Someday Is Not Tomorrow.

Text:

Deep Orange-red and yellow bulges protruding from a ivy green whisky box supported by seventy or eighty yellow pear tomatoes, some cucumbers and serono’s. Mix in some zebra and tiger strip stuff in the box ad stagger out the ripness so that it all isn’t rip at once and you have the contents of the box.

The airlooms had been growing to a bulge for many weeks now, and were being buried under fresher greener tomatoes that would turn rich merlot colors, as well as tiger striped patterns of yellow-green & red-green. Many vine romas’ filled canted curves in among the brandywines in the box; as luscious to the eye as a woman’s upper hip.

The box was a recycle from a liquor store that had come home with a purchase for a birthday party. But the band on the logoed cardboard wasn’t a mixer in the party drink mixing pantheon this time out.

Tracy picked up his box in his dirt and vegetation soiled hands and fingers; his palm and print spread wide on the box hoisting what to him was a light load onto his shoulder: He began walking toward the street to the new stop several blocks away to catch transportation to work.

As he sauntered toward the cross street, with one arm neatly snugged over the box on which ever shoulder you choose to imagine him carrying it on- the light crystal wave that glows brighter under the tri county bus slowed quickly to a static glow that he wasn’t expecting. The bureau had closed the stop the week earlier- and he wasn’t standing at the stop waiting either.

Still no one go on or off. And the bus waited for him to run the 20 feet or so into the intersection where no vehicles (wheeled or super-conducted) were approaching or passing.

Tracy ran out into the intersection, over the un-lit gray top crystal road-setting a footstep on the grey sidewalk then the next on the first step of the bus.

“Thanks for stopping! I thought that stop was closed”, Tracy applauded with not too much gratitude more than was necessary for the un-present dispatcher of the unmanned (not so manned) bus.

“I only stopped ‘cause of the box”, the driver smirked out after a moment to check traffic and pull away from the curb. Tracy was still thinking proudly about his tomato harvest, was eager to show it off by giving it away to his coworkers and friends. But the dispatcher/driver posed it as if Tracy should know that the Irish Whisky that comes in the box was his brand/ or fave’ inebriant.
For the first time Tracy looked at the box. “Eleven times distilled” must be smooth’ He thought to himself. Although Tracy had no way of knowing the difference between not-so-smooth and smooth whisky, as he wasn’t much of a drinker, let alone a whisky drinker. He mostly drinks whisky with Lemon juice and honey to cure a cold now and then.

No-one wants their totie to be smooth; I know I want it to rip the cold from my throat. What about you?

Tracy took passing notice, because dispatchers have so many busses to manage it was unique for them to notice one bus. Let alone focus on the periphery rider approaching a closed stop on a single line.
“The guy must be able to dispatch in his sleep”, Tracy though to himself without the thought quite reaching his linguistic conscious mind from his idea based place of lucid centered cognition.

He got off the bus near work, but not before walking to the front and looking in the camera to thank the dispatcher a second time for picking him up.
The dispatch didn’t notice the tomatoes, “next time you can leave me a bottle right there.” Acknowledging with humor the space where drivers used to site or still do on some of the wheeled buses in use for nostalgia. It was kind-of implied the a bottle was to expensive to just give away.

Tracy go off the bus and kept walking toward work.
He was worried about what would happen to his garden if he left is alone for three weeks to make up for the time he was gone on his business trip. The paperwork approving his catch-up travel time had not gone through. He was worried he gain three weeks time on his children- and he used the lives of friends who nearly never traveled to gauge the progression of his age in an un-crochet life span.

A man passing on the street looked at the whisky box, gave a polite smile and said hello. As if to say, ‘That’s my brand/drink’. Tracy found the cult of this Irish whisky surprising. But he kept walking.

He reached the security gate. He thought about reaching for his ID card in motion. But the guard had already looked at the green box and smirked; letting him through without a question while the other guard looked at the surrounding unchanging square block area like it was suspect for its proximity alone.

Anything could have been in the tomato filled Irish Whisky box. But anything wasn’t: Just luscious, ornate tomatoes.
He through the halls and down the ramp he was assigned to, still carrying the box. And he was more aware of the box. He felt like he was in an commercial where everyone was secretly in love with product X. He thought this was ridiculous. He was damn proud of his garden and the tomatoes in Irish whisky box.

Once he reached the alloy box, he set the mixture of purple and green tomatillos, tomatoes, European & Japanese eggplants, and pickling cucumbers in the green box down on and open section of Jenkins consol.

The welding shut them in, and he injected Jenkins with a harmless herb to wake him back up now that the weld has closed them in.

“Brought you the rest of what I have in my garden, didn’t want it to go to waste.” , Tracy used the gift as an good will affection for his coworker rather than an actual hello.

