Time to decide

Clancy Meadows walked into the lobby of the Moment In Time corporate office with all his paperwork completed and, more importantly, the non-refundable amber token needed to pay for the company’s services.

An “amber” – which amounted to 100 dollars in early American currency – seemed like an extremely cheap price to pay to not only travel through time, but to change it.

But that’s what made Moment In Time so popular. While it didn’t allow extended visits to the past or future, or give clients license to completely rewrite their history, it promised to help them make one adjustment during a relatively specific point in their lives.

In the case of Clancy that point was February 28, 2087. He had been taking guitar lessons for three weeks but baseball season was approaching. If he wanted to try out for the team – and make it – the lessons would have to go.

His guitar teacher worked with him every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 4 p.m., and those times would be in direct conflict with lessons.

So, as 10-year-olds sometimes do, he chose chasing balls in the sun rather than plucking away on a six-string.

Sixty years later, he regretted that decision.

His baseball “career” ended during his second year at Learn Camp when he took a line drive to the knee. The stiffness had only gotten worse as the years went by, and he wondered how different his life would be if he had only learned to shred the axe.

Maybe he wouldn’t have become a rock star, but then again, perhaps that’s exactly what he’d become.

So, instead of choosing baseball, he would continue his lessons.

“Hello, Mr. Meadows, is it? I’m Ross Wilbanks and I’ll be helping you.”

Wilbanks was perched behind an antique desk, and Clancy sat across from him and handed over his papers and token.

“Uh huh … yep,” Wilbanks muttered as he looked them over. “Very good. You’ve got an exact date which helps tremendously. Now, are you familiar with the procedure?”

Clancy shrugged.

“I guess so,” he said. “I assume I go into a room that has that portal thing, undo what I did, and then when I come back through, everything will have changed. I gotta say, it’s kinda creepy, though. Didn’t his building used to be a crematorium?”

Wilbanks smiled.

“It did … a long time ago. Turns out the design makes it perfect for our time travel apparatus,” he said. “Anyway, when you come back through the portal, you’ll have no idea what happened. In fact, chances are, you’ll freak out a bit. So, what we do is inject you with a sedative almost immediately and put you in a recovery room. You’ll be out for 90 minutes to an hour and when you come to, we’ll have an associate there to explain who you are and what you went through.”

Clancy frowned.

“Explain who I am?” he asked. “You mean I’m not gonna have any memory of this life? What about my wife and kids? And friends.”

Wilbanks grabbed the token and began rolling it with his fingers.

“Mr. Meadows, time travel is extremely complex,” he said. “So many people seem to think they can relive their life, yet still maintain memories from a life they already lived. Think about it … if you change the arc of your life, this – you right here, right now – won’t exist. The person who comes back through the portal will be the person who made the decision to play guitar, not play baseball. Will you marry the same woman? I have no idea. Will you have kids? Maybe, maybe not.”

“But,” Clancy said, “if I don’t marry the same woman, I won’t have the same kids. Are you saying there’s a chance my kids won’t exist if I go back?”

Wilbanks raised his eyebrows.

“Well, yes,” he said. “That’s one of the by-products of time travel. It’s not just your time that changes, it’s everyone you interacted with. But look at it this way, if your kids are never born, it’s not like they’ll miss being alive. Plus, how cool will it be to know you chased the dream you should’ve chased to begin with? You might even find out you’re famous and wealthy.”

Clancy stood up and began rubbing his forehead.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “I didn’t realize … I didn’t think about how this might affect other people. Just throw the paperwork away. And since the token is non-refundable, I’m just gonna chalk it up to a lesson learned. Goodbye.”

Wilbanks watched his client leave the building before pressing the small button beneath his desk.

“Telford,” he said. “How many tokens have we collected today?’

There was a slight pause.

“Looks like … 47. No … 48.”

“Not bad. Not bad at all. Did anybody go through with it?

“Just one guy. I gave him every opportunity to walk away but he was determined.”

Wilbanks sighed.

“OK. Well, just incinerate the body and tell whoever he listed as a contact that he chose not to return from the past. You know, Telford, one of these days people might just get wise to the fact that time travel isn’t a thing. Until then, I’m just gonna keep counting the tokens.

“You ready for lunch? I could eat.”