“That aroma, my friend, is Corned beef and cabbage. Marge is right downstairs cooking up lunch. Care ta try some, gents?”
Francis mimicked Bill’s nod.
“Two corned beef and cabbage dinners coming up, lads,” Paddy said as he walked down the bar.
“Oh boy,” said Francis as he looked around the bar, “My office is over on 20th street and I never saw this bar before.”
Bill took a long pull on his beer and said, “It was built in 1860 and from what I understand it looks the same now as it did then.” He gestured at the huge moose head hanging from the arch at the end of the bar, “If you look closely at the Moose’s chin, you can see the long cobwebs that have been there for years and I’ll bet they’ll be there fifty years from now.”
“So,” asked the reporter after having a long slug of his beer, “What is your line of work, Bill?”
Bill tried to hide a grin as he said, “Well, you could say that I’m in futures, Francis.”
“A speculator? Are you with a large firm?”
“No, I sort of work from my apartment. You know, sort of a private enterprise.” He hefted his beer and asked, “So, how long have you been in the newspaper business?”
Francis wiped the white froth from his very long and droopy mustache and said with a twinkle in his eye, “Sir, I have been in the publishing business for most of my sixty-years of age. My brother William and I started The Army and Navy Journal, then Galaxy magazine and I am now the lead editorial reporter on the Sun newspaper. So, my friend, I have a fairly good idea as to what story to present to the public and I do believe that the electric taxicab is such a story. And, you shall be in it as whether you know it or not, you have become the very first passenger in New York City to flag one down.”
Bill feigned surprise, but congratulated himself that his plan of being the first passenger, had not only worked but was recognized.
Their meals arrived and both men enjoyed it with another beer. When they had finished, Bill provided the cigars and they enjoyed them with a cup of coffee.
“I imagine,” said Bill as he tried to blow a smoke ring only to have it disappear as a breeze came through from the open front door to the open rear door, “that you must come across many stories that you can’t use because of a lack of a source. Am I correct?”
“Yes, indeed. And many others that I would like to see printed, but are turned down by the newspaper’s owner.” He grabbed his writing tablet and as he removed a folded letter, said, “Bill, I shall now bring you into the world of the newspaper business and show you a typical letter to the editor. This came to my office a short time back and now I ask that you read it as I did.”
Bill took the note and read it.
Dear Editor, I am 8 years old.
Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.”
Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanion
115 W. 95th St.
Bill read the letter and something clicked in his head, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
“This is different than what we usually get,” Francis said as he flicked a long ash into the large round glass ashtray set on the bar between them. I wrote an outline that I would like to have printed in The Sun but I feel it may be too whimsical or too frilly an answer for the newspaper.”
“You mean that you are afraid that your editor will laugh at your answer?”
Francis blushed slightly as he admitted, “Yes, that too.” He turned and asked as he fished through his tablet, “Would you like to read my answer?”
“Absolutely!”
He passed it to Bill who opened the folded sheet of paper. Seeing that the paper had been folded more than once and the crinkled edges, he knew that Francis had read and reread it more than a few times. He moved slightly to catch a shaft of sunlight entering the bar between a window advertisement for Ballantine beer and another for Three Feathers Whisky and started to read.
Is There a Santa Claus?
We take the pleasure in answering at once and thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:
Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole truth and knowledge.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith, then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God he lives and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10 thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
Bill gently folded the response and handed it back to Francis, who just looked at the quiet man, then said, “I fear that you found it too frilly for such a highly respected newspaper. Am I correct?” he asked as he put it back in the writing tablet.
Bill shook his head, “Francis, I’m afraid that you have misinterpreted my quiet response as a negative answer, when in fact, it was because of my being overcome by the beauty and innocence of your answer.”
“Then you believe I should have it printed in The Sun?”
“As soon as possible, my friend! Fret not over how it is received by your editor, for I believe that he shall grant it space in The Sun and it will be read and enjoyed many times over.”
Francis smiled and said, “Bill Scott, you have made up my mind for me and I shall offer it to the paper this very afternoon.” He took out his pocket watch and flipped the cover open. “I’m afraid I must be off now as I want to catch my editor before he leaves for home.”
He put his hand in his pocket when Bill said; “I insist that you allow me to pick this up, my friend, as it was I who enticed you into this establishment.”
“Then I insist that we meet here again in one months time and I return the favor. Say, twelve thirty?”
“Twelve thirty is fine! I’ll be sitting right here.”
The two men shook hands, left the bar and walked in different directions.
