The Extraordinary eTab of Julian Newcomber

by Michael Seese

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Two reasons. One, I only brought one pair of shoes from the future. Though, technically, from the past. The point is, I can’t slop up these ones with No Squeak.”

  “We could have grabbed a pair of Dad’s shoes. Your feet look about the same size as his.”

  “True, but...” His pause gave Young Julian pause. “More to the point, if things go wrong, I’ve got to leave you. I can’t get caught in there. It might be a little tough to explain.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I wish I weren’t. But you’ll be fine.”

  Young Julian nodded, and put a cautious—what the smart folks call “tentative”—hand on the wall. Then another, up a little higher. One foot. Both feet. He reached, reached, pulled, pulled, stepped, stepped. Suddenly, he was Spiderman.

  “Wow,” he said from his new vantage point ten feet up.

  “I know!”

  Young Julian zipped swiftly up the rough brick and reached the ledge in no time flat. The window was open. He knew it would be. It was always open. Rumor had it that the one (and only) time Mr. Nitro did close the window before leaving for the night, the accumulation of fumes and aethers had formed some kind of super-fertilizer that descended on the terrarium in the corner; he arrived the next day to find moss and clinging vines had overtaken the classroom. After that, Mr. Ajax, the janitor, told him to never close the window. (On the bright side, if it were not for the little vegetative mishap, Mr. Ajax would not have his pet monkey.)

  “This is going to work. This is going to work,” Julian said as he prepared to (in theory) commit his first felony.

  He took one step and...

  WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP!

  Young Julian stuck his head out the window and yelled down.

  “I don’t remember you saying anything about alarms!”

  “They weren’t any.”

  “How could there not be?”

  “I don’t know, I…Come to think of it, when I pulled my stunt it was during the Great Spring Blackout. That sure was one of Dad’s better ones. I remember hearing reports of power outages as far away as Toledo, and—”

  “What do I do?”

  “My number one suggestion would be hurry up!”

  Young Julian ran—as fast as one can run with wall-climbing goo on his shoes—over to the desk. He checked first to see if it would just open. No luck.

  WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP!

  He realized for the first time he probably should have read and memorized the directions on the label of the Master-Key-In-A-Can before this little stunt.

  “Let’s see. ‘Shake well for seventeen seconds.’ Seventeen!” He shook the can for the longest seventeen seconds of his life.

  WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP!

  “Come on!” Grown-up Julian shouted.

  “Next, ‘Place tube into spray nozzle. Place other end of tube into lock. Press down on spray nozzle for one thousand one.’ Pressing. Counting. One thousand one. ‘Stop. Wait for one thousand two.’ One thousand one, one thousand two.”

  WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP-WOOP!

  “And finally, ‘Turn.’ Turning.”

  The lock opened. (To be honest, Young Julian was somewhat surprised.) The eTab was there. He stuffed it in his backpack. Despite his rising (increasing?) panic, he had the good sense—what the smart folks call “insight”—to close the drawer, relock it, and pack away the Master-Key-In-A-Can before racing back to the window.

  “Come on! I hear sirens,” Grown-up Julian called up.

  Young Julian clambered down squirrel-style and hit the ground crawling, before evolving to walking, then to running. In a blur they no longer were crime scene fixtures, but rather, two regular, ordinary, average citizens out for a late-evening, curfew-violating, totally not suspicious mad dash up the sidewalk. Five minutes later, the perpetrators—what the police folks call “perps”—were back in their room, congratulating each other on a job well done, listening to the growing chorus of sirens down in town, centered somewhere around...the intermediate school, perhaps.

  “I can’t believe we pulled that off,” Young Julian said.

  “You know, thinking about it now—what the smart folks call ‘in hindsight’—I guess I should have also grabbed the can of Alarm-B-Gone from Dad’s workbench.”

  “You think?”

  “Next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “No comment.”

  “Fine. I probably don’t want to know anyway.”

