Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club, Book II

by Robert P McAuley

  MaryLu went to the office where John had worked and saw a stack of typed pages. She took them to Donald Holdz and told him about Brand’s strange departure. He took the story, lit a cigarette and sat back to read it.

  John returned to The 1800 Club, and as the taxi stopped at the back garden he saw a group of men pulling weeds from the grounds. He sent a text message to Bill.

  “BILL, PLEASE OPEN UP. I’M DOWN IN THE GARDEN AND READY TO RETURN. DATE: MAY 9, 1938, 5 PM. JOHN.”

  Two minutes later Bill opened the garden door. The workers looked at him briefly, then returned to their work. He waved John over, and they both went upstairs to 2011.

  DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

  “How did it go?” he asked John.

  “Fine. It was tough seeing people that you knew pretty intimately, who didn’t even have a clue who you were.”

  Bill nodded. “Believe me, you never really get used to that.”

  “Now,” John said, “I have another favor to ask of you.”

  Bill spread out his hands. “Whatever you want, John. Whatever you want.”

  John pointed to the door and said, “I’d like to take another quick hop back. But first I need some information from you. Okay?”

  “As I said, whatever you need, you get.”

  DATELINE: AUGUST 15, 1930 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

  It was early morning on August 15, 1930, and it promised to be a hot summer day. A group of men were lined up outside of The 1800 Club’s garden gate. There was a Mack truck parked across the street and on the side of the door was written in large green lettering, “MOORE’S GARDENERS. Covering The New York Area In Green.”

  John Brand opened the door, walked out and looked around. This was the Depression, and the men had responded to a job opening for a gardener. He saw a small man just as he started to walk away from the crowd.

  “Ben,” thought John as he trotted through the group of gardeners and caught up with him. “Sir!” he said.

  The man turned and looked at him. “Me?”

  “Yes,” John said. “Are you here for the gardener position?”

  The small man shrugged his shoulders and answered, “Yes, but . . . ” and he pointed to several of the men. “That’s the Moore group. I can’t compete with them. Heck, I don’t even have shears.”

  “Well,” John said, “I consider myself a good judge of character and I’d rather have a man work for me who needs a job, not a group that just wants to eat up all the work. Will you take the job?”

  Ben shook his head vigorously. “Yes sir. I will.”

  John smiled. “Want to know how much it pays?”

  “The paper said seven dollars a week.” Ben held up his hand, “But I’ll take it no matter how much it pays. You know what I mean, what, with this depression and everything.”

  “Fourteen dollars a week.” John said.

  The other man’s eyes opened wide as he said in a whisper. “Fourteen dollars a week? And I have it?”

  “Yes, and I know you’re the kind of man who’s going to do a good job so I’m going to guarantee you a raise every Christmas.” He handed him a job application. “Just fill out this paperwork and put it in the mailbox. And I’d like it if you can check on the garden once a week during the winter. Of course, I’ll make sure you get your weekly paycheck. Deal?” John said holding out his hand.

  Ben grabbed it. “Deal?” he said with a tear glistening in his eye, “Yes sir. It’s a deal.”

  John smiled and said, “Got to go now. Have a great life.” He turned and went back into the garden, telling the others the job was filled. Ben Davis left and hurried home to tell his wife the great news.

  DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: AEROSPACE TECHNOLOGY WEEKLY MAGAZINE, NEW YORK CITY

  John was back at his desk at work. To the group he had just taken a week off, but, in fact, he had been gone for over one of his years. He shook his head, as he thought of all that had happened in the past week of their lives. Dave West, his present day editor-in-chief, came over to his desk.

  “Hey John. How was the vacation? Do any fun things?”

  John sat back at smiled at his boss. “Naw. Just the usual clean and catch up stuff. How was it around here?”

  “Same old story. Just a different issue date.” Dave dumped some magazines and papers off John’s visitor’s chair and sat down. He looked John in his eyes. “Johnny boy . . . guess who wants to meet you?”

  John shrugged his shoulders, “The men in black?” he asked with a smile but really meaning it.

