(Continued from previous post)
Exclusive to The Live Oak County Register by F. Pratt
The next day Twizlet and I traveled in his Ford-150 full-size pickup to visit the Texas State Fair in Carbine City. He didn’t bring his map.
“Don’t need it. My navigation system is simple. Follow the stars, pardner, just follow the stars.”
Before I could remark on the absence of stars at nine in the morning, he continued. “Let me tell you about the time travel apparatus I’ve used in the past.”
I could sense his excitement in describing the conveyance employed for those incredible adventures.
"We used a large, cube-shaped, metallic transport framework. I plunged myself into a slot at the top of the device, popped up in the designated time frame, carried out my secret mission, then plunged back in and popped up in the present, only slightly worse for wear and with an attractive suntan.”
“It sounds like a gigantic toaster.” I was impressed.
Twizlet grew even more excited. “And the principles behind each technology are remarkably the same!”
“And you were there the night Lincoln was assassinated?” I could learn so much from this time traveler.
“Assassinated? Boulderdash. When I left the play to go drinking with the president’s bodyguard, John Parker, Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln were having a perfectly delightful evening at the theatre.”
“Amazing!”
We didn’t need the sign saying “Entering Carbine City” to tell us we were near our destination. Have you ever been to a state fair? Of course you have. So you know what it looks like (tents, banners, state flags). And smells like. Mainly deep-fried butter topped with cinnamon sugar, deep-fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, deep-fried Coke, and cotton candy.
We parked and then entered the fair. Twizlet continued his stories as I munched on my deep-fried horned toad.
“The moon landing? Fake. The Mets’ World Series win in 1969? Fake. And World War I? Just another pesky conspiracy theory.”
Before Twizlet could go into detail, we reached a booth that sold deep-fried cowboy hats. A man behind the counter brought out a metal box with several rows of buttons. I spied a big red button and decided to push it. Twizlet grabbed my arm, and immediately the two of us flew through a portal that replaced the booth.
"The hell? That was a dick move, Pratt."
We found ourselves seated at a back table in the bar of the Menger Hotel in downtown San Antonio.
My first reaction had to do with logistics. How would I get back to Nacogdoches, the point of our embarkation? And then home to San Antonio? In my distress, I had forgotten that we were in San Antonio at that very moment. Meantime, Twizlet, too, couldn't get his head around where we were.
"This isn't Montana, Pratt! Where is Custer? Where are the Indians?”
Montana? Custer? Indians? I was still working out the puzzle of how to get home. Then I realized if I caught the number 10 cross-town bus to the station at 500 North St. Mary Street, I could switch to the southbound bus to Pleasanton, thus neatly avoiding personal intercourse with the Anderson Loop. From Pleasanton I could ride the Greyhound bus to Lufkin, where Rudy could drive me in his lime green Ford escort station wagon back to Nacogdoches. Let him negotiate the confounded loop around Nacogdoches. Then I’d hitch a ride to the Alamo City. With my luck I'd get off at San Antonio’s Hardberger Park by mistake and spend the afternoon with those accursed flea-ridden dogs.
As I pondered this transportation conundrum, my companion discoursed with a solidly built man wearing spectacles and a walrus mustache, seated across from us at the table.
“Who's your squirrelly friend, Twizlet?”
“This is Felix Pratt, Colonel.”
The man who would become our twenty-sixth president reached out his hand to shake mine. “My name is Theodore Roosevelt,” he said, “and I’m here to recruit volunteers for an expedition to fight in Cuba. I’m calling my regiment the Rough Riders. Would you be interested? Have you ever ridden a horse?”
“A live one, you mean?” Roosevelt’s expression led me to believe I’d said something amiss. Clearly he had never ridden a bucking bronco at a bar. (Neither had I.)
Twizlet spoke up. “Say, Colonel, how about some whiskey?”
Roosevelt said that would be bully.
“An egg cream for me,” I said.
The bartender, when called over, was not accommodating. “Egg cream? Pard, if you want eggs, they got scrambled eggs, fried eggs, and poached eggs in the restaurant next door. We don't serve food in the bar. We don't got cream, neither.”
I couldn’t blame this Texan for his unfamiliarity with an iconic New York beverage, but I could be disappointed.
“Well, then, how about a can of blackberry White Claw Surge and, hey, a party-size bag of Cheetos Popcorn?”