Stepping over some horse waste in the street, Bill smiled as he thought, Well, Mister Scott, your goal was to be the first passenger to ride in a battery powered taxi in New York City and in that you have succeeded. And as a plus
, you met the reporter who answered a little girl’s letter that has become famous and reprinted more times than any other editorial column in history. Not too shabby at all. Now it’s time to go home and feed the dog.
Using the key attached to the chain around his neck, Bill entered the club’s garden and, though it was one hundred and seventeen years in his past, he felt as one does when they see a familiar place on their return home from a trip. Enjoying the serenity of the garden, he walked slowly to the security door that would lead him upstairs to his apartments in 2014. Using the same key that he had used on the front gate, the time traveler opened the steel security door and stepped in to see the dancing light and hear the soft hiss of the gas lamps that illuminated the stairwell. He took the small Time frequency Modulator from his inside pocket and typed in March 9, 2014 and walked up the stone steps.
DATELINE: MARCH 9, 2014 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY
Once on the landing and before he slipped the key into the lock, he heard the sniffing and scratching as his beagle, Samson, sensing he was home. Bill unlocked and opened the door and the beagle went straight to sniffing his pants pockets knowing that Bill usually carried a treat there for him.
“Well you guessed right, Samson.” He took out a doggy treat and immediately the beagle sat. “Here you go, fella,” he said as he gave the beagle a treat.
A tap on the apartment door was followed by his right-hand-man, Matt entering. In one hand the club’s manservant carried a silver serving tray with sandwiches and a mug of hot chocolate on it, while with the other he carried an overcoat and fedora. “Good afternoon, sir. I thought perhaps I’d take Samson for a walk and pick up some cookies, say black and whites?”
Bill’s eyes squinted as he tried to remember something and then asked, “1902?”
Matt slipped the leash on Samson and answered, “Yes, sir, 1902, when the Glaser’s Bake Shop first started making the black and white cookie and perhaps some Manhattan Special sodas as well.”
“That’s great, Matt. I’m just going to wash up and change. I’ll be ready for another snack by the time you return.”
“Very well, sir.” Matt’s blue eyes flashed as he looked in the full length mirror, put the overcoat on over his valet uniform and, after patting down his thinning reddish brown hair, placed the fedora on his head and was ready to stroll in 1902.
Five foot 8-inches tall and lean, Bill thought as he watched the fifty-something Matt get ready for a trip back in time. And loaded with energy!
Matt took his own Time Frequency Modulator and entered: NOVEMBER 25, 1902, 1:00 p.m., opened the door and with Samson leading the way, stepped out of the room and entered the stairwell.
“He’s the best,” Bill said to himself as he took off his 1897 style clothing.
Bill showered and put on a pair of tan slacks and matching short-sleeve linen shirt and flip-flops. He went to take a sip of his warm chocolate when there was a knock on the time portal door.
He smiled and thought as he went to the door, Matt has his own key so this means that it’s my grandchild, Edmund visiting from 2070.
Bill was right! He opened the door and was greeted by his future grandson, Edmund Scott.
“Edmund,” he said as he hugged the tall, slim, dark haired young man, “what a treat. How’ve you been?”
“Just great, Gran. . . “ Remembering that Bill wished to be called by his name, rather than Grandpa, Edmund switched to, “Just great, Bill. How about you?”
“Great too. Come sit,” he pointed out one of the leather easy chairs as he took the facing one. “Before we go any further, how do you feel? Do you have those new nose filters in?”
The young man from the future nodded and said, “Yep! They’re in and they work fine. However, I can’t stay for dinner like I did last time on account of I’m subbing for a fellow inter-group communicator as his wife is due to give birth.”
“So, are you here on a mission or just to see your old grandpop?”
“A bit of both. I do have a mission,” he said as he handed Bill the silver cylinder that contained a hologram from the History Tracking Group for which they both worked.
“Mister Sullivan was checking up on something during his watch and came across the news that a Miss Elizabeth Bisland beat Miss Nellie Bly in a race around the world. The problem is, Miss Bly had won that race, not Miss Bisland.”
Bill sat back in his chair and rubbed the slight stubble on his chin as he said, “And I take it that the group wants someone to go back and make sure that Nellie Bly wins?”
“Yes, and Mister Sullivan will explain it all in the hologram.” He looked at his watch and said as he stood, “I really hate to leave but I promised my co-worker that I’d take his shift.”
“No problem, Ed, let’s set a date for dinner soon. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Their handshake turned into a hug.
Bill closed the door behind Edmund and set the cylinder on the coffee table.
