop to fetch the money for the tip. I’d worry about a new suit if this time travel thing didn’t work out.
Belching smoke, and hiccupping all the way, my 1992 Ford Festiva hatchback made it to the Endless Summer Saloon, only a twenty minute drive away from my home. The establishment was on a side street off the main drag near the beach. Two men sat at the far end of the bar; I sat at the barstool nearest the door. The bartender looked up from his iPhone as I sat down, though he made no move to ask for my order.
“Hey barkeep, can I have a Sam Adams on drought.”
The bartender said no words, just filled a glass beneath the tap without reaction. I assumed Samuel Adams was a popular brand here, and my order didn’t ring any bells for the heavily tattooed man.
“Here. Keep it-” I said as I handed him a five-dollar bill for the beer and a crisp new hundred for the tip. He glanced up at me, pausing for a moment as if studying my eyes. I waited for a response, fully aware that the two men at the end of the bar had seen me hand him a rather generous tip. “Someone beat me to it?” I asked.
He shook his head, laughed, and walked into the back. A few moments later he returned with a small metal box and placed it on the wooden bar.
“Thanks.” I finished my beer in two rather slurpy gulps, then exited the bar realizing that Rudy hadn’t spoken once.
The metal box opened when the lock read 1-1-9-6 and the contents were as described on the phone message – an address for a local storage facility, a code to enter the place, and a key.
When I opened the storage shed door, I was surprised at how massive the machine was. This was likely the most spacious storage shed available and the machine took up most of it. Two huge engines, almost as large as jet engines, were in the back. They were covered by a light flexible silver metal, presumably to muffle some of the noise. Between the two engines sat twelve large car batteries, double stacked in rows of six. A handful of red, green, and yellow wires protruded from the batteries and were attached to various points on the machine. There were also round objects that looked like metallic tops. The passenger compartment was simple and basic with something similar to a bench car seat, and a multitude of gadgets and dials.
It looked like a golf cart on steroids.
With no visible computer equipment, I assumed the true space-age technology was hidden away somewhere. Instructions had been placed on the warehouse floor a few feet away from the machine - typed, double-spaced, six pages long with diagrams. I stared at the stapled booklet as if it were a Calculus textbook, unsure that I could comprehend even the simplest parts.
As I contemplated what to do, I thought of the old Clash song – Should I Stay or Should I Go? Not what the Clash had been thinking about when they wrote that song, but it seemed to fit. Should I read the instructions right now and test out the viability of time travel? If I didn’t do it now, would I chicken out? Then I had a thought, a simple idea, something that just might be worth a chance. Something that would make the trip more appealing and far more pleasurable.
It took over two weeks, but the wait was worth it.
I met her in a bar downtown, noticeably nicer than the one in which Rudy worked. I had spoken with her five times over the course of two weeks. We had decided not to exchange photos, leaving some mystery intact. I recognized her immediately from her description. Melissa was dazzling in a simple, common way. Brown shoulder length hair, a cherubic face, deep-set hazel eyes, wearing a simple knee-length cotton dress which lightly hugged the slight curves of her slender frame.
“You’re very trusting.” I stated the obvious.
“I have nothing much to lose,” she replied. “You know all this. My sob story. My parents died in a car wreck three years ago. My sister died from breast cancer this year. I have no boyfriend, few friends, a job I hate, and life isn’t working out exactly as planned. I don’t feel pretty or attractive at all in this glitz and glamor world.
“You’re very pretty.”
“Thanks for saying that. But I don’t look like the models and actresses and singers. I need a change of scenery. I had been thinking that a change of time zones would work, but this is much more interesting.”
After three hours of talk, a few rounds of drinks, and more laughs than I would have expected, I asked her if she was ready. “I’ve been ready for years. It’s my favorite time of history. I think I’ll feel prettier there. And with you.”
“We can postpone it. Think about it overnight if you want.”
“My mind was made up the moment I read your ad.”
“Before you even talked to me or met me? I could have been a murderer or a rapist or just some general weirdo.”
“Well, I figured you were weird – who writes an ad like that? But, I knew you weren’t dangerous. What murderer would write that ad? I was mostly worried about whether it was real. Whether it would actually work.”
We paid our bill, walked out into the cool autumn night, and requested an Uber. We weren’t going far, but we’d end up a very long way from here.
I had placed two ads – one worked to perfection. The other I hoped would work just as well, but would probably never find out.
