Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club, Book 14 Page 10

  As it was September the garden was still lush and he loved sitting here and enjoying a cigar as Samson sniffed every inch of ‘his’ garden. Another reason he liked sitting here was that the fragrance from the multitude of flowers masked most of the horse waste odor in the air. Taking as much time as he could he followed the slate slab path that led to the garden’s tall wrought iron gate with his key out. He opened it and then locked it behind him. Bill marveled at how quiet it was compared to his time. No roar of a city bus or delivery truck. No blare of a taxicab nor rumble and roar of a motorcycle would be heard for the next bunch of years. True, he thought as he wrinkled his nose, the horsepower of the day had its drawbacks even if noise was not one of them. His observations proved correct as a woman walking across the street called out to another who walked towards Bill and she could be heard clearly.

  “Donna! Don’t go to Harry’s Meat Shop any more. He raised his prices two cents for every pound of meat.”

  Donna stopped and called back, “What? I’m on my way there this very moment! Perhaps I’ll walk another two blocks to Miller’s Meats. Thank you Carin.”

  Bill smiled at the thought of these two women who had this conversation over one hundred years earlier while in his time the same type conversation was still going on but with dollars rather than pennies.

  He decided to take a horse drawn trolley rather than a cab and walked over to Fifth Avenue. There was a small group of people standing on every other corner waiting for the trolley and he saw two coming down the line with a city block between them. Bill waited for most of the people to board the first one and he waited for the second one knowing that it would be much less crowded. He helped an elderly woman dressed in a long black dress up the first step and followed her into the trolley as the driver snapped the reins and the horse started to pull the vehicle down the tracks. There was a tin plate on a stand next to the operator who stared straight ahead as the woman dropped two pennies onto the plate. The sound of the coins pinging on the plate told the driver that she had paid her fare. Bill dropped his coins onto the plate and followed her inside. The seats were made of smooth wood and most of the windows were open and as it happens on any bus, train or trolley the window seats were mostly all taken. Bill found an empty window seat at the rear and sat down as the trolley rolled along on its steel tracks. He watched as people just crossed the street wherever they wished almost getting hit by carriages, trolleys and delivery wagons. They avoided all of these while stepping gingerly over horse waste, missing cobblestones, trash and a few small animals that didn’t make it across the wide street. He was amazed at the skill of the drivers of the cabs and wagons as they seemed to enter and exit the moving caravan with ease. He also saw a cat being chased by a dog and to make its escape it climbed deftly up and over a horse and then onto another horse going in the opposite direction. Both horses stood on their rear legs as the drivers stood and pulled the reins tightly to keep them from running. He sat back and grinned as he thought, Driving a single or a team of horses is a lost art.

  Finally at Fifty-ninth Street the trolley emptied out and he stood at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park. Bill checked his pocket watch and saw that he had fifteen minutes to get to the bench with the two men sitting on it. He walked slowly along the curving path as children ran past and mothers and nannies called out after them. There was a large group of pigeons eating breadcrumbs that an elderly man tossed out of a brown paper bag onto the pavers. The time traveler walked at an even pace through the feeding group and watched as instead of flying away, the pigeons simply parted and regrouped before and after each footstep. Mmm, he thought, Even the pigeons are New Yorkers . . . nothing seems to disturb them.

  Finally Bill saw his mission. Three benches away sat two men chatting as they basked in the sun. Stevenson was dressed in a black jacket and tan pants while Twain wore a gray suit and floppy southern style gray hat. Both men wore white dress shirts, black string bowties and low-cut black shoes. While Stevenson’s hair was longish and black, Twain’s was longish and gray. Both wore their mustaches long and droopy.

  Five young boys played behind them near a small pond and one skipped a stone across the water. Bill stepped onto the grass and walked towards the seated men and as he got between them and the boys he called out, “Hey! Don’t be throwing rocks. There are little kids around.” The boys dropped the stones and ran as Bill turned and saw that the two men had turned towards him at the sound of his voice. He smiled, tipped his hat and took a few steps back towards the road when one of the boys stopped, turned and threw his rock. Bill caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and quickly leaped towards the man it was headed for. He stumbled and fell as he reached out and deflected the rock that would have hit the man in his head. Quickly both men rose and ran towards him.

