You’re sitting comfortably in 1968 and you hear the unmistakable sound of a Mac rebooting, Steve Jobs chosen chime that woke up thousands upon thousands with late night restarts.
So, there are at least two people who shouldn’t be in that time. Or are there more?
Protocol dictates immediate action. I check for frequencies ranging from about 800MHz into the multi core speeds and find the signal of a Mac, circa 2001, either an iBook or TiBook. Also called the IceBook, as compared to the DeLorean of turn of the millennium laptops.
I can see it’s in the far corner in a bag next to someone who looks like he’s from 2001 but not obviously out of place. Subtle bits like frames from designers born in the 70s.
But your companions are from 1968 and you’ve got to get to that TiBook.
Shit, it rebooted again.
“What’s your true year?”
“You know, you lose track.”
Surprised, she attacks, “how could you forget your true year?”
“Hey, it comes and goes.”
“Do your recall code.”
Now he’s surprised. “Why?”
“Just to find your year. You can come right back.”
Shamed, he speaks the command and in his place appears something of a percentage of him, never the whole man.
He awakes in a prison cell.
“Is he gone, then?”
Stunned, she muttered, “who?”
Dismissively, he retorted, “me, I mean my original.”
He pauses, then says, “damn, I’ve been away for 23 hours and 18 minutes, so…”
Slamming his hand on the table, he barks, “he fucked Susie last night.”
Even more stunned, she stumbles, “Susie?”
“Yeah, I’ve been waiting for weeks.” He paused. “Makes since he’d come back for that.”
“Want to go to 1920 with me?”
“What’s in 1920?”
“Carl Mays kills Ray Chapman.”
They step through a doorway and they’re in another time and in different clothes walking out of a men’s room in Ebbets Field.
It’s hot and they’ve been noticed.
“Sorry, that entrance was designed for me.”
They move away.
“How does he kill him?”
“It’s getting dark, the baseball will be dirty and hard to see.”
“Yeah, cigar spit, dirt, whatever.”
“What’s your interest?”
“The only man killed playing baseball. Gets beaned in the left temple, hemorrhages, stumbles and falls down. Dies after midnight. Tonight.”
“So, you’re a sportsmen?”
“No, just curious.”