Meanwhile:
DATELINE: NOVEMBER 25, 1902 PLACE: NEW YORK CITY
Matt tried to walk Samson as other dog owners walked their pets: simply stroll along and the dog did the same thing. He had discovered early on however, that beagles don’t do the usual stroll; rather, they stop and smell everything around them. Their super-sensitive sense of smell tells them that another dog or cat had passed this way before and they had to investigate it. Though there was a brisk wind blowing that didn’t seem to stop the beagle from picking up the scent.
After making sure that the dog had used the outside facilities (as Matt called them), he hailed down a cab. The one horse carriage pulled over to the curb and Matt asked, “Do you mind the pup, sir?”
The very heavy man shook his head and said as he removed his tall hat and scratched his bald head, “It is fine with me, sir. Just clean up after him.”
“No problem,” the time traveler answered as he scratched Samson’s ears. “Would you be so kind as to take us to 1670 First Avenue?”
“Will do, sir. Sit back and relax it’s a twenty minute trip through Central Park.”
Matt placed Samson on his lap and opened the downward sliding window, allowing the dog to stick his head out the window. Though Matt had taken this trip a few times before, he found himself vying for space with Samson as they both tried to see New York City of 1902 go by.
The driver drove up Broadway and at 59th Street, entered Central Park. Suddenly the sounds of the city fell behind them. The street vendors hawking their goods, shouts of the latest news from the newsboys, the bell of the trolley, the laughter of the children playing in the cold streets and even the odor of horse waste were all left behind and were suddenly replaced with the song of winter birds, the crunch of gravel as the carriage wheels rolled over them, the babble of the downward flowing waters of the small lakes, and the light scrape of stiff leaves falling on top of the carriage. Fall in New York City, thought Matt, nothing could be better.
Rounding a curve in the road the Metropolitan Museum of Art came into view. The road took the carriage along the building’s rear and Matt could imagine the three great entranceways in front loaded with visitors as they stood or sat on the massive staircase. Many of the people that sat on the cold granite steps were school children waiting for their turn to enter the great establishment. Others were tourists and artists with their sketchpads all hoping that some of the old masters rubbed off on them.
A few blocks later the cab driver took the 85th Street exit and drove over to First Avenue, made a left and went to 88th Street and called down to Matt, “Sir! Do you have an address?”
“1670. It’s a cake shop.”
The cabby slowed the horse down as they went along 88th Street and suddenly pulled back on the reins. “Whoa!” he said as he set the manual wooden brake. “I do believe we have arrived at your destination, sir.”
Matt climbed down and lifted the beagle from the cab and the dog went directly to a tree and inspected it with his nose.
“That’ll be three dollars, sir.”
Matt peeled off three dollar bills and added another as he said, “If you wait a few moments, I’ll ride back with you, thus guaranteeing you a fare.”
The man tipped his hat, “You take your time, sir. I’ll rest ol’ Hoppy for the trip back.”
Matt strolled over to the storefront, which consisted of two large glass windows separated by a single glass door. He stepped in and a small bell tinkled as the top of the door tipped against it announcing that a new customer had entered the store. Seeing that the owner was busy with a customer, Matt took the time to look around. The bakery had four glass display cases filled with old-fashioned cakes and pastries, lemon meringue, apple turnovers and cookies of every description, including black and white ones. Designed by the owner, the cookies were simply round with half vanilla and half chocolate icing on them. Opposite them were brown wooden display cases showing larger cakes, pies and cupcakes.
Though Matt had been here more than once, he never really had the chance to study the place as a history-loving person would, so, casually looking up he saw that the store had a tin ceiling embossed with various patterns and two hanging gas lamps while the floor was composed of hexagonal shaped, one half-inch, white tiles with a black and blue, star pattern set it in to break the white pattern up. A blue dental design, not unlike what was found in early Roman ruins, ran around the proud owner’s name: JOHN GLASER INC.
The ringing of a hand-cranked cash register sounded and Matt stepped up to the glass display case as a customer left the store carrying a white paper bag. Behind the counter the young, dark-haired man with a full mustache smiled and greeted Matt with, “Hello, Matt. Nice to see you and Samson again. Are you in the mood for black and white cookies once again? I just put out a fresh tray.”
“Hello, John. It seems that I have come at precisely the right time then. “May I have six black and white cookies, please?”
The man nodded and took a small round cookie from a case and said as he passed it to Matt, “May I reward your dog with a cookie? He sits so obediently for you.”
Book 11 Page 3
