Back Story 3 of 3: The Dream is Born
Spencer sat at the rough-hewn wooden table in the cabin, reading the newspaper by lantern light. It had been a week now since he walked into the streets of Hood River, Oregon. By no means a bustling city, the town at least offered basic necessities, and more importantly, work. While he knew he needed to develop a longer term plan eventually, for now Spencer was content with a place to sleep and enough money for food.
He was still walking two miles or so from the cabin to town every day, but knew that eventually the owner of the cabin was likely to show up and kick him out. He was squatting there after all.
His first stop when he walked into town a week earlier had been the local general store, which boasted a “Help Wanted” sign in the front window. The owner didn’t seem particularly concerned with Spencer’s qualifications, and after a brief conversation showed him around the store, and showed him how to work the large (and gorgeous to Spencer) metal cash register at the front counter. He swept the place, took out the garbage to dump in a pile behind the store, and restocked the shelves.
At night, he pondered his fate, hoping every morning when he woke up that this was just a weird dream. He was no closer to figuring out how or why he was here, or how he might return to the present. Or at least HIS present in 2022. Was time frozen then, or had he merely vanished into thin air? Was anyone looking for him? While he had few answers, there were a number of things that Spencer had been able to glean from his week here:
It was November 1895. The date held no significance for him, and despite wracking his brain, he could identify no reason why this year would be important. The time capsule was buried in 1894, so that might be somehow connected.
He was in Oregon.
This wasn’t the WORST time he could have ended up in, but it wasn’t the best either. He had taught AP US History for years, and had a good understanding of important historical events, but he was always the least interested by the period from the end of the Civil War in 1865 until around the turn of the 20th century. He had a big advantage over someone without a working knowledge of United States history, though.
Spencer had purchased a small notebook and pencil with his first week’s wages, and kept a running journal of all the things he did not know, and thought would be useful to find out:
Was there any way to travel back to 2022?
Did his actions in 1895 have repercussions for his future self, or the future of other people? He had to imagine, for example, that if his iPhone hadn’t fallen in the river, it would have blown people away had he showed it to them. But what would the consequences of a reckless act like that be?
Were there any other stories of strange events happening in town, or people appearing out of nowhere?
If he really was stuck here for the rest of his life, how could he make the most of it?
That last question was hard to tackle when Spencer was still in mild shock over his situation. But, he mused, his knowledge of American History had to have some value. If he could buy the right stock, or come up with the right invention, he could be rich eventually, right? At the same time, he was terrified that if he changed 1895 TOO much, it could spiral out of control in any number of ways. What if his early invention of the jet engine changed the outcome of a future world war, or revealing television too early meant the Cold War ended in nuclear holocaust. It was just too hard to predict, and left him searching for a way to acquire future wealth and security that wasn’t too disruptive to the status quo.
While Spencer had never been that obsessed with wealth, he figured if he did end up stuck in time at the turn of the 20th century, having financial means would make it far more tolerable. Perhaps he could leverage money into a search for a way to get home.
Another week passed, with Spencer day-dreaming and scheming while stocking shelves or cleaning up in the general store. His boss had to throw a piece of hard candy at him to break him out of daze now and again. Mr. Saunders, the shop owner, didn’t seem too mad though. He had taken a liking to Spencer, who was only a few years his junior, but seemed willing to work hard without having a big ego about it.
Finally, one sunny winter day in December 1895, the answer was literally delivered to Spencer. He was sweeping up the store, when Mr. Saunders bustled by and asked him to walk down the street to the Post Office to drop off a few letters and bills. As Spencer walked along the wooden sidewalk, he watched horse-drawn carriages and wagons amble down the street, clouds of hot breath pouring from the horses’ nostrils as they dragged their loads of people and goods.
He arrived at the Post Office and handed the outgoing mail across the counter to Mr. Ebbets, the crusty old postmaster in town. He had large bushy eyebrows and tufts of hair growing out of his ears, and Spencer couldn’t help imagining one of the troll dolls that had been so popular when he was a kid.
“There’s something for the store here, just arrived today,” Ebbets mumbled and rummaged around a canvas bag stuffed full of mail. He took out a thick catalog and handed it across to Spencer, who tucked it under one arm and headed out, thanking the old man as he left.
He walked back down the street, and flipped through the catalog, which was full of illustrations of hundreds of home goods and other products. Suddenly, it was as if a brilliant light bulb had gone off in Spencer’s brain. He flipped to the front cover, already knowing what he would see: Sears, Roebuck and Co. was emblazoned across the front. The company was still in its very early years, and Spencer was fairly certain it would still be affordable to buy a stake in the company. Unless he was very mistaken, by the early 1900s, the company would be worth a small fortune. Anyone who had early shares would be very wealthy…
Given that he knew no one, had no family, and didn’t have television, radio, or the internet to distract him, Spencer decided it was entirely realistic that if he worked hard, he could be truly wealthy in ten years. He fell asleep fantasizing about sitting on a rocky outcropping, perched on the precipice, wearing a bowler hat, and gazing out over a piece of land that was all his. A land where he could build a town that would welcome anyone who wanted to start a new life, who was a weird misfit like himself, or just wanted to live in a beautiful place where they could live without anyone bothering them. An introvert’s dream - that he would create. And with that thought, he fell into a deep and restful sleep for the first time in weeks.