Welcome to Green Valley

     

 

Joe Walker turned the corner and balked at the sight of yet another one, thick as thieves in his little town. Wearing their best clothes, eyes wide at every landmark—God, even the laundromat—and always with an air of importance as if they had every right to be there just because they’d bought a ticket for the time trip. He wanted to tell every single one of them to screw off, but even that was against the rules.

RESPECT THE TRAVELER. SMILE AT THE TRAVELER. HELP THE TRAVELER.

It was a crock, no, an investment.

Into what? The future?

What was wrong with his future, anyway? Wasn’t it good enough?

Barging past—he likened them to illusory objects—Joe felt a sense of relief that he’d almost knocked one over. Inside the protective bubble it cussed and the man in a funny looking T-shirt and Bermuda shorts—the uniform of all travelers—exclaimed, “Hey! You could have popped my pod.”

“Yeah, I was hoping to,” Joe said over his shoulder. A shiny, powder blue Chrysler sped by and nearly ran over his dulled dress shoes.

“But it’s against the rules.”

“Yours or mine?” He lit up a Lark cigarette, stopping to sneer. “Why don’t you go back where you came? Don’t you like your time? If it’s so bad, why don’t you fix it?”

The man gaped and even Joe knew he’d gone too far—it might even land his ass in the slammer for a week, or worse, he’d lose his job at the bookstore. Books were the only thing he was good at, the only thing he could sell because books didn’t need selling. They served a voracious need to learn. His own. The rest of the world could burn in ignorance, and would, and had many times. Yet books, and women, were his only salvation.

“Look,” he said, motioning to the man.  “I didn’t mean what I said. No harm done, right? You won’t report me?”

The man had an air of rejection, of needing to be served and his ass kissed. What’d he want, a goddamn ticker tape parade? The town he’d travelled to was Green Valley, nothing special. A hobunk, nothing town. Why not L.A., New York, Rome?

Because Green Valley was the perfect American dream. Or so they said.

Just then, a bird flew by and shit on top of the man’s shiny clear pod. White glossy scum ran down the sides and blurred his vision. Joe tried not to laugh.

“Well anyway, welcome to my shitty town!” he called out, before crossing the street. It was only two minutes before the hour. Behind him, the man cussed and headed to the nearest safe hotel—the only place the things could stay during their visit. There, they would get a hermetically sealed room to escape their oxygen pod for the night; take a shit, a shower, a shave. And eat. Then it was back into a fresh pod the next morning. He’d like to watch it sometime—these human bugs shedding their shiny latex skins every night and squeezing back into a clean one every day.

So far, the time zones available for travel were 1778, 1898, and 1958. Nothing else was available because of war. Or maybe they liked 8s. And would there ever be trips to the future? No one knew . . . but he was content staying right here. No matter how many came, or what they did or said, this was his place. He’d been born here, and he’d die and have his body embalmed by Martha Biglaow at the Green Valley Bigalow Family Funeral Home--just like everybody else. And he’d be damned if the things forced him out.

Though sometimes he did wonder what the future was like and he desperately wanted to break the rules to ask. But that was number three on the list of forbidden interactions.

NO TRAVELER SHALL BE ASKED ABOUT THEIR TIME!

A few blocks down from his job, the Old English Bookseller, Joe almost ran into another one.  A female. He skidded on his feet to avoid her plasticine wrapper, and then heard a muffled whimper inside.

“I’m punctured,” the woman said. She was petite, well-dressed in a nice two-piece suit and she looked about as 1958 as anyone could. She didn’t look like a traveler, but she did look in distress. Her skin was pale with shock.

“Swear I didn’t bump into you—you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay. But I have to make it back to the safe hotel before anyone sees.” She turned and showed him a long, jagged rip likely caused by the sharp pair of heels she wore.

“Ooweee. Why didn’t you wear soft sneakers like the rest? I thought it was standard.”

“I wanted to look . . . authentic.”

Someone walked by, a normal, and the woman in the ripped pod twisted so they couldn’t see the damage or hear the hiss of air flowing out.

“Would you cover for me?” she asked him.

“Me, aw shit. Not me. I’m late for work. Just over there—” he pointed to the bookstore.

“Please. I’m scared. I—I only wanted to know what it was like to come here. But I don’t have two thousand dollars to cover the fine—for breaking the rules.” She hit him with a pair of brown eyes threatened by tears.

“Fines. Stupid fines . . . Fine,” he said. “I’ll help you but walk fast. I’ll get you to the corner where the safe hotel is, and you’d better hurry in and to your room. Come on.”

“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

He led her down the sidewalk and across the street, mindful in keeping his stride near the rip in order to hide it. She kept up well, better than expected.

