Shortcut

Jerry Bedford smiled across the desk at his boss, Maynard Hanson. “Yes, sir, it was good to have you tour our facility. I hope you had a good experience. Since my car is in the shop today, I’ll get one of my people to take you back to the airport.”

Jerry rose quickly and stepped into the hall. He frowned. Hanson had kept them late and now, on a payday Friday at the start of a three-day weekend, there was no one left in the office. He was about to turn when he heard the clicking of a keyboard from the far corner of the room, then noticed the dim glow of a desk lamp. His frown remained as the creases on his forehead deepened. ‘Not Smith,’ he thought.

Smith was a bright young analyst, competent in his work but not social inept enough to leave alone with clients. He once pointed at fifty years old, Mrs. Doris Martin’s bulging waistline and asked when her baby was due. Yet another time he released this five-second long fart in a crowded elevator, which included his department head, Miriam Frakes. Since he farted shortly after the doors slid closed on the first floor, and they were heading for the tenth floor, they all had to endure the smell for several minutes. Smith was the last person Jerry would choose to take his Regional Vice President back to the airport.

He walked halfway down the main aisle, listening and hoping that he would find one of his other employees. ‘Jenson, why couldn’t it be Margret Jenson?’ he thought. ‘She is a social butterfly. She arranged all their potlucks and birthday parties, and had been selected to head up the company Christmas party last year. Jenson would have been the ticket, but Smith…’

Mr. Hanson stepped into the hall and looked down the aisle. “Is there a problem, Bedford? Tick-tock and all, that plane’s not going to wait for me.”

“No sir, no problem at all.” He looked to the back corner. “Smith!”

Several papers shot up from the other side of the cubical, there was a sound of something falling- possibly breaking- then John Clayton Smith popped above the wall of the divider like a meerkat looking for an approaching viper.

“Yes, sir!” he chirp raggedly, sounding like a boy only a week into puberty.

“Uh, Smith, I need you to take Mr. Hanson here to the airport. He needs to be there by six so you have a little less than an hour, though it should only take you forty-five minutes. Keep the mileage records for reimbursement, and I’ll let you take off an hour early tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” he said straight faced.

Jerry glanced at the carpet wondering if he was making a good decision. He took a deep breath and spoke on the exhale. “Yes, you’re right of course. Monday, an hour off Monday.”

“Monday is a holiday,” he said, almost robotic.

Bedford felt the heat rise in his cheeks. “Tuesday? An hour off Tuesday?”

Smith didn’t answer, just continued to look at his boss from the far side of the room.

“Great, Tuesday it is.”

Smith continued to stare.

“You need to leave.”

Smith held his position.

“Now,” Bedford encouraged.

Smith nodded curtly, then dropped behind his desk for five seconds. There were sounds of shuffling papers and desk drawers closing, then his desk light went out. He popped up again, this time wearing a light brown straw fedora, and proceeded down the walkway to the front. Stopping a couple feet away from Mr. Hanson, he glanced at his boss then back at Hanson in what reminded Bedford of a bird assessing the situation, a chicken perhaps.

Mr. Hanson raised an eyebrow in annoyance, then raised his arm, offering the small suitcase to Smith. “Would you like to carry my bag to the car?”

Smith smiled, “No thank you.” He turned and walked to the stairwell, opened the door which slammed against the wall. Both men listened to Smith”s steps as a fading echo.

“Bedford, what the hell?” Hanson asked, his face contorted like an angry Shar Pei.

“Uh, sir, I have no excuse,” Bedford gasped. “He always parks in the second row of the parking lot. Let me get your bag and we’ll take the elevator down.”

****

In the parking lot, John Smith sat in his car, a rebuilt 1956 Chevy 210 4-door, 6-passenger Station Wagon. The windows were down and the hatch back up. Jerry Bedford laid Mr. Hanson’s bag in the back and closed the tail gate hatch.

Hanson opened the bright green back passenger door, the sun gleaming off the trim. The gleam seemed to catch his eye and he paused to look up and down the length of the car. He pursed his lips, then with a slight shrug, he climbed into the back seat.

Jerry walked up the side of the car to the driver’s window, the only one still rolled up. He tapped on the glass but Smith simply looked at him through the window, reminding Bedford of two weeks ago when he took his grand kids to the Aquarium. The edges of Bedford’s mouth swung up as he briefly wondered which side of the display Smith would think himself.

‘Roll the window down,’ Bedford mouthed, using hand motions, and Smith complied as he put the car in reverse and began to roll backward. Jerry walked with the car for a few steps, “Remember, he has to be there by 6 o’clock because he has to go through TSA and…” He never finished, Smith nodded and pulled away, leaving Jerry Bedford staring at the back of the sedan, with a wrinkled forehead, and a question his eyes.

