Chapter 1

The year is 2026. I had retired from flea market life in the beautiful farm Yaz and I bought not too far from Reading, PA. Our house was sizable, a fieldstone structure from the early 1800s that had been added on and added on until it was a respectable country estate.

With our outdoor pool, and the large barn that I was using as my workshop, we were living very comfortably. I was 61 now, and since I had retired over 10 years ago, I had been working on my project. It was finished now- I had tested it slightly, and it had worked. The device- well, the device was what you would call a time machine.

It was built in the format of an automobile, mostly because it needed to be moved around. It was based on a 2016 Mercedes-Benz G350 Bluetec, with the theory being that diesel-compatible fuels would be more readily obtainable over a much longer period of history. With the minor modifications Yaz and I had done to it, the engine would run comfortably on practically any vegetable oil, olive oil, kerosene, and so forth.

I'm not going into the theories of how the device works- its not important, and its a trade secret, anyway. But it works.

It was early May, and the country had been in an uproar about its 250th anniversary. All of the right-wing morons were saying things like if Thomas Jefferson were here, he'd gag. Primarily for my own edification, I decided to answer that question. By going back to 1776 and bringing ole' Tommy Boy back here. I wasn't going to kidnap him, mind. I was going to offer. If he declined, I'd simply try another of our founding fathers.

"Are you really going to do this?" Yaz asked. The whole thing worried her, mostly that I wouldn't manage to make it back.

I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. At 31, she was still the same vivacious, happy, playful, girl I had married 13 years ago, and fallen in love with years before that. Her black hair still tossed around as she talked, her smile still beaming, and her brown eyes still glowing. Age had served her well, at least physically. Mentally? Well if she was an adult at age 12 ... Yeah.

"Don't worry," I told her, "If I don't come back, all you have to do is kill me."

She frowned. She was worried. But I was going to do this thing.

I changed into some carefully researched everyday clothing for the wealthy from that period, loaded the extra needed equipment into the greatly compromised rear cargo compartment, and shut the rear door. The only thing I had to prove I was from the future was a 2025 $2 bill.

I kissed my Yaz good bye, got into the time machine, and drove out of there. I drove my German Military brick to a place not far from Monticello, and played with the time controls. In a moment, the world quickly changed around me, and I found myself, thankfully, not far from a dirt road. Using a map, I drove to within a mile of Moticello, and got out of the car.

For this endeavor I had developed a camouflage tent that would quickly pop up and go over the vehicle, and use video images to make it seem as if it wasn't even there. I hid it under that tent and walked to Monticello.

I knocked on the door, and what I assume was a slave girl opened the door.

"I'd like to speak to Mister Jefferson," I said.

"May I ask your name?" I was very surprised. She sounded distinctly British. Then I realized that so closely connected to Britain as the- well, the Colonies, were at the time, of course they would still have accents that seemed British. This was, after all, still part of the British Empire.

"My name is George Clay," I told her.

She nodded, and lead me into what I guess one could call a state room. As much as everything was beautiful, I was amazed by how much it smelled in the house- of shit, of sweat, of ... all kinds of things. I realized that in that day and age, personal hygiene was ... well, at least it was different.

A man entered the room, dressed in finery, and at first I didn't recognize him as Thomas Jefferson. For one thing, he wasn't wearing a powdered wig. And for another, he was only 33 years old. Not old enough to hold the office of President.

"Good day, sir," Jefferson said. I was confused, as his speaking seemed a tad shy. I had assumed he had to be an orator of considerable talent in order to do what he did. But he didn't seem one.

"Mr. Jefferson," I said, "Let me get straight to the point. I have an unusual offer for you. How would you like to see what this country, and the world, is like two hundred and fifty years hence?"

"I think that would be very interesting, sir," he said, "But how do you propose to do that?"

"I have a time machine," I told him.

"What proof do you have of this?" he asked.

I took the two dollar bill out of my pocket and handed it to him.

"Sir, I am from the year 2026," I said, "and this money is from what we call the United States Of America, the country that you will help write a Declaration of Independence for, and two documents of governmental form for. I would like to take you back with me to see what you have wrought."

"I think I would be delighted, but I still must see proof."

"Can you walk a mile?" I asked.

"Of course I can, sir."

"Then lets go."

"How long will I be gone?" he asked.

"To whose perspective?" I responded.

"Ah," he said.

He followed me out of the house to the place where I had put the tent, which I quickly dismantled. He gasped in awe of the vehicle, and I ushered him in to the passengers side seat.

I got in the drivers seat, and started the engine. I then shoved the gear lever and drove back to where I had landed here, the diesel engine's vibration intriguing the man greatly.

Then I put it in park, and fuddled with the time machine's controls. In a moment, the world changed a bit around us, and we were back in the year 2026, at precisely the second I had left. If anyone had been looking, they would have seen a flash, but nothing insanely notable. I drove the mobile bank vault that is the G350 onto the interstate, and brought it up to 80 mph.

"So many people," he said.

"The world has changed so much in the past 250 years, you simply won't recognize it," I told him, "Everything, in ways I can't even explain to you because I couldn't comprehend the change."

Incoming call from Yaz played over the cars speaker system.

I pressed the connection button.

"Josh, have you gotten to Charlottesville yet?" she asked.

"I'm already back," I told her, "I got him sitting right next to me. And dear god, he stinks."

She breathed a sigh of what I can only call relief.

"Thank god," she said, "I was afraid I'd never see you again. He stinks?"

"Yaz, do you think I'd give you the chance to kill me?" I said, "And yeah. I guess they have different standards back then."

"Mr. Jefferson?" she asked.

"Yes?" he said, "Where are you?"

"I'm in Pennsylvania," she said, "Near Reading."

"Reading... ?" he asked, "How are you talking?"

"Its called a phone," I told him, "A microphone in the car picks up our voices and turns them into electrical impulses, which are then converted into waves that move through the air to a receiver, which converts them back into electrical impulses, and sends them through wires to a transmitter near Yaz, where it is converted back into radio waves, and is transmitted to her phone, where it is converted back to sound. And vice versa."

"I see," he said, although he was clearly confused.

"Initiate facetime," I said.

"No," said Yaz, "I'm not decent."

"When are you ever?"

"Harumph," she said, and hung up.

"I thought your name was George," he said.

"Its not," I replied, "Its Josh. Joshua Shlomo Weisenberg, if you want the full name."

"Why didn't you..."

"Because I didn't think a name sounding that Jewish would get past your servants, and would have made you wonder."

I spent some time showing him the various features the car had, like GPS, and then decided to give him some more cultural shock. I picked All Summer Long by Kid Rock from a list of songs.

Jefferson cringed from the heavy loud beat and fast tempo, and then became shocked by the lyrics:

It was Nineteen Eighty-Nine, My thoughts were short, My hair was long,
Caught somewhere between a boy and man,
She was seventeen and she was far from in between,
It was summer time in northern Michigan,

Splashing through the sand bar,
Talking by the campfire,
Its the simple things in life like when and where,
We didn't have no Internet,
But man I never will forget,
The way the moonlight shined upon her hair,

And we were trying different things,
And we were smoking funny things,
Making love out by the lake to our favorite song,
Sipping whisky from the bottle, not thinking about tomorrow,
Singing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long,
Singing Sweet Home Alabama all summer long!

At that point I paused the music.

"What was that?" he asked.

"That was music," I told him.

"That sounded awful."

"Ok," I said, "Try this."