  “Seriously, Young Me, that was a great job. Nerves of steel. Resolve of iron. Appendix of aluminum.

  “Appendix of aluminum?”

  “I guess I ran out of metaphorical steam. Regardless, this calls for a celebration. After all, you didn’t get arrested. And you didn’t fall and break your neck which, thinking it over now, would have seriously impacted my future. All in all, I’d call it a good mission.”

  “So how does Future Me celebrate?”

  “With chocolate milk and chocolate-chip cookies.” The final word, Grown-up Julian said with a melodic flourish.

  “That sounds great. But we don’t have any cookies in the house.”

  “We don’t?” Grown-up Julian said, arching an eyebrow.

  “No. We never do. Mom says they’re bad for us. So she gives us treats like asparagus-kelp crackers. Bleh.”

  “Heh-heh.”

  “What?” Young Julian said.

  “No cookies? Anywhere in the house? Yeah, that’s what Mom tells you.”

  “It’s not the truth?”

  “Not even close. Not even within the sphere of sort-of truths.”

  “Cookies? Here? In this house? Where are they?!” Julian said, reining in his “playground voice” as best as he could.

  “That’s funny. Your voice whispered it. But your brain was yelling it. Follow me, Young Me.”

  Down in the kitchen, Grown-up Julian switched on the small light above the stove.

  “I have to tell you, Grown-up Me, a year ago I would have said you were fibbing, or half-truthing, or something. But just the other night, after Mom thought I’d gone to bed, I came down here and surprised her. When she saw me, she put her hand over her mouth, then chewed and swallowed quickly. She asked me what I was doing and seemed kind of guilty. I could have sworn I smelled chocolate on her breath. So, I figured she was hiding something. Something good. Something forbidden.”

  “What the German folks call ‘verboten.’”

  “Whatever. The next day, I searched every cabinet and cupboard in here. There wasn’t even a single crumb of a cookie. And why am I still telling you these things? You already know all my stories.”

  “Indeed I do. But you tell them so well. Now,” Grown-up Julian said, rubbing his hands together, “observe.”

  He walked over to the sink.

  “See this?” He said pointing to the hot water tap.

  “You mean the hot water tap that doesn’t work? That never worked?”

  “Did you ever stop to think about it? Does Dad ever let something go un-fixed?”

  “I guess not. I just figured he came up with some far-out invention to boil water and he didn’t care if it worked or not.”

  “Oh, it works all right. Just not how you think.”

  Grown-up Julian pulled the spigot up. At first, nothing happened, reinforcing Young Julian’s skepticism. But before he could deliver a sarcastic riposte like “Uh-huh,” the floor began trembling. Just a bit, a slight hum preceding a faint metallic grind. With a hiss, the refrigerator slid to one side, revealing a secret pantry stocked with goodies—what Mrs. Newcomber called “contraband.”

  “Ta-da! What the French folks call ‘Voilà!’”

  “OMG. How did you find this?”

  “You have to pay attention to everything around this house, Young Me. Though, now I may have created what is known as a ‘temporal feedback loop.’ Or something like that.” He stared off into space, like hi
s dad, as he began thinking out loud. “So I, at age twenty, show it to myself, at age twelve. Now, the twelve-year-old me knows about it. So, when I’m twenty, I’ll be able to return to this time and show it to—”

  “Get out of my way,” Young Julian said, trying to push past his older counterpart.

  “Not so fast,” said the older, wiser version, throwing out an arm to block Young Julian’s assault on the assortment of sugary snacks. He pinched a small quantity of flour from the jar on the counter and poured it into his cupped hand. Standing before the portal to temptation, he blew the powder into the opening. Four red laser beams cut through the floating dust.

  “Whoa!” said Young Julian.

  “I know. And it triggers a silent alarm. Took me months to figure that one out. I thought Mom was just in her hear-all, know-all mode.”

  He gingerly reached between the still-glowing photonic tripwires, selected a bag emblazoned with a photograph of a huge cookie, and carefully pulled it out.

