Autobiography of a Failed Time Traveler

By Ryan Medalie

You’ve probably never wondered how a time traveler eats. Neither did Bradley, until he stranded himself 45 years in the past—much further than the one week he had expected.

Bradley, a geeky engineer who enjoys figuring out how things work, sets off in his home-brew time machine purely in pursuit of personal profit. Now that he’s stuck much farther back in time than the one week he planned, broke and unprepared in 1970s Los Angeles, Bradley must work a regular day job while he figures out how to exploit his knowledge of the future to get rich.

By chance (or is it?), he meets Lily in a Santa Monica antique shop. She has time traveled from the late-19th century and is driven to improve the world and its people; Bradley's goal is to make Jeff Bezos look like a pauper by acquiring obscene wealth. Gambling on his knowledge of future events puts Bradley in grave danger, and he needs to travel further in time for Lily's help.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ryan Medalie
• Release date: Aug 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9785719283913

Book preview

1.

Working for a Living

You have probably never wondered how a time traveler eats.

After all, the time traveler knows everything that will happen. He (or she) does not need to work. Why would they when they technically have all the money they need at their disposal? The time traveler can bet on a few horse races and have enough money to control the world.

It’s simple to remember major events, but do you know the results of particular horse races off the top of your head? This means that horse racing is out, unless you're the type that memorizes the results of horse racing for 1) the pure joy of doing so, or 2) in case you find yourself in a time-travel situation. That goes for baseball, football, hockey, polo, or any other sport you can think of.

Buying stocks in our present time is easy: You go online, fund your account, and buy whatever you want. In 1976, there was no online. I had to look up stock brokerages in the yellow pages and choose one. And that’s why I stood in front of an attractive, well dressed receptionist with too much makeup. My clothes were not fancy, just functional—and definitely on the casual side of what they must have been used to seeing.

I would like to speak to someone about buying some stock, I said, confident that the process would ultimately be easy.

Terrific, the receptionist said. Do you have an account with Dunbarton and Fenner?

Who?

D&F, she said nodding at the huge sign on the wall behind her. Her voice was impatient. That’s us.

Oh. An account? I cleared my throat and shook my head. I don’t. Yet.

That's fine. If you'll have a seat, Mr. Jackson will be with you in a moment.

A few minutes later, a fashionable younger man in a charcoal suit introduced himself and shook my hand. We walked back to a cold, austere office with a few certificates and degrees on the wall, and a typewriter on his desk where a computer would be if it were 2021. He casually offered me something to drink, but I declined. He smiled.

So, Mr. Steinfeld, you're interested in setting up a brokerage account with Dunbarton and Fenner?

I suppose, I said, almost apologetically like I was inconveniencing him. I just want to buy some stock.

Sure, sure, of course. He looked me up and down, and seemed to be calculating my net worth. And will you be writing a check to fund the account today?

I laughed. A check? In 2021, I wasn’t even sure where my checkbook was. He didn't laugh, of course. There were no online transfers of money yet, and the people that had invented Venmo were probably crawling around in diapers if they were even born yet.

I have cash, I said patting my pocket.

Really? he asked with a dismissive shrug. Cash is fine, but most people do checks. And as I’m sure you’re aware, he said leaning forward and steepling his fingers together, our minimum is only $1,000—which I think you’ll find is very reasonable.

Of course. I cleared my throat. "I mean, what if I wanted to keep more in the account?" It was an idiotic question, and we both knew it. He had figured by now that I had something far less than the minimum. I was too afraid to ask if they’d be able to make an exception to their minimum.

He nodded. "Of course. If you maintain a minimum of $10,000, you'll receive a reduced rate on commissions and access to the Bull's Club Gazette—which is our newsletter with industry insights and stock tips." He leaned further over his desk with a superficial smile on his face. I nodded politely with mock interest. I hadn't expected to end up in 1976. I had planned only to go back one week, and had memorized sports scores and stock movements for that one-week period—over 40 years in the future.

