Chapter 2

The Muni train was the usual fifteen minutes late. Then I nearly got run down by a taxi driver on the way to the office. A group of cyclists were blocking traffic right in front of my building and cost me another five minutes. One of the elevators was out of order – again – causing a huge queue to get up to the top floors. All of this added up to make me ten minutes late to my desk. All together, I didn’t think that was too bad.

Naturally, Mr. Toddlemeyer didn’t see it the same way. He immediately called me into his office to give me his absolute final warning he was going to have to let me go if I didn’t shape up and get to work on time. It was at least the second ‘final warning’ this month. Once again, he conveniently ignored the fact that I rarely left the office until an hour after most of the others. And where else could he find someone with a Ph.D. in Economics who was great at his job but would work for the crummy wages this monolith of a bank paid its employees? As he droned on, I sat there bored out of my mind. I was thinking of how I’d already been there two years, straight out of getting my doctorate. I was certain I was doomed to spend my entire existence in that crummy cubicle just outside of The Old Toddler’s office. I would never get promoted in spite of all the promises, and never get fired in spite all the threats. I would never know any freedom outside of two weeks each year, which so far I had dutifully used to visit my widowed mother and two sisters in upstate Wisconsin.

In other words, just another typical day in the life of a corporate slave in sunny San Francisco. And it was a beautiful autumn day. The taxis were tooting, the pigeons were pooping, the tourists were strolling and pointing, and the natives were rushing grimly around in pursuit of unattainable goals. Honest to God, it was so normal I had not one premonition, not the faintest hint of a sign from Above that today was the day I would meet my great, great, great, great, great, great grandson, and that he would give me a time machine which would (not surprisingly) change my life.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The rest of the day was more of the same. There was frustration and boredom at the office, chaos in the streets, and a dull and quiet apartment to return to. I didn’t even have a goldfish to keep me company. Pets weren’t allowed, and the building super had snidely explained to me that fish were animals, and were therefore pets. I pointed out that cockroaches should also qualify, so why he didn’t get rid of them? He just sneered and ignored me. He knew I couldn’t do anything about it. After all, where was I going to move to on my wages?

As usual, there was nothing on TV. No date, and no money to go out anyhow. So, I figured, it was just going to be another exciting evening trying to sort out the weirdoes from the real females on the net chatlines.

Before I went online, however, it was time for the first Big Decision of the day. Should I have a frozen dinner or takeout? The latter would then lead to what kind of takeout, which would lead to whether or not my budget could afford it. I was weighing these options like Jack Benny deciding on whether he should give up his money or his life when the doorbell rang.

Now, that was unusual! I had no idea. Figuring it could only be the super I was in no hurry to answer it, but I finally did.

“Hi, there! Uh, I mean, hello,” the fellow at the door said. He seemed a little stiff, definitely nervous, although friendly enough. “You are Barnaby Frederic Smith.”

“Was that an accusation? Okay, I confess, I’m Barney Smith.”

“Oh, no! I’m extremely sorry, Barnaby F. Smith! I assure you that wasn’t meant to be an identity challenge.” He seemed inordinately embarrassed by such a minor thing. “I meant no disrespect.”

“Hey, I was only kidding,” I said. “Lighten up.”

“Lighten ... up? Ah, yes. I’m enlightened as to your intent. Thank you for the explanation.”

Man, was the old geezer putting me on, or what? Okay, I figured he wasn’t really that old, but he sure acted it. I was twenty-six, and I figured he had fifteen or twenty years on me. It wasn’t like he had a really old face. It was more the stodgy way he talked, the way the clothes he wore looked like they came out of a museum (and were still on the mannequin), and the deadly serious look on his face. Then there was this case he had in his hand. It looked like it held a trumpet or some other kind of small instrument, which only added to the look of some old time musician ready to play a one-night stand.

“So who are you, and what can I do for you?”

“My name is Solomon B. Smith. As to the purpose of my visit, that’s a rather lengthy explanation, which you will find difficult to assimilate and find credible. May I enter and be seated while we speak?”