“First thing, get rid of those heels,” he said once they arrived. The safe hotel loomed over them with its slick metal and glass. You should have seen the mess they made erecting it and how much chaos it caused. And now, you’d think it’d been there from the start.

“Oh, I will, believe me. It’s kitten heels from now on.” When she smiled at him, he saw that a few actual tears had come out. He’d always been a sucker for a girl in distress. But, holy shit, she was a thing, not a girl.

“Hadn’t you better get inside?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. I’d better.”

She headed for the door.

“What year,” he said to her back.

She turned around. “You won’t believe it, 2044.”

“Jesus. You’re right, I don’t.”

He’d never asked before. It’d never mattered. 2044 was a million years from 1958 and an entire galaxy away. The concept boggled his mind.

“You might as well tell me your name as well,” he said, lighting up again. He didn’t know why he asked. Things didn’t have names. It was better that way.

“Peggy,” she blushed. “My great grandmother’s name. It’s so old fashioned.”

He wouldn’t tell her it was the name of his first girlfriend and that there was a Peggy on every corner. Everyone, it seemed, was a Peggy around here.

“Well, see ya, Peggy. Suits you.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the help.”

“Better hurry.”

She smiled and went in, and he stood for a moment thinking how strange it was to have had a conversation with someone from 2044, though she looked and sounded like any person he’d ever met.

Then he realized how late he was for work and rushed right to the bookstore before a customer could come by and tell his boss he hadn’t opened the doors yet.

“Peggy, from 2044 . . .” he muttered while unlocking the wood and glass door, then he repeated it again as he set up shop. “Peggy, from 2044.” Turn on the lights, open the shades, take out the trash. “Peggy, from the future,” he went on, as he took a seat behind the front counter and waited. He counted the cash drawer and slid it in the register.

Then just, “Peggy.”

The clock struck fifteen after nine. The place was empty—he’d been foolish to worry about customers. Hardly anyone ever came in until ten.

He wondered if he’d ever see her—Peggy—again.

Things, travelers, usually only stayed a week, and most of the time they stuck together. It was like families going to Coney Island, then going back to their hometown all spent and sated with milkshakes and poodle skirts and James Dean movies on their mind. Rebel Without a Cause was all they showed anymore. If you wanted to see a new movie you had to drive out of town. But see, travelers didn’t care. It was all new to them.

Joe wondered if Peggy had already used up her week, if she’d seen the movie, had the milkshake, and he also wondered if she’d come alone. And if so, why?

A little brass bell above the door jangled when a thing came in. It was always a spectacle watching them peruse books without touching or being able to flip through the first chapter. Almost everything was protected. His boss—Marty—had set up a nifty stand with a crank. This allowed Joe to put any book in there a thing asked to read, and then he’d stand there flipping pages each time they said, “When.” It was laborious and mind killing, but more and more part of his job. Then, worst of all, the books they wanted had to come in their own hermetically sealed plasticine that no human—of his kind—had ever touched. It was all pure and safe, and boring.

Hardly any normal came in to buy a book. They were too busy watching . . . the things.

One of them strolled casually around the store for a few minutes before finding a book they wanted him to crank. Then they rang the bell attached to the contraption and he smiled and came over.

“This one?” he asked with fake congeniality. WAR AND PEACE FOR GOD’S SAKE. “Are you planning on buying?”

“I don’t know. I only want to read a few pages. It’s banned in my time, you know?”

“Oh?” His ears pricked up. What time? “Why is it banned?” he asked.

The thing’s eyes widened. He couldn’t break the rule.

“I know, I know,” Joe said. “You’re not supposed to tell me, and I’m not supposed to ask.” He leaned in, though they were alone. “I won’t tell anyone, will you?”

The man smiled, then shook his head. “No, I won’t fib. I’m from 2050. And novels aren’t allowed anymore, only fact fiction.”

Joe pondered the idea of banned novels. “I can’t imagine. Why would they do that? And more importantly, why let you come here when they know you’ll read them anyway?”

“Oh, well that’s just it. I had to sign a waiver not to read any books.” He smiled faintly. “Another rule broken, but I know you won’t tell. And since I’m breaking the rules, why not tell you this? They’re planning on closing you down soon. That’s what I heard. No novels at all. No history, at all.”

The brass bell rang and a mother and three children came in—each wrapped in their own protective pods.

Joe grabbed War and Peace and stuck it into the crank contraption. “Table of contents, or go to the first page?” God, he’d do for another smoke.

“First page, please,” the man said. His eyes were orbs of excitement as he read through the first lines—all contraband in his time. So, Tolstoy’s passionate telling of war and love had become illegal history? How could you erase a time that had been, even fictionalized versions of it? Events and people, war? That was sacrilege!

