Sorry the main characters aren't in here too much, I haven't seen BttF in
years, but just thought you'd like to know the result of a discussion my
friends and I had one evening about BttF II and how that message from Doc
in 1885 to Marty in 1955 ended up sitting there for 70 years. Which evolved
into what to these people would know as...
The Legend of the Telegram
1885:
Thomas Meyer stared at the strange man in disbelief. The man walked out of the Western Union office as if...well, as if he'd just asked about the weather, or requested directions to the nearest saloon.
Saloon? Naw, not even a saloon could be responsible for this!
"Emperor Norton..." Thomas mumbled.
"Excuse me?"
Thomas smiled toward the young man. Just twenty, the man who'd come up behind him come out searching for a job, and gotten hooked up with Western Union. He wanted to settle down in this great Paradise of a state, and had finally settled on this nice little settlement. "Oh, you wouldn't know him," Thomas replied. "Guy who played like he was Emperor of the United States back in the 1850s and 1860s, wrote a bunch of decrees in the paper, wound up with quite a bit of fame. He was harmless enough, so the paper published 'em. It's not like he was gonna do anything against the Union out here, with his modest means; well, modest except in pomp and ceremony."
The new employee listened as Thomas explained how he'd met Emperor Norton once, back in 1859, shortly after coming out West. And now, 26 years later, Thomas Meyer was talking about him as if he were a legend. The lavishness with which "Norton I" had lived was fascinating, as were his actions. A crazy man, to be sure, but the kind of thing that inspired parades and gave people something to do back when the land was being tamed.
Of course, this was still part of the Wild West. Thomas had come from San Francisco - where he'd worked for the U.S. Post Office - out here shortly after Western Union opened up their first office. It wasn't the kind of place a man his age went to settle down, but he was always a man of adventure.
"So, that was Emperor Norton?" William Randolph was confused - that man hadn't been at all lavish in his appearance. And, he was a lot slimmer than his boss was describing Emperor Norton.
"Huh? Oh, no, no. Sorry, I just got a little carried away reminiscing'."
"Oh, it's no problem, Sir. In fact, this Norton fellow sounds fascinating. So, who was that?"
"Well, I suspect it's a relative. He mentioned it was a message, or decree, once I told him how I'd heard of Norton I, and in fact had met him. And, he told me a certain spot - co-ordinates and everything - that this letter was supposed to be delivered to. Only one problem - and this is what makes me sure it's gotta be from him, and that's why I pay it any attention at all. There's nothing there."
"Nothing?!" William was dumbfounded.
"Nothing; no buildings, no trees, no roads, nothing. Now, granted there could be something there someday..."
William sensed his boss was lost in thought again. He made a half circle with his right hand and said, "...but, that doesn't help us deliver it now. Rrright?" William thought he was certain, but now he was doubting himself.
"Well...yes and no. See, here's the tricky part. He gave me the date on which it's to be delivered."
A nod. "And?"
Thomas opened his mouth, closed it, and finally handed William the piece of paper it had been written on. "This is the date."
"WHAT?!?!" William read it half a dozen times, and each time the year read "1955." Seventy years in the future. "What...?" he said in a calmer voice.
"Son, you and I know that letter's as good as dead with the Post Office. I don't know if you're going to live to be ninety. But, I sure as heck won't reach 133." He placed a hand on William's shoulder, and spoke solemnly. "When I was with the post office, we had a sacred motto. Now, I'm going to ask you to do them one better for Western Union. Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor gloom of night, nor death, shall keep you from your appointed rounds."
"You want me...to deliver this..."
"...Or, see that it gets delivered in 1955."
"Right." He glanced at the envelope, sensing the beginning of an adventure that could well outlive him. But, as his grandpappy always said back East, there's a lot we don't know that we won't know till we get beyond this world. It was amazing how things like that came back to him sometimes.
Grandpappy would have faith, he told himself. He'd say just get it done. God will take care of the finer points. With a broad grin, he said, "You can count on me, Sir." "I knew I could. I can spot a good man when I see one."
