“Here, you take it for the remainder. See if you can pick me up,” I say, and hand Robbie my tang.
I jump up a couple of steps and have a seat in the bleachers to watch the others play. The clock on the wall in the main building shows ten past eight. No sign of our mysterious rendezvous. I prop my feet on the railing and adjust my pants. Mr. Cameron took us to the Salvation Army so we could raid the sale racks for clothing. I ended up with a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts. The one I’m wearing now features Gizmo from Gremlins. Carson claims to have found the best vintage treasure because he snagged an original Thriller T-shirt, but I’m happy with mine.
I look around at the other people in the bleachers and take in the conversations. A group of older ladies are clumped together to my right, discussing their disapproval of someone’s taste in second husbands. I can hear occasional loud laughter from two men who are probably in their sixties, sitting a few rows up in the bleachers directly behind me. To my left a group of middle-aged couples is commenting on one of the games being played by their friends.
As I’m watching Blake and Carson repetitively clear each other’s biscuits off the lane in quick succession, one of the older men from behind me steps past, still talking over his shoulder. “Gotta get back to glassing the lanes. It was good seeing you. Tell Mym I said hi.”
“I’ll tell her,” the other man replies. “She still talks about your wife’s cooking on a regular basis. Probably an allusion to what she has to put up with from me.”
“You two come over next time she’s in town. We’ll be happy to feed you both.”
“See you, Walt,” the man behind me says.
Walt walks in front of the bleachers, picks up the glass bead material and heads for the set of lanes around the corner. After a few moments, the second man proceeds down the steps as well, but instead of passing by, sits down next to me. He’s wearing a cheese cutter hat and a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows.
I nod to him. “How ya doin’?”
I look back to my friends’ game. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him appraising me. He stretches a leg out and puts a foot onto the lower rail in front of us. “Are you a betting man?”
I turn to him. His eyes are friendly. His skin has the healthy, sunned look that a lot of Florida seniors acquire. “Not too much. My friend Robbie likes to bet the dogs. I’ve never been a big gambler.”
“I find a good game of shuffleboard is made that much more interesting with a few side bets. Whom would you bet on in your friends’ game there, for example?”
I look at the scoreboard at the far end of the lane and see that Carson and Francesca are up by fifteen points. “Francesca and Carson look like they’re pulling ahead a little bit, but I know Blake and Robbie are pretty consistent shooters. They’ve been known to pull off some comebacks.”
“Who’s your pick then?” he presses me.
“Hard to say. They’re all strong.”
He reaches into his coat pocket and rummages around. “Let’s see what I’ve got for a wager.”
“I really don’t have much money,” I reply, wishing he would just drop the subject.
“Okay, what do you have?” he asks.
I reach into my pocket hopelessly and pull out the few items inside. I have a gum wrapper, a pencil I borrowed from Mr. Cameron’s desk earlier, and some loose change. “I’ve got seventy-two cents for you.” I hold out the change in my right hand.
He ignores it and looks toward my other hand. “What kind of pencil is that? Berol? Faber?”
I read the label. “Dixon Ticonderoga.”
“Ah, not bad. A classic. Okay, tell you what, I have a ball point pen here that I’ll wager against your Dixon Ticonderoga, that your lovely female friend will win it by five.”
“Really?” I ask. “You want to be that specific? That looks like a nice pen.”
“Confidence is key. And I’ve always been more of a pencil man. You never know when you might need to rewrite what you’ve already written.”
He stares at me until I acquiesce. “Fine. I’ll take Blake for the winning shot, by three.”
“Now we’re talking!” He smiles jubilantly, and turns his attention to the game.
In the time it has taken for us to settle on a wager, Blake and Robbie have scored twelve points to Carson and Francesca’s three, making it a six-point game. Francesca notices the man sitting next to me and gives me a curious look. I shrug my shoulders and she goes back to shooting. She and Robbie both score sevens on their turns. Blake and Carson knock each other around for a couple of shots before Blake puts up two eights to put him within two points of the win. Francesca’s third shot lands on the centerline for no points and Robbie slides one into the ten spot just shy of the line for ten points. Francesca lines up and shoots down the middle and knocks Robbie’s away, neatly replacing it. She jumps up and down for joy as she’s showing eighteen points in position, but Robbie eyes his last shot.
“I am going to hate you forever if you knock out my ten, Robbie!” Francesca exclaims.
Robbie shows no mercy and trains his shot straight at it. The shot doesn’t have the force he wants however, and when it makes contact, it’s just a glancing blow, barely moving Francesca’s biscuit back into the eight spot and ricocheting off to make contact with his previous biscuit and knocking it off the lane. His shot winds up on the seven/eight line for no points.
“Yes!” Francesca yells, and I see Carson’s celebratory fist pump. Francesca and Carson meet in the middle of the walkway and high-five. Mentally I do the math. Seventy-eight to seventy-three.
I look at my companion. He’s not looking at me, but he’s smiling. “I don’t know how you did it, but you nailed it.” I hand the pencil over. He takes it and examines the eraser approvingly, then slides the pencil into the inner pocket of his jacket.
“I’ll tell you the secret to my success.”
