A Sid Story
CHAPTER ONE: Altruistic Vengeance in which Sid has a hangover
Sid stretched out his feet into the flat place between the rock and the bush, toe sticking from his one woolen sock. The other, missing. His head hurt. He looked about his squat up above Ol’ Man Jacks’ place and said “Fukim” for the thousandth time. Ol’ Man fukin’ Jacks. It is said that David Jacks, who once bought Sid’s hometown of Monterey, out on The Peninsula, for a $1,000 in back taxes, then sold it back to them after they raised that same thousand bucks, owned Salinas, King City, and all inbetween from some land deal. Sid chuckled to himself about the pattern of thousands as he realized that he was ruminating for the thousandth time about when he was foreman of the Jacks Ranch and drank too much, for the thousandth time.
“I’ll drink to that!” Sid said and reached for the bottle that came up empty. He scrounged under his pack pillow. “There you are,” he exclaimed and drew several greedy swallows of the golden amber. “Gotta cut that shit out,” he thought.
Sid’s run at the MB Ranch was rich and, now, he can stomach only the best of whiskey. That is if his stomach, meaning his liver, could handle it, which it can’t. It wasn’t just his head that hurt this morning; the regular lower back, shoulder and neck cramping, that was the same. Same by the throb in the sock-protruding, fungus-eaten, toenail that could be felt THIS morning above the general numbness that hid it on OTHER mornings. His friends say this, his imaginary doctor that; he says “fukit” and kicks off the blanket, careful that it doesn’t blow away in the typical wet wind of The Peninsula. By putting the rock that was last night’s other pillow on it awkwardly, it generated an eek-like squeal from strained muscle. Nobody heard the masterful swear-string that followed. Nobody cared. There was no rescue or compassion owed him. He was Ronin by his own myriad sins. The MB was still down below in bustling prosperity, filled with what were friends for life and beyond.
“How fickle the hearts of men for all is vanity,” Sid quoted aloud to nobody from mixed, unknown, and already garbled sources. His heart was in it though, and he believed his own words. Somebody had to. Sid’s thoughts were super important, basic, he felt. He was merely… misunderstood. Randomly, he said “All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi. And, she wouldn’t give it to me” with full LOL belly-rollers and coughing phlegmatically. “The Ramp, I mean The Ranch (different times) was fun when I was the boss; it sucks now. They ruined it,” he said aloud. “They can have it.” The wrack that brought the ruin was invisible to him. His foe was, clearly in sight now.
“Today?” Sid suddenly blurted. Again, “Today? We gonna do it TODAY?”
It was an act of Altruistic Vengeance Sid imagined, hoping he wouldn’t and knowing he would.
CHAPTER TWO: FUKTHESQUAT in which Sid learns about Time Travel Variance
One day, Sid woke up drunk and his whole world was different and not because he simply messed it up. There was that familiar WTF feeling he woke into plenty of times. No. This was something else. The old buildings were there, but in between were strange new structures containing strange new things. No horses. Old Man Doud’s place was still up on the corner of Van Bueren near Seeno. Sid is friends with Francis Doud. Has been ever since he became an Orderly and Runner at Colton Hall in 1846; he was helping build this house, yet it stood curiously completed before him! A sign, the first of many he would read that morning, proclaimed its owner to be Monterey Art and History Society since 1969! The house he was looking at would not reach this stage of the build, at the rate he and Doud were working, until 1858, but the four Cypress trees that were freshly planted saplings yesterday are towering giants like those at Serra’s Landing, today! Whaling Captain Manual Perry wouldn’t even begin to build catty-corner until 1860. Yet, there stood a Victorian Beauty with his name on it and a shiny bronze plaque that read “Events by Classic” on both locked gates that barred entrance to expansive gardens far surpassing anything the old man could have imagined.
“Where on Earth did that find that fancy-ass glass gazebo thing out back anyway,” he thought while gazing at the glistening rainbow reflections on leafy trees. The Manual Perry Sid knew lived in a stinky deckshack on a rickety ol’ rustbucket.
