by Eric Bower
“Umm, you ruined my life?”
Werbert leaned toward me and wiggled his brow, smiling in the challenging manner of someone who knows they’re holding a winning hand of cards.
“I ruined your life? Prove it. You don’t remember anything about your life before this, do you? Let me tell you the truth about your family, kid. Those people who I erased from your life, they didn’t care about you. They thought you were a useless and clumsy fool. If you don’t believe me, read the Baron books that are scattered across the floor. See how you’re depicted in those books? That’s how your family saw you, as a mindless jester who cared about nothing but eating ridiculous amounts of food and taking endless naps. You were a joke to them. And not a particularly clever one either.”
I looked down at one of the books on the floor. The W. B. on the cover was literally dressed like a jester, and it seemed as though he was trying to eat an entire three-tiered wedding cake while sleeping. I would be lying if I said that it looked like he was succeeding . . . I’d forgotten how offensive that particular book cover was.
“Look at where you are, kid,” Werbert continued, as he gestured to the blinking lights and the control panel. “You’re literally standing in a time machine. A time machine! Do you know how smart a person has to be in order to build something this impressive? You had a family that was clever enough to come up with something like this all on their own! That’s how smart they were, so of course they didn’t appreciate or respect someone like you. Even if you don’t remember your life before this, you can still recognize the fact that you aren’t particularly intelligent, and that you don’t belong in such a clever and brainy family. Just give me the pen and the notebook, and I promise you I won’t harm you. I’ll just take us both home, alright? We’ll call it a draw.”
I looked out of the time machine. The giant white flying machine from 1965 was approaching quickly, and I had no doubt that if we didn’t get out of its way within the next thirty seconds, we would no longer need to worry about making decisions about anything.
But Werbert’s words had affected me deeply. He was right. I wasn’t clever enough to invent something like a time machine. I probably wasn’t clever enough to invent something like a functional belt buckle. If my family had invented the time machine we were standing in, then they were obviously much more intelligent than I was. And it made sense that we probably wouldn’t find much to talk about—they’d probably be discussing some of the great philosophical questions about life and the general mysteries of existence, while I was busy licking cake batter from a mixing bowl, or tumbling down the stairs, or falling asleep while standing up like a cow. How could we ever relate to one another when we were so different?
“You promise you won’t hurt me?” I said to Werbert. “If I give you the pen and the notebook, you swear that you’ll save us both?”
Werbert Turmerberm smiled a syrupy smile.
“Cross my heart and hope to die, kid.”
The flying machine was getting louder and louder as it approached; the air was screaming from the giant circular engines that I could see mounted onto the wide wings. I began to walk toward Werbert with my hands outstretched, holding out the pen and notepad, and he began to walk toward me, grinning widely as he stuck out one of his hands in anticipation.
Werbert Turmerberm was indeed a very clever man, but he made a mistake that clever people tend to make when they’re forced to interact with someone like me—they forget that dunces can occasionally be clever too. You see, I had noticed his other hand reaching into his coat as he walked toward me, and I could tell from the outline in his pocket that he had a small weapon in there, likely a knife or a screwdriver. His intention was to simply take the time eraser from me, and then leave me there to be destroyed by the flying machine in 1965. After all, he couldn’t destroy me with his invention, so he’d be forced to destroy me in a more creative manner instead.
When we were only a few feet away from each other, and it looked as though I was about to hand Werbert the notebook, suddenly I turned in the direction of the flying machine, pointed, and screamed. Werbert gasped as he turned to look at the flying machine, and as he did, I quickly jotted down a random time, date, and location into the notebook. Then I grabbed Werbert, wrapping my arms tightly around him, and then jumped out of the time machine. We both screamed as we plunged through the air, rushing down, down, down, until the mechanical pen and notepad went to work, activating the winds of time, and whisking us away to yet another faraway when and where.
Though I wasn’t there to witness it, I can assure you that five seconds later, the large white flying machine from 1965 ripped through the floating time machine like a hot knife through butter.