“You know I haven’t got the clearance from budgeting to send you forward so that you are even aged.”, Jenkins replied in a familiar voice that didn’t need to thank Tracy for the tomatoes. Concern for his well being covered that without saying.
“I put in for it, it may take them a year to budget it in. But they will get back to us. Keeps travelers employed. Going off to get things done on time. I may be back for thirty seconds or so while they open the welded seals, but a year from now the finance department will send the approval-go ahead back.”, Tracy replied.

“Yep they are trying to stay on top of that- or reach back on that – these days- but I just wanted you to know. Cause you know the next time you go to the liquor store I may need you to go in and by me a bottle of all that Irish Whisky you’ve been drinking sulking about how much older than me you’ve become.”- Jenkins joked with a wideish ‘I know I’m witty’ smile on face that exaggerated his long since healed broken nose cartilage.

Tracy and Jenkins started out the same age, but after ten years tenure; Tracy had aged almost twenty. So while Jenkins was in his thirties, Tracy was a few years into his forties, although he was legally the same age as Tracy due to being born in the same year.

Both men were aware of the effect this would have when Tracy was physically aged enough to retire. Something unions were still negotiating with the government and industry over. Retirement based on the age of the workers body, not the date of birth.

Tracy would be gone for less than a minute. And get three weeks pay for being gone traveling for three weeks. But retirement law still needs to be re thought.

This is the first reason why Jenkins thought to himself that he might want to time travel someday, but that ‘someday is not going to be tomorrow;’ as he puts it.

Jenkins took advantage of the photonic bonds between now and the large photo of the future to pass that was on the far wall.

Its causal for them to know they are nearly in two places at once when the rain from the moon lit sky fell into the alloy room, and the white barking sand blew from the beach into the room. Tracy washed his hands in the shower he had stepped into while chatting with Jenkins. Turned it off. Put on the uniform of the company that subcontracted his service, and walked off into the beach until he was more there than in the alloy room from Jenkins perspective. Then Jenkins shut the photo down.

For security reasons Jenkins injected himself with an enzyme to clear his visual memory of the moments after the weld. But he could remember the event from a blind as the heel of a foot point of view. So, for example he saw the white beach, and the bulging tomatoes in the Irish Whisky box: But he could not see it in his minds eye. Even though he knew it was green, or white, and also orange to amarillo like a sunrise captured in the skin of the fruit. Like the visual you get from this description.

This protocol added to his somewhat justified paranoia.

He was not at all a conspiracy person, but the fact is that the company didn’t want him to get abducted and dissected for his photonic memory of these quarter hourly event advantages that make up his ten hour shift. But the company was a private one. Jenkins didn’t want to be too much toe company man by living on campus. He among several other thousand counterparts where exposed to more singularity dualism that the actual travelers. He didn’t want to add to his kidnap value by being an actual traveler too. Jenkin’s reasoning ad hoc as it is, is his. And conviction was always his motivation.

That is why he was hired. Jenkins is determined to do the right thing by the analyst of his employers.

To add to his paranoia was a truth. Often on Jenkins watch, travelers would use there own synaptic memory to get back to the point where they left in his airtight cube. He knew to not block them out if a second singularity opened in the room. But now and then, the returning traveler would be in there nineties, trying to get the traveler to not go warning that on that trip they would be lost too long.

Most of the time the younger counter part would step through anyway- at least knowing that they would find a synaptic way back. Sometimes the retuning traveler would fade with the picture. And the very act of seeing ones older self evaporate into thin air would discourage a traveler from making that trip if it was deemed to be routine.

This defied the laws of physics and even radical logic, but he’d recalled seeing it happen.

Jenkins felt that the traveler refusing to step through; and asking for the foto to be shut down is the result of the fade away.

He is required to interview the traveler from the other time line if this occurs, but it would change too fast based on the reason of the younger traveler for any reasonable questions to be asked.

He had read about a traveler trying to use the last few seconds to communicate what his timeline had been like, but freaked out at the reality that by convincing there younger counter part to not saia into the universe of the photo they had just ended their own existence as they know it. Too many instances for scientific study in real time without the Cyrabillic.

Cyrabillic was not used because others times didn’t have it at this point. People coming with temporal passes from what was linearly determined at this point and era as the future Had Cyrabillic enabled cortex links to the web. But they were traveling to the now; not before this/that.

He had read about a box that filled with singularities from other views--Non of them were determined in the article to be from the tech thanks to injection—In this box the other physhers technitians tried to immediatedly arrive at the point of the event and shoot at dart into the cortex of the traveler to communicate with him before the fade. But no one remembered this event.

The article had been written by a ghost.