History doesn't repeat itself, but it sometimes rhymes.
Charles Altree feels quite foggy and has no idea where he is or how he got here. He’s not a sleepwalker, but he’s just woken up at some front door of some place that looks like a bar. It’s hard to see because it’s pitch-black outside, but he turns to look out towards the parking lot and neighboring places up and down and across the street trying to find something recognizable. Not only is nothing recognizable, there is no parking lot or neighboring places. He and this apparent bar that he's just found himself at seem to be in the middle of the woods. This is impossible. He hopes to wake up from a dream that he might be having inside of a larger dream because that would be the only thing that could make any possible sense, but reality sets in and he accepts the fact that he is for sure awake.
Still getting his bearings about being outside this entrance door, he notices that this bar is lit like he’s never seen before. Like, not lit in the sense of partying. Not loud music, people dancing, or anything like that. In fact it’s very quiet, nothing but crickets, and the occasional hooting owl and gust of wind. No, rather, lit as in actual lighting. Actual lights. It's 1887, when electric power is still a novelty. It’s only 4 years ago when Florida’s 2nd biggest city behind Key West which is Jacksonville made headlines when its St. James hotel was the first hotel in the state to get electric lighting. Not to mention Charles lives in a very small town named Sanford about 140 miles south of Jacksonville by boat via the St. Johns River, and it’s only since February of last year 1886 that you could even get there from here by train - so Sanford might as well be a million miles away from any modern electrified facilities. And these aren’t just normal lights here, Charles marvels at the signs facing out from inside the windows. It’s like they’re made of nothing but long narrow light bulb-looking tubes emitting light that’s too bright and colorized to be possible - that spell out beer names he’s familiar with like his old staple Yuengling and the brand-new popular Budweiser, and names he’s never heard of like Corona and Wop’s Hops.
For the first time since waking up at this entrance, Charles notices a sign engraved into the door. As futuristic as the lighting is, this sign is very weathered and looks ancient.
He can’t make it out at a glance, the engraved lettering's so worn and faded, the sign reads,
After reading it a few times, he recites it out loud instead of pinching himself to make sure once again that he is not dreaming. He poses the engraved words as though questions, “Once O’clock’s Tavern? A locals only venue for discussing localized needs and wants? Where everybody’s a local but from a different time all at once?”
He cups his face with both hands and curses and growls all the way from a low rumble to a full roar into them. Like screaming into a pillow, he manages to keep this tantrum tempered. The last thing he needs right now is to be noticed by anybody that might be inside this bar.
Charles is not quite ready to go inside, so he starts looking around. Maybe this place is some research and development type lab that’s hidden in the woods that’s maybe owned by some big wig cutting edge type technology firm like Edison Illuminating Company. Who knows. Given the oddity of this building and location, it’s the only thing he could think of that would make any sense. And if this is the case, there would have to be some trail he could find that’s clear enough and wide enough to accommodate any horse and buggy that’s large enough to have hauled in all these construction materials to build this building with - which, by the way, is constructed with some of the heaviest pieces of exposed lumber he’s ever seen a building constructed with. Maybe there’s even a long row of overhead power lines like he’s seen pictured in newspapers, for transmission-testing, that might run the length of the trail. So, if there is a trail it shouldn’t be hard to find and then he could walk back to town. He notices the building has a wrap-around porch. Still standing outside the front door, he walks to the small staircase right there on the opposite side of the front porch and notices it steps down into a swamp. He walks around the entire wrap-around porch, around the entire building. Nothing but muddy water, acres of cypress trees, and thousands of cypress tree knees. No signs of any power lines or trails. Upon returning to the entrance door, he walks to each window, cups his face to them, and looks in. He can’t make anything out behind the ultra bright and colorful long-tubed lights that are bent and fashioned to spell out the words Yuengling, Budweiser and the two other apparent brand names he’s never heard of. He goes back to the entrance, gives it a few soft knocks with the side of his right hand’s middle finger’s knuckle, nobody answers, grips the doorknob and turns it, opens it a crack large enough to put his head in and looks around.
***
The last thing Charles remembers before waking up at the doorstep of this building is having an argument with his wife in the kitchen of his bakery. It was five in the morning, and he was baking bread for all the local grocers and restaurants like he always does well before the crack of dawn every morning - because being the proud second generation German immigrant that became a business owner that he is, he always likes to have all the fresh baked goods ready for them before they all open.
Mid-argument, his wife declared to him, “Well I’ve already invited them.”
Charles bucked, “I’ll have nothing to do with your killjoy not to mention business-killing friends and all of their -
He stopped arguing for one second to load a batch of dough, close an oven door, turn on the gas, and spark the pilot light.
And then finished his point with a mocking voice and hands making air-quotes, “...holier than thou Women’s Christian Temperance crusade.”
With body language and a tone of voice so calm that Charles found it provoking, she made clear, “Well they already RSVP’d. I’m not canceling.”
