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Part IX: 1917- War on All Fronts
"Johnnie, get your gun/Get your gun, get your gun/Take it on the run/On the run, on the run/Hear them calling, you and me/Every son of liberty/Hurry right away/No delay, go today…"
The voices of the chorusing revelers spin out of the pub and into the street. The southern edge of the lake is overcrowded (one might say overgrown) with shanty houses and shacks: ill-assorted and poorly-constructed little houses thrown up with no rhyme or reason, all the way down to the water's edge.
"Make your daddy glad/To have had such a lad/Tell your sweetheart not to pine/To be proud her boy's in line…"
Newsboys stand on the street corners, calling out the headlines of the day: riots among the ranks in France, more ships sunk by the Huns' torpedoes and, most notably and prominently of all, the first order of conscription for all men of a certain age throughout the country.
"Over there, over there/Send the word, send the word over there/That the Yanks are coming/The Yanks are coming/The drums rum tumming everywhere…"
A trolly car trundles along the cobblestone road, its metal fixings shining like silver and gold in the twilight. It is packed with commuters reading the paper, smoking their pipes and cigarettes, and napping after a long day's work. A hum of nervous anticipation seems to hang over everything and everybody.
"So prepare, say a prayer/Send the word, send the word to beware/We'll be over, we're coming over/And we won't come back 'till it's over, over there…"
Marco Silva appears in the middle of the road, right in the path of the trolley. If the conductor notices anything strange, it's only that there's a man lying on the pavement which, in itself, is not particularly unusual a sight in this line of work, and in this neighborhood.
"Johnnie, get your gun/Get your gun, get your gun/Johnnie show the Hun/Who's a son of a gun/Hoist the flag and let her fly/Yankee Doodle do or die…"
The conductor rings a bell, and the dazed Marco scrambles, hand over hand, to the curb, watching the cart pass by, his eyes wide as he struggles to comprehend what's happened to him.
"Pack your little kit/Show your grit, do your bit/Yankee to the ranks/From the towns and the tanks/Make your mother proud of you/And the old red, white and blue/Over there, over there/Send the word, send the word over there/That the Yanks are coming/The Yanks are coming/The drums rum tumming everywhere…"
"Okay..." Marco got shakily to his feet, realizing he'd dived into a puddle of what he hoped was only standing water. He'd been soaked through, which should've been enough to wake him up if this was a slider-induced fever dream. Since he was still here, however, he could only assume it was not, and he really was...wherever he was.
"Madre de Dios," he muttered the expletive with a reflexive crossing motion. This may also have been a good way to get snapped back to reality, if he was not currently in reality, which he evidently was, in fact.
"Extra, extra!" exclaimed a newsboy in (appropriately) a newsboy cap, waving a (naturally) newspaper about like a baton, "First Americans arriving in Europe! Read all about it!"
"Huh..." Marco approached the boy, "I didn't know you people really existed."
"I didn't know you people could speak English, pal. Got a nickel for the paper?"
Marco blinked, "Do you take the kind with FDR on 'em?"
"Eh?"
"Right. Never mind. Which war is this?"
"Buddy, did you just crawl out from under a rock?"
"The streetcar, actually. I was almost run over."
"Yeah, that'll happen," he was squinting at Marco's polo, probably wondering if "Costco" was Spanish for something. Marco got the impression he shouldn't hang around.
"Er...good day. I'd tip you for your trouble, but I'm not sure my money's good here. Not just in a racist way."
"Huh?"
Marco hastened up the road.
The crazy hamburger wizard sent you back in time!
Marco wondered if he was the first person in history to ever think such a sentence. Probably not, alarmingly.
-Marco
Bert made himself down the road, after grabbing a paper for his father, heading back towards the shop. Today had in fact been a pretty darn good day. He had found a whole nickel in the dumpster behind the bakery earlier when he had been scavenging for any loafs that weren't too off putting.
a couple of those, and some hot water, mixed with his mother's magic in the kitchen would lend them quite the good soup in the coming week.
Across the street, he spotted a strangely dressed mexican man, who seemed fresh into the country.
"Hey you okay pally?" He called out? Probably some immigrant seeking freedom and the American dream not unlike his father once had
"What?" Marco looked up, alarmed, but the guy approaching him seemed less judgmental than the newspaper boy, which was a good start, "Oh, um...well, no, honestly. I'm not completely okay, but it's kind of hard to explain. Do you have any idea where this is?"
He was afraid he knew exactly when he was. Why didn't seem like something anyone was equipped to answer.
-Marco
"Wow you know they don't give your schools enough credit, you speak very well."
Bert said, as he scratched the back of his head, he must've been right that he was fresh.
"Yeah, yeah, you're on boarder street, in Lakewood Louisiana. Listen, my father has the best most easy to read maps at our house, we'll fill you belly and get you on the right path, okay pally?"
"Oh, well thank you," Marco nodded pleasantly before realizing this was derived from a racist assumption, "You can also speak very well."
There, that'd catch him off guard.