  “Sir! Are you hurt?” asked Stevenson as he took Bill by the arm.

  “No. No, thank you.”

  “If not for you, sir that rock would have hit me. Come sit on the bench.”

  Bill rubbed his hand, which was slightly swollen.

  “Mighty fine move, my friend. Quick as a Mississippi bullfrog, ” said Mark Twain. “Let me see your hand.”

  “It’s nothing. It’ll be fine.”

  “Once again I thank you sir. I’m Robert Stevenson,” he said as he offered his hand.

  Bill took it and replied as they shook, “Bill Scott, pleased to meet you, sir.” He turned to Mark Twain as the other writer said, “And I’m Mark Twain, Mister Scott.”

  “Please call me Bill. Glad I was strolling by.”

  “Heck,” said Stevenson pointing at his head, “so am I.”

  “Sir,” said Twain, “we two were just trying to decide where to have a bite to eat and maybe have a sip of something stronger than water. Would you care to join us?”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “So,” asked Twain to Stevenson, “have you decided on what place would have us, Robert?”

  “Nope. I say we ask Bill where he would go to fill your check list.”

  “I do know a place that has the best steak dinners and also serves drinks stronger than water. Have you ever been to Diamond’s Bar and Grill?”

  “Diamonds?” quipped Twain as he pushed back his southern style hat, “With a name like that I just gotta visit it.”

  Thirty minutes later the three sat at the bar of Paddy Diamonds. Bill smiled as the great grandfather of the Paddy Diamond that he had just visited came down the bar to them with an outstretched hand. “Bill Scott! How are ya lad?”

  “Fine Paddy. I’d like to introduce Robert Stevenson and Mark Twain.”

  The two men shook hands as Paddy furrowed his brow. “Would that, by any chance, be the two great authors Robert Lewis Stevenson and Mark Twain?”

  Twain turned to the other writer and in a low voice said, “Best we run Stevenson, they’re on to us.”

  Bill and Paddy laughed as Paddy asked, “What are ya drinkin’ sirs?”

  “Wine for me,” said Stevenson.

  “And bourbon for me, sir,” said Twain.

  “And a beer for you, Bill?” asked the bar owner.

  “Not today, Paddy. I’ll have a bourbon and do you have any steaks and potatoes?”

  “I do. Would ya like one?”

  Bill looked at the two writers and both nodded, “Yes, three and make mine rare.”

  “Same for me, said Twain as Stevenson nodded, “Same here.”

  Thirty minutes later the three men were on their third drink as they enjoyed their lunch.

  “What a great bar, Bill. Reminds me of a few along the Mississippi which I am familiar with.”

  “I’ve been coming to Diamonds for years. It’s my favorite watering hole.”

  Twain looked at him with a cocked eyebrow and said, “Funny saying. I knew a guy who used to say that.” He took out his pocket watch and said, “Two fifteen.” He snapped it closed and added with a determined look, “I say the sun is just too darn hot at 2:15 on a September da
y in New York City and we should stay right here an’ enjoy our new friend’s favorite watering hole. All in favor say aye.”

  Bill hefted his glass and the three men touched glasses as they said, ’Aye’.”

  It was seven thirty when the three men helped each other out of the bar.

  “Sirs,” said Twain, “I insist that we meet at my place tomorrow evening for dinner. Are we all in agreement?”

  Stevenson shrugged and nodded yes.

  Looking at Bill Twain said with a twinkle in his eye as he patted his back, “And you my friend. You must be there as you single handily saved one of the world’s best authors.”

  “Then I shall be there.” Bill fumbled with the small notebook he carried in his inside breast pocket and asked as he took out a pencil, “Where are you staying?”

  “The Gilsey House at 95 Broadway. That’s right at 29th Street. I say you should be there at seven o’clock.”

  After more handshakes the three men walked off in different directions.

  Bill smiled at meeting the two writers. I have to reread the Mark Twain Mission again, he thought as he walked along. And I’ll have to tell Whitey Madden who became friends with Twain when he went back to save him, that I met him. I’m really looking forward to having dinner with those two guys.