He asked, “How the heck did you all actually get the alcohol ban passed yesterday anyway? And why? You have no idea how bad for us this will prove to be. Did you not see how angry the protesters got last nigh -
She interrupted to make a more accurate depiction, “Angry? More like drunk and feral. Look, -
He interrupted back to make his closing argument, “Do you not see that we rent this building from Mr. Sapp? You know Joe’s a big wig at the Anheuser-Busch plant. I’ve got a big wig beer executive as a landlord that helped fund my bakery, and a wife that just helped get alcohol locally banned. Do the math. There is no way in hell this place is hosting the party. And there’s no way in hell that my Altree’s Bakery is baking that damned celebration cake.”
He stormed out of the kitchen and then out of the bakery onto 1st Street.
Walking and cursing under his breath, he pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a large guzzle. Looking at the row of businesses on both sides of the street with the early morning moon serving as his only source of light, he pouted his way along a few blocks east, and then turned right on Sanford Avenue which borders the Black neighborhood named Georgetown hoping to run into his friend Frederick that's always up this early. Charles could sure use a friend right now to share his drink with that has a good ear to bend. He kicked a small rock, causing the dirt road to release a cloud of dust made visible by a parked horse and buggy’s lantern headlights that happened to be pointed at the perfect angle. Watching the dust cloud swirl and disperse, he took another swig from his flask and remarked to himself how dry as a bone the dirt road is. Florida’s humid as hell, he’s never seen such an absence of morning dew like this before sunrise. Especially in September, smack-dab towards the end of the rainy season.
He continued down Sanford Avenue for four blocks, and noticed, like he always does, less and less buildings as he moved south from 1st Street. He’s always been impressed by all the pre-stamped green lots, the size of one city block by one city block - each framed on the top and bottom by a Street and the other two sides by an Avenue. He’s always imagined these empty lots begging the construction of future businesses and residences - these must look like a giant checkerboard from the bird’s eye view above. He loves his little town of Sanford, which is only ten years old, and is proud to be a business owner so early into its very promising future. As he pouted and looked at the life-sized checkerboard of all these pre-planned lots, he stopped just before 5th Street and took another swig from his flask.
He got angrier the more he thought about it, complaining inside his head, Like hell I’d bake a cake for that damned alcohol ban. I'm trying to play chess on this town's checkerboard here, and I’ve got a wife bent on just flipping the gameboard over and setting it on fire.
He needed to sit. Rather than walking across 5th Street on Sanford Avenue, he noticed the entire southern half of the 400 block to his left is still an empty lot. He saw a row of cabbage palms that all must be 80 feet tall and super thin all the way up to the crown of fronds at the top and picked one to sit Indian style on the ground at the base of, using the trunk as his backrest. He took out his flask to take another sip, removed the cap, but then he fumbled and dropped it. When his metal flask landed on the ground he heard a curious clink, and then the whiskey spilled out exposing the source of the sound. It was an arrowhead made of flint or something like it, he picked it up to check it out. He’s seen many arrowheads in his life and they’re all about one or two inches in length and shaped like the ace of spades. But he’s never seen one like this, about four to five inches long and shaped like what people a few decades down the road in the 1900’s might describe as a modern surfboard. This is when everything went black, right before finding himself at the front doorstep of Once O’clock’s Tavern.
***
Still poking his head in the crack of the entrance door that he’s made only large enough to take a safe look around, Charles sees it opens to a small room about the same size as one of his bakery’s storage closets. The only thing in it is a lectern stand minus a host or hostess. He stays outside and closes the door, and re-reads the worn and faded engraved sign, this time not out loud nor in the phrase of a question, “Once O’clock’s Tavern. A locals only venue for discussing localized needs and wants. Where everybody’s a local but from a different time all at once.”
He grips the doorknob again, takes in a deep breath then blows out his exhale with a strong force suggesting a personal courage-building ritual, opens it all the way, and enters. Unlike the futuristic looking electric lights in the windows, this small room is softly lit with a few burning candles. He sees another door on the opposite wall five feet ahead. Before going to it he checks out the hostess stand and sees nothing but the weirdest little package about the size of a leather pipe tobacco pouch on top of it. But this pouch’s flexible material isn’t made of leather, cloth, paper or any other recognizable material. Throwing off a glossy sheen in the flickering candlelight, colored as red as a horse drawn fire truck, with white block lettering that spells the word Skittles, and literally a picture of a rainbow showing every color of Roy G Biv - all of which strikes him as every bit as impossible as the lights in the windows. He goes to the other door, there is a sign on it. This one’s framed and clear. It reads,
Rule # 1
You are free to think and feel anything about any other visitor
But you may not enter till you say this rule aloud
THERE IS ZERO AGGRESSION AT THIS BAR ALLOWED
Again, Charles takes in a deep breath then blows out his exhale with a strong force, and then recites the rule aloud, “There is zero aggression at this bar allowed.”