  Dave moved closer and said, “No, it’s Mrs. Leigh.”

  John sat up straight. “Mrs. Leigh? The magazine’s owner? She who never leaves Hawaii? She wants to meet me? Why, what did I do?”

  Dave shook his head. “I don’t have a clue. She called me last week and said to set up a meeting. She’s in town, and I have to call her when you come back from vacation.”

  He got serious. “This is a first, John. I met her once twenty-four years ago. And then it was just for two minutes. As far as I know, no one else on the staff has ever met her. She stays in a big private house in Hawaii. I’m going to set it up for tomorrow morning. Good with you?”

  John opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “Guess it has to be good with me. I mean she does write the checks. Tomorrow is good.”

  Dave patted John’s shoulder and stood up. “Good answer. I’m going to call her now. Oh, and John, wear a tie. You’re representing her staff.”

  The next morning at nine o’clock John got off the elevator on the fifty-second floor. He was more than slightly uneasy as in all the time he had worked there he had never been on this floor. The walls were a rich brown mahogany wood and the floors were covered with plush carpeting. The doors were massive with large brass handles.

  The receptionist saw John and immediately picked up an ornamental telephone and spoke into it. The door behind her buzzed and she pointed to it, indicating that John should enter. He went in and it led to a long carpeted hallway with an open door at the end. He walked down and tapped on it.

  “Come in, Mr. Brand,” said a female voice. John entered a handsome room with a large fireplace that faced a leather couch. On the couch was an elderly woman with hair so white it had a look of silver and blue. She was very well dressed and smiled at him as he stood in front of her. She didn’t get up but offered her hand and said, “Mr. Brand. May I call you John?”

  John walked over and took her hand. He noticed she didn’t shake hands as much as hold his hand for a moment. “Mrs. Leigh, of course, you may call me John. This is an honor.”

  She patted the couch next to her. “Sit, John.” He did and she continued, “And believe me, the pleasure is all mine. It’s not too often that I feel compelled to leave my sanctuary and come back to New York City. But, when I read about the way you shook up all those government people, I was amused and simply had to meet you.”

  John fidgeted and said, “”All in a day’s work, Mrs. Leigh, that’s all.”

  She smiled warmly at him as she shook her head. “John Brand. You know John, the name John Brand has a special meaning to Aerospace Technology Weekly magazine.”

  John’s brow furrowed. “Why is that Mrs. Leigh?” he asked.

  “Years ago, John, during the Depression, when the magazine was named AeroProPulsion Weekly, it was on the skids. Advertising revenue was down because the money had dried up, and companies were being very selective with whom they placed their ads. Well, the Hindenburg had just crashed over Lakehurst and all the papers carried the same story stating that the era of airships was over. Then, a Mr. John Brand entered the editor-in-chief’s office and gave him a different story. The story’s headline went, ‘Death of the Hindenburg does not mean death of airships.’

  It took lots of soul-searching by the top staff to see if they should run that story. It said that lighter-than-airships could be the eyes of the fleet during wartime, keeping enemy submarines down underwater.�
�� She looked at the floor for a moment before continuing.

  “It also said that years in the future we would see the resurgence of airships as advertising vehicles and movers of heavy cargo. Three of our editors quit when the editor-in-chief decided to go with Brand’s story. They thought it was an embarrassment to the magazine.” She grinned a moment then said with a big smile.

  “But it was a gift in disguise. Those editors that left were not the visionaries we wanted on our magazine. We ran John Brand’s story, and the big companies saw us as a spokesman for the aviation industry. A magazine that wasn’t afraid to say what we thought, rather than going with what was popular at the time. Our ad sales picked up and we made it through the tough times.”

  John smiled and said, “I didn’t know that, Mrs. Leigh.”

  She wagged a finger at him. “You have to read some of the past issues, John. Read how we did it in the early days when every day a new flying record was being set, new technology was being discovered and pilots were like today’s movie stars. Flyers like Doolittle, Earhart and Post, were giving our magazine exclusive interviews because we stood for the industry. Those were heady days, John. And I’m proud to have been a part of them.”

