Traveller

Like Victor Frankenstein I am, or was, a scientist. Maybe I was more like Ahab, in constant pursuit of my White Whale. I spent years focused on the singular task of making what everyone thought to be impossible. Now, instead of continuing my work I’m a slave to my creation. Trying to get control of it before it destroys me, or worse before it changes the world into the dark place I’ve seen. The place only I know about.

I first read about machines like mine in The Time Machine by H.G. Wells. He referred to his main character as Traveller, I was always fond of that word with two L’s, it just seemed mysterious to me. I spent years, decades, focused on the idea of making the idea in his book a reality. And finally, in 2024 I did it. At the time, I had no reason or need to travel through time, to change anything, to see what has already been seen, to view an unknown future, or repair what’s broken. Now I do.

Ever since my first journey, my creation has tossed me about like… well, like Ahab’s Pequod on a raging sea. That first trip sent me into my own past when I was just a boy in 1975. It placed me as a bystander, sitting in the park, watching my family for a few hours. I would like to say I didn’t alter anything, left everything alone, but I think that’s impossible. Even a tiny ripple in a massive sea creates changes on its journey outward. And to think, all I did was say “hi” to my parents while walking past them that day. I made the ripple.

Somehow, I’ve become part of my own creation, in a way the monster of my own construction. From that very first trip, I have completely lost control of the experiment. Whatever that ripple was it keeps happening, echoing through time. I can’t seem to stay in one place long enough to work anything out. If I could control it, I would.

Every day, a task accomplished without my machine, I’m hurled into someplace new, a new time. It’s been nearly two years now, and I’ve been deep into the past, and flung far into an unknown future. I’ve seen creatures roaming the earth that time has moved far beyond. And I’ve also seen what man becomes in the future, how we change. Some of them feel like visions, or dreams in some catatonic state. It would be great if that were true, if all of this was a dream.

My time travelling happens every day at noon, the same time I took my first journey. Every day since, I’ve tried to learn how to stop it. I always have so little time and so little resources. It seems I’m just lost and alone.

Most days I have no idea when I am, or even where I am. Often resorting to asking a stranger, “Excuse me, where am I and what’s the date?” The usual answer doesn’t include the year, no one thinks you need to know the year. So, I’m forced to ask them what year it is. Almost everyone person looks at me like I’m a fool, some people just laugh and walk away. I can’t blame them; I sound like a fool.

Today is unusual. Unusual in the fact that, upon arrival, I know exactly when, and exactly where, I am. I’m standing on main street of my home town; it’s the place I’ve lived all my life. Across the street is the towns one screen movie theater. On the marquee, in big bold letters, is the movie I saw here the day it came out, a movie that was right up my alley. Beneath the title are the words “new release” and “opening day”. Today is July 3^rd, 1985, and the movie is “Back to the Future”. How incredibly fitting.

“Morning,” someone says to me from behind.

For the longest time I’ve tried not talking to people, tried to maintain a minimalist approach, hoping to stop the echoes. I gave that up a while back. I didn’t give it up as part of the ongoing experiment; I just needed to talk to people. “Good morning,” I reply to the man who ultimately walks up and stands next to me on the curb.

“Should be a good time,” he tells me.

“What’s that?” I reply, completely lost in whatever subject he’s decided to discuss.

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were pondering the new movie. I’m the theater owner, Martin Brown,” he says, and with his reply he tosses his hand out for a greeting.

With a slight pause, I reach out. I can’t remember the last time I touched someone. However, what I do know is that when I did, nothing terrible happened. Martin’s hand is warm, his palm a little damp, and his grip is firm. “Good to meet you. I’m Jerome Traveller.”

“I’m about to open the place up. I always start some coffee first thing. You want some?” His request might seem odd, a little outwardly friendly, but that’s the way life was so long ago. People were kind, people were nice, and people helped people out. And, without a doubt, I look like someone that needs a little something. It’s not often I get food, or a good shower, and even rarest of all a good shave. My clothes are a little tired, and, without a doubt, I probably smell fouler than fairer. “Come on, I bet you can use something to eat as well.” He must have heard my belly growl. I can’t remember the last time I ate; it was a couple days ago at best.

“Yes, both sound wonderful. Thanks.”

In a few short minutes he has a hotdog in my hand, microwaves were an amazing invention, and a fresh cup of coffee in front of me. I can’t really comment on the quality of either, because I’m so hungry anything would taste amazing. I do know, they sure filled an empty void.

Martin walks back into the lounge carrying a medium sized cardboard box. “This is the lost and found, you may find a few things in here that fit you. I tossed a sweatshirt and a pair of pants on top, both are mine, we look about the same size.”

“That’s incredibly kind. Thank you.” My words are followed by a sudden breakdown of whatever wall I’ve held in front of me; whatever barrier I keep between me and the world. A barrier broken down by his simple acts of kindness. My eyes start to blur up, tears form and roll down my cheek, slow at first, then faster. No one’s ever looked great when they’re crying, I’m sure I’m no exception. I do know that Martin doesn’t care about any of that. He doesn’t see some poor, dirty, broken man in front of him. All he sees is a person in need.

