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This story is a revised and improved version of the original, published Jan. 7, 2019
Wherever I go, I'm on the lookout for pipes, so while wandering through the flea market a while back, I was especially interested when I happened across a pipe smoker. He was running a booth by the name of "Burt's Macramé Emporium and Time Machines." Burt himself, nametag prominently displayed, was humming and smoking a pipe as he meandered about, adjusting displays and puffing thick clouds of smoke into the air.
"Welcome!" Burt bellowed as I walked in. He was smoking a mixture I was unfamiliar with, highlighting not-so-subtle notes of burning tires, wet mulch, and overheated electrical wiring. "Need some macramé? Dumb question; everybody needs macramé! We got macramé toaster covers, macramé tapestries, macramé curtains; we got macramé hubcap covers right here, got a macramé doghouse over yonder by that macramé canoe, got macramé coasters and doilies and ceiling fan blade covers. Here's a set of macramé salt-and-pepper shakers — you don't need to turn them over, just shake them; real time saver. You look like a man who knows his macramé; what's your pleasure, friend?"
"I had to stop; this booth has everything: Macramé, of course; who doesn't love macramé? But also, you're a pipe smoker, and I like talking with pipe smokers." I held up my own pipe to demonstrate that I was part of the same brotherhood. "But I gotta say, what most attracted my interest was the time machines. I've been wanting one of those for as long as I can remember."
"I can see you're a man of culture and refinement," said Burt. "Yep, my whole family smokes pipes. My sweet grandmother, rest her soul, taught me how to smoke a pipe when I was yay high. 'Now when you smoke at school,' she said, 'smoke only in the restroom, or the teachers' lounge when you can sneak in, or an alley. Not in class where the teachers can see, or they'll contact me and you know I hate teachers. I'll hide you with a switch that'll leave marks your future grandkids in heaven will feel. We've been through that already with your cousin Theo.' Theo has always been trouble. We all smoke our own secret tobacco mixture, grown right on the family farm for generations — we call it 'Armageddon.' You won't find it in any tobacco store, that's for sure. Here, have a puff." He held out his miniature trash fire for my assessment.
You look like a man who knows his macramé
I backed up a step in alarm. His pipe was dirty and wrapped with adhesive tape, its stem oxidized and covered with Burt slobber. Worse yet was the smell. It could have raised the dead and then sent them immediately back from revulsion. "No, that's OK, I could smell it from the midway, and it's a real attention-getter, but I have my own. It's a time machine that I'm set on."
"You bet it gets attention, but suit yourself. Few have the stamina to survive it, and I bet you'd agree that the aroma is unique. I have people stopping me all the time, especially volunteer firefighters, strangely, who think there's an emergency nearby. But listen, brother, you don't need no time machine. To be perfectly honest, they don't strictly ... well, work. They're a failed experiment, as far as I can tell. What you need is macramé seat covers for your car and a set of macramé long johns to keep you warm. "
"Burt, I hate to report that I'm already loaded down with macramé," I lied. "If I bring one more piece of macramé home, my wife will have me sleeping outside in my macramé hammock with my macramé blankets. But I do need a time machine. You know how it is: people to see, mistakes to rectify. Could I look at what you have?"
Worse yet was the smell. It could have raised the dead and then sent them immediately back from revulsion.
"Well of course you can — we aim to please. If it's time machines you want, it's time machines you'll get. But don't say I didn't warn you." Burt led me to a far corner of the Emporium. "Here we go, we got four of 'em, invented and built by my cousin Theo completely out of macramé. I don't know the power source, but this last one started to glow green when he pulled this macramé cord." I pulled the cord; nothing happened. "See what I'm sayin'?" said Burt. "Nothin' worse than a defective time machine. But Theo got it humming along somehow a while back. You gotta talk into the macramé speaking tube and tell it where and when you want to go, but, like I said, it don't work."
"Is Theo around here someplace? Could he show me?"
"Disappeared shortly after he made this last machine. Left quick, too; he only took one pipe, a Kaywoodie Billiard I liked a lot. Damn nice pipe; too nice for Theo. He ran off with a woman, I reckon. He always had an eye for women and vintage Kaywoodies."
I tried everything, searching for secret buttons and switches, but I failed to activate the time machine. "You say he smoked the same mixture as you? Armageddon, did you call it?" Burt nodded. "Yep, many have likened it to the end of the world."
"May I change my mind about trying your pipe?" I asked.
