I click on the light in the garage and it's all there. Gutted machines, their colorful wires outstretched like sea anemone. Freakish algorithms scrawled across a white board in blue marker. The machine towering in the center. Its metal frame gleaming, finally complete. And the ghosts of Einstein, Newton, and MacGyver, right where I'd left them.
Newton starts hopping up and down and waving his arms trying to get my attention. I pretend like I don't notice. He's completely incorrigible. The guy has laws named after him and all he talks about is how all the thought that came before him was so elementary. How he didn't really have any shoulders to stand on. How his leap of genius was unsurpassed and the amazing things he could do if he were alive today. If I didn't need him, I'd have told him to kick rocks weeks ago.
Einstein is nice enough, but he seems to enjoy tormenting Newton. When Newton gets all excited about some new concept and begins to talk about it, something that's admittedly valuable, Einstein starts playing his violin. It was funny the first couple of times, because Newton would get all foamy at the mouth and start trying to interact with the corporeal without any success, and that would just piss him off even more. But after that, it interfered with the work.
MacGyver is my favorite. He really made everything work. He had a knack for translating their technical jargon into simple directions. And, in case you're wondering, the real MacGyver is dead and he looks nothing like Richard Dean Anderson. He's short and squat and looks like he could be Frida Kahlo's brother, unibrow and all.
Either way, it's done. The world's first time machine wasn't built at MIT or some prestigious university. It was built in my garage with scrap materials and the help of a Ouija board.
I'm going back in time. Right now. Not to plant my seed in Helen of Troy, or to brain Hitler. I won't be altering events you're familiar with. At least not this time.
I'm going to the year 1990, where I will kick my own ass. I found a notebook from my teen years with all kinds of Morrissey inspired pansy-ass quotations on it. I have to stop myself from being such a pussy, change the trajectory of my early life, and possibly hand deliver a one-day yeast infection cure.
Clearly this is looped in the space-time continuum already, as I didn't grow up to be a superwuss.
I'll be back once my mission is complete.
I leave you with an image of the notebook below. Some of the contents are even worse.