"Your father? Oh, well, that's nice of you, but I wouldn't want to..." but it would be silly to refuse hospitality in a strange place, so he nodded, "That'd be very decent of you. I'm Marco, by the way."
-Marco
"Bert, and no need to worry, it's not far from here and we'll get you into some suitable clothes, no offense to your country but those rags are ridiculous."
Bert said, as he started down the street.
"Oh, these aren't, like, my clothes. They belong to Costco. I'm usually pretty dressy. They used to call me a metrosexual, but that may have been an insult."
-Marco
"Costco?"
Bert shook his head.
"What you do with other men is none of my business, but I wouldn't go saying that too loud, best way to get killed in the street is to admit to being a Sissy."
"A sissy?"
He was a real crappy time traveler. If it wasn't the period-typical racism, he was going to get himself lynched for being gay. And he wasn't even gay, whatever his last two exes had thought.
"Oh, no, I'm...I'm straight. Costco is, er...well, it was my job," he paused, "In...Mexico."
Excellent. Play it cool, Silva.
-Marco
"Yes, we'll, back into hiding them, good on you."
Bert nodded strong and firm.
"Now understand we have none of those here, real men work real jobs, factory work, or starting a business."
"Oh...well, Costco is a business," said Marco, "Its pretty much designed to lose money, though, so I don't know how good a business it is..." he paused, "Uh, is that what you do? Own a business?"
-Marco
"My father does, I help out as much as I can, before my graveyard shifts at the factory by the edge of town."
Bert told him, his eyes brightening at an idea.
"You know what, I could probably get you a job there. Peter Maguire just rust lung somehow and now the factory needs another Asbestos insulator."
"Oh, well," Marco rubbed his hands together, "That's mighty keen of you."
He wondered if that's how people spoke in World War I times. He was trying, and that was to a credit, he thought.
"You know, it's nice to meet friendly people in a new place. I'm more than a little confused, I don't know if you noticed. So, um..." he racked his brain, wondering which line of inquiry he ought to pursue, "Some war, right?"
-Marco
"Some war? an understatement don't you think? the whole god damned world is falling apart. now we all just pray we aren't the next to be shipped out."
"Right," Marco paused, "That does sound like it would a problem."
His new time travel friend was unlikely to respond positively if Marco told him that, if he remembered high school correctly, the war would be over in about a year and change and then everybody could start doing the Charleston. Didn't seem likely to raise any spirits.
"Da bist du!" cried out a hoarse voice in guttural tones that Marco figured were either German or Pentecostal. They had approached a pleasant-looking shopfront, with a big display window full of colorful tins filled to the brim with brightly colored confections. The handpainted sign over the door advertised, in violet lettering, Smith's Sweeties: Est. 1890.
"Smith's Sweeties," Marco read, "Wait, I know you guys."
The old man who had called Bert came the rest of the way from the shop. He was a portly, mustachioed gentleman in a starched shirt and apron, with a bright red bowtie that offset the pale yellow of his whiskers.
"I expect you do know us, young man," he spoke English well, but there were distinct traces of a natural German accent all the same, "We are only the finest proprietor of homespun confection in town. Dare I say, in the county."
"Oh, yeah, you're a big deal," Marco nodded, "Or, well, you know...eventually."
The old man had returned his attention to Bert, "I ask again, boy, where were you? Leaving your poor father to shut the store up on his own? I was in a state of apoplexy."
"That's my bad," said Marco, "Bert here gave me a hand. I'm new to town, y'see."
"Just hopped the border, eh?"
This was apparently going to be a default assumption, and Marco decided it might be the best explanation he could give, unless these people were all undercover cops.
"Oh, yeah, my boat sank on the way. It was really bad. We tried scooping it out with empanada casings and tortilla chips, singing 'Nearer My God to Thee'. Didn't work. So you can imagine I'm a little destitute."
"Well, never mind. America is a place for all kinds. I came off the boat with nothing but the clothes on my back and a case of peppermints and now..." he slapped the doorframe with a smile, "Some things take time. Come in, come in," he waved Marco on inside, "I will forgive you for delaying my son."
"Oh, thanks."
"A newcomer in this country must be shown hospitality. I was, yes, when I arrived. It is only fair," he ushered them inside, "I am Dieter Ivan Klaus Smith."
"Oh," Marco repeated the name in his head, "Of course you are."
-Marco and D.I.K. Smith
Bert had been worried, but smiled nonetheless at his father's acceptance of his new friend. Though of course he knew he would be accepting. His father was one of the best men he knew, perhaps even the greatest.
Smith's Sweeties was a gaily-decorated little slice of heaven, considerably more personable than the company's 21st century façade of corporate bloodlessness which, now that Marco thought about it, was an odd image for a candy company.
Little barrels filled to the brim with luridly colored sweets: peppermints, gumdrops, toffees, and all manner of things Marco supposed you couldn't make anymore for fear of further increasing the juvenile diabetes rate.
"Does Bertie know you from the factory, then?"
