The Last Time Machine

I knew better than most that kids in books are parentless. The day I transformed from Katya’s hero to the villain in her story was the day we faced each other across a glass partition when she was only six years old. “If you don’t come home with me today, Daddy, I will never forgive you,” she said. And she never did.

There were two things that Katya loved. Traveling and animals. For her sixth birthday, we had a big “Wild Birthday Party” at the Central Park Petting Zoo. There were lemurs, crocodiles, sea lions, peacocks, goats, rabbits, and even a giraffe. Katya was in her glory. That was the day that Special Agent Felder decided to arrest me and perp-walk me nearly a mile out of the park, with Katya and her classmates following after like a forlorn train of ducks. Screaming after me. But that wasn’t the day that everything went wrong. That came a few months earlier, in October.

The day my life changed forever, the first of many, was when Boris drove up in a flashy new Mercedes Benz Roadster and said, “Alex, how are you?” But my first thought was how a kid from Little Odessa in Brooklyn could afford a whip like this, and how I could get myself one.

While we caught up, we sailed down the streets of Northern New Jersey that bordered our Newark neighborhood. The ride was incredibly smooth and quiet compared with my beater Toyota Corolla hand-me-down, which I was very thankful to have. “I have something for you,” Boris said. “Let me tell you, it is as easy as taking candy from a baby. A malýshka.”

Boris lived in a roach-infested project building in Newark that always smelled of a vile potpourri of weed, mildew, and vinegar. He lived one floor down from the apartment I shared with my grandmother and my sister at the ironically named, Hilton Housing Projects. So, I had to know how he had pulled this off. Boris had his own way of building suspense. Not original. Or endearing. But uniquely ‘Boris.’ He laughed hysterically and told me to wait and see. But explained nothing.

Eventually, we pulled up at a large high-rise building bordering the Hudson River, complete with a marble inlaid lobby, a doorman, and gold trim around the elevators. “Alex, before I tell you this, let me ask you a question. Are you tired of Daryna breaking your balls, Katya having no nice clothes? What are you willing to do to stop this?” As I thought it over, he continued, “If I can show you how to take the crumbs from the rich man’s table, take what he would barely even notice was gone, I am assuming you agree this is justice? Am I right?” I nodded my head, excited to hear how it worked. For some reason, I was sure Boris knew what he was talking about. I was sure they wouldn’t notice. But they did notice.

Boris explained that all we had to do was get the mail from these large, high-rise apartment buildings and sort through it. If we could match an envelope for a new credit card with a paper bank statement, we would have just about everything we needed to make a killing. Strangely enough, I never even thought about getting caught. I was far too desperate to keep my family together and to pay some delinquent bills. Far too certain of Boris’s abilities. But all of that was over now. It was nearly five years ago. And yet the echoes of that day resonated with the fresh, crisp sound of words just spoken. The kind of echoes that ricochet down the halls and corridors of a prison, reminding you of all the walls and concrete between you and freedom.

Even after the arrest, I still thought maybe the jury would see it my way. My criminal defense attorney used to say, “You want to know who wins in court: widows, orphans, United States Government takes all—that’s all there is to it.” And as usual, he was right.

The Essex County Correctional Facility was off one of these industrial blocks behind the Newark Liberty International Airport. From Newark Bay to the winding Passaic River, the little island the jail inhabited looked across the water to Jersey City, which sat above the crook of Bayonne, and somewhere in the gray distance, the Statue of Liberty stood tall beyond the shores, too far away to see in the low visibility of the gray morning.

The green verdigris of the statue and the Paris green paint of the prison, laced with arsenic, were mirrors of one another. It seemed that all that was gold, all that was immutable, was destined to rust and green with time. And all that was green and implied life had a bit of poison mixed in the brushstrokes. The imposing green four-story building was sandwiched between the gray streets and the gray skies. A liminal space between liberty and bondage, between order and chaos, between hope and despair.

After sixteen months within these walls, I was awaiting my final sentencing, which would inexorably lead me back through the prison system, to a halfway house, re-entry, and monitoring—to life in the outside world.

That time was empty. Like a journey through the vacuum of space. It seemed to take forever to travel through. An infinity of silent waiting while my little girl got older and older, while the wet cement of my abandonment hardened more and more until it was like a field of hardened steel.

But looking back, it seemed no more than the snap of my fingers.

* * *

After using my bus ticket and returning to Newark, I made some calls and located Frankie’s Emporium. I still had some of the money from my crimes stashed away, and there was only one thing on my mind—turning back time.