The current year is something taken for granted. Startled to no longer be there, it took some effort to puzzle when “there” was. The State Constitution was currently being drafted in Colton Hall. Sid knows this because Francis Doud is the Convention Courier for the meeting. “The Colton Hall Museum” plaque informed him that California became the 31st State of the Union in 1850. So, that would be next year. Sid is from 1848. What year is it now? How did he get here?
But, first, a drink. Clearly, The old whaling captain is long gone, but maybe they still hide a jug under the counter at The Old Monterey Whaling Company. He could see it down the quay from where he stood. The First Brick House and both Custom and Pacific Houses were across from Casa del Oro and Duarte Store. He paused at The First Theatre, smiling that HE knew the secret areas within and in a position to “neither confirm or deny” the rumors of a brothel playground in areas now filled with sculpted “Historical” gardens.
His thirst drove him forward. The walkway tiled with whale vertebrae was worn concave by the years and grown mossy, the mortar chossy. The sign said that The Monterey State Park hours a 10-5 daily, and that he could call for a private tour of the attraction. The door was locked. He peeked in the window. It was never that pretty in there before. The cauldron for boiling fat was a nice touch out back, but The Captain usually boiled his down by Sloat Landing. He remembered the hidden places still hidden near the cauldron and loved what was done with lighting effects. That’s certainly new. The bench was old and right where it goes, so he sat down, scratched his scruffy graying beard, recoiled from sniffing his armpit, adjusted his belt to the tightest hole, and stood again to began the trudge back up Scott Street to Van Beuren while admiring the flatness of the white paving, divided into neat rectangles. His squat was atop a dirt path until he woke up about an hour ago.
“FUKTHESQUAT,” Sid said, daydreaming of the nap he was minutes from by cutting through the parking garage to his unchanged, yet strangely unused, lower camp at Serra’s Landing.
CHAPTER THREE: Manifest Destiny in which Sid ducks to Asilomar and finds The Spaceport
Sid woke spooked, so he got GHOST. He crept up to his high camp above The MB, craftily placed up Seeno and approached by following the creek, now laden with fat berries by the mouthful. The brambles were thoughtfully trimmed back and only minimally prickly with snags. He travelled easy in the woods, walking in the creek by habit to hide his tracks as the water gurgled over the pebbles and broken glass. Some things never change. The birds and wind in the trees was as he remembered it. The trail was overgrown with huge fallen trees and Spanish Moss clinging to columns of Poison Oak. There was no trail. It became a bushwack that ended at a fence. Three fences in a corner, boxing him in. He followed the deer trail to the place they use and shimmied beneath the chainlink, his back muddy and his front covered with deer hair scraped onto, then off of, the barrier’s underside.
A school was built up top between Larkin and Watson, surrounded by level fields of closely cut lawn glowing green with reflected mist; condensed atop each uncut blade was a water droplet like a tiny crown of light. His footsteps left a trail that would fade with the sun, currently losing the battle with Peninsula Clouds. Sid sniffed that the clouds would win this morning. Rain, maybe. No way anybody is at his Seeno Camp. Nobody would think to go down there and, with the fences and vines and tangled mess. His trail was always light and followed the deer. Their holes were still there, so the burrow was as it should be, dropping him to the hidden riverbank and the upturned Redwood roots and their timeless shelter. All his old stuff, meaning, Old Stuff, was there. The brass watch was from 1822, his Grandpa Fred’s from The War. Granny’s brother, Uncle Elmer, gave him that harmonica. The Tan Stetson came from Uncle Wayne in La Mesa: the Black One from Uncle Marty of St. Louis. One of those uncles got scalped up in Piute County hunting gold in ‘48, but the legend gets thin on specifics. His boots are Hand-Tooled Spanish and tucked in like he just left them this morning because he DID just leave them this morning, almost two hundred years ago.
