Category: Fiction Factor

While puttering down the Industrial Highway in his vintage 2030 Continental Roadster, it suddenly occurred to Clint that he had gotten Ranger, his mutt, exactly eight years ago on this very day. It was June 11, 2058, when he spotted the trembling animal on the side of the road, yet another innocent victim of the AmeriTech War.

The dog was wheezing, it appeared to be suffering from conjunctivitis, and its hair was matted and dirty.

Clint could relate.

He tended to wheeze and his eyes were constantly itchy, too. Plus, what hair he had left was wiry and unruly, and at 72 his old man aches and pains were, well, extremely achy and quite painful. But the dog needed a home, Clint had one to share, and the two bonded quickly.

Some TLC – and a special ointment courtesy of a  veterinarian friend – took care of the doggo’s eye issues, and a warm bath in an oversized tub (along with slow, careful combing) revealed a relatively healthy, brown coat.

While drying off the furball, Clint came up with the name “Ranger,” mainly because it reminded him of an ice hockey team he cheered for during the bygone era of professional sports. And besides, “Ranger” is just a damn good dog name.

Man and beast became inseparable, and Clint wanted to make sure Ranger was happy. Over the first few years, there was nothing the critter enjoyed more than a furious, flared-nostril run through a grassy field, followed by a half can of wet food. More recently, though, it was a leisurely ride in  a wheeled transport that made him the happiest.

It was especially enjoyable these days because the war was over, the Mammonicans had been driven from power, and Clint no longer had to worry about being stopped by renegade patrols demanding passage tax.

And there was no one to make him present his Animal Ownership License and submit Ranger to a painful distemper shot.

Many of the old houses and office buildings had been destroyed in the decades-long conflict, but the skies were again clear and the countryside greener – and showing signs of new growth. Better yet, while much had changed throughout the years, a dog hanging its head out of the window and smiling into the wind was not one of them.

It was good for the dog’s health and good for the old man’s soul.

But Clint was now 80, and he had no idea how old Ranger was. The dog had turned white around the eyes and mouth, and Clint liked to think he and his best friend were roughly the same age, body-wise.

Clint had noticed over the past year that both his and Ranger’s naps were longer, and each day it seemed more difficult to rise from the comfort of a well-worn bed. He just wasn’t sure how much longer he could take care of his buddy.

Sadly, he realized their time together was coming to a close.

It never seemed fair, ending a friendship with an IV injection. Sometimes it seemed like the right thing to do, and the humane choice. But then moments later he’d find himself throwing a ragged old toy at Ranger, who’d grab it, shake it vigorously, and sometimes even bring it back to Clint in hopes of another throw-and-catch.

Earlier that morning, however, Clint packed the toys away in a wicker storage bin and loaded them into the Continental Roadster.

The ride would be their last together, and as Clint pulled into the parking spot, he leaned over, gave Ranger a big kiss on the head and said, “I love you, buddy.”

He lifted the bin out of the back seat and placed it on the sidewalk next to the car. Moments later, a vehicle pulled up next to him.

“You must be Clint,” said the slightly built woman. “I’m Sarah … you called about Ranger.”

“Oh, yes,” Clint said, forcing a weak smile. “I have all his papers and toys in this box. He’s a good dog … a real good dog.”

Sarah opened the door, put a leash around Ranger’s neck, and gently rubbed his head.

“Hey there, buddy,” she said. “We’re gonna go to your new home now.”

Clint was caught off guard as the woman – now teary-eyed – gave him a hug.

“You gave him a great life,” she said. “And I’ll give him one, too. I want you know that.”

Clint nodded.

“I know you will,” he said. “And he deserves it, because he made my life great, too. Anyway, goodbye Sarah … and take care of my boy.”

Clint gave his dog one last look, and then headed toward the entrance of the Kevorkian/Quill Clinic.

Like many sports fans, Buzz Chance has his game day superstitions.

Any time the Baltimore Express hits the basketball court – and Buzz isn’t at Mobtown Arena to cheer them on live – his den served as his own personal luxury suite.

The well-worn yellow Camelback sofa is situated six feet away from the wall-mounted television, and above the TV is a faded red, black and silver Express pennant.

The square side table to the right of the couch features a big bowl full of chips and a smaller one overflowing with mixed nuts. And ice cold beer is just an arms-length away, thanks to the old, battered blue cooler parked on the floor.

But the good luck charm is his dad, who occupies the threadbare easy chair nestled in the corner of the room.

Watching the Express together is a longstanding tradition, one that began when Buzz was just a child. He still remembers snuggling next to his father in the Buick Riviera and taking their 15-mile journey to Mobtown Arena back in 1972. Although their seats were of the “nosebleed” variety, that was just a minor detail.

For the first time, Buzz was getting to see his beloved basketball team up close and in person.

He could still remember wolfing down two hot dogs and what seemed like a washtub-sized vat of popcorn as the Express made quick work of the Austin Jammers.

Buzz recalled the final score being Baltimore 113, Austin 104, but his dad never could seem to settle on the final.

“That first game was a fun one, wasn’t it?” his father would say when reminiscing about the outing. “I think Baltimore won 115 to 100, or something like that.”

“It was 113-104, dad,” Buzz would reply. “Like they say, you never forget your first time. I remember you buying me that pennant and me having a stomach ache from all that popcorn I ate. And I’ll always remember that score.

“Are you sure? Because I really thought it was 120-112, or something like that.”

The subject would come up several different times over the years, and Buzz’s dad always remembered the final tally differently. Only during the dawn of the internet age did Buzz finally convince his father – sort of.