“Well, you don’t look like a mugger. Sure, come on in, Sol. Care for something to drink?”

“Oh, yes. Uh, some sort of stimulant would be desired. Thank you, Barnaby Frederick Smith.”

“Just call me Barney,” I said magnanimously. “How about coffee?”

“Coffee, of course!” he exclaimed, like this was some miraculous coincidence. “That would be excellent, thank you, Barnaby Sm ... er, Barney.”

As I fixed a couple of instant Joe’s, I watched him sit on the edge of the chair. He stared around the apartment like a school kid waiting to see the Principal after being caught peeping through a hole in the girl’s locker room. He was either trying to sell whatever kind of gizmo he had in that case, or the same last name meant he was some ‘distant relative’ about to hit me up for money. Hah! Fat chance he had on either of those scams. I was putting my bets on the former because of the way he held that case like it contained a couple of gallons of nitroglycerin. He gripped it with both hands, forcing it firmly into his lap. As weird as I thought he had been so far, it was nothing compared with what was to come.

“You asked who I am,” he blurted out as I handed him a cup.

“Boy, you’ve got a really great memory. But so have I. You’re Solomon B. Smith, and you’re a very distant relative, right?” What the hell, I figured I could have a little fun with this game, too.

“Great ghosts of Einstein and Planck! That’s correct!” he cried, like an announcer telling me I had just won Final Jeopardy. “You can see the family resemblance?” He asked that a little more doubtfully than I would have thought, given the nature of the scam.

“Oh, yeah. It’s just like in “Twins.” We practically look exactly alike.”

“No, we’re not twins,” he explained seriously. “In fact, we are – uh, extremely distant relatives.”

“Oh, come on, Sol,” I said incredulously. “So I’m a few inches taller, a little more muscular, quite a bit younger, and, no offense, definitely better looking. Other than that, it’s like looking in a mirror!”

Surprisingly, he didn’t seem to take any offense at my clever remarks. Maybe he had never seen “Twins.” He just swallowed a big gulp of coffee. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t seem to pay any attention to how hot it was. It took him quite a while to recover before he could speak again.

“I think this is going to be rather strange to you, and quite difficult to believe,” he said finally, and definitely painfully.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said smugly, taking a sip myself. I was really starting to enjoy putting this old fake on the spot. “You’ve got something quite marvelous to tell me or to give me that’s going to make me filthy rich. In return, you expect me to make a small donation to you, right?”

“Yes, that’s right!” he bounced from his seat in glee, nearly spilling his coffee over my already crummy carpet. “I mean, yes, and no. That is, something like that. How did you arrive at this conclusion?”

“Oh, I don’t mean to imply it’s obvious. Not like dry rot around the base of a tree indicating it’s about to fall on your house. It’s just that this situation reminds me of a show I saw on TV two or three hundred times.”

“‘TV,’” he muttered, seeming puzzled for an instant. “Ah, yes,” he suddenly brightened. “A primitive form of TotalVid. Yes, I can understand that this situation may be similar to a plot on your domestic entertainment system. However, I can assure you this is not a stereotypical situation.”

“Not for me. With my income, the place I live, and no chance of a big inheritance? I have to admit it’s not often I get hit up by some con artist.”

“I’m not an artist of any type, Barnaby. I’m a scientist. I sense a strong skepticism on your part, which is only natural. However, I urge you to keep an open mind about that which I’m going to tell you.”

My coffee had cooled down to the point where I could drink it without burning my tongue. So I drank, looked at the geezer, and waited for the touch. In a way, this entertained me more than the usual evening TV fare, but not much. The dialogue was getting down to the silly sitcom level, which I hate. It was time for him to get to the point, but I wasn’t about to help him out.

I watched about two minutes worth of facial expressions, starting with expectant sincerity and ending with plain irritation. “Don’t you wish to know that which I’ve come to tell you?” he finally asked.