Chapter 1

Frank Risotto started his day the same as any other. After spanking the alarm clock, he fed himself cold pizza from the previous night, showered and dressed for work. Coffee on the way to the Menlo Park DPW, naturally. He nodded through the briefing where the shift supervisor warned them of an increasing incidence of residential garbage abuse (something about clumping kitty litter) and finally climbed into his rig.

The rig was something special. Because of his seniority, Frank was driving the flagship of the Menlo Park Municipal Waste Disposal fleet, a brank new Heil Multitasker Multifuel vehicle. This state of the art garbage truck could grab a barrel with its articulated arm and empty it in 6 seconds, could be loaded by hand when the lazy bums couldn't be bothered to put the trash in barrels or could even lift a small dumpster and tip it into its gaping maw, where it would be compacted and eventually dumped into a nice clean landfill. Thanks to Menlo Park's ecology initiative, this truck was even equipped with one of the new multi fuel engines and ran on French fry oil collected from the local fast food joints. It could burn kerosene, alcohol or even diesel fuel in a pinch! Because the Heil was so automated, Frank had it all to himself, including the inevitable households that left bags instead of barrels. Well, you can't have everything. Still, the Heil could collect as much garbage in a day as three fully crewed conventional trucks.

Frank tuned in his favorite station, an 80's classic rock station and began his monotonous routine, up and down the streets. The same houses with the same bags and barrels as last week and the week before that and...

Somewhere around 11am, something — different — happened. He was on Christie, going down the hill to scoot up the Lincoln Highway to Park Street, when the truck suddenly began shuddering and bumping like it was on a rutted dirt road. Frank desperately jammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop, nearly tipping the expensive machine on its side. He opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. The truck WAS on a rutted dirt road.

Frank sat in the truck, listening to static on the radio, willing the world to turn back to normal. He opened his eyes again to find himself parked sideways on a dirt road, a dirt road that could not have been there. He carefully set the brakes and shut down the engine, then stepped out onto the... dirt. The heat of the summer day hit him.

"See here, Man. How do you explain this contraption?"

Frank turned and saw a well dressed man standing by the side of the road. "It's just a truck."

Feeling like he'd had one too many, Frank walked over to the man and put out his hand. "Frank Risotto" he introduced himself. "What exactly, I mean, where exactly am I?"

"Menlo Park" was the answer. "I am Thomas Edison".

Frank now realized that he had suffered a psychiatric episode of life altering dimension. Or so it was to be hoped.

"It appears I have a problem. Either I have gone mad, or I am — nope. I guess I've gone mad. Could you tell me the date, please?"

"June 10" was the answer. The man that called himself Edison looked at the truck and then looked back at Frank and in a somber voice added, "Eighteen Hundred and Seventy Six".