A Timely Investment

Joe didn’t want to go to the careers fair. He had much better things to do with his time…

His mother, however, had no interest in his plans. She already had his clothes ironed and hanging on the handle of his wardrobe.

“Come on, mister. Up.” she said, yanking the covers off him.

He gave an exasperated sigh; one with which she was all too familiar. He didn’t protest. He had learned after years of being made to attend these events; there was no point in protesting. It didn’t matter if he had to go to school on a Saturday. He would simply obey.

After a quick breakfast; dry cereal and a guzzle of milk, he dressed and left for the fair. Joe was sixteen years old. He would be seventeen in just two months. That meant he had to start thinking about what he wanted to do with his life. What path would he venture down? Would he go to University or college and get a degree? Would he pursue joinery as his father did? Truthfully, he didn’t know.

It was his personal opinion that making someone at his tender age decide what it was they were going to do for the rest of their life was incredibly pressurizing. It was strange because he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about school, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving. It was familiar. It was his normality. Joe felt threatened by anything that might screw that up.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. A message popped up.

‘Hey! Enjoy the fair today. Boring! I shouldn’t poke fun; we’re having ours next week. At least we have tomorrow to look forward too! Happy early Valentines’ day! Love you!’

Like with all her messages she’d added a love heart at the end. Chuckling, his fingers patted the screen, frantically forming a reply.

‘LOL. I’ll survive. TBH, tomorrow’s the only thing motivating me right now. I’ll call you tonight! Love you!’

He had been with Katie for two years now. They met during ‘End of Term’ bowling night; when the towns three schools congregated for an inter-school bowling tournament to celebrate the end of the school year. They had got to talking. He left with her number scrawled rather clumsily on a scrap of paper in his coat pocket. He read over his reply then pressed send. He couldn’t wait to spend tomorrow with her. He had it all planned. Every detail. He just had to survive this first.

Despite his anti-education ideals, Joe appreciated the school for being as colorful as it was; every window of its three floors was divided by a different colored slab. You also had a terrific view of the water as you clambered up the steep hill, before crossing at the car park to reception. When he got to reception, he buzzed himself in, spotted the register, scrawled a careless attempt at a signature and made his way to the Assembly Hall. Too bad it was cold and echoic.

One of the teachers, Mrs. Simmons; a grey haired, stern-faced woman with a skinny frame was holding the doors open, greeting students as they entered. Noticing Joe, she smiled.

“Hello there, Joe.” she said, rather unenthusiastically. It wasn’t the sight of him that made her adopt this particular tone; they actually got on pretty well when he had her three times a week for modern studies. He guessed it was the fact that she was contractually obliged to attend this wasteful event, when just like him, she would rather be anywhere else.

“How are you miss?” he asked her.

She sighed. “Just fine I suppose.”

Then she leaned towards him, adopting a hushed whisper. “It’s not like I have an entire season of Brooklyn Nine Nine to catch up on, is it.?”

Joe laughed. “I feel the same, don’t worry.”

She just chuckled and ushered him through the doors.

Walking in, he felt the sudden onset of a bracing chill. The kind produced when a fire door is left open. He zipped up his jacket and scanned his surroundings. It was 10:34am, the clock above the store cupboard told him. The event would last until 12:30. There was no way in hell he was going to stay the full two hours, so he decided he would stay an hour, for his own sanity but also so that his mom couldn’t say he didn’t give a toss about his future. He decided he’d just work his way round, ask the person at the booth a few questions to create the illusion of genuine interest; maybe take a few leaflets while he was at it. There must’ve been about twenty-something stalls; Coast Guard, police force, a few local charities, fire department.

His tactic actually worked, because after he’d snagged a leaflet from a beefy man in a knitted sweater who’d had been telling him about how to pursue carpentry, it was 11:37.

“Thank God.” he whispered aloud. He’d kept his promise. He’d attended the event to appease his mother and made sure he’d stayed near enough an hour, again to appease his mother. All was good. He would go home; get some lunch and he wouldn’t miss any television.

Finding a bench, he added the newest leaflet to his collection, making sure to count them. If he counted twenty-three, that was proof to his mother that he’d visited every stall. Twenty-three there were. As he was leaving, he caught sight of Mrs. Simmons; still planted at the same door welcoming people and bidding them out. She saw him.

“That you been round them all then, Joe?”

“All twenty-three.” he said, proudly patting his backpack. She glared confusingly.

“Twenty-three? I was told twenty-four stalls.”

Joe scanned the hall, but he counted twenty-three.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m certain.” She pointed. Joe’s eyes followed her bony finger.

Then he noticed. Right there, in the corner, isolated from the busy squeeze of the stalls. Alone, sat at a rusty-looking table was a black-haired boy in a school shirt. Joe’s age.

“He looks a bit lonely over there, doesn't he?”