Sid cut up the back way, up over Huckleberry Hill; the trails all covered with the smooth flat stuff, but this time soft and black. Smelled different too, like a saddle that has just been ridden hard and put away wet. The roads followed familiar meanderings, a testament to the navigation skills of deer and the laziness of man. And everywhere, houses, all too big. Too many houses. Who are these people and why are they here? Irritated now, he cut straight up through their yards and over their fences and battered the brush in a battle he understood. His hill was ruined, and that he could not forgive. Crossing Holman Highway, he found his route traversing the top of The Del Monte Forest to Pebble Beach and plunged downward by an ancient trail still in use to 17 Mile, feeling serenity grow with each step toward his haunt. No longer a buggy path, it was busy with high-speed tourists rushing nowhere and seeing nothing. Ghost Tree was there, and The Lone Cypress. He missed The Witch at her rock walking into the sea, but saw a pod of Orca in Spanish Bay cutting it close at Point Joe. The dunes were decimated; sculpted grass behind neo-frontier split rail barriers. Like his city camps, his Dune Camp was a hidden shelter in an out-of-the-way place chosen for its stunning remoteness and privacy. Unchanged by the ravages around it, The Windblown Cypress is now a revered landmark under protection, tucked in the Asilomar Dunes Reserve. Hollowed out by growing in a hostile and relentless gale, it was dry in a pouring rain. Sid loved The Dune Camp more than anyplace in the world. He felt connected to important things, there. Waiting. Welcoming. Home.
He could use a toilet, though.
Sid still didn’t know what year it is, but he was learning how many years have gone by. A little past his time, or before his time, depending on which time he was in, the YWCA hired Julia Morgan to design their retreat to Women’s Suffrage from Progressive Civil and Political Endeavors. The idyllic hideaway was fantastically transformed into a wonderland of squats sheltered from wind and sun regardless of direction; full of calm and shade, as desired. A quaint Cottage Style of Arts and Crafts combined local materials in pleasing ways. Massive Redwood planking and delicate shingles from the same fallen giant; they lay rotting nearby. Pillars of hewn granite, some stout and sturdy, others spindly and seemingly fragile, held it all up. Custom builds and details bristled invisibly; close inspection brought them forth, again and again. Of note were the lamps. So many beautiful lamps of copper and glass installed for tasteful affect and achieving the effect.
Begun in 1913, sixty-some-odd years after waking up this morning, The Resort had already decayed from Suffrage losing, or taking, it’s place, been saved by visionaries in ‘52 and acquired by The Park Service in ‘56. Sid liked the California State Parks thing. He liked California, in general. Back where Sid lives, it’s still California Republic flying the Bear Flag. It’s still Mexico or Portugal or Indian or Colonial… The State of the Union thing ain’t a thing, yet. It’s the Cosmic Wild West, both then and now. What the State Parks did at The Quay was a first-rate preservation of what would have otherwise been lost to the sprawn now found in-between, Sid’s Home Town. In Asilomar, they preserved what had yet to be built, Sid’s new home. These days, his future, the toilets use piped in water rather than a hole-shack moved when full and reshacked. Basins and valves with hot water to mix with the cold until the temperature is just right while wasting the rest. Sid drinks his dishwater and rinses the plate with urine, just to SAVE water. Warm hand-drying air blew onto them from a whining pushbutton contraption in the wall. Another switch nearby lit up the dark room with lights hidden in the ceiling and walls. Another, lit the floor. Yet another, just the entrance. One switch turned on music. He found a microphone and turned it on loud to hear his voice booming. Yeah. Sid likes The Park Service. He should find them and see if they need help. He saw someone to ask. His life was about to change. He was about to learn about The Spaceport.
CHAPTER FOUR: The Event Editor in which Sid sees Handheld Timejumping Plasma Hardware
Sid approached his first conversation since waking in his own Brave New World this morning eager to GROK the strangeness he enjoyed so very much. His quarry, a youngish-older sort with some gray in his very-black beard, head shaved, looked like a pirate bristling with tattoos, his jacket couldn’t be seen beneath the array of punkrock patches sewn in deep layers of armor both physical and spiritual.