“Psychic?”
“Cheater,” he replies. “The worst.”
I get a good look at his smiling green eyes and I know why I’ve been had. “You’re Harold Quickly, aren’t you?”
“At your service.” He smiles and offers his hand. I shake it. My friends make their way over.
“Excellent match!” Quickly congratulates them.
“What have you two been discussing over here?” Francesca asks.
“I was simply giving a lesson in crooked wagering to your friend here,” Quickly replies.
“Yeah, lesson one: Don’t bet against time travelers.”
“Oh! You’re Dr. Quickly?” Francesca asks.
“Indeed. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Blake and Robbie introduce themselves to Dr. Quickly and take seats on the bleachers behind us. Carson and Francesca remain standing below. “I’m sorry we didn’t recognize you earlier,” Francesca says.
“No, that was my own doing,” Quickly replies. “I wanted to enjoy the game and get to know Benjamin here. Plus I had a lot riding on your performance.”
“Oh yeah?” Carson asks.
“He swindled me out of a pencil,” I say.
“Oh, high stakes.” Robbie laughs.
“You never can tell when you might need a good writing instrument,” Quickly says. “The possibilities are endless.”
“We have about a million questions for you,” Blake says.
“I imagine you do. Why don’t we go somewhere where we can discuss the issues at hand with a little more ease? Do you all mind riding with me, or do you have your own transportation?”
“We actually walked here, so a ride would be good,” I reply.
“Very well. Follow me then.”
We file out into the parking lot behind Dr. Quickly, and he leads us to his car, a sky blue convertible with tail fins and a lot of chrome.
“Wow. Sweet car,” Carson says.
“This is my favorite,” Quickly responds.
“What is it?” Francesca asks.
“It’s a Ford Galaxie.”
Dr. Quickly steers the Galaxie into a residential neighborhood I don’t recognize. There’s nothing that catches my eye about the houses on the street we turn on. They all blend together in their nondescript uniformity. We pull into the driveway of a one-story ranch house that seems, if anything, more bland than the others around it. I realize that I’ve been expecting Dr. Quickly to have something more elegant or dramatic in store for us, but there is nothing apologetic about his mannerisms as he cheerily welcomes us inside.
If I was confused about the exterior of the house, I’m even more at a loss when I get inside. The living room to the left of the doorway is trimmed in aged, slightly sun-faded furniture, over a dingy, green shag carpet. The kitchen we pass has Formica counter-tops that are yellowed and stained and have begun to match the tan refrigerator, whose humming is the only noteworthy sound in the house. The place looks orderly and simple, but dated and cheaply decorated. I’m overwhelmed by the sheer ordinariness of it all. Even Francesca, who is usually brimming with polite comments, seems to be at a loss for anything to say.
We don’t have long to contemplate this problem, because we’ve sailed directly through the house and out the screened-in laundry room into the moonlit backyard. A wooden fence obstructs any view from the neighboring yards but has provided an exemplary backdrop for the mob of diverse plants that have taken over the yard. Ivy drapes the fence and leafy palms and flowering shrubs seem to fill every available inch on the perimeter of the yard.
We’re led along the brief flagstone path that leads to the modest garage, entering through a corner door and coming to a stop in the mostly vacant interior. Pegboards line the side walls, and the wall that divides us from the yard we just came from has a wide workbench supported by wooden 4x4 legs that has been butted up against the wall. Miscellaneous tools are scattered on the workbench, along with a dusty, broken, picture frame. A few nails lie beside the frame as if someone had begun a repair but given up in the act and wandered off to some more interesting pursuit. I would hardly blame them. The garage is even plainer than the house, and I would have a hard time staying entertained in it for more than a few minutes. Fortunately we don’t have to wait that long.
Dr. Quickly directs us all toward the middle of the concrete floor. “If you will all be so kind as to stay here for just a minute, I’ll be right back.”
We stand awkwardly together, not sure what direction to look, as there is nothing in particular to look at. Dr. Quickly steps back through the door we just came from but just before he shuts it, he stops and pokes his head back in to say, “Oh. Don’t be alarmed.” Then he is gone.
Francesca looks at me and immediately her eyes are wide. “What am I not supposed to not be alarmed about?”
“Haha. I don’t know,” I reply.
“You’re clearly failing at following instructions,” Carson says.
“Hey. If you don’t want someone to freak out, you shouldn’t stick them in a scary garage with, ‘Hey, don’t freak out,’” Francesca retorts.
“Actually he said, ‘Don’t be alarmed,’” Blake says. “You can freak out all you want as long as you’re not alarmed about it.”
“Great. We’re gonna get axe murdered in a garage in the eighties and you guys don’t even care.”
“He’s a senior citizen,” Carson says.
“He looks pretty spry to me,” Francesca counters.
“True enough,” I reply.
“I call the hammer,” Francesca adds, pointing to the workbench. Before anyone can reply, there is a loud clunk. The wall she’s pointing to, and the bench itself, both give a slight shudder. “What the hell was that?” Francesca exclaims.
I stare in amazement as the entire wall and workbench, including the door, begin sliding toward us. Even a section of the floor that I thought was simply a rubber mat is sliding evenly along the concrete. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” Francesca blurts out.