And now they were coming for his store? How could such a thing be allowed?

“Say when,” he told the man when enough time had passed. “I’ll turn the page every time you say when.”

“When,” the man said after finishing the last few lines on page one—he moved his mouth when he read.

Joe turned the crank and it jostled the book just right so page one turned to page two and three.

The woman and children left after perusing a few Mother Goose books, and Joe looked the man square in the eye—plasticine between them and all.

“Why would they want to come after me? You can’t erase history, you know.”

“Look, I know. It--it’s all the violence. It got worse and worse until everyone was shooting each other with oozies--in my time. Then came the bombs, and my God, people began buying tanks and shooting each other in the street. They said they had to erase all literature that mentioned war, shooting, killing. Hate. I guess I understand. Ten years ago, a peace treaty was signed and then it’s been quite nice, to be honest. We call all go outside again.”

“But you can’t erase history,” Joe said.

“When.” The man shrugged, and a squeaky sound came off his pod. “It’s not me, it’s them. I prefer the truth—but peace is nice too. Say, you’re not going to break our agreement and go out and tell everyone, are you?”

“No . . . of course not. An agreement is an agreement.” The thought had occurred to him that his boss Marty might want to know. But then Marty would go to the City Council and blab the whole thing. Which might not be bad because what if it stopped the things coming around altogether?

The man stepped back. “I don’t like the look in your eye.”

“Listen, I said you can trust me, and I meant it. Do you want me to turn to page four or not?”

“I guess not. I don’t feel like it anymore.” The man turned and headed for the door.

So that was it? All the trust between them eroded, all because Joe had carried a suspicious look in his eye? Who was the bad guy here?

“I told you, I won’t rat you out . . .”

“I’m leaving!”

“Well, come back later then. Maybe I can find you a copy of Mein Kampf.”

The man practically scurried out the door, but Joe didn’t care. He wouldn’t squeal, and how dare the man ask? Typical thing. From now on, it was back to hating them.

He went to sit behind the desk, fear burrowing in his stomach for the future—his future. Because, what would become of him without his job at the bookstore? Books were all he cared about. He didn’t have a wife, or kids, or even a dog. All he had was books, and a bungalow out by the railroad tracks, and he loved it even though it had a leaking roof.

“I can’t lose my job,” he said to himself. “But what can I do?”

The front door jangled and in walked Peggy. The Peggy. All fresh and new. He’d never seen a perfect pod before—usually they had a slight yellowness to them like an eye with a cataract. Wearing a pink sundress and white sneakers, she came in with a smile and damnitt if she didn’t shine like a diamond.

But she’s a thing, he thought. And things are fleeting. Things are trouble.

“Can I help you?” he asked, unable to hide his animosity. “Romance, cooking, cleaning?”

She laughed. “None of those, thank you. I’m into fashion—do you have any books on that topic?”

He nodded his head toward the back wall. “Do you need a crank?”

She halted in place. “A what?”

“A crank. Choose the book, and I’ll crank the pages for you. Any book. I’m here all day.”

“Oh . . . no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll only look at the covers.” She walked to the back corner. That’s when he realized once again the pods had feet—little attached booties that shuffled on the floor with a sickening slug sound. She was out of sight now and couldn’t see the smirk that came across his face. Slugs. She was one beautiful slug.

“I have all these already,” she called out.

“You do? So they’re not banned in your time?”

She went quiet. The whole place went quiet. That is, until the sound of her shuffling feet carried her to the front desk.

“Pardon me, did you say, banned?”

Oh, shit. It’d only been a few minutes and he’d ratted the guy out, already. Shit. Fuck. Damn.

“I was only presuming,” Joe said, covering up his sin with a wide, unassuming smile.

Peggy searched his eyes. It was then he realized hers were a sparkling green with hints of blue. He’d never seen a thing’s eyes that close before, or even taken the time to look.

“I don’t think you were,” she said with a drawl. “I think you know something.”

“Look, I--”

“It’s been my estimation that certain books will be banned in the not-so-distant future, she said. "Here and everywhere. My fears are confirmed. I know the man who just left—he told me at the depot that he was from 2050.”

Joe shifted on his feet; she was intuitive. And damn his stupid mouth.

Inside the pod, Peggy reached up to scratch her neck. “Think I’m allergic,” she said. “A new pod is the worst.”

She kept itching, and Joe saw a band of red welts rise on her skin. It reminded him of the time he’d walked into a patch of poison ivy at summer camp. He’d itched for days, and even the pink chalky calamine lotion hadn’t been able to quell the urge. At the time, he’d secretly wondered if it was the fear of being separated from his mother that really made him itch.

