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/