“Okay, is this thing gonna crush us?” Blake asks, now sounding concerned.
Carson walks to the door on the wall that is slowly advancing toward us, and tries the doorknob. It doesn’t move. Blake goes to the electric garage door and tries to lift it but it doesn’t budge. Francesca’s panic has me concerned now, too, so I join Blake in pulling on the garage door.
The wall has slowly inched its way across approximately a quarter of the floor when it abruptly stops. I can hear Francesca’s sigh of relief. A moment later, the door opens and Dr. Quickly reappears. He takes a look at our still-panicked faces but doesn’t appear to notice our concern.
“Right this way.”
I’m confused as to why we’re headed back out the door we just entered, but once I step over the threshold, I can see we’re not back outside at all. We’ve entered a space between two halves of the wall. The wall we originally walked through has been neatly bisected, including the door. I can see the other half of the door still blocking the way to the backyard. The innards of the doorknob now protrude out into space directly across from their counterparts on the other half of the door. Just to our right, the wall and workbench being moved away has revealed a set of stone stairs descending into the ground.
“This is amazing,” I say.
“I didn’t know anyone could even build basements in Florida,” Carson says.
“There were challenges to be sure,” Dr. Quickly says, and motions for us to descend the stairs. “After you.”
We file toward the stairs and as Francesca steps in front of me, she catches my eye with a stern stare and mouths two words. “Axe Murderer.”
My curiosity has far exceeded my concern at this point, so I follow her down the stairs, intrigued at what we’ll find.
We descend the stairs about twelve feet and turn left into a long tunnel. The hallway is brightly lit with overhead fluorescent lights, and while the floor is plain concrete, the walls have been drywalled and painted an eggshell white. We pass occasional metal doors that have numbers painted on them and I can see through the small windows in each door that there are steel ladders behind each one that extend upward toward whatever lies above us. We follow the hallway for what must be a hundred yards before we make an angled turn to the right and continue for another length that is easily as long as the first. There is a periodic humming from beneath the floor.
“What’s that noise?” I ask.
“Bilge pumps,” Quickly responds. “The tunnel is fairly well waterproofed, but it still manages to find its way in. The pumps keep me from having to wear my galoshes.”
We are about fifty yards from the end of the hallway when Quickly abruptly stops. There are no doors visible, so I’m not sure why we’re stopping. It becomes evident a moment later when Dr. Quickly pulls a remote control keypad from his pocket. He aims the remote at the ceiling, punches in a series of numbers and steps back. I watch with rapt attention as the section of ceiling ahead of us slowly tilts toward the floor. The other side of the ceiling contains a set of stairs not unlike an attic access I once had in my family house in Oregon. This stairway is easily twice as wide, enough that a couple people can walk up side by side.
“You really like the secret doorways, huh?” Carson comments.
“If you are going to go through the trouble to build an underground tunnel, you may as well keep up the mystery,” Quickly replies.
Francesca considers the stairs angling into the void above us. “No secret elevator?”
“Stairs keep me young.” Quickly smiles.
We follow him into the darkness above. The stairs begin to curve once we’re past the level of the ceiling. I guess that to be ground level but I can’t be certain anymore. A push from another b
utton on Quickly’s remote illuminates the stairwell from light blue bulbs, evenly spaced along the curving walls. The section of the stairs from the tunnel closes behind us and I feel entombed. The feeling doesn’t last long, because once we’ve climbed what I imagine to be the equivalent of a couple of stories, we emerge into the middle of a tall open room that is filled with moonlight. Glass windows make up one enormous wall that overlooks a busy street.
Our floor appears to be the second story of a very tall building. The ceiling of the room is at least fifty feet above us. To our left, facing the huge wall of windows, are tiers of beautiful wooden railed balconies that extend out to varying distances from the back wall like a theatre. The room is relatively narrow. I could stride across it in a couple dozen steps. Its impressive height is accented by the fact that every inch of the balcony walls is filled, not with theatre chairs, but with wooden cubby-holed shelves holding more unique objects than I can fathom. Quickly spreads his arms wide to encompass the breathtaking space. “Welcome to the best place in the world to travel through time.”
Chapter 8
“With a name like Harry Quickly, grade school wasn’t easy. Losing hope of social acceptance early had its perks however. By the time I became president of the science club in high school, no one even paid attention. Then I mastered space and time and vanished completely. That one people noticed.”
-Excerpt from the journal of Harold Quickly, 1999
Dr. Quickly is illuminating lights around the room while I take in the various spaces. Hanging from the ceiling high above us is a chandelier, formed into the shape of the sun. It illuminates a mosaic of dark blue tiles with constellations and planets laid out in silver across the ceiling. Smaller lamps on the balconies are now shedding a warm glow on the items around them. The largest of the balconies has a collection of leather armchairs grouped loosely near a wooden table positioned by the railing.
The dark wood railings and countless shelves along the walls give the place a feeling of age, though I can get no concept of the building we’re in. It gives me the impression of a library far more than a laboratory. I’ve never known of anything like it in St. Pete.
In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 9