The bartender simply turned his back and walked away. So much for Texas hospitality, I thought as he retreated. His attitude reminded me of the Nacogdoches waitress.
Twizlet and Roosevelt were talking about the Battle of the Little Big Horn.
“I wanted to speak to Custer.” Twizlet took a slug of whiskey.
“To warn him?”
“Not necessarily.” Twizlet was being cagey, typical of his breed. “But I did want to meet his scouts, Hopping Bird, Pig Dog, and Tail Feather. We don’t know if they were trustworthy or part of the plot to foil him. I have this pad of questions I wanted to ask.”
The paper gave me an idea.
As he produced it, I interrupted. “Colonel Roosevelt, a word, if I may be so bold. If you ever have to speak in front of a crowd, fold your speech in half and put it in your breast pocket.”
“And what would be the point in that?”
Just then a wall of the bar fell away, revealing a giant roller coaster.
“That’s the end of our conversation,” said Twizlet. “We’ve got to catch that ride before it disappears into the twenty-first century.”
“Just one more question.” I had to know. “Are there loops around San Juan Hill and Santiago de Cuba?”
Twizlet began to drag me toward the roller coaster.
“All right, Twizlet! I just want to tell the Colonel how pleased I was to meet the Bull Moose himself.”
Roosevelt grinned, showing his famous big teeth. “Bully! That's a perfect name for a political party. I’m as proud as a cat with two tails to meet you, gentlemen. Safe travels!”
Twizlet stepped into the roller coaster and began to press some buttons. I jumped into the seat next to him.
He began to grumble. “I had just one-half hour to ask Custer questions, and now I didn't even get to interview Roosevelt because you wanted a fancy drink and some snacks. This time travel session was pointless.”
I patted Twizlet’s shoulder. “No, no, no, buddy. I just saved Roosevelt's life. Fourteen years from now, he's going to be making a speech, and a would-be assassin will shoot at his heart. But that fat, folded paper in his breast pocket, along with his eyeglasses case, will dull the bullet.”
My new friend had to agree that I was a hero.
Back in Central Texas, I spent the afternoon on a series of buses that led me to Hardberger Park, and I don't even live in North San Antonio. I should have just walked home.
Exclusive to The Live Oak County Register by F. Pratt
The next day Twizlet and I traveled in his Ford-150 full-size pickup to visit the Texas State Fair in Carbine City. He didn’t bring his map.
“Don’t need it. My navigation system is simple. Follow the stars, pardner, just follow the stars.”
Before I could remark on the absence of stars at nine in the morning, he continued. “Let me tell you about the time travel apparatus I’ve used in the past.”
I could sense his excitement in describing the conveyance employed for those incredible adventures.
"We used a large, cube-shaped, metallic transport framework. I plunged myself into a slot at the top of the device, popped up in the designated time frame, carried out my secret mission, then plunged back in and popped up in the present, only slightly worse for wear and with an attractive suntan.”
“It sounds like a gigantic toaster.” I was impressed.
Twizlet grew even more excited. “And the principles behind each technology are remarkably the same!”
“And you were there the night Lincoln was assassinated?” I could learn so much from this time traveler.
“Assassinated? Boulderdash. When I left the play to go drinking with the president’s bodyguard, John Parker, Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln were having a perfectly delightful evening at the theatre.”
“Amazing!”
We didn’t need the sign saying “Entering Carbine City” to tell us we were near our destination. Have you ever been to a state fair? Of course you have. So you know what it looks like (tents, banners, state flags). And smells like. Mainly deep-fried butter topped with cinnamon sugar, deep-fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, deep-fried Coke, and cotton candy.
We parked and then entered the fair. Twizlet continued his stories as I munched on my deep-fried horned toad.
“The moon landing? Fake. The Mets’ World Series win in 1969? Fake. And World War I? Just another pesky conspiracy theory.”
Before Twizlet could go into detail, we reached a booth that sold deep-fried cowboy hats. A man behind the counter brought out a metal box with several rows of buttons. I spied a big red button and decided to push it. Twizlet grabbed my arm, and immediately the two of us flew through a portal that replaced the booth.
"The hell? That was a dick move, Pratt."
We found ourselves seated at a back table in the bar of the Menger Hotel in downtown San Antonio.
