The Decameron 2.0

Day 7.2 Humor - A DEADBEAT'S GUIDE TO TIME TRAVEL masheena

Disclaimer: no cats were harmed in the creation of this story.

A fluorescent light stuttered to life in the workroom. Dusty shelves full of books, disks and old computers lined two of the four walls. The third was just a wide door that led out to the sitting room with the bedroom attached. It was a small place, but it sufficed for Paul's needs. The fourth wall was just plain brick. Beneath it sat a desk, and at the desk sat Paul.

Gray whiskers stuck out along his pale jawline, coming to meet a full head of hair that was somewhere between wood-colored and steel-colored. It was so messy, it looked like it could have gotten mussed up and filled with pencil shavings and wires on purpose just to fit his mad scientist persona. That was what all his students had called him, and eventually his wife. Paul knew he was mad by most people's definition, but most people hadn't invented time travel.

Somber, mud-colored eyes flicked to the beer bottle. Oh, how he used to drink such fancy champagne. He'd hated the bubbles and the sharp taste of it, but now, with everyone else gone, he drank all the beer he wanted.

Standing, bones cracking in old and new places, Paul drained the last of the beer. His Adam's apple lifted and fell and then he smacked his lips together to savor the last drops.

He picked up the small, round disk that served as his time travel machine, which he dubbed Rapizon 3000. Tossing it toward the ground, you'd expect the thing to bang off the cement floor and prove just how drunk Paul really was, but instead, it came to a hovering position a few feet away. A three-dimensional trapezoid, electric blue in color, popped into existence above the Rapizon.

He placed the beer bottle on the desk and stepped into the Rapizon. He didn't close his eyes, but everything went black anyway. Sound and smell ceased. He didn't exist anywhere anymore, except that hardly two seconds later, the Rapizon spat him back out in his workroom, thirty minutes prior.

Smiling, he walked over to the desk where the beer bottle sat, completely full again as it had been a half hour ago. There'd only ever been one bottle of beer, but he'd drunk five so far that day. Millions of dollars sat in his bank account, but he considered it a huge joke to the science community if he lived his life frugally instead.

"It's the little things, isn't it?" Paul asked himself, his voice strange in the utter silence. He sat down again to resume his work. The photo album stared up at him. There was a whole page that his daughter, Danielle, had dedicated to gluing pictures and letters cut from magazines and newspapers into some haphazard collage. Squinting at all the different fonts, Paul read a collection of names surrounded by pictures of ribbons, flowers and cats. The names read: Sprinkle, Mr. Fluffy, Bobo, Remy and Duchess. He bit his lip, feeling that unfamiliar sensation of guilt stirring in his stomach. All of those cats had taken trips through the Rapizon while he was testing it, and it seemed Danielle had remembered each of their names just to make this dedication page to the cats he'd thrown into the machine.

With a grimace, Paul turned the page and saw pictures of his daughter at ballet recitals—when did she take ballet classes?—and piano performances—I don't remember paying for piano lessons. There was a birthday photo. She wore ice skates and a tiara as she blew out the ten candles on her cake.

After a grueling morning of reliving Danielle's childhood and drinking himself silly, Paul finally knew when he wanted to return to: the day she started high school, almost twenty years ago. He blinked at the picture of her standing at the door with her backpack on, a broad smile on her face.

Sighing, Paul stood again and set the timer on the Rapizon to August 11th, 2003. Before jumping in, though, he had to run to the restroom; time travel wasn't exactly easy on the bowels.