I only had $198 on me. It was the cash I’d been able to save from my wallet. I excused myself to go get a cashier's check from my bank (because I wanted a paper trail for my accounting, which was just gibberish I blurted to get out the door). That is why I ended up in the bank—it was mostly a reason to leave the stock broker.

I tried opening a bank account at the nearest bank with the money in my pockets. The teller stalled me while her manager covertly called the US Secret Service, who wanted an explanation as to why I had 'counterfeit' money from the late 2010s and early 2020s.

The taller and lankier of the two agents held one of the bills up to the light and studied the security features. They both looked like they were in their early 40s. This is incredible work, he said. He wore a dark avocado suit with extra-wide lapels and sported a large, bushy moustache. The butt of a gun poked out of a shoulder holster. We sat in a break room at the back of the bank away from the customers.

His partner looked less impressed. I’d have labeled him as the Bad Cop if the first one was the Good Cop; he was more unimpressed than anything, like nothing in the world could possibly surprise him. Where did you get it? he asked. Who are your partners?

I don’t have partners, I said. We sat in the employee's breakroom at the back of the branch. It was just a mistake.

You're Goddamn right it was a mistake, Bad Cop said. His glare never left my face.

Good Cop whistled in surprise. I've never seen anything like it, he said. He almost didn’t seem to notice me; his attention was purely on the bills. He laid one of the $50 bills against the table and ran his finger over it. "The material looks right. It's definitely the same paper, or close to it at least. But the ink is weird. And there’s this hologram right there inside the paper—how the hell did you do that?"

You working with the Soviets? Bad Cop asked before I could even answer, his voice raised. A young bank employee at the next table ate his sandwich nervously. The Bolivians? You sneaking this out of Cuba?

It was an engineering project, I said. I'm an engineer. I hoped they didn't try checking my background, because my employer likely didn’t even exist yet. I was trying to invent some security features that would make it harder to counterfeit.

And you tried to spend it, Bad Cop said with a smack of his hand against the table.

I flinched. By accident.

I've never seen anything like it, Good Cop repeated with a stunned shake of his head. He removed a jeweler's loupe from his pocket and held it up to his eye to study the details of my money. It looks like play money, but it’s so advanced. He finally lowered the loupe and looked at me. This is very impressive.

They confiscated my cash, took down some information, but ultimately let me go. I was now broke. Money from the future is worthless in the past. I had gone from wanting to buy stock to trying to figure out how I was going to eat. My fortunes were supposed to go in the opposite direction.

I walked out of the bank, and considered my options as I walked down the street. Los Angeles had a lot of industry in the late 1970s and early 1980s: manufacturing, defense, and aerospace seemed to employ everybody.

Now Hiring signs were everywhere. I walked into the front door of the nearest business with one, a place with the generic name of American Precision Manufacturing, and asked who I could speak with about inquiring for a job.

Are you inquiring about the assembly position? the receptionist asked before I could open my mouth.

Are you guys hiring engineers? I supposed I could do assembly, but I thought I might as well ask.

You'll have to check with the engineering department, she said pointing to some double doors. Go through the doors and down the hall. Take the stairs up to the third floor and go into 301. Ask for Ms. Askandari.

It was that easy. My foot was already in the door. The application process was streamlined compared to what you would go through in the 2020s to get a job. It had taken a lengthy hiring process to get into my job after college at Archway Logic Systems. Here, it was unnecessary to upload my resume into an opaque scanning system that would scan my qualifications for select keywords, and quietly reject me depending on what the computer wanted.

Ms. Askandari was an old marbled woman with a mop of gray hair. She eyeballed me as I approached. Rather than speaking, she impatiently raised her eyebrows in question.

I’m here to apply for the engineering position. I was sure to say, ‘the’ rather than ‘a.’ I wanted it to sound like I was there with a purpose, rather than that I had just been walking by and randomly stopped in to apply for a job because I was flat broke.