My first ad:
Life not going as planned? Romance missing? Need an escape? How about an escape to another time? Not another place, but another time. I like the 1920’s, but I’m open to suggestions. Yes, I have a time machine and you’re going to have to trust me on this. I’m lonely, but normal. I’m not a psycho, murderer, thief, pervert, or nutjob. I’m not trying to steal anything, other than possibly your heart. If you have nothing to lose, what do you have to lose?
The ad contained my phone number, my age, and a few other basic stats. I received thirteen e-mail responses, twelve of which sounded as if they had been written by a fifth-grader and made liberal use of slang and four-letter words. I replied to the only one without curse words or derogatory comments. I knew she was the right one. I hoped.
My second ad, the one I had written earlier, but on which I had clicked “Post” only right before we left, read like this:
I know this sounds like a fake ad, so you will have to take a leap of faith here. I can’t prove anything to you because, well, I’ve used my machine by now, and it’s kind of difficult to communicate from across the years, and believe me, I have traveled a distance from 2016. The machine has been tested and used twice. It should work great for one or two people. So, you’ll have to trust me that the machine really works. Everything worth anything takes a leap of faith. Now here’s the part where I trust you. The cost is $1000. It’s really much more valuable than that, so it’s a bargain at that price. But, I don’t want your money. I want you to send it to the Time Travel Research Association – yes, it’s a real group. They could probably use the help. I’m going to trust you to send that check, and the machine is yours. But, make sure you really want to use it before you fire up the engines!
I had returned to the same bar and handed Rudy $1000 for his time and the proper handling of this matter.
Rudy asked. “You sure?” It sounded more like: Does this really work or are you and that other guy completely nuts?” But, he happily took my cash.
I had left the metal box with instructions inside at Rudy’s bar, paid the storage shed for two months, emptied my savings account, and bought a new three-piece suit that would look good in a different era. With the rest of my money, I purchased a supply of old notes and coins. I had to go to five different coin, antique, and pawn shops, and I lost well over half the value of my money, but I figured a little over $2,000 would get us off to a good financial start.
We took a cab to the storage shed and watched as the white Prius took off down the street, most likely the last time we would ever see a hybrid vehicle. Not sure why I thought about hybrid vehicles, but I suppose I was lamenting the impending loss of modern technology. Of course, that lack of technology would also be one of the cherished benefits.
Once the Uber driver was out of sight, I used the duplicate key to open the warehouse door, and we moved to opposite corners of the vast storage space to discreetly change into our traveling clothes. Looking sharp in our duds straight out of a museum, I readied the machine for use, and we stepped into the compartment. I manipulated the dials and hoped they were set for the right date. Melissa slid over next to me, and I set the instructions down on the floor next to the vehicle, where they would be easily found by the next traveler. With the engines growing increasingly loud, the machine vibrating, and the gadgets and lights blinking wildly, I took Melissa’s hand in mine. The lighted dash displayed two gyroscopes – they glowed red as the machine fired up, and when the engines reached a nearly unbearable decibel level, they turned from red to green.
“I looked over at her and yelled. “You sure?” She kissed me lightly on the lips and smiled.
I took that as a “Yes.” As instructed, I pushed the final button when the gyroscopes turned green. We waited for our new lives to begin.
As we were swept up in a raging torrent of wind and noise I suddenly remembered the Visa and Master Card bills. Shit. I had forgotten to pay them off. Oh well, once we get to 1920, I’ll forget all about them. Let them try to track me down. No matter how many annoying phone calls they make, collection letters they send, or investigators they hire, I think they’ll have trouble finding me.
There’s No Flowers in the Future
Welcome to Flower Fields. Friendliest Town in the Southwest. Those were the words on the sign that greeted people on the road into town. What it didn’t say was: Welcome to Flower Fields. Home of the Most Beautiful Flower Fields in the Southwest.
I had lived in Flower Fields, Arizona all my life. There weren't any flower fields in Flower Fields, and there had never been any flower fields anywhere near it. The community was a dry hump of a town in southeastern Arizona - not exactly desert, not mountain, not fertile plains, not much of anything; until all the visitors started popping up in town and settling down.
Ned and Edith Starks showed up two years ago and bought the old Merrifield place at the edge of town. Then, Bill and Barbara Stevens showed up one day and moved into the old Marrin place which had been vacant since the old lady died. Cal and Janice Billingsley bought a double-wide in the Lakeshore Mobile Home park, the one not located anywhere near a lake. All told, thirty couples had settled in the town throughout the past two years. Most of them had moved into the mobile home park and filled up the vacancies there.