  “You were here during those days?” John asked, with suddenly increasing interest.

  She nodded and said wistfully, “Yes, John. I was here. I was a secretary. We worked late and hard. But we did it because we loved it. We loved the magazine and we loved the aviation field. And we were the best then and still are the best over a half of century later.”

  John looked at her intently. “Did you ever meet Mr. Brand?”

  She nodded again. “Yes, I did. Briefly, but I’ll never forget him. In fact, he looked a lot like you, John. It was one of the reasons I wanted to meet you. After seeing your staff photo, I realized that you could be his grandson.”

  She looked closer at him and spoke softly, “It is quite uncanny.” Then she seemed to catch herself and, rather abruptly, sat up straight and said, “And as I said, Mr. Brand touched our magazine in other ways.”

  She seemed lost in thought as she recalled the past. “The day he came in and gave us the Hindenburg story, he left without even letting us know he was leaving. He left the story in the room he was typing in and on the way out, he left a sealed envelope for me with the receptionist.”

  She now looked directly at John. “Remember now, we had never set eyes on him before that day, yet he did that story for us and didn’t try to charge us a penny. And when I opened that envelope, well, here,” she handed John an old letter from 1937. “You read it, John. Out loud, please.”

  John took the letter he wrote almost seventy of her years ago and read out loud as she sat with her eyes closed and a soft smile on her lips.

  “Dear MaryLu, I know you don’t know me, but I feel as though I know you. I have one of the very best stock advisors available and I want to share my good fortune with someone whom I feel will use it right, and I know that you are that person. Enclosed is a batch of stock options. You will know some of the companies while others will be unknown. There’s no way you will ever see me again and no way to return this to me, try as you may. Please know that I really only want to see you have a good life and I wish you the best in whatever you do in life. Hold on to these for as long as you can. Your friend forever, John Brand.”

  He folded it and passed it back to her. He saw a tear in her eye and she said, “He left me stocks for Boeing Aircraft, IBM, GE, Tiffany, Sears & Roebuck, NBC and lots more that I never heard of at the time. For no reason at all! I tried to find him. I wanted to give it back, but I couldn’t locate him. My boss, Mr. Holdz, told me to stop trying, and finally I did.” She folded the old letter and put it back in the envelope before she continued in a low voice.

  “But, when the magazine was at a crossroads in the late forties, I purchased it.” She held her head up. “And John, I’m proud of the way it is today. And I’m proud of my editors, and I’m especially proud of you and your go-get-’em attitude. It’s how I think Mr. John Brand of 1937 would have handled things.”

  She paused. “He also left me this in the envelope,” she said pointing to a green jade and pearl brooch pinned to her dress. “Isn’t it beautiful? I’ve worn it every day.” She looked him straight in his eyes and said, “And now, I have a request of you. No, John, make that a demand. Yes, I demand that you do me a favor.”

  John sat back and looked at her clear, green eyes. “Anything you want Mrs. . . .”

  She interrupted with, “MaryLu. John, please call me MaryLu.”

  He nodded and said, “Fine, MaryLu. It’s my pleasure to do whatever you want. Just name it.”

  She leaned forward and pressed a button on her phone. Then she looked at him. “I travel with my granddaughter. She is at my side day and night, and I’d like you to show her the city while we’re here in New York.”

  The door opened and in walked a tall, beautiful, redheaded girl of about twenty-five. John couldn’t help notice that she had her grandmother’s green eyes, the same eyes he had loved all those years ago.

  MaryLu Leigh smiled as John and her granddaughter’s eyes met.

  “John Brand, meet my granddaughter, MaryLu.”

  Life is good again, thought John, life is good again.

  A week later Bill Scott sat in his leather easy chair as he read the mission brief that John had given him. He took the opportunity to light up a cigar and sip some brandy. He was almost finished when there was a low buzz on his communicator. A text message coming in, he thought, reaching for it.