“That coat must weigh a ton,” Sid thought with a shrug as his steps gravitated.
He asked, “What year is it?”
The tattooedpunkrockpirate looked at him questioningly with intent, his mind processing the odd question. Sid decided on-the-spot that he was gonna look just like this dude when he got back to whenever he came from, if ever. Dude replied, “What year do you THINK it is, ummm…?”
“Sid,” Sid said.
“So, Sid. What year do you think it is?”
Sid had been pondering along those lines all the way over the mountains and was good with math and tools. He knew new tech when he saw it and the gadget this mad scientist was tooling looked like nothing in Sid’s world. But, the Asilomar locale was from his world; it WAS his world changed for the way-better. The preservation at both Asilomar and Downtown happened before 1969, the signs said. That’s 120 years. Add half-again to get where THIS DUDE is at:
“2029,” Sid said.
“Good guess,” Pirate replied, extending a toe booted in beat black Docs. “That’s how we do it in 2028 Go ahead, bump it and say “Pleased to meet you, Eli”, Sid.”
“Pleased to meet you, Eli”, Sid said and toe bumped.
“Them boots Hand Tooled Spanish?” Sid loved Eli for asking that. Sid loved 2028, 189 years in his own future while in his own beloved wildwest town all blustery and wet.
“Yep. Whatchaworkin’onthere?”
“This is a micro containment unit used as a Plasma Ignitor to power your Event Editor. I’m building that bridge now,” Eli said without looking up from his nimble hands holding more tools and parts at once than possible in complex assembly. “We have had problems with leakage. At the miniscule levels we work within, leaks can have novel effects.”
“Like…” Sid led him.
“Like what happened to you when you woke up in a different year this morning. What is your variance, anyway?” Eli peered at him with eyes magnified behind Steampunk Microscope Goggles spilling data onto his face.
“189 years. Can I get some of those goggles?”
“No,” Eli said.
“OK,” Sid said.
Eli tinkered and Sid was all-in. His makerskills were known and made him valuable to the likes of Ol’ Man Jacks, Francis Doud and Captain Perry. Hell, everybody in Sid’s time knew he was handy and bold and ingenious with materials used in unusual ways to both repair and create useful things on demand, usually by casting his eye about and coming up with something that’ll do ‘er. But, such tools as these!
“That’s quite a set-up,” Sid said. “Is variance common in 2028?”
“No,” Eli said, tinkering.
“Can I get back?”
“Yes,” still tinkering.
More tinkering, totally absorbed in the task. Mostly-absolute focus. He held the wad of wires and tape out to Sid, pulsing as if alive, saying “With this Event Editor hackproto. It’s the first. Go ahead, it won’t kill you, probably.”
Sid held it and felt some weird connection thing occur deep within him.
“Did you feel it?” Eli felt goosebumps, because he could see from Sid’s face that the interface occurred. “Not sure if it will kill you. Kinda think it will, so give it back, NOW.”
Sid handed it back. “Can I get one of those?”
“This is yours. I’ve been expecting you, but not nearly so fast. You really move cross-country. Come over the top?”
“Yeah.” Sid felt a new love welling within that seemed to come from without.
Eli saw THAT too and thought “189 years is a reasonable amount of variance.”
CHAPTER FIVE: The MUSE in which Sid sees The Big Picture
It was a lot to process, time variance, and all. Being almost 180 years in the future while being in his hometown. Disconcerting, but a wild opportunity for high adventure. And, Sid is all about adventure.With that in mind, he grilled Eli.
“You from around here, Eli?”
Eli tersely replied, enigmatically, “Yes and no,” leaving it at that.
“Where do you live?”
“ A lot of places.”
“Which one is home?”
Eli’s hands stopped tooling and he stood up straight and dreamy, like a GIANT, formulating the words that would shape his new friend’s destiny and fulfill the purpose for which he was summoned. In time, he looked Sid in the eye and began.