Though my fight-or-flight instinct was fully engaged, I took a puff and immediately regretted it. It was like smoking tobacco that had been smuggled out of the inner ring of the 7th circle of hell, but I pulled the cord and spoke into the speaking tube, making sure there was plenty of smoke in my breath: "Duke Street, London, 1920s."
Nothin' worse than a defective time machine.
There was no flash of lightning nor clap of thunder, but I felt myself plunging into the space/time continuum and almost immediately found myself standing in front of the Alfred Dunhill shop as people in clothing from 100 years ago jostled by and horse-drawn carriages and antique automobiles trundled by in the street. Amazed, I entered the store and the clerk gave me a strange look, probably because I was in cargo shorts and neon green sneakers. The shop was filled with wonders: Dunhill lighters, pipe racks, sterling silver pipe stands, and pipes galore.
Of course, I asked to look at the pipes, and the clerk cheered up. He noted Burt's pipe, still in my hand, and commented that it might indeed be time for a replacement. He excused himself to run to the door for a gasp of fresh air, then returned, asking about my shape preferences. We talked pipes for a while and he seemed to become more comfortable after I lapsed into the advantages of the Billiard and Lovat shapes. Pipes are a universal language, even across 100 years.
I felt myself plunging into the space/time continuum
I found two fantastic Dunhill Shell Briar Billiards, and after some confusing conversation about exchange rates, found they were about $8 each, but the clerk was suspicious when I proffered my debit card. "What, good sir, might this be?"
"Sorry; it's how we pay for stuff in America. But I have cash." I offered him a crisp $20 bill. He examined it and said, "Sadly, we do not accept American currency dated 100 years in the future. Is this some sort of clumsy counterfeiting attempt? You leave me no choice, good sir; I must summon the constables." He walked to the street and started shouting for a cop. I panicked and ran.
People stared as if I'd just escaped from a primate exhibit. With police whistles sounding behind me, I found a garbage pile to hide behind in an alley and unconsciously took a puff of the pipe in my hand, forgetting that it was Burt's. The "flavor" reminded me immediately, though. Vertigo swept over me, and I found myself swimming through the space/time continuum once again. I opened my eyes to see I was back in the Macramé Emporium.
"See?" said Burt. "It don't work." I shook my head like a wet dog, clearing my mind. "I want it," I said.
Is this some sort of clumsy counterfeiting attempt?
"I don't know why you'd want a broken time machine, but fi'teen bucks takes her away," said Burt. "Sold," I said. "And I need to purchase some of your tobacco."
"Oh, that's impossible," said Burt. "A puff or two is OK, and more than anyone has ever voluntarily requested, but this tobacco would kill you deader'n last month's yogurt. You got to be genetically predisposed to survive it. My family has generations of tolerance built up and can handle it, but outsiders most always go insane. There's a ward at the mental hospital for accidental Armageddon overdoses. Poor unfortunates will never be the same. It would be irresponsible to let you have any."
"Even just a couple of bowls' worth?"
"Sorry, brother. I'd never sleep again, knowing the potential for your ruination was because of me."
I argued a bit longer, assuring Burt that I would use his tobacco sparingly and that I had a tolerance for every mixture ever devised, but he would not be convinced. I left without the time machine, knowing it wouldn't work without Armageddon.
this tobacco would kill you deader'n last month's yogurt.
I thought of the episode only rarely afterward, but a couple of years later, I read an interesting article in one of my favorite magazines. Paleontologists had uncovered an almost-complete Tyrannosaurus fossil and were terribly excited. The scientists were puzzled, though, because there was a fossilized Kaywoodie Billiard approximately where the beast's stomach cavity would have been.
Poor Theo.
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Comments
A thoroughly engrossing read. I wonder what Burt is doing now? Hocking some macrame I recon.
Chuck:
I love your writing!!
Good evening belly chuckle while smoking my Kaywoodie billiard... thank you, my friend!
NOw I'm confused, and worried enough to comment. Jeremy H's comment said: "Good evening belly chuckle...". Are there privledged that receive this tome before others? I normally receive the Sunday post in the morning, not Saturday night.
Great story, love it !!
This tickles my Steampunk soul.
An excellent "yarn"!!!
Chuck,
You did it again. I was on pins and needles waiting to find out what happened next.
Dave
Well, I never! Never I say have I smoked a sturdier blend. It's enough to send me a skittering halfway across the world.