Each and every one of the new residents gave their reason for moving to Flower Fields as a desire to escape the rat race of the city. Each couple made me as suspicious as a rat in a maze, one that smelled cheese in the air. They were all too damn nice, they all had the same story, and though they all said their companies allowed them to work from home, none of them looked as if they did much work. Consulting was the most common answer. Consulting for what or whom no one ever said.
“We work from home. We send our work in, have meetings on the computer, and never have to drive anywhere.” Each man said the same thing. Each woman appeared to be a housewife as none of them mentioned work.
Flower Fields was a town of 3,200 people, and most everyone else in town accepted the newcomers like they were long lost relatives. Many old-timers feared the town was dying – young people moving to Phoenix or Los Angeles or Dallas. They saw these newcomers as the saviors of Flower Fields. I saw them as a menace, but everyone else thought I was nuts…which I guess I am in a way. I lived at the edge of town in an old adobe house. It was a small community of twenty or so adobe homes. I wasn’t a recluse or social pariah – I merely liked fewer people around than most folks. I also had a wife – how she put up with me is anyone’s guess, but she was the sweetest person you’d ever meet. I owned five dogs and ten guns, and had a full white beard that helped me land the Santa Claus job at the mall in Flower Fields and another one closer to Tucson. My wife and I raised two kids in Flower Fields, back when kids were on every street. One of our children moved to Phoenix and the other to Los Angeles. Most of the kids their age had also moved away.
When Ulysses and Carla Jones moved into the house next door, I asked Joan, my wife, to bake a cake so we could take it over to them as a “welcome” to Flower Fields - a gift from Joan, and a way for me to gather information.
Carlotta greeted us at the door, surprised at our generous gesture. “My, that is so nice of you. We don't have anything to offer. Still getting used to our surroundings. Wasn't expecting visitors.” She gazed over at her husband, who appeared to be taking apart the stove.
“I saw Ned Starks over here the other day,” I mentioned. In fact, I had watched them greet each other like long-lost brothers. “Looks like you two know each other.”
Ulysses looked over at me, smiling. “He's the reason we're here. I knew him a long time back, back before we came west. He, um, told us what a welcoming place this was.” Ulysses looked rather nervous as his eyes darted from left to right. “Why doncha sit down a spell? We purchased some beer at the little store, the, um, supermarket. I'll have a beer with you while the ladies chat in the living room.”
“What type of work you do, Ulysses?”
“Um, I work, um, I’m a consultant.”
“How interesting. Ned Starks and every other new resident said they’re consultants, too. That kind of weird, doncha think?” Ulysses didn't respond, though I did noticed a facial twitch. “So, Ulysses, that's an interesting name. You named for the president or the guy from ancient Greece?”
He answered far too quickly and regretted his answer even faster. “The presiden- Um, I mean, I think my parents liked the name. It's unique, I gotta admit.”
We spent two hours and drank three beers each before Joan and I left to go home. I compared notes with Joan. She didn't have much to offer other than that Carlotta was sweet, but seemed a bit unaware of the world. Joan mentioned a few current events about which Carlotta seemed clueless. She also seemed to be completely unaware of a
nything on TV. “She doesn't even know what Dancing With the Stars is!” my wife remarked. “Who’s never heard of Dancing With the Stars? Come to think of it, I didn't see a television in their house.”
Other than trips to the store, our new residents weren't seen around town much. Occasionally one couple would be spotted walking to the home of another new resident. They always waved and said hi, but never stopped to chat. Several times we invited Ulysses and Carla over for dinner. They usually declined, but they accepted a couple times. Things were always pleasant, but there wasn’t much to talk about. Neither of them seemed much into sports, politics, or chit chat, but they were always kind and thankful for the invitation.
One day I saw them all in an arid brown field two miles outside of town. I was passing by in my truck and spotted a congregation of people in the distance. I took a shortcut on an unpaved road across the slightly sloping land, which allowed me to pass within 100 yards of them. Though my eyesight isn't what it used to be, I made a quick assessment and determined that most, if not all, of our new residents were standing in a field on the edge of Flower Fields, not far from an abandoned copper mine. They were facing the same direction and appeared to be listening to someone, a speaker I couldn’t see. Behind them was what looked like a large barn – a barn I had never seen before and was sure had never been there. I slowed for a bit, but never stopped, fearing that someone might notice. I thought it best to keep my snooping a secret until I determined whether these new residents were members of some bizarre cult or just couples tired of the rat race and seeking a new life in a less hectic and crowded land. In my mind, it was a tossup.
Altering the Apocalypse: and Other Short Stories About Humans and Time Travel Page 16