****

The two men said nothing for the first 10 minutes. Hanson saw movement from the front seat and raised his head from the article, “Finding Your Mid-level Niche.” He watched Smith reach over and turn the knob of the huge radio, making a loud click. Music began to play, increasing in volume as the old radio tubes warmed. He recognized it as “Midnight Serenade” and smiled. “Ah, Glenn Miller, it never gets old does it?”

“No sir,” Smith said, his voice toneless, “since time is static- in a given universe- laid out in a single line continuum, it is neither old nor new.”

He looked into the rear-view mirror. “I’m sorry?”

Smith didn’t replied.

“Smith,” Hanson said loudly.

Smith jerked and looked into the mirror.

“What was that about incontinence?”

“Incontinence, what? No, sir, continuum. I was saying that each event in time is located and locatable on time continuum, a time line. It need only be accessed.”

Hanson wrinkled his brow, ‘What is this nutbag babbling about?’

Smith continued to stare into the mirror. “Of course, humans are not capable of accessing the continuum, at least not without help. Fortunately, the technology to do so is fairly near, at least from a time perspective, just one hundred years.”

Mr. Hanson had still not registered the subject of the conversation when the unmistakable thump, thump, thump of a tire going flat vibrated the car.

Smith pulled the vehicle to the roadside. “I’m fond of this old thing but this happens more than I’d like. Be back in a jiffy,” he said, jumping from the car with the keys. The tail gate popped open and Hanson gently rocked back and forth in his seat as Smith wrestled the large spare tire from its place. For all Mr. Hanson’s annoyance, and with the possibility of having to take a later flight, he had to hand it to Smith, he was a crack tire changer. In less than fifteen minutes they were pulling back out on the highway.

“Well, I probably should have used a taxi,” Hanson said, in undisguised irritation.

Smith moved his eyes to the mirror as Mr. Hanson was lowering his, then swung his eyes back to the road, seconds before flipping on the right turn signal. Hanson looked up in time to see the sign for the airport pointing the opposite direction slide past the car.

“Smith, what are you…”

“Shortcut,” Smith said.

“I hardly think going the opposite direction can create a shortcut.”

Smith was quiet.

Hanson looked at his watch. “Mr. Smith, I have exactly fourteen minutes to reach the airport before my plane leaves. This means I have to check in, get my bag and myself inspected by TSA, then make it to the gate.”

Smith said nothing.

“Fourteen minutes, Smith, no, thirteen and a few seconds. Turn around.”

Smith looked over his shoulder and smiled. “As I said, time is pretty irrelevant in the big picture.”

They pulled up to a stop light and Mr. Hanson looked at his watch, eleven minutes.

Suddenly, Smith spoke, almost in a spasm. “There are really only two functional problems… with touching the points in the continuum…”

“Smith, I could really care less about your time babble. Get me to the airport!”

Smith seemed to ignore him. “One needs a blank spot in the earth’s magnetic field. Or if not blank, very low, say… .2 Gauss. The earth’s average low is about .38 Gauss so one must find a weak spot. If one knew about these, and their usefulness, one could find and map them.

John looked into the mirror and noticed Mr. Hanson’s face was several shades redder than it should be, but continued his lecture. “The second thing one must have to touch those points on the time continuum is a device that places one outside of one’s present point on the continuum, allowing one to see the time line and pick a destination point. This device isn’t as huge as one might think, but it is too big to carry, and too heavy.”

A block later, the bar lowered at a train track as a slow moving freight train began to pass.

“Smith,” Hanson said, exasperated, “you really are some kind of stupid.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you…”

Hanson looked at his watch, “I have missed my flight. My plane is taxing down the runway, even as we speak. Now, I’ll need to try to fly standby, or stay an extra night.”

Smith smiled into the mirror. “This is a very nice little city, places to eat, we even have a museum and a…”

“Smith, not only are you a moron, but I will recommend to Bedford that you be an unemployed moron! Through your decision to take your idiotic ‘shortcut,’ you have cost both the company and me time and money.”

“Mr. Hanson, you should calm down before you blow one of those veins bulging in your neck.”

Hanson’s eyes went wide and he slapped the back of the seat, hard. “Smith, take me back to the office, now. I want to personally supervise your expulsion from the company and removal from the premises.

“No sir, I said I would get you to the airport on time and I will not fail.” He lifted his index finger as an exclamation.

Hanson looked at Smith, and then lowered his head, mentally and emotionally tired. “Smith, we are now fifteen minutes passed time. You HAVE failed, and further more I…”

Smith waved his hand excitedly. “Hold on sir, we are here.”

They had driven to the far side of town where there were few houses, and many of the fields contained roaming cattle. He pulled onto a dirt lane that ran between opposing lines of trees, both sides hanging over the road, creating a dark leafy tunnel.

