“O. Bush G. Alter and B. Sawyer” by Jay Dubya I was driving my metallic blue Buick LeSabre towards Atlantic City, New Jersey on congested Route 30 on a Saturday morning in March 2000. My destination was Harrah’s Casino to try my luck at blackjack and to play an additional hundred dollars worth of video poker. On the way driving east on the White Horse Pike I figured I would stop in at Hammonton’s Silver Coin Diner to eat a hearty breakfast. I remember thinking, ‘I have all day to lose my hard-earned money at the casino so what’s the rush?’ After entering the bustling establishment, which was packed with mostly town patrons, I noticed that there was an end seat vacant at the busy counter. I sat down to the left of an acne-faced teenager, who seemed disinterested in my arrival while he concentrated his attention on devouring his breakfast of toast, ham and eggs. I had learned in my college sociology class back in the mid-‘60s that it is wrong to judge anyone by his or her appearance even though the personal stereotype is probably correct ninety percent of the time. Civilized people know that it is improper and downright discourteous to be presumptuous. “Prejudice is when you pre-judge someone,” I remembered a discriminating professor had once lectured. So what if the kid had four fake silver chains and a bronze medallion dangling down from his dirty neck! So what if he wore baggy pants and sported an unkempt long shaggy hairstyle that looked like it could feed a colony of lice! ‘I should not do the unthinkable and stereotype the young fellow,’ I perceptively thought. I reckoned I would show some basic decency and strike up a casual conversation with the young man just to demonstrate that I was a friendly sort of guy. I wanted to show my young fellow-breakfast diner that I was an open-minded civil American citizen that respected everyone’s sacred Constitutional rights. “How ya’ doin’ amigo,” I said in very contrived friendly salutation. “I used to teach at the local high school, that is, before I intelligently retired two years ago. But I don’t seem to remember you as being a student there. Are you from out of town?” “Sort of,” the kid succinctly mumbled with a gross amount of food and saliva spilling out from the corners of his enormous mouth. “I’m just passin’ through the area and heading for Philly’ for some recreation. I come around these parts once or twice a year.” “Where ya’ from?” I persisted with my amiable interrogation. I figured the lad would say something like Berlin, Atco, Pleasantville, Folsom, Egg Harbor, Medford or Atlantic City. “I’m actually a time traveler from the year 2085,” the teenager calmly answered. “I don’t really stay in one place all too long.” “Sure, and I’m the nefarious Sheriff of Nottingham and I’m here in this diner looking for Robin Hood, Friar Tuck and Little John,” I laughed. “I must say young man, you have quite an active imagination. You wouldn’t have any idea where Maid Marian is, would you? I live just around the corner in the center of Sherwood Forest.” The thin teenager stared at me with a nasty scowl that seemed to exaggerate his strange-looking facial features. “All right, don’t believe me when I tell you I’m from the future, the future you’ll never live to see!” the kid testily challenged. “See if I really care!” I didn’t desire to appear as rude as I had really been so I humbly apologized for what he had perceived as a rather sarcastic remark. Strangers often misinterpret that I am anti-social but actually, I am usually very shy and reserved upon first contact. ‘I oughta’ humor this spoiled super-sensitive kid,’ I thought. ‘Then I can go home and look him up on the Sci-fi cable channel.’ “Tell me young man,” I suavely stated to deftly disguise my very abundant skepticism, “is your great-grandmother Chelsey Clinton?” “Who in Andromeda is she?” he replied. “Does she live up on the space station? I remember a Dorothy Clinton from my third grade astronomy class, but no Chelsey Clinton. Who is Chelsey Clinton anyway?” “Former President Bill Clinton’s daughter,” I clarified. “Never mind about her,” I declared, believing that my new acquaintance was probably not a conscientious student of current events. “Well, who is the President of the United States in 2085?” “Obadiah Bush,” the kid casually responded quite matter-of-factly while munching away on his slightly burnt toast. “Obadiah Bush is President of the United States,” he repeated with his mouth completely full. “And I didn’t vote for the guy in my high school’s mock election, either!” “Is Obadiah Bush George W. Bush’s grandson?” I innocently asked. “Naw,” the kid muttered as he chewed another disgusting mouthful of his slightly burnt toast. “I think I read in a telebook somewhere that he’s some long gone politician named Jeb Bush’s great-grandson.” A polite waitress exited the diner’s swinging kitchen doors and approached the busy counter. She applied her pencil to her check pad and