  Five minutes later, the Julians were reveling in the glory of their accomplishment, and basking in the illicit delicity of the cookies.

  “These are so good!”

  “I know. Quadruple Choco Chewy Delights. They’re Dad’s favorite. Mom, in contrast, prefers standard chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “Yes, I can see how one might overload on the sheer volume of chocolate in these things.”

  “What do you think fuels Dad?”

  “I just assumed it was natural.”

  “Technically accurate, since chocolate is derived from cocoa beans, which are a naturally occurring substance.”

  “I like how we think.”

  “What a night. Contraband cookies. And a perfectly—

  what the smart folks call ‘flawlessly’—executed mission.”

  “I just thought of something,” Young Julian said. “What happens when Mr. Nitro decides to give me back the eTab, and finds out it’s not there?”

  “Just tell him he already gave it back.”

  “That won’t work.”

  “Sure it will. Why do you think he keeps his car keys and his lunch box attached to his belt with a chain? Because he’s so absent-minded, if he set them down anywhere, he’d forget where he put them. I’ve heard rumors he has a sign on the inside of his front door: Look Down! Make Sure You’re Wearing Pants!”

  Young Julian was grateful he had swallowed the swig of milk two seconds earlier. He was also just grateful, period.

  “I couldn’t have done this without you,” Young Julian said.

  “An oxymoron, if I ever heard one. Or was it a palindrome? I can never keep the two words straight.”

  “No, I really mean that. You’ve got guts. You traveled back to the Civil War. You planned a break-in at the school. More than once, from what you’ve said. But that means I went back to the Civil War. And I planned a break-in at the school. I can’t do those things. So, how could you?”

  “Why do you say you can’t do those things?”

  “Because I don’t have the guts,” Young Julian said quietly.

  “Then you’re saying I really don’t have the guts,” Grown-up Julian said.

  “But that’s not possible.”

  “Quite the puzzle—what the smart folks call a ‘conundrum.’ Isn’t it?”

  “I wonder what went wrong...or right.”

  “You know, I said I missed a few classes where we talked about this time travel stuff. But, earlier I mentioned temporal feedback—”

  Grown-up Julian froze. From upstairs came a faint jingle jingle jingle.

  “Oh man!” Grown-up Julian said.

  “What is that?”

  “It’s Dad!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Do you remember Dad saying something to Mom about putting bells on his shoes? Sometime? Ever?”

  “Yeah. Last night at dinner.”

  “Well, listen.”

  The jingle grew more manic. A shadow loomed outside the kitchen.

  “Oops.”

  “Dive! Dive!” Grown-up Julian grabbed his glass and plate, and dove beneath the table.

  Scant seconds later, Mr. Newcomber strode in. The lines on his left cheek matched—what the smart folks call “corresponded with”—the slats of wood from the surface of his workbench.

  “Hey, Son Number One. Or should that be Number One Son? I’ll have to ask your mother. She always was the literate one.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Oho! I see you found the secret cookie stash.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How long have you known about it?”

  “Not long.” Julian’s younger, more sensitive ears heard his older, and allegedly more mature, self snickering beneath the table. A quick kick shut him up.

  “My first bit of advice is to not tell your mother you know about it,” Mr. Newomber said, sliding silently into his chair, nearly kicking Grown-up Julian’s head in the process. Otherwise she’ll move it. Or better said, she’ll make me move it. My second bit of advice is to not tell your mother I told you that. Otherwise I’ll have to move something else. Like your bedroom, to the roof.”

  “Deal.”

  “What are you doing up at this hour of the night?”

  “I just couldn’t sleep. I had a busy day.”

  Julian went to scratch his head but stopped when he realized he could not put the glass down. Apparently, some of the No Squeak had leaked through one of the gloves and waited deviously for the perfect opportunity to bond to something. He tried to act naturally. At least as naturally as one can act with a glass of milk glued to one’s hand. Mr. Newcomber chuckled a little.