Mr. Maynard Hanson looked around at their location, then back at his driver. An odd smile began to creep across Smith’s face and Hanson started to sweat. “Uh, Smith, perhaps I have let my emotions get the better of me. I know you were trying to do your best to get me to my destination… uh, you simply got distracted, took a wrong turn, whatever, no harm no foul.”

Smith did nothing.

Hanson smiled and leaned forward. “Say, let’s go back to the office and perhaps you, Bedford and I could go get a drink together. What do you say?”

Smith seemed to  ignore Hanson and instead concentrated on an area of the large dashboard. He reached up and pressed a solid piece of dashboard and a quiet buzz sounded as the plastic spun around to display a small screen and several buttons.

Hanson leaned forward. “What is that, built in GPS? I think if we just turn around I can get us back to the building.”

The screen lit up and several lines displayed forming a tic-tac-toe board. The lines moved in and out shrinking and enlarging the center square. A large number appeared in one corner that fluctuated between .19Gs and .22Gs. “Just about there,” Smith said.

The lines began pulling in toward the center slowly shrinking the center square. When the number indicated .20, the lines stopped moving and the numbers turned green.

“Alright,” Smith said, looking over his shoulder, his mouth held a maniacal grin, “here goes.”

Hanson’s eyes flew open as Smith pushed a button on the dashboard panel and he felt a vibration in his seat, his stomach pinched and his vision blurred. “Uh, Smith, I’m not sure you…”

Mr. Maynard Hanson never finished, all the color in his surroundings faded and the air became prickly as a smell of ozone permeated car’s interior. He looked out his window and for the briefest second as the world blurred. It reminded Hanson of that science fiction movie he had watched with his grandson, when they showed the space ship traveling at light speed.

He looked to his left and saw Smith sitting in what was the empty seat next to him. Jerking his head back to the front, he also saw that Smith sat in the driver’s seat. He was in both seats. Hanson shook his head, as if to clear his vision, but it didn’t, in fact, his vision went black and all was quiet and still.

***

Maynard Hanson was dreaming about his vacation in Tampa last year. Then he realized that he shouldn’t be dreaming at all. A light began to bloom, then a squeak, then a woman’s voice said something that ended with, “… your bags, sir?”

He snapped back to consciousness, feeling like what he imagined a rubber band might feel when stretched to far and held. He realized he was standing at a counter, a woman in an airline uniform stood in front of him. “What?” he asked.

Her smiled broadened, “I asked you if you were doing well and did you have any bags to check.”

Hanson looked around. He was at the airport, standing at the check-in counter, ticket raised to hand to the airline agent. She took it before he could pull it back.

“No, I will need a new ticket. I missed my flight at six o’clock,” he said, “that one is no good.”

The ticket agent looked at the ticket, checked her watch and smiled. “No sir, that flight leaves in thirty minutes, you have plenty of time. Can you set your bag up here for me?” She indicated the low flat metal scale to his right.

He paused, checked his watch, and shook his head. “But I was late. That damned Smith… he got us lost and…”

“Yes, sir, very frustrating I’m sure, but everything is fine now.” the Ticket agent said patiently. “If you could just sit your bag up here for me that would be great.”

Hanson looked at his watch again, then back at the agent.

“Hey, pal,” a large male thirty-something said from behind, “you gonna take the flight or not? The rest of us want to get to the gate.”

Hanson looked at the younger man, then back at the agent, then rolled his bag to the counter and passed it through.

“Thank you.” She said with practiced politeness. “Now, here is your boarding pass and if you could just step over there,” she indicated the luggage belt and x-ray machine where a man and woman in security uniforms stood, “those nice people will ensure you are taken care of and you enjoy a safe trip.” She smiled again and emphasized this by thrusting her hand in the direction of the TSA Agents.

Mr. Hanson moved slowly, almost a shuffle. He replayed the previous trip in his head. ‘My boarding time was at six. I left the office at three-fifteen, we spent ten minutes on the road and fifteen minutes patching the tire, so say, twenty minutes left. Then we took that turn, got lost, and ended up near some cow pastures, then turned onto that dirt road, and I looked at my watch and it was about thirty minute or so after six. Then I was standing at the counter with thirty minutes to go before boarding… not possible, not at all possible.’

“Excuse me sir, what did you say, what’s not possible?”

Hanson realized he was standing in the x-ray machine with his arms up. “Oh, nothing… just… nothing.”

“Are you feeling okay, sir? You look a little pale.”

He looked at the female agent, noticed a yellow smiley face pin attached to her identification badge, and smiled. “Nothing is wrong, just ready to get home.”

“Well, maybe you should grab something to eat at the snack bar near your gate. It could be a blood sugar thing.”

“Well, I don’t know…”

She looked at her watch, “Your flight leaves in twenty minute, so you have plenty of time.”

Mr. Maynard Hanson, Regional Vice President laughed aloud, and it felt good. “Yes, yes I do at that, thank you.”