THE GRAND CANYON WAS NO LONGER FILLED TO THE BRIM WITH WATER
Werbert Turmerberm and I somersaulted through time at a blinding pace while we wrestled with one another for control of the time eraser. And as we fought over it, we accidentally made a few changes to the world. It’s difficult to argue they were changes for the better. You probably haven’t noticed the changes, but that’s only because you don’t remember what things were like before we changed them. You see, Werbert’s time eraser pen is apparently very sensitive, and it will sometimes misread an accidental squiggle on a sheet of paper or on someone’s hand as a command to alter time, and so a lot of weird things happened during our struggle.
Due to our fighting, Italy is now shaped like a boot instead of a top hat; there’s only one Australia (there’s no longer a North and South); cats no longer have horns or forked tongues; The Great Miniature Golf Course of China is now just a Great Wall (sorry); former American President Zachary Taylor is not responsible for inventing the dance sensation “the jibble jabble”; and there are no longer any acceptable words that rhyme with “orange”.
So, sorry about all of that, everyone. Particularly about the jibble jabble, which was one of the better dance sensations in history.
Werbert wrestled the pen and the notepad from me several times, quickly changing our direction and taking us to notably violent places and times in history, with the hopes of getting rid of me by startling and frightening me. But I held firmly onto his back, managing to wrestle the pen and notepad back from him time and time again, entering random dates that sounded familiar, with the hopes that we might finally arrive at a time and a place where someone could help me. Our bodies and minds were thrown into chaos by the constant time travel—it eventually became so confusing and exhausting that, for a few crazy hours, we were each convinced that we were really the other person.
“You’ll never get away with this, Werbert!” Werbert screamed at me.
“Oh yes, I will, W. B.!” I shouted back. “I’ll make you regret ever crossing Werbert Turmerrr . . . er, Turmerbermer . . . Turmer-whatever my last name is!”
We eventually reached the point where we were both too weak and grumpy to fight any longer. Werbert and I called a temporary truce (we each took hold of the time eraser with our left hand, while we shook each other’s right hand to make the truce official), and decided to grab a bite to eat before continuing our battle.
The time eraser had taken us even further into the future, where there were horseless carriages everywhere: thousands of large, metal machines teeming down long and complicated stone roads, making loud and obnoxious honking noises as the drivers yelled at one another and made funny hand gestures through their rectangular glass windows. There was noise and commotion and electric lights everywhere—on every horseless carriage, in every building, and even on the strange, blinking signs that were set up all along the stone streets—which looked as though they were advertising unusually white teeth for sale. I heard music playing—loud and thumping music that made my heart race and my feet tingle, though I couldn’t understand where any of it was coming from.
It was simultaneously terrifying and awe-inspiring, and both Werbert and I were shocked into silence as we made our way down one of the many stone streets of
the loud and electric city, where future people hustled past us like herds of agitated cattle, with their weird and spiked dyed hair (which, come to think of it, looked a bit familiar . . .), and odd little rubber plugs stuck in their ears, and complicated tattoos drawn all over their arms and legs, while dressed in strange and funny outfits, some of which looked like an infant’s underpants. Werbert and I got our fair share of odd looks, too, which I didn’t really understand. After all, they were the future weirdos, not us.
Our search for food didn’t take very long. We’d only been walking for a few minutes before a gigantic hamburger sandwich with a little cowboy hat stepped in front of us and handed Werbert a glossy sheet of paper. My mouth dropped open as Werbert accepted the paper and began to read.
I couldn’t believe it.
At last.
I’d been waiting for this moment for my entire life, and now it was finally here!
