One day last week, I found in my mailbox the following account from a man I know slightly.
If you look up the Howe family in Hartford, Connecticut, you’ll find that a curious item has been passed down among the old family heirlooms. It is a ballpoint pen, found among the personal effects of one Phineas Howe, who practiced law in the last century. The pen is cracked and dirty, but it is unmistakably what it is—a Bic ballpoint. No one living except me knows how Phineas got that pen. Here is my story.
I am an assistant manager of a department store and live in the Boston area. Although I spend most of my time wrestling with inventories, I think of myself as having a decent general knowledge of the world. On the evening of August 9, 1985, I was relaxing at home after a long day at work, when I leaned over to take off my shoes. I must have struck the bookshelf, because my Panasonic home entertainment center came crashing down and hit me in the head.
When I came to, I found myself lying in a meadow, next to a dirt road. Peering down at me was a man in a buggy. He was wearing funny-looking baggy pants and suspenders. As I began to get to my feet, the man spoke to me.
“You from New York?”
“New York?” I repeated, gingerly exploring the bump on my head.
“Yep, New York. I don’t know where else clothes like that come from.”
“Where am I?” I asked slowly.
The man looked at me as if I were nuts. “You’re in back of the Armory,” he answered.
“The Armory?”
“The Colt Armory,” he said. “In Hartford.”
“Hartford,” I shouted. “What day is it?” If I’d been out several days, I was in deep trouble with Mr. Godine, my boss.
The man in the buggy shook his head and smiled sympathetically. “It’s Monday,” he said. “Monday the ninth. Now, why don’t you just come along with me to the Armory. We’ve got a doctor there.”
“Have you got a telephone?” I asked quickly.
“Due for one at the first of the year,” he said. “Time being, we’ve got two good telegraph lines.”
I silently climbed into the buggy. The man gave a pull on the reins, his horse gave a snort, and we trotted off down the road.
“By the way,” I said, “I know this may sound stupid, but what month is it?”
“August,” said my new acquaintance. And then, incidentally, “Eighteen eighty.”
Pretty soon, two large smokestacks billowing smoke came into view, then a whole complex of buildings. There were three main buildings, each four stories high, connected together in the form of a capital H. Three sides of the factory were enclosed by a wide dirt road and a wooden fence. The fourth side bordered a river. Through the trees and the buildings, I could just make out the masts of what must have been some large steamboats or schooners at dock.
We rode through the main entrance of the Armory and parked our horse and buggy next to another horse and buggy. Before I had walked ten feet, a crowd of workers, all dressed in baggy pants and suspenders, gathered around and were gawking at me. Either I was crazy or they were, and they had the majority. I made the mistake of being honest. When I told them it was August 9, 1985, the last I remembered, the men roared with laughter. I told them where I worked and where I lived. I began reciting recent presidents: “Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan …”
“Mind yourself,” blurted one burly guy, “or we’ll have you carted off to the Retreat for the Insane.”
I decided it was time to take a quiet walk around downtown Hartford, so I politely asked for directions and left. By now, I was mostly sure that somehow I had gotten bumped back in time.
It was about a mile and a half to the center of town. On the way, I passed several more horse-and-buggy combinations. I also passed a group of people cheering and hooting as if a contest were about to begin. When I got a better look, I saw that it was a race between a horse and a bicycle. A boy of about twelve, wearing a red cap and striped knickers, straddled the bike and could hardly wait to launch himself. Everyone seemed awed by the bicycle, except two or three older men who were scoffing at it.
I walked on. I have to admit that within a few minutes of wandering around town, I forgot my predicament. It was a warm summer morning and the air smelled sweet. The dirt streets were wide and easy, the traffic was light, and the stores weren’t selling the usual. One firm, named Wm. H. Wiley, produced something called over-gaiters. A store called Smith Medicated Prune Company offered free samples. Around the corner were the smokestacks of an enormous Pratt and Whitney factory, advertising machine tools, gun tools, tools for sewing machines, and steam engines, all produced with “precision, durability, and complete adaptation of means to ends.” Another company flew a flag with the motto: BETTER MACHINES FOR A BETTER LIFE. Posted against the first-floor window was a drawing of “Thomas A. Edison’s new talking machine,” showing a long cylinder, mounted at both ends and pressed against some kind of earphone or speaker in the middle. In the picture, a cheerful woman leaned over the machine and was turning the cylinder with a crank.
Getting tired, I spotted a park bench and sat down. I was oddly excited. There was a feeling of progress in the air. Technology was booming. Life was improving.
Then it struck me how to prove who I was. I was a man of the twentieth century. I could reveal to them the wonders of modern technology. They would have to believe me. My knowledge would speak for itself. And there was something else. I’d been taking orders for years. It was about time to be the person in charge. I began feeling a heady sense of power.