Frankie’s Emporium was the junkyard of advanced technologies. And that is being generous. Real junk could file defamation charges for false association—that was how bad this stuff was—this was the kind of junk that proper junk looked down its nose at. But Frankie was a charmer.

You wanted to buy from him. You wanted him at your birthday party. He was a big doughy lump of warm feelings. Not the best looking. Not the worst. He inspired neither envy nor revulsion. He had a Roman nose, slightly hooked for good measure, so you always felt a little ‘better than’ on some level, even if subconsciously. Everyone said Frankie was a ‘good guy.’

Every item in Frankie’s repurposed airplane hangar at the Teterboro Airport looked like a relic from the World’s Fair that had been left out to rot for over a century. The time machine itself appeared to be nothing more than a stainless steel cylinder with a door big enough for a man to enter through. Frankie claimed this was the last of its kind. The last time machine. If you can believe that. These things used to be like toasters. Spoiler alert. I haven’t seen a toaster in forty years. But go back to 1980 and find a kitchen that didn’t have one. I’ll wait.

Still. The “last” time machine. Kind of hard to believe. Kind of a bold claim. Scavengers and pawn brokers said things like that a lot before they mentioned the premium they required to part with such a one-of-a-kind treasure. Little did I know, in this case, that the machine was just too hot to handle, and Frankie was willing to give it away; he just wanted it as far away from himself as possible. Where did Frankie get this thing? That was what I wanted to know.

Time machines were often described as looking like enormous dunk tanks or as looking like gigantic men’s hats with an open crown. Colloquially, they were called time yachts, since the brim or the balancing level was traditionally ovular like a Fedora and turned up at either end with a small adornment like a Viking faering lined in silver. That and the feeling of traveling through time was a lot like boating in rough seas.

At one time there were great time yachting festivals for the rich. Special drugs the wealthy could take to mute the gnarly effects of the time jump. The time yachts came in all shapes and varieties, from the deluxe, luxurious mega-yachts to the stark, no-frills, get-the-job-done kind—like the one Frankie was showing me. At one time, they were like television sets. Nearly every family had one. But these days, these machines were as illegal as weapons-grade plutonium. If you were caught with a working yacht, you could face death or worse.

It turned out that time machines caused early onset dementia. Then came the surgeon general’s warnings. But time travel kept increasing anyway. Some say the danger drove people to it more. Then, it started getting out of control. There were lots of accidents from misplaced jumps. Buildings catching fire. Bad stuff. People couldn’t get off time travel. It was just too addictive. Next, the time anomalies started. Being that you merged with your younger self, there were a lot of unintended consequences that were only vaguely understood. Like people with one disease suddenly returning with a different ailment. Strange stuff like that. The time anomalies did it. Time travel was banned. Banned hard.

This one was rusting. With an orange patina by the creases. Spend enough time in prison and you start to realize that everything is rusting. Ironically the hardest of metals can’t withstand a gentle breeze on a long enough time scale. And yet I thought I could restore to vintage the discarded love of a daughter—a salvaged wreck in the junkyard headed for the steel processor.

Just like the time machine, which looked like it was already on its way there. There was stippling on the outer surface from the electromagnetic compression of the gravitational field as the layered cylinders spun violently in oppositional directions. Was that even safe? It was a jalopy. You were taking your chances with this thing even on a one-way trip.

“You can only use it once,” Frankie said. “And there are no guarantees. Know what I mean, pal? I doubt you are going to power this puppy up twice and live to tell the tale. You know what I mean, or no? Ain't she a beaut’ though?”

“I’ve got it, sure, ‘a beaut’” I told him. “How much?”

“Are you kidding? Take it. I’m looking for someone to offload this thing. Do you think I want to rot in a cell? Just get it out of here and it's yours. And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Forget you were ever here.”

I turned to look back at Frankie, a little upset he hadn’t invited me to catch up after all the time I’d been away. I looked into his eyes as if to ask, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Okay,” he said, like that simple glance was enough to crack his defenses. “The prior owner said it is best to overshoot the mark. The gauge is a little ‘temperamental.’ I’d suggest you set it for a week earlier than you need to be, just to be on the safe side.”

“Temperamental?” I asked, adding, “Did he specify if it was temporally or proximally?”

“Shit. Good question. Jesus. I didn’t think of that.”

“If it is proximally, then if I overshoot, I’ll be in the void of empty space…”

“Jeez… don’t do that.”

“If it is temporally, then I’ll be fine, as long as it is locked in with its proximal sensors.”

“Might want to take that thing to a technician before launch. You know what I mean or no?”

Then Frankie put his arm around me, lowering his head, bringing me into a conspiratorial circle. He looked up, outstretched his arms, palms up, in the direction of the machine, as if lifting it up to the skies. It was like he was saying, ‘Your chariot of death awaits.’ Then he said, “Hell of a way to go! Stylish. Don’t you think?”