  Sure enough, it was from Edmund Scott up in 2066. The message on his screen read, “GREETINGS, BILL. HOPE YOU ARE IN FINE SPIRITS. WE ARE SEEING A PROBLEM DEVELOPING WITH MR. SAMUEL CLEMENS, ALSO KNOWN AS MARK TWAIN. WILL YOU BRUSH UP ON HIM? IT MAY BE NOTHING BUT I’LL STAY IN TOUCH ON IT. THANKS, YOUR FAVORITE GRANDSON, EDMUND SCOTT.”

  Bill signed off and got out his list of club members. At least Edmund sent me a text message, he thought, and I don’t have to put out my cigar. He stood up and went over to his bookcases and began to look for references to Mark Twain. Boy, he thought as he removed a leather bound book: ‘Samuel (Mark Twain) Clemens,’ it’d be fun to go down the Mississippi River on a steamboat.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  The end is usually very apparent in a story, be it a book or movie. However, in this case, though it is the end page-wise, it continues on in the 1800 Club. You see, The 1800 Club does exist in New York City, though, under a different name and address. I, Bill Scott, also exist as President and owner of the club, and the people I wrote of, all exist. Some of their names have been changed, as they do have a life outside of the club, and they, and the club, must be protected.

  By now you are thinking, “This is a put-on, there is no club that can travel in time.” But, I ask you to look around. Isn’t history the same as you read it in your history books? Believe me, the club is working to keep it so. You the reader may ask, “Why is he admitting this?” To that I answer, “Why not?” Sometimes the best place to hide something is right out in plain sight. So, while admitting the club exists, the secret is as safe as saying it doesn’t exist.

  I intended to continue this narrative and tell you about some of the other missions the club has worked on, however, I have to interrupt this book at this point because I’ve just been alerted that there is a problem going on right now with Mark Twain. I do intend to document it, and others as they occur, in the next book, ‘Time Travel Adventures of The 1800 Club. Book 3.’

  B.S.

  Note from Robert P. McAuley

  After each adventure in time, President Bill Scott dictates to me what occurred so I can write them down for posterity. He told me that, at this moment, there are more stories on hand and, as time goes on, who knows how many more there will be after that? He informed me that I might let our readers know that Book III will feature two more stories: The Time Travel Adventure to prevent Mark Twain from dying in the destruction of New Orleans
and The Problem With the 1800s English Navy killing Ronald Reagan before he’s born. We both hope you find the time to read them. The following is the opening of The Mark Twain Mission.

  Regards, Robert McAuley

  The Mark Twain Mission

  DATELINE: 1883 PLACE: MISSISSIPPI RIVER, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  A butterfly flew over the dark, muddy waters of the Mississippi River. It looked out of place because everyone knows that butterflies don’t fly in a straight line; they tend to meander and float along on the wind. The scene in front of the lone butterfly went from bright sunshine to a wall of water. The creature automatically went vertical and let the wall of water flow beneath its spread wings. The water was filled with parts of houses, boats, trees and other debris. It also carried humans.

  The butterfly-drone recorded the scene in the passionless, mechanical correctness it was designed to do. After the water’s tremendous flow was reduced to a trickle, the butterfly alighted on top of a tall tree and disappeared into thin air.

  DATELINE: 2066, PLACE: THE HISTORY TRACKING CENTER, NEW YORK CITY

  Joseph Sergi looked at the hologram downloading from the butterfly-drone. He stood at the table where the others of the History Tracking Center sat.

  “Let’s see what the probe has seen,” he said, as he reached over to begin viewing the hologram. Sergi moved quickly for a man of six feet six inches, his dark hair flopping around his face. “June 6, 1883,” he said, “that seems to be the last time anyone saw him.”

  “This isn’t good,” Alexis Shuntly said, sitting back in her chair and shaking her head. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

  John Hyder was writing on a pad, looking intent, as if he was trying to remember something. “What year did he write The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?”

  Sergi answered, as he watched the river rush at the drone, “1885.”