This hamburger sandwich man with the cowboy hat was clearly a member of an alien race, which I imagined must have arrived on earth sometime after 1965 (maybe the large white flying machine was their space vehicle?). I always knew we weren’t alone in the universe, though I must admit to being a bit surprised that the aliens weren’t the blue-skinned, bug-eyed, three-fingered monsters that I’d read about in books. In fact, they looked quite peaceful, and also rather delicious. I wondered if there were other alien races in the universe that resembled tasty foods, and if they’d consider it rude if I asked if they ever sampled one another. I don’t see how they could resist. I had to restrain myself from plucking a giant pickle slice from the hamburger sandwich man’s head.
“For a limited time, it’s only five dollars and ninety-nine cents for our Rompin’ Stompin’ Cowboy Combo Meal!” the gigantic hamburger sandwich exclaimed. “That’s a quadruple-cheddar, triple-bacon, avocado, fried egg, onion ring, three-pound burger, with a side of extra-large, extra-spicy, cheddar-jalapeño-chili explosion fries, an extra-extra-gut-buster sized chocolate milkshake bucket, and a side order of our signature sixteen fried chicken crispers with eleven different dipping sauces! It’s the perfect feast for a cowboy and his young buckaroo. Yee-haw!”
“Thank you for your kindness and respect for my species, Mr. Hamburger Sandwich, sir,” I said with a respectful kneel and a bow of my head. “I welcome you and your delicious species to earth, and ask that you have patience with my people, who sometimes act out of fear and anger, even though they usually have good hearts and intentions. I would like twelve of your Rompin’ Stompin’ Cowboy Combo Meals, please. With extra bacon, good sir. And may our respective species share a thousand years of uninterrupted peace. Now, what are these dipping sauces you mentioned?”
“That’s not a real hamburger sandwich, you dunce,” Werbert said as he nudged me with his shoe. “It’s just a man in a costume. Get up and stop kissing his feet. And I don’t think we order our food out here. We have to go inside the restaurant. See?”
He pointed to the brightly lit restaurant on the corner, a long and pointy building that was painted in several unique shades of yellow, blue, and red. Someone then pushed through the swinging glass door of the restaurant, and the heavenly aroma of fatty, fried, and greasy food came pouring out, literally making me drool.
“Oh,” I said, wiping my chin. “I guess that makes more sense. The future is pretty weird, isn’t it, Werbert? Maybe we should put on a couple of hamburger sandwich costumes so we’ll fit in better.”
Werbert held his index finger up to his lips as he hissed at me to be quiet.
“You can’t let anyone know we’re from the past, W. B. It could be dangerous. People here would be very interested in acquiring my time eraser invention. In fact, they might even kill for it. If anyone starts asking too many questions, or learns too much about it, we’ll have no choice but to erase them.”
“Yee-haw?” the hamburger sandwich man repeated.
Werbert glanced at the hamburger sandwich man, whom he’d forgotten was there, and then he turned to me and raised an eyebrow. I nodded my head. Werbert took the time eraser and began to write something in the notebook.
“Hey, what are you—” the hamburger sandwich man began, before his all-beef patty and bun quickly began to fade.
The door to the restaurant beeped as we passed through it, and a nice lady in a grey and red uniform led us to a little booth in the corner. The benches were heavily padded, and made strange squeaky noises as we slid into them. I found myself wincing from the bright lights overhead; everything in the restaurant was oddly bright and shiny and slick, and also somewhat sticky. I picked up the menu, which was the size of a small novel, and began to thumb through the shiny and sticky pages. I was amazed, both at the fact that they had color pictures of all the food printed on the menu, and also from the sheer number of different food options. There must have been fifty different meals you could order, with dozens of different sides, and that wasn’t even counting the two pages of delicious looking desserts at the end of the menu. I felt as though I’d somehow stumbled into paradise. I never wanted to leave. The future appeared to be made for people like me.
A pretty woman wearing the grey and red uniform worn by all the restaurant staff skated over to our table and greeted us with a cheery smile and a wink.
“Howdy boys! My name is Barbara, and I’ll be taking care of you today. What can I get started for you?”
“I would like this,” I told her while pointing to the menu.