I pulled away from his embrace and looked him dead in the eye. “You’ve got the wrong idea here, Frankie. I don’t want to die. I’m going back to square things away with my little girl, Katya.”

“Oh, my bad. Let me ask you a question. How, exactly are you planning to do that?”

“Good question. You think this junker will get me back before the problems started in one piece?”

“Absolutely. Sure thing,” he said.

“Hey Frankie,” I said. “You have a daughter?”

“Sure do. Real firecracker, got my hands full with that one.”

“What’s her name?”

“Gianna.”

“Would you take this clunker back to make sure everything turned out alright for Gianna?”

“Hey, asshole. What do you take me for? You think I’m stugots? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“No, no. My bad, you’re right. I’m out of my head. Thanks, Frankie.”

“You got it.”

* * *

I decided to take my chances anyway.

The whirring sound of the magnetic rotors accelerating sounded like the growling of the revved motor of a muscle car. The shaking of the chassis made my teeth chatter. The trailing of time backward felt exactly like the slipstream hugging the feral body of a race car. A weightless glide along the layered asphalt of the speedway.

The acceleration made the spinning of the time machine appear to slow, along with my thoughts, the firing of the synapses of my brain, and the blood running through my veins. I wanted time to speed up, not slow down. I had an eternity of regrets. Too many to fix.

There was just enough chop to notice that time was running away from me, as the yacht jumped wave after wave of slow-motion time ripples.

There was the familiar sinking feeling of the stomach drop as we bottomed out in the trough of each wave, and the spray of time dross foaming around us. The alternating spells of feeling as heavy as lead, then light as a feather. The swelling of my biceps, my thighs, and my stomach as blood was pressed inward and away from the extremities. The bouncing heave-ho of the time waves, rocking my body to and fro.

My eyes rolled back, presaging G-LOC. It was interesting that the weight was under my fingernails. In the crevices of my toes. It was everywhere. The pressure was ubiquitous. It felt like it was ripping my eyelids down. Yanking at my elbows. The hair inside my ears was buzzing with an electrical static that rang like a deafening bell. My vision receded to the size of a pin. My senses lost reliability. My consciousness bobbed in the waves, struggling to keep its head above water.

The whomping sound of ataxia and loss of consciousness reverberated in my ears. But I hung in there. Until the space around me began to blur and warp. The space my eyes were glued to was like a mirror—smooth as glass—and then, suddenly, like an ocean wave, turbid and murky.

The alternating, vibrating current of space finally cracked open like an egg to reveal a white and slightly yellowed void within, like Calcutta gold and feathered, seared marshmallows. Hard and soft. Hard as glass and soft as a vault of goose feathers. White as cotton but yellowed like just smoked ground tobacco in filtered rolling papers.

As I passed out, it occurred to me that man wasn’t meant to take this journey. But I had no choice.

* * *

I kicked open the metal door as the smoking heap of flaming metal hissed, crackled, and popped. It could have been worse. At least I didn’t need the jaws of life. The yard of the Hilton Housing Project was full of browning grass choking for life, just like I remembered it. Home sweet home!

If there was any way to trace it back to me, I would have received a citation for the condition of this jumper. I just had to finagle the instruments so that no one discovered that this thing was coming in from an illegal jump zone, a time when travel was banned. The last thing I needed was the authorities on my tail.

First things first. Boris. I knocked on the door of his apartment until he finally came to the door in his boxers. “I’m out,” I said.

“Out of what?”

“Out of your get-rich-quick scheme. Out for good. And if my name comes up or you come see me to bring it up again, you are going to be on your way to the East Jersey State Pen.”

“You’re going to rat on me?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Bro, what did I do to you?”

“This is going to hurt me more than it is going to hurt you—but I’m not taking any chances.” And with that I sucker-punched Boris, laying him out. I took the hand ties and tied his hands behind his back. Next, I tied him to the bedpost, sitting up and looking stupid. Finally, I called Special Agent Felder and left him an anonymous tip.

My ruby-flare-colored Toyota Corolla felt like a performance vehicle after the bumpy ride on that time yacht.

* * *

By this time, Daryna and I had been separated for six months. She was back living with her mom out on Coney Island, and Katya with her.

I drove out there to see Katya.

She was there waiting at the door with her plush sloth doll.

I took her for a walk down to the amusements.

“If you don’t come home with me today, Daddy, I will never forgive you,” she said.

I pinched her nose and said, “I’m coming back to stay, malýshka. Everything is going to be okay.”