The Colt Armory seemed the best place to start, since I already had acquaintances there. I ran all the way and immediately sought out Amos Plimpton, the fellow who had taken me into his buggy. He was operating a metal stamping machine when I found him.
“Mr. Plimpton,” I said out of breath, “give me just fifteen minutes with your best machinists. I’ve got some very interesting things to tell them about the competition. I promise it will be worth their while.”
Plimpton miraculously consented, probably giving in to his good Yankee business sense.
After about twenty men had congregated in Plimpton’s shop, I got under way. I figured I would start easy, maybe with cars, and work up to VCRs. “Gentlemen,” I began, “let me tell you about a very advanced means of transportation called an automobile. I think you’ve probably got the tools to build one right here in this shop.” Silence. I continued. “An automobile has a gasoline engine that revs up when you put your foot on the accelerator, and it will carry you along the road at up to a hundred miles per hour.” I smiled.
“How does this gasoline engine work?” asked one fellow.
“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “there are cylinders and valves that open and close, and gas and air are brought in and mixed up and ignited by spark plugs.”
“Spark plugs, uh huh,” said another fellow.
The men stood up and began filing out of the room.
“You’ve got to believe me,” I said, flailing my arms.
“What’s there to believe,” barked one of the workers angrily. “All you’ve told us are the names of things.”
“I’m from 1985. I’m from 1985,” I cried out. “I can teach you things.”
“Plimpton,” somebody said, “call the police. This guy is a loony. The police will know what to do with him.”
And that’s how it was that I met Phineas Howe. When the police tried to lock me up that first afternoon in Hartford, I demanded a trial. After a terrible scene of kicking and spouting of unknown constitutional amendments, they released me into the custody of Plimpton, who felt some strange responsibility for me. The trial was set for August 16, and Plimpton generously put me up in his house until then. Phineas Howe, without his knowledge and against his better judgment, was appointed my counsel.
A couple of days later, I met Phineas at his office to prepare our case. Phineas was about fifty years old, tall, slightly stoop-shouldered, and paunchy, with a great mop of disheveled hair. His big rubbery face had more skin than was necessary, and he looked sad, like a basset hound. He greeted me at the door with reluctance.
“You the guy from the twentieth century?” He sighed.
I nodded. He let me in. The first thing that caught my eye was the moose head on the wall. I tried to find a clear space to sit down, which wasn’t easy. The couch was piled waist high with back issues of Hunter and Field, and the cot in the corner was spilling over with shirts and underwear. Papers and food were all over the floor. Finally I located a tiny island of space on the carpet, which belched up a huge cloud of dust when I sat down.
It was blazing hot. Phineas tossed his jacket in a random direction and rolled up his sleeves. “Now,” he said, pausing to remove some wax from his ear, “tell me the facts. You realize, of course, what’s at stake here. You’ve been charged with disturbing the peace, attempted fraud, and lunacy.”
I repeated my story, while Phineas took down everything on a long yellow pad of paper. I don’t think he believed one word I said, but he had been appointed by the public defender’s office, and he had his job to do, and he wasn’t going to lose this case for any mistake he made. As it turned out, Phineas had a shocking track record, but he did have a certain amount of professional pride.
We went through a series of questions and answers, with his asking the questions and my giving the answers. He asked when I was born. “December third, nineteen forty-eight,” I replied. “You mean to tell me that you won’t be born for sixty-eight years?” he asked in a steady voice. I stopped and figured. “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “I understand. I understand,” Phineas said with a pained expression, and scribbled on his yellow pad. It went on like that for half an hour.
The seriousness of my situation began sinking in. “I wouldn’t have been in this mess if the machinists at Colt had given me ten more minutes,” I said glumly.
“Those people weren’t set up for someone like you,” said Phineas with an impatient brush of his hand. “I was thinking of trying to get Tom Edison down here as an expert witness. I was part of a law firm that helped him in a patent suit a few years ago. You know about Edison, don’t you?”
I nodded appreciatively.
“Edison is bright enough to figure this thing out,” Phineas said, and then added, “one way or the other.”
After some hasty inquiries, we walked to the telegraph office and wired Menlo Park, New Jersey, where Edison worked night and day in his lab. An hour later we got a return message, which Phineas wouldn’t let me read but which said something to the effect that we could go to hell and back unless I could help Edison with his lighting system for New York City. My attorney looked at me searchingly, and I said, “Certainly.” This was no time to lose confidence. Phineas wired back that single word, and, within another hour, we received a second message saying that Edison would be arriving on the New York & New England line at 10:13 A.M., August 16.