“Look here,” Buzz said, clacking away at the clunky home computer after the noisy dual-up connection was complete. “This has all the Express information dating back to the first year of the franchise in 1968. See … Express 113, Jammers 104, November 17, 1972.”

His dad ambled over to the “computer machine,” raised his eyeglasses and leaned in.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Well, I guess you’re right. But I coulda sworn it was 118-110 … or something like that.”

More than 50 years later, the Express and Jammers were back at it, this time in Game 4 of the Continental Division playoffs.

Growing up, Buzz always perched on the couch and his dad plopped in his easy chair when the two watched games together. The tradition took a break when Buzz went to college and in the early days of his marriage, but ultimately it continued when his father moved in with Buzz and his wife back in 2020.

His dad was too feeble to actually go to games by then, but he still enjoyed following the Express on television.

And on this night, Buzz guzzled beer, shoveled in snacks, cussed a little and cheered a lot as the Express hung on for a 107-99 road win, evening the series at two games apiece.

Once the game ended, he turned off the TV, walked over to the easy chair and carefully lifted up the urn with his father’s remains. Once placed back in its usual spot on the mantle of the fireplace, Buzz smiled.

“Thanks for helping pull ‘em through against the Jammers again, Pop,” he said. “Still wasn’t as good as that time you took me to my first game, though. Remember? Baltimore 113, Austin 104 … or something like that.”

The eighth graders gathered around the flagpole at Alan Shepard Elementary School were in a festive mood. Not only was the 1975 academic year down to its last day – meaning it was all play and no work for students and teachers alike – but each of them had a chance to leave a lasting mark.

Jenny Franks, who taught history, had decided to let the Class of ’75 live on in the form of a time capsule.

Just outside the concrete base of the flagpole was a hole dug by some members of the football team, and Franks and her fellow teachers had gathered up sturdy metal containers to place items in. Each student was asked to bring something that represented themselves and their interests, and it would be put in a box and buried. A plaque would mark the spot.

Fifty years later – on May 14, 2025 – the hope was that the school would still be in operation and the time capsule uncovered.

“OK, kids, gather round,” Franks said, motioning the future high schoolers to come forward. “What we’re doing today is giving up a small part of our past so the people in the future will know a little bit about our lives here in 1975. I know 50 years seems really far off, and it is a half a century from now. But guess what? I hope all of you will be able to come back and take part in the unveiling. By then a lot of you will be close to retiring, and you can bring your kids and grandkids here to see what you contributed to our time capsule project.”

The students carefully eyed the various containers. Danny Childs, who was practically standing in the hole, raised his hand.

“Miss Franks, may I go first?”

“Sure Danny, what’ve you got for us?”

Danny produced an eight-track tape of Bob Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks.”

“Normally I would keep this, but it drags,” Danny said. “And since I’ve already got the album, I decided to put this in the time capsule. I doubt anyone will even know who he is 50 years from now.”

Phil Priester was next, offering up a white plastic cup sporting a purple and gold Minnesota Vikings logo.

“My uncle brought me a bunch of these because he went to the Super Bowl earlier this year in New Orleans,” he said. “The Vikings lost to Pittsburgh, but they’ll have a lot of Super Bowl wins by 2025.”

The types of artifacts varied greatly from child to child, from the novel “Tuck Everlasting” to comic books, as well as oddities like pool balls. There was even a pewter belt buckle in the shape of the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile gifted to posterity.

However, it was the donations of best friends (and science whizzes) Charlotte Spazio and Astrid Weltraum that intrigued Franks the most. The two had been inseparable ever since Astrid transferred to the school back in September, 1974.

Charlotte was parting with the February, 1975, edition of “Popular Science” magazine, while Astrid handed over a manilla folder – taped closed – with the words “For Charlotte. Do not open until May 14, 2025” written on the front.

“Why this particular edition of the magazine, Charlotte?” Franks asked.

“There’s an article about the HTGR … the High-Temperature Gas-Cooled Reactor,” she replied. “They say it’s a safer alternative to nuclear power as it currently exists. As you know, I want to be a scientist, and I hope to be able to look back 50 years from now and see how far we’ve come … what advancements we’ve made.”

Franks nodded and smiled, and then turned her attention to Astrid.

“OK, Astrid, I’ve got to ask, what’s in the envelope? I mean, this is a pretty specific item to be putting into a time capsule.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Miss Franks,” Astrid said, waving to Charlotte as her friend wandered away to talk to some other students.

“Try me.”

“Are you sure? Because after I tell you, you’re never going to think of me the same way again. Well, not for another half century, anyway.”

Franks couldn’t imagine what the 13-year-old was about to reveal, but now she had to know.

“I promise,” Franks said. “No matter what you tell me, I’ll believe you.”

Astrid pursed her lips and thought for a couple of seconds.

“Well, we’re about to make the jump anyway, so here goes. My family and I are interdimensional beings, which allows us to travel through space and time in ways humans can’t grasp. But part of our work is to find ways to help you help yourselves whenever possible. Charlotte is a genius. And 50 years from now, she’s going to be one of the most well-known scientists on the planet. When she opens my envelope, she’ll see instructions on how to construct a time machine – an actual, working time machine. No one else could understand those instructions, but she will, and she’ll immediately get busy making it operational. Of course, she’ll change the course of your history in the process.”

Franks stood in stunned silence. She had no idea how to respond to Astrid, who seemed completely sincere.

“Don’t worry,” Astrid said. “You’ll live to see it. And like millions of other people across the world, you’ll be glad you did. Believe me when I tell you you’ll want to get out of 2025 as fast as you possibly can.”