She nodded once, like the effort was too much to do it again and pulled out a sheet from under her desk. I took it from her with a smile, but it went ignored. With a gravity-defying sigh, Ms. Askandari stood up and shuffled down the hall. I sat down in one of the chairs and looked at the application. I was immediately worried. I couldn’t put that my previous employer was Archway Logic Systems; I wasn’t even sure they existed in 1976. I flipped the sheet over. For references, I had none and simply wrote, Available upon request (even though technically they were requesting them on that very form).

A moment later, Ms. Askandari shuffled back with someone close at her heels—an older man also with gray hair, but more pep to his step.

I’m Jefferson, he said standing in front of me. You will call me Mr. Jefferson. Not like the dry cleaner. He said it without any scrap of levity. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh; it seemed safer not to so I didn’t. You're applying as an engineer? he asked. I got to my feet and nodded. You got experience? I didn't know how to answer. Did I tell him I have some experience, and then tell him it's a company that won't even be incorporated for at least another decade? That I dabbled in building control systems, and worked on technology that was still years away?

You speak or are you a mute? he asked. Do I gotta get you a pad or something to write down your answers?

I just got to LA and wanted to work in this industry, I said looking around and taking in my surroundings. The company’s name was painted on the wall behind him in huge bold letters: American Precision Manufacturing. Manufacturing.

He grunted with a small nod. You study it in school?

I hadn’t. Yes, I said. And mechanical engineering.

Solid, he said with an approving nod. Where'd you go to school?

What could I say? What if they wanted to check? What if it was a college that they knew people at? Some of my professors probably hadn’t graduated middle school yet. Colorado, I said.

Oh, good school, he said dismissively. I sensed I could have said ‘Antarctica’ and he’d have answered the same way. When are you looking to start? He turned and was walking down the hall. Unsure, I followed after him, still holding the unfilled application in my hand.

As soon as possible, I suppose, I said. Tomorrow?

What about today? he asked. Unless you got a hot date or something.

I could start today. I followed him into an office with cubicles and other people working. Several people sat in front of drafting desks and had various tools in their hands—T-squares, pencils, stencils.

He showed me to a desk, took the application out of my hand, and gave it a cursory glance. I had barely started filling it out. What's this?

Job application.

It’s incomplete, he said, his mouth a scowl. Doesn’t matter. He casually dropped it into the nearest trash bin. Pay is every two weeks. Work starts at 8 AM. You got questions, read the employee manual. Want to get fresh with the ladies down the hall in the steno pool? Read the manual to see what happens. Want to take a couple days off? The procedure’s in the manual. Do you have any questions? Before I could answer, he turned and started walking out of the room. The answer's probably in the manual.

And there I was, standing by my new desk, wondering if what had just happened had indeed happened.

Are you the new engineer? a deep-voiced guy asked. He was young—maybe a year or so younger than me—but his unusually tall frame seemed to tower above everyone, even sitting at his desk. His nameplate said ‘J. Martins.’

I guess so, I said. What’s the ‘J’ stand for?

We go by last names. I'm Martins, his eyes back on his work.

I looked around the room. It was quiet, and everyone’s face was in their work. Bookshelves holding a vast collection of standards, codes, and manuals stretched across the cinderblock walls.

I’m Bradley. Bradley Steinfeld.

Steinfeld, he repeated without looking up. If you’re replacing Gordon, you’ve got a backlog. The Tennesco Cooling account needs your sign-off.

I chuckled, not even knowing what he was talking about. I don't know how much I get paid.

At this, Martins finally stopped and looked up with almost an amused smile—something that verged on the border of annoyance. That's Jefferson's trick. He gets you caught up in his whirlwind. He pushes the paperwork through HR without telling you your pay or sick days—so you don't have a chance to disagree. He shrugged. It’s easiest to just take what you get.

I looked at the nameplate of the former occupant of my desk—D. Gordon, Engineer. I wondered if he had left one day and decided not to come back, if he had retired, or if he had been fired. It was a curiosity. There was no computer on the desk, which shouldn't have been a surprise—but the desk still felt empty without it. An empty 'Out' box sat on one corner of the desk, and an overflowing 'In' box sat next to it—like a joke out of a Scott Adams comic.