“What’s that, sweetheart?” she asked, leaning over my shoulder. “The fried chicken tenders? Or the grilled cheese sandwich? Or were you pointing to the chicken fried steak maybe? Or the pot roast?”
“No. I would like everything on the first three pages of the menu, please. And a glass of milk.”
Barbara’s brow furrowed as the smile disappeared from her face.
“Are you kidding me, kid?” she asked.
I glanced back at the menu and thought for a moment.
“You’re right. I also want the stuff on the last three pages as well. But I don’t want any spinach in my spinach omelet. Can you stuff it with fried chicken instead?”
Barbara narrowed her eyes at me before turning to Werbert.
“Your son has an odd sense of humor.”
“Just ignore him,” Werbert said with a sigh. “Bring us two of your deluxe breakfasts, and a cup of coffee for me.”
I glared at Werbert as Barbara left to deliver our orders to the cook.
“I don’t need you to order for me, Werbert.”
“Clearly you do, W. B., because you’re going to attract unwanted attention if you insist on stuffing your face like you’re planning on hibernating for the winter.”
I grumbled to myself, knowing that he was right but also knowing that I wanted a massive amount of food, and that I wanted it right away, and also, sometimes I just enjoy grumbling. Not to brag, but I’ve been told by my teacher that I grumble at an adult level. And a fellow grumbler back in Newer Oldtown, Nevada once told me that I grumble as good as anyone he’d ever met. It’s truly a dying art form, which some of us are trying very hard to keep alive. But does anyone ever say, “thank you” to us grumblers for our hard work? Of course they don’t. Grumble, grumble, grumble . . .
Food must be much easier to prepare in the future, because our deluxe breakfasts came out only a few minutes later. Surprisingly, it interrupted a really good conversation between me and Werbert, where he actually opened up to me about his rough and misunderstood childhood. He told me how he’d grown up in a family of shepherds who couldn’t comprehend why he’d want to pursue a career fixing teeth. He’d saved his money for years in order to afford dental college, which was why it was so devastating when he found himself kicked out for missing his exams.
“I could have been an amazing dentist,” he said with a sigh as he stared out the window. “One of the best.”
“As good as Pierre Fauchard, even,” I added.
“Maybe even better. Sa
y, you’re a pretty good listener, W. B. And I really appreciate that. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone I could talk to about my feelings. Maybe it’s been too long. In fact, I think being on my own for so long might have made me a bit crazy. BAHAHA! WAHAHA! HA-HOO! HOO! HOO!”
According to Werbert, ordering large amounts of food would bring us unwanted attention, but laughing maniacally while strutting across the table like a bowlegged goose was apparently just fine. Grumble, grumble, grumble . . .
When Werbert stopped his mad cackling and his silly dance, he sat back down on the bench seat and turned to me with a rather sincere look in his eye.
“Look, I’m sorry I’ve given you so much trouble. You really aren’t to blame for any of my problems, W. B. You’re just a kid. I should leave you alone.”
“Can we eat our breakfast first?” I asked with a grin. Barbara set our plates in front of us, giving me another awkward look before leaving.
“I’d like that, W. B.,” Werbert said with a smile, and then he stuck out his hand. “Friends?”
I smiled as I shook his hand.
“Friends.”
See? That’s how problems should be resolved between civilized human beings: through polite and considerate conversations. I was proud of Werbert and me, and how our mature resolution had resulted in a wonderful new friendship. Good old Werbert. I could tell that we were going to be the best of pals for years to come.
I turned my attention from my new friend to my breakfast, and I can’t even begin tell you how excited I was to stuff it in my face. Though it wasn’t the six pages’ worth of meals that I’d wanted, it was still a pretty large helping of delicious breakfast foods. There were scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, bacon, sausage, ham, tomato, a short stack of pancakes, and a side of toast with butter. I grabbed the container of maple syrup and began to pour it over my breakfast. Before I was finished, Werbert caught me by the wrist.