The trial was held in the Court of Common Pleas, in the new brick County Building on the corner of Trumbull and Allyn. Plimpton had wanted badly to be there with me that morning, but his daughter had suddenly become very sick with pneumonia. As I was leaving his house, I mentioned the possibility of making some penicillin, but I didn’t know more than the name of it. Plimpton stared at me blankly and I left. I had grown fond of him and his wife and felt terrible about their daughter.
Phineas arrived at court looking as if he hadn’t changed clothes for forty-eight hours. He was carrying several yellow pads and an armload of Popular Science Monthlys.
“Don’t say anything except when you’re up on the stand,” he whispered urgently to me, “and then answer only direct questions. I’m on top of this thing.” I nodded and followed him to our seats. “We’re not giving those buggers one inch,” he whispered again, “especially that starched son-of-a-bitch Calhoun.”
“Who is Calhoun?” I whispered back. For an answer, Phineas simply glared across the room at a calm man in his late thirties, then opening a trim leather briefcase. That was Thomas Calhoun, the prosecuting attorney. He was flanked by two young assistants. All three wore immaculate gray suits. Calhoun was slender and had very black hair. Calhoun was the type of person who never utters a word that isn’t right. He got his law degree from Yale. I saw all of this in the first five minutes and became depressed.
Then Judge Renshaw walked in and everyone stood up. “Renshaw doesn’t have the brains to bait a fish hook with,” whispered Phineas. The trial began.
Besides the parties involved, about twenty spectators had come over from the Aetna Insurance Company and sat in the back of the courtroom. Throughout the trial, they were continuously fanning themselves with paper fans advertising the Spring Grove Funeral Parlor.
I won’t repeat the opening remarks. Calhoun presented the case for the town of Hartford, bringing in several men from the Armory to testify. He was brief and smooth as silk. Phineas stated our position. Judge Renshaw, a small, quiet man, seemed puzzled by the whole thing and said nothing.
Then Edison arrived. “Where’s Phineas Howe?” he boomed, walking down the center aisle. The bailiff started to intercept him, but the judge raised his hand. There was a reverent hush, as everyone turned to get a glimpse of Thomas Alva Edison. Finally, a court attendant led him to our seats. Edison was a barrel-chested man with burning blue eyes. He gave me an odd look and said to Phineas, “Make this goddamned fast. I’m leaving on the twelve thirty-three.”
Phineas promptly had me put on the stand and introduced Edison as his expert witness. “I intend to prove,” announced Phineas, “that my client has knowledge of a technology so far advanced beyond ours that he could only be a citizen of the late twentieth century. Or beyond. This knowledge will be confirmed by the leading inventor of our age, Mr. Thomas A. Edison.” The people from Aetna momentarily laid down their fans and clapped. Calhoun, to my satisfaction, shifted uncomfortably in his chair and began whispering to his aides. Phineas and I now held the trumps.
“To begin with,” said Phineas, turning to me, “tell the court about your house.”
“Well,” I said, “I have a refrigerator, a dishwasher, a stereo, a tape deck, two telephones, a television, a video cassette recorder, a microwave oven, a personal computer, and a Chrysler in the garage.” Actually, I was a little embarrassed about flaunting my prosperity in front of the court like this, but Phineas had insisted. Then Phineas got me to explain what each of these items did.
“Objection,” said Calhoun. “The defendant has merely invented a lot of fancy names and functions. He is wasting the court’s time.”
“I believe Mr. Edison will determine that,” said Judge Renshaw. “Objection overruled.” The judge looked expectantly at Phineas, who was rapidly paging through one of the Popular Science Monthlys.
Then Phineas asked me to explain to the court and to Mr. Edison how a television works.
“A radio signal comes in from a broadcast station,” I began, “and is picked up by the television antenna. This signal then goes into the television and directs electricity at a picture tube, which has lots of dots on it. The dots light up when the electricity hits them. That’s what makes the picture.”
Edison was champing at the bit.
“Your honor,” said Phineas, “will you allow Mr. Edison to question the defendant?”
Judge Renshaw nodded.
“Are there wires that go directly to this picture tube?” asked Edison.
I thought hard. “I don’t think so,” I answered.
“What did you say?” asked Edison.
“I don’t think so,” I repeated.
Edison looked as if he still hadn’t heard me.
“I don’t think so,” I shouted.
He nodded, and said, “In that case, don’t this picture tube need a vacuum inside?”
“Sounds reasonable to me.” I looked over at Phineas. His hands were over his eyes.
“Does the television use direct or alternating current?” asked Edison.
I thought again. “Well, I think it comes out of the wall alternating.” There was a round of laughter in the courtroom. Phineas still had his hands over his eyes, but seemed to be peeking through his fingers.
“What’s that you said?” asked Edison. He was definitely hard of hearing.
“I think it comes out of the wall alternating,” I shouted.
