The Time Capsule

There is nothing in everyday life to suggest that coming into a large sum of money could bring such an all consuming madness. He had been the one working that late night demolition job. Everyone else was suffering the realities of the pandemic. It very well could have been the teeth of an excavator pulverizing that forgotten time capsule into scrap.

The twenty thousand dollars wrapped in dry, cracked rubber bands had come out first from that capsule. Operating the excavator without a spotter had done the trick. Bad visibility led to cracking the shell that had surrounded the capsule. Though crisp, the cash that fell out upon opening was almost a hundred years old. He knew that because of the little black leather book that had fallen out behind it had confirmed the date.

The book had fallen to the wayside at first. Twenty thousand dollars in today’s time was still a lot of money, but for the the twenties it was far more vast an amount. He needed this money. Whatever god, chance, or chaotic reveal the universe deemed to bestow upon him, he knew this was his lucky break. The fire had taken everything from him. Though his brother had been supportive by allowing him to borrow his son’s bedroom for the time being, this was enough to get himself back on his feet. With society and the economy being slowed down to a crawl due to government restrictions on travel and work, the work had been inconsistent and barely enough to cover the bills he had.

If it were not for that diminutive black book bound in soft leather, he may have just merrily carried on with keeping it. Being the only one working the job that night, he got inside the heated cab of the excavator and decided to read the book. Sweat had covered him despite the cold, the money a black hole threatening to swallow his resolve to read it. However, he decided to forget the money to read the book.

After a couple hours, the black book now was read. Upon finishing, everything changed. The contents inside was narrated by a man named Andrew Dotson. Inside the book he claimed to have traveled back in time. Upon arrival in 1924, he claims to have emerged in the middle of Time Square in New York. Everyone that saw him and his machine appear from nothing set off into a panic that had led to his abandonment of the device. Supposedly, he had never even meant to use the machine; a lever had been tripped leading him to activate it. The money was not earned through legal means. It had been stolen from the mafia and he had remained on the run.

None of that troubled him as much as the last entry into the book. Though the majority of it only remained as a paraphrase in his mind, the last entry burned bright into his memory:

I’ve stolen the time capsule they were going to bury tomorrow and filled it with this book and the money for my wife and only son. Please…if anyone sees this do not keep this money. My son Eric is dying. They need all the money they can to continue with his cancer treatments. They deserve more, but this is all I could do. I know this capsule will make it to our time because I know Buford Industry is contracted to demo the zone. My family does not know what happened to me. Inside a hidden flap of this book lies photographs of myself taken in the time I have trapped myself in. Someone can date them for authenticity for my wife Naomi. My house is on Miller Street, number 62. They will be there. Whoever sees this if anyone does make sure to give them this book and let them know what happened. I love them more than anything. My death will matter not for I died when that lever tripped on this godless machine.

Stupid, he thought in doubt, am I really supposed to believe this man traveled through time and got stuck in the 20’s? Despite his head giving him every reason to be skeptical, the horrifying truth was that too many things began to stand out to him the further he scrutinized. The most glaring was the ink strokes in the diary. Only a ballpoint pen could have written the thick, heavy lines that entrenched the words into the very paper itself…a pen that did not exist then. The book also appeared to have a trademark embedded into the leather on the back. The numbers read 2020. Either it was the most elaborate hoax he had ever seen or he needed to go lay down and process exactly what it was he would do from here if he accepted the truth of it.

So many questions remained. How did he steal a time capsule? How was a time machine actually made? Who were the mafia men he had stolen from? If these items had been at that capsule and the story was true then that meant it had been there for the better part of a century and it meant the man had changed the timeline. The money and book were always there. Andrew Dotson had unwittingly become a part of history itself and the man he was here a relevancy that no longer existed. Looking down at the money, he felt tears welling in his eyes at the prospect that his saving grace could slip through his fingers. No one even knew of the capsule or it would have been extracted already, leading him to believe the location of the capsule was not its intended home. The struggle rested within the notion of whether this was science fiction or science fact.

The next day he called into work. Sleep did not come that night when he had left work and in its place crushing guilt now lay, swallowing every ounce of peace within him. Everything within him wanted it all to be a lie. The time travel…the struggling wife and son of Andrew…these things stood in the way of his own current happiness. Perhaps it was a selfish part of his soul that wanted it to be that way. Is it selfish when you have nothing yourself? It was not like a rich man had uncovered the capsule. Regardless of anything his mind could conjure to rectify keeping the money, he knew the guilt would eat him alive if he did not at least entertain the fact it could all be true. That was when he decided to see for himself…to know if the impossible was possible and the Dotson family really lived at the address in the book.

Finding the house proved to be quite simple. Few people were on the roads as they were trying to perform their civic duty and remain home. Seated plainly amongst a row of similar styled homes rested 62 Miller St. Painted in unassuming grey, the house at least seemed cozy with its budding flower beds and tiny white fence that lined the sidewalk between the adjacent homes. When he pulled up in his truck, he immediately killed the engine. Silence now dominating, he took a moment to breathe.

Just leave, a voice said from within, you have experienced enough pain. The world threw you a bone. This is simply foolish. Yet, his fingers could no longer turn the key. This was it. He could not move any further until he had known if their really was a distressed family with the surname Dotson living there. Hours that felt like entire days passed as he waited anxiously in his truck, making sure to glance often towards the house so no one would slip by him. When the rain began to pour, he begun to feel as if the effort was useless.

His hand was on the key when the door slammed from 62 Miller. Turning his head in response, he saw two figures come out of the door frantically trying to open an umbrella before the rain saturated them both. Underneath the umbrella was what appeared to be a woman judging by the quaintness of her outline and a child sporting a knit beanie. Inside his chest, his heart beat with intensity. He got out and made sure to walk over to them so as to not frighten them, though they may have ben unavoidable with a stranger approaching in the rain.

“Ms. Dotson!” He annunciated over the thudding rain, her mannerisms indicting surprise at hearing her own name. “Is that you?”

“Who asks?” she clutched the child to her as she answered. Upon closer inspection he now could see the bald head beneath that beanie, a likely side effect of treatments. Squinting, she said, “I’m sorry, but we are kind of in a hurry sir.”

“I know your husband Ms.Dotson,” he shivered as he talked, the weather far too unforgiving to be exposed for long, “Andrew Dotson…I know what happened to him.”

At that, her look of concern transformed immediately into one of shock, “Andrew? This…how do you know? What is going on? I have not heard from him in weeks. I thought…he left us,” even the rain could not hide her tears.

“He did Ms. Dotson,” he said frankly, “but it was not his fault. Everything you need to know is in this,” quickly moving the little book into the dryness of the umbrella’s protection, he continued, “this was with it as well. It’s money he meant for you to have. I thought all of this was some scam or trick. I was even going to keep this money until I read the contents of the pages.”

“Who are you?” She asked again.

“I’m no one,” he said, “but he needs to be the one to tell you what happened in his own words. I’m just the one meant to find it for you.”

Smiling, he began walking away back towards his truck. Though he had just given up his lucky break, he knew now there was something better unfolding before him. Something that sparked a hopeful fire within him.

“Sir!” Ms. Dotson cried as he turned back for a moment towards her, “thank you…I don’t know else to say but…thank you.”

Waving reassuringly to the grateful pair, he climbed back into the truck and drove away into the pouring night. The last thing he saw of them that night was a loving embrace. Despite the horror of truth to come, he eased into the leather seat comforted by what he had done for them. That thank you was worth more than any money could give him. Andrew Dotson gave him more than money…he had given him hope.