My first reaction had to do with logistics. How would I get back to Nacogdoches, the point of our embarkation? And then home to San Antonio? In my distress, I had forgotten that we were in San Antonio at that very moment. Meantime, Twizlet, too, couldn't get his head around where we were.
"This isn't Montana, Pratt! Where is Custer? Where are the Indians?”
Montana? Custer? Indians? I was still working out the puzzle of how to get home. Then I realized if I caught the number 10 cross-town bus to the station at 500 North St. Mary Street, I could switch to the southbound bus to Pleasanton, thus neatly avoiding personal intercourse with the Anderson Loop. From Pleasanton I could ride the Greyhound bus to Lufkin, where Rudy could drive me in his lime green Ford escort station wagon back to Nacogdoches. Let him negotiate the confounded loop around Nacogdoches. Then I’d hitch a ride to the Alamo City. With my luck I'd get off at San Antonio’s Hardberger Park by mistake and spend the afternoon with those accursed flea-ridden dogs.
As I pondered this transportation conundrum, my companion discoursed with a solidly built man wearing spectacles and a walrus mustache, seated across from us at the table.
“Who's your squirrelly friend, Twizlet?”
“This is Felix Pratt, Colonel.”
The man who would become our twenty-sixth president reached out his hand to shake mine. “My name is Theodore Roosevelt,” he said, “and I’m here to recruit volunteers for an expedition to fight in Cuba. I’m calling my regiment the Rough Riders. Would you be interested? Have you ever ridden a horse?”
“A live one, you mean?” Roosevelt’s expression led me to believe I’d said something amiss. Clearly he had never ridden a bucking bronco at a bar. (Neither had I.)
Twizlet spoke up. “Say, Colonel, how about some whiskey?”
Roosevelt said that would be bully.
“An egg cream for me,” I said.
The bartender, when called over, was not accommodating. “Egg cream? Pard, if you want eggs, they got scrambled eggs, fried eggs, and poached eggs in the restaurant next door. We don't serve food in the bar. We don't got cream, neither.”
I couldn’t blame this Texan for his unfamiliarity with an iconic New York beverage, but I could be disappointed.
“Well, then, how about a can of blackberry White Claw Surge and, hey, a party-size bag of Cheetos Popcorn?”
The bartender simply turned his back and walked away. So much for Texas hospitality, I thought as he retreated. His attitude reminded me of the Nacogdoches waitress.
Twizlet and Roosevelt were talking about the Battle of the Little Big Horn.
“I wanted to speak to Custer.” Twizlet took a slug of whiskey.
“To warn him?”
“Not necessarily.” Twizlet was being cagey, typical of his breed. “But I did want to meet his scouts, Hopping Bird, Pig Dog, and Tail Feather. We don’t know if they were trustworthy or part of the plot to foil him. I have this pad of questions I wanted to ask.”
The paper gave me an idea.
As he produced it, I interrupted. “Colonel Roosevelt, a word, if I may be so bold. If you ever have to speak in front of a crowd, fold your speech in half and put it in your breast pocket.”
“And what would be the point in that?”
Just then a wall of the bar fell away, revealing a giant roller coaster.
“That’s the end of our conversation,” said Twizlet. “We’ve got to catch that ride before it disappears into the twenty-first century.”
“Just one more question.” I had to know. “Are there loops around San Juan Hill and Santiago de Cuba?”
Twizlet began to drag me toward the roller coaster.
“All right, Twizlet! I just want to tell the Colonel how pleased I was to meet the Bull Moose himself.”
Roosevelt grinned, showing his famous big teeth. “Bully! That's a perfect name for a political party. I’m as proud as a cat with two tails to meet you, gentlemen. Safe travels!”
Twizlet stepped into the roller coaster and began to press some buttons. I jumped into the seat next to him.
He began to grumble. “I had just one-half hour to ask Custer questions, and now I didn't even get to interview Roosevelt because you wanted a fancy drink and some snacks. This time travel session was pointless.”
I patted Twizlet’s shoulder. “No, no, no, buddy. I just saved Roosevelt's life. Fourteen years from now, he's going to be making a speech, and a would-be assassin will shoot at his heart. But that fat, folded paper in his breast pocket, along with his eyeglasses case, will dull the bullet.”
My new friend had to agree that I was a hero.
Back in Central Texas, I spent the afternoon on a series of buses that led me to Hardberger Park, and I don't even live in North San Antonio. I should have just walked home.