The Here and Now

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As Livermore fussed with my straps and electrodes, I looked up into his bland pink face and said, “I’m tired of wars. I think I’ll switch to literary crowds. They have more sex, and the food is better.”

He chuckled softly and turned to attend The Kid, who lay on the gurney next to mine. The time machine—only pompous buttheads ever called it a chronotron, even though it wasn’t a machine to move us through time but one that helped us move ourselves—the time machine clicked, ticked, and hummed. The readout counted off minutes, seconds, and tenths of seconds until the most propitious moment for our departure. The Kid looked around Livermore’s elbow and said, “You nervous?”

I glanced sharply at him. “What makes you think I’m nervous?”

He indicated the ceiling. “You sure look nervous up there.” The time machine’s ceding and walls were shiny metal. I could see my reflection: with all the wires and whatnot, I looked like a retired math teacher who’d wandered into an old Frankenstein movie. The Kid was up there, too, looking young enough (but not handsome enough or smart enough) to be my grandson. He grinned a grin that had a sneer tucked away in one corner. “What’s there to worry about?”

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