"Oh, no," Marco said at once, "We, uh...just me."
"Ah," he nodded, "He has a generous heart."
"Sure."
"Do you need a job?"
"...what?"
Marco supposed he technically did, if he was going to be stranded here for any length of time. He wondered what the minimum wage was in 1917, or if that had even been invented yet. He had $20 in his pocket. Did that make a millionaire by these standards? He wasn't sure how inflation worked. His specialty had been engineering. Economics was basically magic to him.
"I ask because our last shophand quit last week."
"Oh," he paused, "War stuff?"
"Only in the remote way," he paused, gesturing for them to follow behind the counter, where a door led into what must've been the Smith's personal apartments, "The last few years have not been kind to people of our birth."
"...you mean Germans?" Marco stopped, "Right. Yeah, I guess it would be tough."
"Worse now that America has properly entered the war. Nobody wants to do business with us," he shrugged, "Mind you, I have been a citizen of this country 27 years. It is the only country my son has ever known. Alas," he lifted his hand, "there is only so much one can do."
-Marco and D.I.K.
"My father is too kind, I just saw you were in need and so I did what I could."
Bert said, nodding along to what his father was saying.
"Many people treat us harshly, much like I assume they do you."
"As it happens," Smith continued breezily, sparing Marco from yet another casual reference to how racistly he was apparently used to being treated, "The shop could benefit from an extra hand."
His smile grew by a significant magnitude as he leaned forward in his chair to the point that the back legs began easing off the floor.
"If, of course, you were interested."
This seemed like an offer Marco could not in good conscience refuse, for a variety of reasons up to and including he had no idea what he was doing here or how to get back. Anyway, working in an old timey candy store couldn't be that much different from Costco. Maybe that's why he was here: to reverse the fortunes of this candy proprietor...
Which was a major corporation 99 years from now.
Well, maybe he was the reason for that. Marco wasn't really sure how this time travel stuff worked.
"Oh, yeah, sure..." he nodded, "I'm interested. Definitely."
"Ah," Smith nodded rapidly, "Good," he chuckled, evidently quite satisfied with himself, "Good."
***
After the meal, Smith had bowed fastidiously several times, doffing his hat with dizzying swiftness.
"You have a place to stay?"
"Um..."
"There is a hostelry on the corner of Roebuck Road. Make toward the steeple of St. George Church over yonder," he gestured.
"Oh yeah," Marco nodded, "Yeah, I know the church. I mean, I know the way. Um, thank you, again, for being so...generous."
"Bah," Smith waved his hand dismissively, "It is generosity born of desperation."
"Well...thanks anyway."
"Merely report here tomorrow morning and instructions shall be given you," he shook Marco's hand so vigorously he feared his arm would detach itself, "Abschied!
"Gesundheit," Marco nodded with a smile, starting off up the street and away, making toward the indeed quite familiar outline of St. George's church on the horizon.
"Well..." he began to himself, "Now what am I supposed to do?"
-Marco and Smith
"Extra! Extra!" A queer-looking newsboy approached Marco from behind. "You hear about this so-called 'Great' War? Absolutely dreadful, if I do say so myself."
"Oh, not another one of you guys..." Marco groaned, slowing down, "Wait...aren't you a bit old for this gig?"
-Marco
The newsboy lifted a pinky to his lips like some kind of coquette. "Perhaps."
"Wait..." Marco leaped back in the street as another trolley came between them, "You're the man from the White Castle!"
The trolley passed and, after it was gone, there was no sign of the strange man.
"Wait...where did you go?"
-Marco
"Here I am!" said Galdamez behind.
Marco let out a scream, whirling around and punching the mystery man in the face.
-Marco
"ARGH! NOT AGAIN!" Galdamez staggered back, holding his bloody nose.
"Oh," Marco caught his breath, "I'm sorry. But you shouldn't sneak up on people like that! Or...send them back in time. Like, at least not without getting express consent," he produced a packet of Kleenex, which he offered to the bleeding Galdamez, "What's going on here? Why am I in World War I times? What's the gimmick?"
-Marco
"Consent? You decided to touch hands in the seance!" Galdamez countered, wiping his nose with one of his signature handkerchiefs. "You could have stayed in the White Castle and waited, eating sliders and curly fries, if you so desired! Oh, my nose..."
Marco's questions seemed to annoy Galdamez. "Bubbling Baphomet, didn't any of you listen? You must solve the mystery of this link in the chain of death by bearing witness to the tragedy that befell Lakewood at this time! 'Tis the only way you can return to the present!"
"You know, that statement was open to several layers of interpretation!" Marco protested, wrapping his arms around himself, "So...what? There's going to be a tragedy? And I have to...see it? Like, so I can expose it in the present? Is it a secret tragedy?"
Marco wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. His mother would've called the feeling 'a goose walking on your grave', which sounded funnier in theory. "Does it...have to do with the people I met? The Smiths? Because they turn out pretty okay, what with the candy empire and everything."
-Marco