“But is there a transformer or rectifier?” asked Edison.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A transformer increases the voltage and decreases the current, or vice versa, keeping the product constant. You lose more power with low voltage. A rectifier changes alternating current to direct current. I’ve been having a hell of a time with my transformers for Pearl Street. The capacitances aren’t right.”
What Edison was saying was extremely interesting. “Now tell me about this picture tube,” he continued. “You say it lights up when electricity hits it?”
“How does that happen?” asked Edison. “What’s this picture tube made of?”
I moved on to refrigerators. “Now a refrigerator is a marvelous machine,” I said. “It keeps food cold with electricity. You can forget about hauling around big chunks of ice.”
“How does one of these refrigerators work?” Edison asked.
“There’s a motor inside,” I answered loudly. “It shoves the heat outside of the refrigerator.” To my surprise and embarrassment, I discovered I couldn’t explain much more about refrigerators, although I was sure there wasn’t much to explain.
Edison looked at his watch.
“TNT,” I said firmly. “It’s a very powerful explosive and excellent for weapons.” The people from Aetna stopped fanning. “Tri-nitro something,” I added.
“You mean nitroglycerin?” asked Edison.
“No, not nitroglycerin. Tri-nitro something.”
“What are the ingredients?” asked Edison.
“Nitrogen is one,” I answered.
Edison looked at me contemptuously and said, “I don’t think this fellow knows one goddamned thing about technology of any century. And he’s certainly no help to me.” At that, he strode out of the courtroom. Phineas, clearly shaken, told me I could sit down. Calhoun looked smug. I felt humiliated.
Judge Renshaw cleared his throat and indicated that it was time for the closing remarks. Calhoun went first.
“I believe it is clear,” he said evenly, “that the defendant has demonstrated no knowledge of advanced technology, no proof that he is in fact a citizen of the twentieth century. I ask the court, therefore, to proceed on the basis that he is either a deliberate fraud, and has tried to deceive the honest people of our town, or a dangerous lunatic. The prosecution recommends five years’ incarceration in Lockwood Prison, or an equal period in the Connecticut Retreat for the Insane, whichever is appropriate.”
Then it was our turn. In a daring move, Phineas asked to have me put in the witness box one last time. He walked over to me, smiled, and said quietly, “Do your friends in the twentieth century know how televisions and automobiles and computers work?”
I was keenly aware of being under oath. “There’s a fellow from Acme Electronics in Cambridge who fixes my television when it’s busted,” I said, “but I couldn’t say I really know him.” I thought. “When I lived in Watertown, I knew someone who could build an automobile brake system from spare parts. Computers, well …” I shook my head no. “It’s recommended not to take them apart.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Phineas, almost whispering, “that only a handful of people from your century understand how these things work?” Phineas was mocking me, probably to inflate his own lifeboat as the ship was sinking. I didn’t blame him much, especially since he was right, but it made me mad.
“Do you know how a telegraph works?” I asked Phineas, angrily.
“I object,” said Calhoun, leaping to his feet. “The knowledge and credibility of my colleague, Mr. Howe, are not relevant here. Also, it is highly improper for a defendant to argue with his own counsel.”
“Objection sustained,” said Judge Renshaw, yawning.
“Do you know how a telegraph works?” I said to the judge.
Phineas led me quickly back to our seats.
“Does the public defender have anything more to say?” said Judge Renshaw.
Phineas was writing rapidly, using a chewed-up pencil he’d whittled down to nothing with his pocket knife. “You got anything to write with?” he whispered frantically.
“Sure,” I answered, and took a ballpoint pen out of my pocket. He grabbed it and continued scribbling without looking up. Suddenly he stopped and stared at the pen. He pushed the button and watched the point go in. He pushed it again and the point came back out.
“Son of a bitch,” he said softly. “Will you look at this?”
He got up, holding the pen, and walked over to the judge’s bench. After some animated mumbling, the judge motioned for Calhoun to come over. Then the judge asked to see all of us in his chambers.
I was acquitted, of course, although the people from Aetna never knew quite why. There was a minor sensation following the trial, and a reporter from the Hartford Times came out. He brought a photographer with him. It seems he wanted to get a picture of me riding a horse. “The man from the twentieth century, temporarily inconvenienced, gets about by horse,” or something like that.
A small crowd of people had gathered across the street from the County Building, and the reporter was there and the photographer and Phineas, and I mounted up. I guess I mounted that horse on the wrong side, because the next thing I knew I’d been pitched and was sailing by L. T. Frisie and Sons, headfirst toward a lamppost. That was the last I saw of old Hartford.
When I awoke, I was lying on the floor of my living room, covered with dust. My wife was bathing my forehead with a wet cloth. She sighed with relief as I opened my eyes. “Dear, where have you been?” she said. “I couldn’t find you for over an hour, and then I heard a loud thump and found you like this, unconscious.” Despite my headache, I managed a smile.