jotted down my simple order of pancakes, coffee, orange juice bacon and eggs. After the waitress rushed back through the swinging doors into the Silver Coin Diner’s busy kitchen I realized that I had become rather intrigued by the laconic teenager’s overall nonchalance regarding my questions about the future president. I decided to extend our conversation to the vital domestic and international issue arenas. I asked the lad what types of social problems plagued the USA in the year 2085. “None,” the kid tersely replied. “There aren’t any major problems like there are in your time. President Obadiah Bush took care of all that stuff. Many people regard him as a born genius.” “How is that possible?” I insisted on knowing. “You must be gravely mistaken. There will always be wars and recessions. Everyone with half a brain knows that.” The enigmatic kid explained that President Obadiah Bush had used his great influence to pass a very critical bill through Congress during his initial term as the nation’s “CEO.” All high school students were expected to graduate with honors and after age eighteen, a law mandated that every student was required to either serve four years in the military or an equivalent number of years performing vital social service. Then after demonstrating their dedication the young men and women of the future had earned the right to attend college. The twenty-two year olds then would have a greater sense of maturity and responsibility upon entering universities. They would not goof off, would not frivolously join fraternities and sororities, would not party all the time, would not make having sex and orgies their avocations, and finally would not waste their parents’ hard-earned money drinking beer and vodka. Everything seemed plausible. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “That’s a terrific idea you just described. Going into the military or doing four years’ community service work delays adulthood,” I marveled. I paused for a second to capture my next fleeting thought. “Then students will not graduate Princeton or Michigan until they’re around twenty- six. College grads will finally be mature enough to enter the competitive job market place. That plan you mentioned sounds very practical.” I proceeded to ask the kid about hot-button social problems such as teen pregnancies and abortions. The young man informed me that Dr. Gene Alter, a renowned Nobel Prize recipient from Harvard, had perfected a formula that effectively delays the onset of puberty until age thirty. Congress had passed a law in 2082 mandating that every infant had to be inoculated with the secret chemical solution right after his or her first birthday. The program was an important part of their required vaccination schedules. “No teenage girls get pregnant any more because of that amazing formula,” I stated, “and stupid sexual urges are put on hold until well-after high school, and the onset of puberty is delayed well-after military training or mandatory social service and subsequent college attendance are under students’ belts. Without destructive hormones interfering with essential brain functions,” I continued, “college students could engage in very serious career pursuits. They could for the first time in history actually be bona fide college students. This creative story of yours is absolutely phenomenal!” “Unfortunately,” the kid said, “I’m still a virgin because of Dr. Alter’s stupid research. That’s one reason I often come back to your wonderful immoral time period so that I can be with non-virgins. Nine out of ten kids that live in your time are non-virgins, did you know that?” “Don't feel badly and take it to heart,” I sympathized with elementary compassion, “but I really like the idea that science is actively involved in prevention and in intervention. In the future kids’ minds and instincts are no longer controlled by dumb biological impulses and temptations,” I said to the adolescent above the din inside the diner. I was wondering how the United States Congress managed to pass such controversial bills with the great philosophical divide separating Republicans and Democrats. “How did the Republicans ever push through such strong laws with the likes of the ACLU, the NAACP and NOW activists out there?” I curiously asked. “There are no longer any robotic-like Republicans or Democrats,” the young man indicated before burping loudly. “Only Republicrats and Demlicans exist in the future. President Obadiah Bush shrewdly made both parties learn to agree so much on all things. That’s why there’s little or no difference between them.” ‘This kid sitting next to me is either Nostradamus reincarnated or an absolute fraud possessing a very rampant imagination,’ I thought. I wondered what had been done in 2085 in the area of ecology, so I requested clarification from the vernal guru, who incidentally appeared too knowledgeable to be believed. I wanted to know exactly what the time voyager had