With this, the door automatically opens, he walks in, and it closes behind him. The first thing that catches his eye is by far the single largest cypress tree trunk that he’s ever seen. It looks like it would take four to five people together with their arms extended as wide as they can all touching fingertips to be able to hug it. Located in an atrium in the middle of the bar, an interior wrap-around wooden railing surrounding the tree matches the one on the wrap-around porch outside. The ceiling of the bar is about ten feet high, and looking up out through the atrium’s opening, he’s guessing this giant tree must be a hundred and fifty feet taller than the roof. He notices a small spot where two words are sloppily chiseled into the trunk - the two words are, The Senator. On the wide flat railing separating him from the tree, a framed small sign is mounted flush to the surface that reads,
Rule # 2
This Cypress Tree born in 1500 BC is 3387 years old
This living history must be cherished and respected
HARMING THIS TREE WILL GET YOU INSTANTLY EJECTED
The place appears empty, he starts checking it out, and reaches for his flask but it’s not there. He guesses it must still be on the ground by the palm tree right where he dropped it before his blackout and arrival here. He walks up to the bar minus a bartender and sees it’s fully stocked.
He asks, “Hello? Is anybody here?”
He’s embarrassed at himself realizing how soft and inaudible he just sounded.
He raises his voice and barks loud enough for anybody on premise to be able to hear, “Hello? Anybody here?”
Nobody answers. He walks behind the bar, looks around, grabs a bottle of whisky and a shot glass, and takes a shot. Still standing behind the bar and looking outwards toward the giant tree, he starts studying the empty tables and every nook and cranny for any signs of life. Nothing. Like inside the small room with the hostess stand, no more electric lights - just a few candles and a lot of kerosene lamps. He sees a wooden clock with a very large circular face hung on the wall that looks sorta like a grandfather clock, but kinda isn’t. He notices this clock has no minute hand or hour hand. And then he hears somebody sneeze.
To the sneeze he barks once again, but offering, “God bless you.”
He takes another shot of whiskey and reasons, “Look. I come here in peace. In fact, I have no idea where I am or how I got here. My name is Charles Altree. May I please ask who you are?”
A young man presents himself and removes his hat. Charles guesses he must be from the same last place that he himself just came from, the neighborhood of Georgetown alongside Sanford Avenue. He notices that this guy's hat is super drapey and made of what looks like some kind of ultra rare very soft cloth like he's never seen before - upon removing it, it stays bunched up behind his head like it's connected to its matching cloth jacket by the collar at the back of the neck. He looks scared, he just stands there looking at Charles and says nothing.
Charles is in his very early 20’s which is approaching middle aged, given that the overall life expectancy here in the late 1800’s is forty-something. And even though this stranger couldn’t be much more than four or five years younger than he is, this young man looks downright like a kid.
Charles reintroduces himself, “I’m sorry if I startled you. If you are scared, I promise, I’m just as scared as you. My name again is Charles Altree. May I please ask you your name?”
The kid takes in a deep breath and a slow measured exhale suggesting a personal calming-down ritual, and answers, “I have no idea where I'm at or how I got here either. My name’s Trayvon Martin. I need to get back. The last thing I rememb -
Charles' eyes widen, his body flinches, he pleads, "Holy shit. Pardon my interruption. I just realized I left something in the oven. I need to go back. I left the oven on. How do I go back? How in the -
Trayvon interrupts back to agree, "That's what I'm sayin'. How do I get home? One moment I'm being stalked by some creepy guy sitting in his car just staring at me. Like, just looking right at me non-stop sitting in his car talking on his phone. Then suddenly the next moment I'm waking up outside this place at the front door. I need to get home."
Charles’ demeanor relaxes, he reasons, “Okay okay got it. Neither of us know where we are or how we got here. We both need to get home. Let’s figure this out. Let’s take a seat.”
Trayvon disagrees, “No man I don’t want to take no seat. Is your phone working? I can’t text, call, no wifi, no anything. I. Need. To. Get. Hom -
Charles’ cuts in to clarify, “Wait. Stop. You keep saying things I’ve never heard of. What’s a phone?”
Trayvon, “What?”
Charles, “Phone. What’s a phone? And a car and call and text for the matter?
Trayvon, “What?”
Charles, “And wife eye. What’s wife eye mean? Like, a wife’s eye? Is that a saying or something? As in, under the watchful eye of one’s wife? I’m serious. It’s like we’re speaking two different languages.
Trayvon’s face scrunches up like he's just caught a whiff of something rotten, and asks, “What? -
He puts his soft hat back on that’s bunched up behind his head by pulling it up with his left and right fists on each side of his face. He turns halfway around and squats down in frustration and vents more at large, less at Charles directly, “Oh my god man… Really? -
He stands back up, turns back around to his original position facing Charles, relaxes, and offers, “Look. I apologize. You’re right. We need to figure this out.”
Charles gathers his bottle of whiskey and shot glass and says, "Okay", and then steps out from behind the counter and sits on a stool.
Trayvon pushes his hat back again all bunched up behind his head. This dude’s not creepy like the one staring from the seat of his car, he took the empty spot next to him at the bar.
---END OF SAMPLE---
Comments