“I’ll be okay in a minute,” she said. “Imagine your whole vacation in a hot, annoying skin? Like you’re a hotdog or something.”

She smiled and he smiled back—despite his annoyance. Then when she tried to reach for a pencil on the desk, he burst out in laughter.

“Oh, Christ. I forget I can’t reach through,” she said. “I need something for the middle of my back.”

Hesitating, he retrieved a ruler off the desk and came around to stand beside her. “Turn. I’ll to scratch it, carefully.”

Peggy shrugged and turned, putting herself into his trust. “I trust you.”

Joe slowly pushed the ruler across her back, careful not to puncture. “Is this the spot?” he asked.

“Higher,” she said. “To the left. Just a little bit--there! Ah! Yes! Thank you. That’s it. That’s the spot.” She sighed and then turned around. “You’re a hero.”

Fingers suddenly gripping tightly around the ruler, Joe turned to the desk. “All travelers are welcome here.” He slapped the ruler down. “In other words, it’s not a big deal.”

“I see.” Peggy looked around, “I like your store. It’s nice. Look, it’s well known that travelers aren’t accepted in Green Valley. In fact, some people liken us to bugs. Is that how you see us—like bugs . . . like things?”

Joe stammered. He’d never been called out like this. Sometimes he was known for being caustic, sometimes pushy—but never outright rude. He still followed the credo of his father—that all women deserved respect and that a real lady was a gem.

“I won’t lie to you, Peggy. Ever since you people started coming here, I’ve been filled with anger and resentment. You show up and you leave, and at the end of the day what does it mean to me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. To be honest, it feels like we are the bugs—like you’re ogling us. All for a cheap thrill. And all can ask myself is, what’s wrong with your time? Why do you have to come here to get a cheap thrill?”

Scratching at her neck again, Peggy seemed temporarily lost before speaking. “I’ll tell you what we come—why I came. It’s lonely in my time. 1958 looked so happy and carefree. But coming here, I realize every time has a flaw and that no matter where you go, there’s always something missing. I guess you can’t escape it.”

“You used the word lonely,” he said to Peggy. “Is it lonely in 2044?”

“Yes,” she said, lowering her voice. “Yes, it is. No one talks. No one interacts. It’s a wonder we even . . . procreate.”

“That’s something that’ll never end,” he said. “Thank goodness.” There. He’d made her smile.

“Yeah, thank goodness,” she said, laughing. “But in my time, it’s more of an ordeal than a connection. I’m serious. People do it to have children, but it’s not for love. And then children are sent to school at age three. The whole thing is . . . lonely.”

He wanted to reach through the plasticine to clasp onto her fingers.

“No,” she said, as if reading his mind. “It’s against the rules.”

“Right. The rules. I wasn’t really going to.”

“I know.” She craned her neck to get a view of the mother and children. “Well, I guess I should go now. Thanks for your help. I might be back later to look at one of those cook books you mentioned.”

“Oh, right. Cooking.” He gave her a look of apology. “Sorry. It was because you’re a girl and—”

“It’s okay.”

A middle-aged woman came in—a faded drag of a thing. Joe had a suspicion she would ask to read the ever-popular poems of E. E. Cummings. Women like her all did. She gave Peggy a strange look in passing, then another at Joe after Peggy left. When she came over to ask for the E. E. Cummings, just as he’d suspected, he reached under the desk for a copy with a weak smile. They loved the erotic suggestion—Joe figured they felt the poet was speaking just to them. And only them. Sometimes he read it out loud, with much inflection, so they’d get the full effect.

Joe set it up in the crank, then turned pages slowly each time she gave a breathless, “When.”

He thought of Peggy and wondered what the world had done to become such a lonely place. My God, the look in her eyes. Total desolation. He wanted to save her somehow but didn’t know a way. There were so many walls and barriers, plastic and rules and restrictions.

There had to be a way though.

That night, he lay awake in the back bedroom of his bungalow thinking hard about what he would do if and when they came to take the bookstore away. Move to another town? Start another life? But how long before they began sending travelers to that town, and the next and the one after that? There’d be nowhere to go where books weren’t banned, and he wouldn’t live like a criminal.

“Stupid Tolstoy,” he muttered into his hot arm, then slipped his face under the pillow just in time before another train went roaring by. But really, it was the memory of Peggy’s face that had made him want to hide. He couldn’t get those goddamned sorrowful eyes out of his memory.

To be continued . . .

Photo by cottonbro studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/sophisticated-woman-talking-to-a-man-inside-an-office-7319478/