  “What’s so funny? And why are you looking at me like that, Dad? Because it may look like this glass is attached—”

  Mr. Newcomber waved his hand a little.

  “It’s funny. Seeing you down here and having this conversation with you. It just makes me think of when I used to sit at the kitchen table with my Dad, have a snack, and discuss things. And now here I am, all grown up—your mother’s opinion notwithstanding—doing the same thing with my son. And someday you’ll be grown up, and so on, and so on, and so on.”

  “Whoa, Dad. Let’s get me out of high school first. For that matter, let’s get me into high school.”

  “Trust me. Before you know it, you’ll be escaping from intermediate school.”

  “I hear that.”

  “And then high school. Then college. You know, when you have a baby, folks always say ‘Remember these years. They go by so quickly.’ Those folks were right. I still see you as the little boy I used to give baths to and tuck in every night after a spirited reading of Goodnight Moon. But if I close my eyes, I can almost envision the man you’ll be in ten years, or even when you’re my age.”

  The off-the-cuff remark hit too close to home. And this time, Julian’s timing with regard to the mouthful of milk proved less than ideal.

  “Napkin?”

  “Thanks,” Julian said, cleaning up the aftermath of his spit-take with his free hand. “So what do you think I will look like in one hundred years, Dad?”

  “Taller, I hope.”

  The fact his dad ignored the dig—what kids in Julian’s school call a “burn”—meant he didn’t really hear Julian’s question. But his eyes had that faraway look—what Julian’s mom called “Dad being Dad.”

  “So, am I going to be just like you?”

  “Oh, heavens! I hope not.”

  “Really?” The answer truly surprised Julian.

  “No, no. I don’t want you to be just like me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d like to think I’m a pretty decent guy. And a pretty good father. But I’m not perfect. Nobody is. I have my flaws. I’ve made my mistakes. Lord knows I’ve spent too many years of my life regrowing my eyebrows. And I know I tend to drive your mother crazy.” Mr. Newcomber lowered his voice and leaned in, even though he and Julian—the Julians, actually—were the only people in the room. “Thou
gh it’s often a very short drive,” he whispered. “And if you ever tell your mother I said anything even remotely like that I will deny it up and down—what the smart folks call ‘vehemently.’ And then move your bedroom to the roof.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me, Dad.”

  “The thing is, your mother and I work well together. In areas where I’m weak, she’s strong. And vice versa. That’s what you look for in a husband or wife. Someone who fills in the pieces you’re missing. So no, I don’t want you to be just like me. I want you to be yourself and try to incorporate the best pieces of Mom and me.”

  “So, Mom is weak in some areas?”

  “Did I actually say that?”

  “You suggested—what the smart folks call ‘implied’—it”

  “I’ve taught you well, Number One Son… or Son Number One…”

  “So exactly what pieces is Mom missing?”

  “A very good question. A question best answered some other day and some other time,” Mr. Newcomber said, getting up from the table. “Speaking of another time, I think it’s time for me to go to bed. And I know it’s time for you to go to bed. Good night, Julian,” he said, leaning over and kissing his son on the top of the head. He laughed a little. “In three years or so, you so won’t want me doing that. It’s normal—what the golfing folks call ‘par for the course.’ But it will still make me sad.” He jingled out of the room and up the stairs before Julian had a chance to say, “Never, Dad.”

  Grown-up Julian waited until the sound of bells was gone before coming out of his hiding place.

  “He’s right, you know.”

  “About what?”

  “Pretty much all of it. But I was thinking of the part about how you won’t want him kissing you good night in a few years. Or even hugging you.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  But Young Julian saw in his future self a look that said it was true and that he would regret it. He wanted to talk about it, but quickly decided it was something he’d rather not know.

  “So did Mom put bells on all of Dad’s shoes?”

  “Pretty much. Except for his running shoes. That would have been embarrassing and obnoxious.”

  “Agreed. Well, I suppose we should get to bed. I have a feeling we’ll both have busy days tomorrow.”