“My home is the South Coast of Big Sur, as was my parents. Dad’s gone, but Mom is still there. Back in your time, the place I call home was a wild and lonely coast, an inaccessible domain of fur trappers and prospectors inhabited by native indians. It was Mexico. I need you to go there, in your time, and do some things.”
Sid chewed on that a while. He knew the lay of the land as it was in 1848. Spanish missionaries didn’t make it much farther than Carmel. There was no road. Lucia, and Gorda, long miles further to the south, were connected by trails beyond remote, astoundingly so. It was 70 miles as the crow flies to Los Burros from Asilomar and Sid had done that trek, hoofing it up and down the coastal route on his horse and packing a mule. It took months and was a shit-ton of work. He had no interest in doing that mighty-mean feat again.
“You brought me to the future so I could go to the South Coast in the past and do what?”
Eli revealed his plan. “I need you to meet with ol’ man Plaskett down in Manchester and arm The Resistance. Early actions can be taken then which will solve the problem we have now.”
“Which is?”
“The homesteaders were onto a good thing, coming in on ships with cattle and homebuilding supplies. California was becoming a state within a year, which meant the Mexicans had to go. Land Grants and title to vast tracts, thousands of acres, were easily attained with a few years of improvements. Some were signed by the President of the United States. Like all good things, it was taken for granted and is now almost lost. Only a tiny portion of what was once immeasurable is left to the remaining homesteader kin. You and ol’ man Plaskett are going to change that, with this,” handing him the event editor.
CHAPTER SIX: Sid Gets Drunk in which Sid begins
Whatever it was that woke Sid, he knew right where he lay. Grey-painted concrete, cold, walls and floor monotone. Occasional clanging, preceded by a rumbling mechanical thunder, followed by a large-key clank. There was a metal toilet; he used it while looking out the wired windows, dizzy with drink, at the armored cop’s efficiencies.
“Fuck,” Sid said.
After leaving Eli in Asilomar, Sid walked into town and found some loafers down on The Row to find out how folk live in 2028. A 189-year variance is harsh. He was still hungover from tying one on at bedtime last night while it was still 1848 and still hadn’t had the slug the had expected from stumbling down to the quay for Manuel Perry’s sneak-jug under the Old Monterey Whaling Company office counter, finding it, instead, a State Park exhibit, closed. He spent some of Eli’s money on Bulletts Frontier Whiskey, amazed that it was still sold in the same bottle.
“Drinks are on me,” Sid said with a glinting flourish of serving a two-course meal; big Pabst cans in one hand and the corked quart in the other, grinning indulgently with the well-being of a good turn. He handed off a can to his scruffy cohort, identical in all ways but one to last night’s pals from the previous century, then twisted the cork into a triple-chug swallow of the good golden amber that blesses with shame. He repeated, the action, then passed it.
“Smooth,” he said, and sat back in the sun. A couple more pulls were all he remembered of that bottle. He wondered where it was now, where any of his stuff was. Sid was barefoot and bare-headed, masked, finger-printed, questioned, informed, scanned, stripped, dressed, rolled-up, rolled-down, cold, then, finally, asleep. Well, freshly awoken in his own private jail-cell with food, running water, toilet and toothbrush. He used the toilet to heave sour vomit, then the toothbrush to clear it. The food would have to wait. He admired the Spanish graffiti on the bunk-bottom above and lay with his thoughts, alone and unperturbed. For what it is worth, this day isn’t much different than any other and jail ain’t nuthin’ new to Sid.
With nuthin’ but time, he thought about how his life was going and where it was headed, not liking it. Eli’s plan was a fat alternative to all of that and he had, literally, nothing to lose but the boots on his feet. It was one hellava crazy plan, insane really. Eli had somehow harnessed Plasma Energy from the Asilomar ocean and contained it in the Event Editor, using THAT contraption to bring him from 1848 to 2018 so that Sid could have it in his hand when he arrived in Los Burros to jump between times and affect change on both ends. And why? To raise awareness in Manchester Town and spark a cultural revolution. To build a community from all those claims that will not be lost over time to banks, government agencies, indifferent heirs, town folk and other outsiders.