to say about the future world’s environment now that Obadiah Bush had solved the country’s fundamental educational and teenage delinquency crises and Dr. Gene Alter had effectively remedied the very formidable teenage pregnancy and abortion dilemmas. I was becoming more and more interested in the kid’s past, which would naturally be my grandson’s future. My inquisitive mind needed more explanations. “What has the government done about preserving and conserving the environment?” I instinctively asked. “Has air pollution been controlled? Have all the world’s forests been restored?” The unkempt-looking boy’s response was very enlightening. He described in detail the remarkable sage Professor Branche Sawyer, who taught “Science and Forest Destruction” at Waterloo University. The remarkable genius was instrumental in developing two dynamic special waste-conversion machines. The first apparatus ingeniously manufactured oxygen and nitrogen from garbage, and the second amazing device produced carbon dioxide from raw sewage. According to my new acquaintance President Obadiah Bush signed a law that every American household’s residents must have their garbage disposal units and toilets and sinks hooked up to the two wondrous inventions or ten more years of military or social service was required of the wasteful non-law-abiding violators. “That’s great!” I observed and praised. “No more trash collection and expensive recycling of paper, metals and plastic rubbish. Those machines Professor Branche Sawyer invented can easily recycle nature without any need to have trees, rain forests and plants doing the job. You don’t need any more ‘Save the environment’ campaigns or slogans,” I declared. “You don’t need people and animals exchanging oxygen and carbon dioxide with plants and bushes any more to keep the complicated life cycles going.” “That’s correct,” the young man readily agreed, “and all the trees on the earth have just about been chopped down and it really doesn’t matter too much whether we have them or not. I mean, who really cares about toothpicks or splinters?” the lad rhetorically asked. “But when ya’ need toothpicks or sawdust, ya’ gotta’ have a few of those stupid forests around to knock down.” I began to place some credence in the young man’s insistent claim that he was indeed a time traveler. I suddenly converted into my greed-mode and thought that I might materially profit from our chance encounter. “How about some good stock tips?” I pleaded. “And please tell me, who’s gonna’ win the next World Series and the next Super Bowl? If you just tell me those things, you can stop here at this diner every Saturday morning and I promise I’ll buy you breakfast.” “Forget it you self-centered moocher,” the youthful Silver Coin Diner customer criticized. “Spend all your dough while it’s still worth something. The Greater Second Stock Market Crash will happen on December 23, 2010. You have just a few more years to lose all you’ve got before you will definitely lose all you’ve got.” “Wow! The winter solstice,” I acknowledged. “Just like the ancient Aztec calendar predicted. Disaster and doom are scheduled to happen on that date. Those Aztec priests really knew every Aztec aspect of their astrology!” I wholeheartedly joked. The future boy wonder was not at all impressed with any aspect of the Aztec calendar. He switched subjects and related that he was on his merry way to an N*Sync concert at Philadelphia's First Union Center. “If I drop out of high school,” the kid explained, “the law states that I’d have to be trained by the government to work in a factory or do boiler-room telemarketing to recruit more people into the Army or Navy. What a horrible punishment! I’d much rather be here sittin’ and talkin’ with you!” “Well then,” I said, “if you’re under so much pressure to succeed in the year 2085, why are you sitting here in this diner eating breakfast right now? Shouldn’t you be home studying your subjects? If you flunk out of high school, you’ll then qualify for the government’s cruel and unusual rehab’ punishment programs.” “I need some recreation time real bad,” the boy declared. “My high school curriculum is really intense. I like going to N*Sync concerts because Oldies music tends to calm my nerves. Once in a while I also check out the Back Street Boys too.” I dared not ask the youth what the music of the year 2085 sounded like when today’s rap and hip-hop songs sound so much like maniacal urban dissonance. Before I could proceed with our extraordinary discussion the unpredictable kid pulled out a shiny metallic object from his jacket’s left pocket. I mentally examined the queer-looking item as he held it in his hand as he generally described the instrument’s very unique functions. Four designations were on the metallic object’s top segment: a Pound Key, a Star Key, and buttons P (Place) and T (Time). The rest of the exquisite “Time Calculator’s” surface contained red-colored buttons