  Bill enjoyed his walk back as the quiet streets were on the dark side except for the small pools of flickering yellow light given off by the gaslights. Most of the apartment buildings had their windows open as the night was on the warm side and he could hear children laughing as they played in the hallways before bedtime. He passed a large policeman with a huge thick red mustache who was expertly twirling his wooden nightstick with one hand as he had the other behind his back. Bill turned the corner and passed three carriages standing there while the drivers stood smoking clay pipes as they passed the time waiting for a fare. At the last corner he turned and walked to the middle of the block and took out the key on the chain around his neck as he approached the garden’s gate.

  Good to be home, he thought. I should have texted Matt to tell him that I’ll be late. He inserted the key into the keyhole and turned it only to feel no resistance. He took it out and looked at it before inserting it again only to get the same result. Bill stepped back and shook his head. “Phew. Take your time, Billy, take your time,” he advised himself as he slowly inserted the key again only to get the same result. “Broken,” he said. “Let me go around to the front door.” The weary time traveler walked around the corner and went up the six stone steps of the main entrance of the six-story Town House. He inserted the key and was flabbergasted to feel no resistance once again. “What the heck?” Bill actually went back down the steps and looked at the brass numbers on the mahogany and glass doors.”520,” he said as he went back up the steps and pressed his nose against the glass section of the door only to see the policeman who he had passed earlier watching him from the sidewalk. Bill turned and said, “Guess my key broke, officer.”

  “Why not use the bell?”

  It quickly dawned on him that he didn’t know who might answer the door in 1887. Because the building had not yet been electrified, the bell was a mechanical push-the-button and the clapper inside struck the bell. He made a gesture of ringing it and after a moment did it again before turning to the policeman and saying, “I guess my roommate is out as well.” He walked back down the steps. “I might as well go catch up with him in one of the local establishments. Good night officer.” He walked away at a leisurely pace with the policeman watching.

  The last thing Bill wanted was tea but there was a late night teashop and he went in and sat at a table near the window.

  “Tea, sir?”

  He looked up and saw a matronly dark haired woman in a white uniform with a red apron on. “Yes, yes I’ll have a cup.” She headed away and Bill called after her, “Do you have any cakes or sandwiches?”

  “Apple pie, that’s all that’s left sir.”

  “I’ll have a slice please.”

  Soon the time traveler sat sipping tea and eating pie both of which he really didn’t want. As he was at a corner table and the waitress was busy he took out his pocket communicator and entered SAMSON, his password, followed by, MATT. I’M HAVING A PROBLEM WITH THE LOCKS. WILL YOU COME DOWN AND OPEN THE GARDEN GATE FOR ME. I’M AT SEPTEMBER 4, 1887 AT 12:25 A.M. BILL. He pressed the send button and waited for Matt’s reply.

  Thirty minutes later Bill thought as he looked at his second cup of tea, Matt must be in a deep sleep. Usually he hears the beeping of his communicator immediately.

  “Closing time, sir. Time to go home.”

  Bill looked up to see the waitress place a tab on his table. He stuffed his hand in his pocket and gave her one dollar for the twenty cent bill and said as he stood, “Thank you. Keep the change.”

  He left the shop and walked back to the club’s front door. Making sure that the policeman wasn’t about he quickly went up the stairs and rang the bell. After one minute he pressed it again and finally kept jabbing the button. Nobody came to open the door.

  Thankful that the weather was nice he sat on a bus stop bench where he could watch the door. After a while he saw the rays of the rising sun reflect off of the glass section of the doors. Bill took out the communicator and checked for the hundredth time: “Nothing!”

  Eight o’clock in the morning he ate eggs and bacon in a diner on Broadway, finished his second cup of coffee and returned to the club. Once again there was no answer at the door.

