Why is the Escape Button So Small?

This is the third day I’ve been sitting on this small rise wondering how long it will take Tommy to understand that he should hit the ‘escape’ button. Perhaps it will never dawn on him, I think, in my darker moments. Then I correct myself; he is my grandson after all. Of course he’ll get it. I am still stunned at finding myself in this barren place, which I assume to be Sunnyside. There is nothing here but trees, shrubs, rocks, wild grass, and a few straggly goats.

My wife and I had been looking forward to our overseas trip to visit our son and his family. Our other two sons would be in London at the same time, making this our first full family reunion in six years. And we were excited at the prospect of meeting two new grandchildren for the first time. Our flight was scheduled for midnight on Wednesday for our two-week holiday. On Monday evening I sat in front of my computer and finished an article I was writing, intending to leave a satisfied editor and an uncluttered desk while I was away.

At nine I went out for a walk to stretch my legs and aching back. When I returned, the computer was frozen and defied all my attempts to restart it. Virus, I diagnosed as I grumpily shuffled off to bed. In the morning I called a technician who came, looked, prodded around in the belly of the machine with deft fingers and said, “I have to take this to the lab. It looks pretty bad.” I spent the next two days pacing the apartment, bereft of computer, email and communication with the world. “I will fix it and have it ready for you on your return,” promised the technician, after my fourth phone call.

He was as good as his word. Three hours after we arrived home he called and asked if he could come over. He arrived, followed by a young assistant who scurried in and out carrying boxes while the technician wired things up on my desk. “You had a major problem and we had to replace many parts of the computer,” he announced as he hit the ‘On’ switch with a flourish and watched with satisfaction as the screen came to life. “All the old unused parts are in these boxes,” he said, pointing to the pile on the floor.

“What’ll I do with them?” I asked in dismay. “I hate throwing away hardware.”

“Build a time machine for your grandchildren. That’ll keep you busy,” he chuckled as he headed for the door with my check in his hand.

“Time machine, harrumph!” I snorted as I sat down, flexing my fingers before touching the keyboard.

I emailed the children to say that we had arrived home and sat in front of the computer, jet-lagged and tired but pleased to be back in my book-lined and carpeted den, back in my own surroundings and surrounded by my own toys. The trip had been every bit as wonderful as we had expected and we had enjoyed every moment with our children and grandchildren, updating our relationships and listening to their progress and news. But after two weeks I hankered to be back to my regular lifestyle.

I thought a cup of coffee would help haul my blood corpuscles back onto their feet. Standing up to go to the kitchen I bumped into the little pile of boxes and computer parts still stacked on the floor. Curious, I began opening everything and putting the pieces of hardware on the desk. I could easily build a respectable looking time machine out of all this, I thought, remembering the spare keyboard in the cupboard and an old screen that gave a great deal of trouble some years ago but which I was still reluctant to throw out. Now it took up space in a corner of the garage.  

I began joining the little bits and pieces, here and there using paper clips which I bent to fit, cutting out pieces of cardboard, and using the lengths of wire to attach small electronic parts. When everything was lined up, I lugged the old screen inside and positioned it behind the rows of parts. Finally, I propped the keyboard up in front of everything so it stood vertically, resembling the control panel of a spaceship. Back with a mug of strong coffee and feeling much brighter at my spurt of creativity, I let my mind wander free.

I plugged the screen connection into the power socket in the wall and to my surprise, it glowed an eerie green color. On the keyboard I typed the words: ‘What year would you like to visit?’ and added a little box for an answer. Under that I typed: ‘Where would you like to be?’ To my amazement, everything appeared as I had typed it.

I leaned back to sip the coffee, grinned at my little creation, and wondered what else I should put on the screen. The door opened and Tommy, my tall, red-headed sixteen-year-old grandson walked into the room. “Hi, Pop! I came over to see… Gee, what’s that?” he asked, leaning forward to look at the screen.

“I built a time machine,” I explained proudly.

“What does it do?”

“It lets you travel in time. You answer these two questions: What year would you like to visit and where would you like to go? You put the answers in these boxes here, hit the Enter button and the machine will do the rest.”

There was a long silence as he digested my explanation.

“Have you tried it yet?”

“No, I’m nervous,” I joked. “It looks so real.”

“It does look pretty real. Will it work?”

“Of course not! Men have been dreaming about building machines and traveling in time for hundreds of years. Most of them would just like to visit next week so they can look back at this week’s Lotto numbers.”

He giggled.

“Let’s try it, Pop! You go first.”

“Okay,” I laughed. “What year should I go to?”

“Say 200 hundred years back.”

“Fine.” I typed ‘1822’ in the year box.

“Where should I go?”

“Put Sunnyside, Pop. We’re just playing!”

“Right again,” I said picking at the keys.

“Now what?” he asked.

“I have to hit Enter,’ I explained.

“Please don’t do it,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I have a funny feeling…”

“Oh, don’t be silly! I’m going to…”

“Please don’t do it!”

I have to say my time machine worked most efficiently. H. G. Wells would have been proud of me. There was no bang, no smoke, and no sensation. I simply found myself sitting in the same position as I had been in my swivel chair in front of the computer.

Only now it’s on an uncomfortable rock under a bushy olive tree on a slight rise where I can look down on the gently rolling landscape which will one day be Sunnyside.

Daniel, where are you?

Why didn’t I listen when he begged me, ‘Please don’t do it!’?