Naturally, I didn't want to ask what I was supposed to do. I was an engineer, for better or for worse, and that meant solving problems. I sat down at my desk and looked around. The view out the window was scenic—parking lots, buildings, and the Santa Monica mountains rising up in the distance.

I picked up a paper from the 'In' pile and read through it hoping it would shed some light on what I was supposed to be doing. After a first glance, I dropped it on the surface of the desk. It didn't make sense, and maybe I wasn't quite in the right frame of mind to absorb it or figure anything out. Besides, it was the first day. Nobody, I was sure, was expected to do anything worthwhile on their first day. The first week, as far as I was concerned, was all about orientation.

Like a Gideon bible being in the top drawer of every nightstand of every hotel across America, every employee's desk had its own version of the bible—the American Precision Manufacturing employee manual. Its omnipresent placement was even codified in the company’s manual.

I was an engineer that had been trained in the 2010s using computers and software, and had gone and gotten a job in 1976. The theories are the same. Engineering is engineering. You might say that a computer is just a tool that helps move the job along.

This meant figuring out how to send memos on paper, having someone from the clerical pool type up reports, and even more face-to-face meetings than I was used to. Luckily, I was issued a company calculator, but some of the older guys still preferred using slide rules. They looked at my calculator with derision—like it was Satan’s personal instrument. Martins referred to them as ‘dinosaurs’ and scoffed at their fear of new technology.

Indeed, the answers to most of my questions were in the manual. If I asked someone a general question, I would most often be referred to the manual. The manual also provided a job description for the job I'd gotten, so I at least received some clarification of what I was supposed to do. I could best summarize my duty to you as moving the items from the box marked ‘In’ to the box marked ‘Out.’ When that was done, I was promised a pension and a gold watch.

Naturally, I wasn't planning on being a lifer or building up a new career with American Precision Manufacturing. I was a time traveler—not a wage slave living paycheck to pay check. I wasn’t like these other guys. At least that's what I told myself at first, but maybe there was something in the structure and consistency of having a place to go each day—where there was hot (but not good) coffee waiting in a coffee pot, and engaging (albeit mindless) conversation with coworkers.

I have a five-year plan, Martins told me a couple days after I started. We stood next to each other at the urinals in the men’s room. I preferred not to talk while urinating.

It had seemingly been out of the blue, but I thought it would be rude if I didn’t respond. Yeah?

He turned his head to look at me, though I continued staring forward because I was still urinating. I don’t plan on being a lifer. This place is a paycheck. He flushed. You seem smart, too. Then he walked out of the bathroom without washing his hands.

2.

The New Musketeer

During a fire drill, I stood next to Martins outside with a loose group of other engineers looking back at the building. I had been near the exit and just proceeded outside to the muster area. I had been there a couple of weeks, but now fit in with everyone else—company ID clipped to my shirt pocket and a bored look on my face.

It felt good to be outside in the fresh air for a change. Each work day had been the same as the last, and this provided a little variation.

I love when the fire alarms go off, Martins said. He stared up at the large red-brick building with intensity—like he was willing flames to punch out the windows. It’s a free break.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure we’ll have to go back in soon, I said looking at my watch. The bells continued ringing, though, and the sounds of sirens screamed closer.

If the fire alarm is tripped, he said in a low voice that only I could hear, they usually assume it's an accident. If multiple alarms trip, then they have to check all of them. It can take a while.

People were still evacuating. From somewhere on the other side of the building, a small stream of black smoke floated skyward.

Shit, I said. Other people were already looking and pointing. Look. Martins was nonplussed. Strangely, in a crowd he wasn’t much taller than everyone else. His torso was tall, but his legs were short. He didn’t look like a freak, but I could imagine that it was difficult to buy clothes.

A few men in bright yellow high-viz vests walked around with clipboards and seemed to monitor the crowd. They eyeballed the building nervously. Multiple firetrucks rolled up. Firemen jumped out and congregated; a few ran into the building.

You know, that one toaster next to the accounts payable on the third floor?

I shook my head not knowing or even really caring. "I don’t eat a lot of toast and I