He did. Joe decided he would approach the boy, because he truly did feel sorry for him. He couldn’t fathom exactly what this high school student would be talking about at a careers fair when he looked like he should’ve been in Joe’s position. The boy was not from the school. Joe knew everyone's face pretty well. He must have been from another, although Joe had never seen him at any ‘End of term’ bowling nights.

“Hello.” Joe said. The boy looked up and smiled. The first thing Joe noticed about him was his set of perfect teeth.

“Hey man, how goes it?” the boy said, somewhat overenthusiastically.

“It’s alright.” Joe offered. “So, what is you’ve got going on here?” Joe was asking because there was nothing that give any indication as to why he was here. No banners or leaflets.

The boy laughed. “It’s complicated.”

Joe scoffed. “In what way?” The boy pointed to a small black notebook.

“This.” he said.

“What’s in it?”

There was a scrap of paper poking out, likely a page from another notebook he’d tucked away inside. What’s that?”

“Take a look.”

Joe unfolded the paper, spreading it out on the table. It was a diagram, a sketch. A blueprint? The paper was brown. It had been folded so many times that it looked faded and cracked like skin. A bunch of letters and numbers which meant nothing to Joe littered the page. The diagram had the title: Tempus Fabricas. Latin.

“What’s this? Joe was beyond confused.

“It’s a machine I’m building. I’m here to generate some funding.”

“Funding? What exactly is it you’re building, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A Time Machine.”

Joe laughed. Loud. This boy was an idiot. But Joe was admittedly entertained by his absurd pitch, so he kept playing. “What’s this you’re building, Doc Brown? The Flux Capacitor?”

The boy didn’t laugh. He must’ve known how stupid he sounded, wiring on about time machines. He didn’t seem phased by Joes’ clearly mocking laughter.

“Look, I understand how this sounds. All I need is a fiver.”

“So, if I was to give you funding, you could actually build a legitimate working time machine?”

“Hopefully, yes.”

“This is hilarious, you know. This is the highlight of my week; I’ve got to say.”

“All I need is your signature and address. Just pop it in this book here.”

He opened it. To Joes’ disbelief, the book was filled with signatures. People had actually believed this lunatics story and signed the thing.

“Wait, you’ve got actually got signatures?”

“Yup.”

“And did they invest in your ‘time machine?’

“Yes, actually.”

Joe considered. Then picked up a pen.

“Screw it.”

He gave a signature and an address and was about to hand the boy a fiver, when he backed up again and said “How do I know this time machine will work? How will I know I’m investing my money wisely?”

“You’ll know.”

With that hollow, vague promise, Joe left the table, the school and for home. When he got home, the aroma of sizzling bacon filled his nostrils.

“How was the fair honey?” his mother asked from the kitchen.

“Yeah, it was alright. Went round all the stalls. ALL of them, by the way. You can count the leaflets. And I also invested in a time machine.” He couldn’t say it without chuckling.

“What did you say?”

“Never mind.” he said.

“Oh, I just remembered. A letter came for you. Just after you left. I left it on the coffee table.”

“Ok.”

“I hope you’re not in any trouble?”

She was joking, of course, but Joe couldn’t think of anything else it could be. He picked up the envelope. On the front were scrawled his details. Delicately, he ripped it open and read the letter inside:

Dear Joe Thomason.

I hope this letter has reached you well

If my calculations are correct, you will be reading this on 26th February 2021, having just arrived from your school’s ‘Careers Event.’

I want to personally thank you for investing $5 into my time machine. As you can see, I was not bullshitting. I never bullshit.

As promised, enclosed with this letter is the $5 you gave me ten years ago when I was merely a boy sitting at that stall. Or twenty minutes ago, depending on how you look at it. Time is a complex thing.

It was nice meeting you Joe. Without you, this machine, which has taken up a decade of my life, would not be possible.

Kind regards

Daryl Harris.

PS. As a thank you, I wanted to share my profits made from the device equally with all 103 who invested. As one of those people, I am gifting you your share of the time machine. Should’ve arrived with the letter.

Joe almost dropped the letter when he heard the doorbell. He opened the door to a tall bearded man in postman’s attire. He smiled as he handed a small parcel to Joe.

“Here you are, son. Have a nice day now.”

“Thanks.” Joe said. Like it was Christmas morning, Joe opened the parcel. Inside, was a small black notebook; identical to the one in which he’d given his name and address to the boy.

“For ideas.” it read on a post-it note stuck to the front. “They can come at any moment, so it's always good to have somewhere to jot them down. They can change the world.”

Joe noticed something else inside. A tiny wooden box, like the kind his sister had on her dresser. He lifted the lid. Inside, a check. To him, for….

$20,000

Joe almost fainted.

So, what was that letter about?” his mother called.

“Oh, you know, the usual junk mail. Scammers trying to sell you things, take your money.”

“Yeah, what a waste of time these things are.”

Joe just smiled.