  I’m in trouble, he thought, as he walked along Ninth Avenue to no place in particular. It was twelve fifteen when he stopped in another diner. He sought the privacy of a booth and after ordering a cheese sandwich and soda pop took out his small pad and pencil. I wish I really had taken the time to check out the history of the club’s building, he thought. I know it was built in 1820 and purchased by the History Tracking Group from the future . . . but when? He rubbed his temples in frustration. I remember the ex-president of the club, Prescott Stevens telling me that he was from 1860 when the people of the future asked him for his help. I think he told me that he moved into the building in 1986 and started the 1800 Club. So the question is, did anyone live in the building from 1820 to 1986?

  He counted his money and wrote down, Forty-seven dollars and nineteen cents. He quickly felt the three small bumps in his suspender’s secret compartment and thought with a smile, Thank the stars that I went back for the rest of the suggested emergency funds. He rubbed his chin and thought as he felt his whiskers, One thing that I never wanted to do was grow a beard and that means that I need a place to wash up. He sat up straight as more thoughts came to him, Wash up! I need more than to wash up! I need a place to sleep and a change of clothing as well. He counted his friends in 1887, Paddy Diamond and now Robert Lewis Stevenson and Mark Twain and of course Shirley Holmes. The two writers were in New York to give a talk then they’ll be gone. I have to try the club again.

  He opened his communicator and entered, SAMSON followed by, MATT. WILL YOU OPEN THE GARDEN GATE FOR ME ON SEPTEMBER 4, 1887 AT 12:50 P.M. BILL. He pressed the send button, paid the bill and walked briskly over to the club’s garden gate.

  Matt didn’t show up nor did he return his message.

  There’s a problem with the time travel system, he thought as he put the communicator back in his pocket. He walked away with the beginnings of a plan.

  Bill stopped in Malcom’s Men’s Shop and purchased a pair of black pants, tan jacket, white shirt with a stiff collar and a black string bow tie. Two pair of underwear and socks . . . his shoes could be worn with either outfit. Next he picked up a toothbrush, a tin of Rubifoam tooth powder, a shaving cup, bar of Kranks Shaving Soap, a straight razor and a hairbrush. He then took a cab down to the Cosmopolitan Hotel on 95 West Broadway between Chambers and Reade Streets. Just a twenty-block walk back to the club, he thought as he entered the huge lobby and was stopped short by its elegance. Bill rented a room for a week and paid the young man behind the desk t
hree dollars. A bellhop carried his package up to room 201, unlocked the door and asked, “Are you familiar with gas light sir?”

  “Yes, but I have no matches on me.”

  The bellhop went to one of the three ‘L’ shaped gas pipes coming out of the walls, took a wooden match out of his pocket, scratched it on the leather sole of his shoe and removed the glass bowl. He put the lit match to the jet and turned the key. With a pop the gas lit and he put the bowl back over the flame. He then took six matches out of his pocket and placed them on the table with a reminder, “Remember, sir, strike the match first then turn the gas key.” Bill gave him a dime and he happily said, “Should you need anything sir, call for Johnny.”

  The room mimicked the lobby in its plushness. Red and gold flocked wallpaper that made the gold framed paintings of old European sea scenes stand out covered three of the walls while the fourth was covered in blue silk that showcased the bed’s gold leaf headboard. The bed covers were gold and red silk and draped down on all four sides to an inch off of the thick red wall-to-wall carpet. The bed’s four posts were capped by white shear linen that was tied to each bedpost with red and gold-trimmed tiebacks. A round cherry wood table that converted into a card table was near the left wall and had four ornate chairs with gold trimmed red felt cushions tucked under it. Against the opposite wall stood a tall cherry wood armoire and next to it was a wide soft red leather couch with three red and gold trimmed throw pillows on it. In the corner was an open door that took him into the bathroom.

  The walls and floor were done in what we would come to know as subway tiles. A pedestal sink with curved hot and cold handles stood at the left wall while above it hung a white, wood and glass medicine cabinet with a round fold-out shaving/make up mirror attached to it. At the far wall sat a porcelain bathtub. Besides the faucet and handles there was an extension that went vertical and ended in a showerhead. Above the tub suspended from the white plastered ceiling hung a shower curtain that at the moment was tied back. On the tiled floor near the bathtub was a round blue rug and against the wall on the right stood a tall radiator. All of this was shown off by the bright gas lamps on the right and left wall that reflected off of the white tiles.