labeled zero through nine. The boy continued showing me his fantastic “Space/Time Pocket Coordinator” device as he identified its various fascinating features. To tell the truth, the casing looked authentic and it appeared that it very possibly could perform all the capabilities that the kid claimed it could. “This sophisticated transporter is my own personal molecular atomic space/time/matter compressor and re-materializer,” he casually explained, “and it can transport me to any place in any specific time period.” “Sort of like Scotty doing his thing on Star Trek,” I smartly added. “Who the heck is Scotty?” my fellow customer asked. “Is he your dog?” My eyes glanced down at the young man’s notepad that had been placed between us on the diner’s front counter. On it were scribbled nine numbers, which I attempted to memorize. Without any warning or clue, the young fellow said “See ya’!” He grabbed his notepad, pressed a sequence of buttons on his magical calculator and then instantly disappeared in a flash into thin air. I looked around the crowded diner and all of the other patrons were preoccupied chattering and kibitzing, completely oblivious to the futuristic N*Sync fan’s hasty, impressive departure. My next instinct was to search under the counter. I was still in a stupor about the boy’s incredible testimonies regarding his future world when the harried waitress approached carrying my breakfast order. I volunteered to pay for the boy’s meal and politely instructed the diner employee to simply add his $4.98 tab to my bill. ‘His company was worth the small additional expense,’ I thought. ‘If he was a fraud, he was indeed a very intriguing fraud.’ The next morning I awoke at 8 a.m. with an inspiration. I would call the eight digit number the kid had scribbled at the diner on his notepad’s front cover. I anxiously lifted a pen and jotted down the numbers I had recalled from the Silver Coin. I wanted to know if the kid was a terrible hoax and I also wanted to know exactly where he lived. I slowly and carefully dialed the number and I was happy to hear the voice of the youthful N*Sync fan on the other end of the line. At first he was not too thrilled to be hearing from me because where he was, it was five o’clock in the morning. Gradually I got the kid to come to his senses and he stopped being so grumpy and defiant over the telephone. After I apologized for my waking him up we amiably talked for over an hour. I didn’t learn too much more about the year 2085 because all the kid really wanted to talk about was N*Sync, Britney Spears, Madonna, Fleetwood Mac and the Back Street Boys. Yesterday I stepped out to my mailbox and picked up my long distance phone bill. After re-entering the house, I opened the envelope and then inspected the list of long distance calls I was being charged for. One particular number had been billed for the incredible sum of $987.52. I angrily lifted my living room phone from its cradle and promptly dialed my long distance company. “Hello,” a pleasant female voice greeted, “how may I help you?” “Look, I just received my monthly phone statement,” I hollered like a maniac, “and one call is erroneously listed here for the amount of $987.52! There’s gotta’ be some gross error here! I’m not paying for your company’s negligence in keeping accurate records.” The well-trained operator suavely told me to wait on the line while she did her due diligence and professionally conducted her investigation into my inquiry. In the meantime I was able to harness my emotions and simmer down a bit. The woman’s soothing cordial voice returned. She skillfully read the appropriate relevant information off of her computer’s screen. “Sir, you had spoken for one hour after calling San Diego,” she aptly stated. “That’s right,” I admitted, “and I did speak with someone in San Diego, a teenager I believe.” “The San Diego call was a 900 number. The cost of the service was over sixteen dollars a minute. Wow sir, that’s a pretty expensive 900 number you were calling!” “What!” I nastily shouted. “You must be joking! That’s impossible! The first numbers on the billing are 1-999 and not 1-900! I had called a 999 number and not a 900 number.” “Sir,” the operator eloquently interrupted, “apparently they have run out of 900 numbers out in California just like they had run out of 1-800 numbers all over the country. You could easily solve this kind of problem by not making any future 900 or 999 phone calls.” I slammed my green living room’ telephone down into its cradle. I grabbed the sheet of paper upon which I had scribbled the young man’s San Diego phone number. I hastily ripped the paper to shreds and then promptly threw the tiny flakes into my kitchen garbage compactor. I cared less that in the year 2085 oxygen would be efficiently made out of common household rubbish. By Jay Dubya Story Taken from copyrighted work Pieces of Eight, Part II More articles by Jay Dubya http://feeds.rapidfeeds.com/4820/