Without hesitation, he places a hand on my shoulder and simply says, “You’re welcome.”

For a time, he stands near me, hand on my shoulder, silently supporting me until my emotions pass. Then he gets to work keeping an eye on me while he does. Soon, he brings me a second hotdog. The second one certainly isn’t as good as the first, but I wouldn’t complain; any food is welcome.

“Martin, what time’s the first show today?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. I was one of the first in line that day. One of the first to pay my three fifty to see, what I hoped would be, a great movie. It was, still is.

“First showing is at one thirty. We have about a half hour before doors open. Don’t know if you’re interested, but I have a private bathroom upstairs; it even has a shower. If you’re quick you can use it.”

With the offer, I jump off the stool and follow him upstairs to the bathroom; he even hands me a fresh towel. The shower is amazing. I see the dirt and filth wash away from me, not realizing how much of a mess I really was. My pile of dirty clothes on the floor an obvious reflection of how I felt, soiled and messy. I place them in the trash bin and put on the clothes he let me take from the lost and found. The sweat shirt must have been a promo from one of the movies here, it says Mumford Phys. Ed. Dept. on it. I think it was from the movie Beverly Hills Cop. I saw that movie here as well.

“Wow, you look great,” he says when I finally get downstairs.

“Yes, I found a razor up there and used it. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” he says, turning back to his work.

“I tossed my clothes in the garbage. But I couldn’t leave those stinky things up there. Where can I dispose of this bag?” I ask, holding up the garbage filled with my foul clothes.

“Just out the door there,” he answers, pointing down the short hall to an “EXIT” door. “Just don’t let the door close behind you, you’ll get locked out. And I don’t know if you are interested, but I just had my ticket taker call in sick. I could use some help.”

I’ve taken an odd job on several occasions, mostly to get some money for food. It’s about all I can afford after a few hours of work. Today I would gladly work for free to repay Martins kindness. “Absolutely, just tell me what to do.”

One of the first tickets I take is from my younger self, he had no idea who I was. I remember how excited he was, I envy this day for him.

For the rest of the day Martin and I run the place. He shows me where the projector is and lets me sit up there during the show and watch the movie. During the first showing, I watch my younger self most of the time. I was sitting that day in the fourth row, dead center… the best seat in the house. It’s exactly where he’s sitting today. I remember his excitement.

After the third, and final, showing of the evening, a packed house every time, I help Martin clean the place. People can be messy at events like this, popcorn everywhere, candy wrappers tossed under seats, and occasional Pop spills that require several scrubs with a mop to get up all the sugary liquid. However, as Martin says, “You wouldn’t be in a movie theater if the floor wasn’t a little sticky.”

When we’re finally finished, he says, “Thanks for all your help today.” Holding out some cash for me.

“No, I couldn’t, you’ve been too kind. And it was just nice to be useful for a day.”

“Ok, but you can at least let me buy you a real meal. A man can’t live on hotdogs alone.”

Inside I’m leaping at the idea, but I have to wonder, why he doesn’t just want to go home? “Sounds great, thanks.”

“However, it is after ten, all that’s open is the tavern next door. I eat there often; the food is pretty good. They also have beer.”

“Perfect.”

Walking into the sparsely populated tavern, we are welcomed by the bartender that seems to know Martin, and the jukebox playing “Money for Nothing”. I always loved Mark Knopfler’s guitar style.

Over the next hour, I learn he’s a widower, his wife passed away about a year ago. It happened shortly after they retired from their careers and decided to buy the town’s only movie theater. It was something they both agreed would seem like a fun pastime; they both loved movies. They liked living in different worlds with each new release.

All those years I came to his theater; I never knew the man behind the scenes. I wish I had.

“What’s your story?” he asks.

With a smile and nod I reply, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Not intending to tell him anything.

“Try me.”

It may have been the beer; it may have been my new bond with this kind person. Maybe it was just a hope to have my story heard; whether he believes it or not. I start by telling him my determination to build a machine like H.G. Wells showed me in that book. Martin sits there and listens, taking in my every word. Then I told him I was successful, but my system was also flawed.

Eventually I started talking about all my journeys. There’s no way I can remember every place I travelled too, but I catch a lot of the highlights. He hears about prehistoric man, Lincoln’s inaugural address, Dr. Kings famous speech, a future world in shambles with a shattered moon hanging in the sky, and even the last day at Woodstock. He commented on how lucky I was to see all these things. I’m not sure I would agree with him.

Until now, I’ve never told anyone anything. And he got to hear it all, as much as I could remember at least. Eventually the bartender calls last call, and we finish our remaining sips of beer.

While exiting the tavern he asks, “Where do you think you’ll be tomorrow?” There's a certain excitement in his voice over my coming adventure.

An excitement I don't share in my response, “I couldn’t even venture a guess. Maybe another day I'll end up here again. If so, I’ll stop by.”

“I'd like that. Friends are rare.” And with that simple statement, I realize this entire day he was getting something from me as well. Not only someone to talk with, but a fascinating journey like many of the movies he and his wife used to share.