The Visitor

In retrospect, I’m glad the old man didn’t tell me that he was from the future. It would have distracted me from the most important conversation in human history. The notion created quite the quantum quandary, his traveling through time, but his identity made it the only possible explanation.

The world was ending and I had given up. I was making great strides through my second over priced whiskey in the hazy terminal bar when the geriatric stranger appeared in the empty seat to my left. I had been staring at my notes for over an hour but the drink had most of my attention. The ridges on my face had deepened into a persistent permanence and the dusty sunbeams that pierced through the dirty windows cast sunset shadows across the sagging bags that unpacked themselves under my bloodshot eyes. Every clink of glassware, each shuffling traveler, and hurried tones all created a special tension in the air around me and I needed something to pull me back to the present.

I was wearing my travel pass around my neck. The green square that circumscribed my photo signified that I was current in my vaccinations and the yellow stripes within denoted my newly acquired advanced age status and that I was allowed early boarding if I so chose.

That must have been how he knew my name. “Hello…” he paused and glanced in my direction as he slowly settled into the seat to my left. “...Jonathan.”

The stranger to my left was looking at me, expectant of a response.

“Hello?” I replied in a tone of sheepish apathy.

He was at least 20 years older than me but his eyes held a spritely blue twinkle that struck a far more youthful chord. I found myself immediately lost the steely blue luster of his opaque orbs, surrounded by a guant face and set deep into sallow sockets.

I’d seen eyes of such azure appearance only once, in the face of my grandson Brandon. His early mispronunciation of my title as grandpa had him calling me “Gappa,” to which I called him “Bandon.” By the time his speech had developed, the names were cemented into the entire family lexicon. It was haunting to see his eyes in the face of a stranger.

The bartender sauntered over to acknowledge the new arrival. “Kind of makes you miss the old days,” the old man said to me before turning his attention to our host. “I’ll have what he’s having,” he politely asked and the bartender slunk away in the same silent manner in which he appeared. His face turned back to mine. “Did you ever fly?” he asked.

The question sparked the memory of my one and only flight to see my grandparents when I was 9. Air travel was a thing of the past after the temperatures rose and the Dhenge Fever and Malaria outbreaks decimated most of the labor force in the Gulf, where the last oil remained. Economic disparity loomed large and there weren’t enough people to pull out what little was left in the ground. Folks were too busy just trying to survive and travel became a long forgotten luxury. Rail was the only viable option left for the wealthy elite and those desperate for a change. I was in the latter group.

“Once,” I replied. “To see my grandparents. It was the only time I ever saw them.”

“That must have been right before the pandemics,” said the old man, more to himself in a sort of reverie than a response. He picked up his glass and held it out to me. “To the future,” he said with a smile. I lightly tapped his glass with mine and enjoyed another sip. The warmth of the whiskey was a welcome comfort to the last remaining threads of my frayed nerves.

The old man glanced down at my scribbles and scrawls that adorned the pages of my small, black notebook. “What are you working on?” he asked.

“An exercise in futility,” I replied with an aching grin.

I closed the notebook with a familiar creaking of the spine as my fingers slid along the worn, black cover. I peeled the elastic around the front and it landed with a snap. I felt obligated to describe my dilemma in a bit more detail.

“I have a vision for the future. This future is remarkable not with respect to a zero waste lifestyle that develops, but in the ideas that shape it. It comes from the universal understanding that we are connected to all things, and that it’s time we started taking care of each other and our home. In turn, we see that our home provides everything we need and by working together we can have it all.”

The visitor absorbed every word; his eyes never left mine.

“But I’ve lost count of my failures. I know that I’m onto something worthwhile and it could benefit a great number of people. But all I have is a notebook full of gibberish and a poorly worded sales pitch. Without a tangible sample, I’m down to dead ends.”

He merely smiled a knowing smile and said, “But the dead ends are the motivation.”

I was listening before, but now he had my full attention. He took a deep breath and elaborated the point.

“What if I told you that your ideas eventually make a splash. More importantly, they create a ripple effect. You prove the widespread viability of clean, renewable energy and others are inspired to follow suit.

“People are tired and frustrated, and they’re ready for you. You light the way for the world to come together and work as one. To do more than simply cast aside our differences. To acknowledge the experiences of those who have been wronged and move forward together without pretext or predjudice. People are ready for ideas such as yours. They’ve realized that those in power are not the ones who should be running the systems. The world is smaller and borders are falling. The problems we face are no longer local, but global in that one part affects the whole. There are growing numbers underground that are waiting for you to light the way out and into a new prosperity that is shared by all living things.”

His sentiment showed an intimate understanding of how deep I had fallen into that dark, oppressive sense of dread that arises when doom and gloom join forces to wreak havoc on the heart like emotional vikings. That all was mute and we were all just droning away and our efforts served only the few with all the marbles in their bags. He knew I needed a break and that the only way to get one was to keep moving forward.

“Your solutions unite the world in a common cause,” he continued, his tone turning more stern now. “You have to finish what you’ve started. Our very future is depending on you.”

“Wow, no pressure there,” I said with a smirk. He paid no attention to my nonsense.

“And it all starts with the beautiful ideas on these pages,” he said while tapping a gnarled finger on the cover of my notebook.

How did he know of my work? I put aside the question because I didn’t have the energy to find the answer. “I can’t just sell an idea as big as this. I have to prove it. That’s the rub. I don’t have the money to build the prototype.”

“How much would you need?” he asked. “For proof?”

“$19,750.45,” I said. He could tell by my tone how daunting that amount was to me.

“A small price today for a better tomorrow,” he said through his ever present grin.

I excused myself as the whiskey was working its way through my body and I needed to tend to the expanding urgency of the situation. When I returned to my seat at the bar, the old man was gone. A whistle blew in the distance. Perhaps he was running late for the next train? I asked the bartender if the old man said anything upon his departure. “Didn’t even know he left,” he said. That’s when I noticed the envelope placed deliberately and delicately under my notebook. The crisp white paper hid behind the worn black smoothness of my journal. Such a thing was rare now as most paper was a yellowed amalgam of repossessed pulp.

Slowly, carefully, I reached for the envelope. Lifting it from under my notebook and turning it over in my fingers. It wasn’t mine, nor was the handwriting across the front. A small and seemingly personal note that simply stated, “Get to work, Gappa,” followed by, “With love, Bandon.”

There was only one soul on Earth who those names applied and he was currently 7 years old. But those eyes…

With tentative hesitation I levered open the starchy flap and freed the contents. I gasped at what I now lightly gripped in my fingertips, like I was holding onto a whisper and feared for my life to drop it. A simple cashier’s check was written out to my name in the sum of an even $20,000 now rested in my shaking hands.

I frantically looked about the bar but saw only a fresh crowd of travelers waiting for their next flight. But I felt those periwinkle peepers were upon me from somewhere hidden, making sure I received the envelope.

I turned my renewed attention back to my work and unwound the elastic on my notebook. I flipped through each page and every idea with a fresh perspective, bolstered by the knowledge that success would somehow reveal itself provided I stay the course in my efforts. No longer was I chasing ghosts. I was following a map to the next level and all that was needed was to pull out the clues from my own thoughts.

My name is Jonathan Montegue. You don’t know me now, but thanks to his gift you will never forget me.