1901: The elderly writer and comedian - or what many could consider elderly int hat day and age - wandered into the Western Union office. "Now, what was it you wanted me to see?"
"Well, Sir," William remarked as he opened the safe, "I want your opinion on something, being a man of great insight."
The man nodded slowly as he examined the letter - with a note from William that read "do not deliver till 1955" - and listened to the story. "Very interesting. And you say there is no road that goes along there?"
"That's right, Sir."
"You know, I am reminded of P.T. Barnum. He wanted to keep people moving in his show, so in one room near the back he had a sign which said 'See the Egress.' Everyone would rush outside, of course, thinking it was some great thing. Except that 'egress' means 'exit,' and the people then would have to pay to get back in."
William smiled faintly, though he tried not to let on that he'd fallen victim to that one himself.
"I believe this is a test. A test the man cannot expect to live to see, but that he believes will follow him beyond the grave. A test of human nature."
"Do you have any suggestions? I mean, we are remodeling the office, and it does seem odd to some that it should be kept in this office for over 50 more years. I do have a personal safe that it could be placed in, like a time capsule."
"Oh, no no no, that is part of the test. This person obviously wishes to see what we are made of. I have always said it is best to always do good - it will please some and astonish the rest. If you do good, in other words keep this till 1955, it will astonish the world."
"And, if nobody is there to receive it? I mean, the exact time to deliver it is even specified," William exclaimed in sheer amazement at the audacity.
"You're going to wait 70 years and then be worried about the time of day? Why, that is utter foolishness. If he were going to wait that long, then certainly he would be sure to give an exact time, because otherwise you would be on pins and needles the whole time."
"But, I mean, to predict someone will be there at precisely that time..."
"And instead you would rather he request a courier be waiting the entire 24- hour period? That is more foolish than telling you a specific time! You should be thankful that he did leave you with a specific time; that should give you even more hope that he will keep his end of the bargain. In fact, to me it is proof positive that he will."
William nodded. The approach was odd, but it did have a certain logic to it. A comical logic, perhaps, but a logic. And, the unique way of looking at it, the exact time making it more normal, not more preposterous, did fit with the genius of the man.
"You have some good points, Mr. Twain. Thanks; I'll be sure it stays here."
1919:
"There was something you wanted to see me about?'
"Yes, Chief." Spencer Stanton led his new boss over to the safe. "Since Mr. Randolph died in that influenza epidemic that only recently subsided, we've had it pretty rough. But, there's one special delivery that...well..."
Charles Stanley raised his eyebrows at the date; 1955.
"As you can see, Sir, it's a telegram written over 30 years ago, to be delivered over 30 years from now. It's kind of acquired star status here."
"I see."
"So, Mr. Randolph left strict orders that whoever was left if he passed on from the influenza should make sure their new boss was willing to keep it here."
Spencer smiled. "Who am I to mess with tradition."
"Mark Twain himself saw it, and believes the person will be there."
"Mark Twain. Wow. Well, I'll make a note to keep watching, and waiting."
1928:
Billy Sunday was just finishing up the sermon. "My friends, look upon that telegram in your Western Union office," he cried out, sweating profusely from his constant moving about the stage; he moved so much he would sweat like this even if the tent revival was in the middle of February in Ohio. "Consider it - 70 years, the span of time the Bible promises us on this earth! And yet it has already outlived many of you out here. Take note of it, my friends! We are not promised tomorrow! That telegram represents your lives! Each of you has a date with your Maker, but it need not be in 1955! It could be 1945, or 1935, or even in the next five minutes! Please, the Lord pleads with you, come to Jesus Christ tonight, repent of your sins and receive his forgiveness, before it is eternally too late!"
Viola Harris was the product of a very poor home. But, this young lady had dreams. Dreams that she would one day escape the drudgery of poverty in Hill Valley - poverty that had caused her home, on the wrong side of the tracks, to escape the great prosperity that had overtaken the nation in the Roaring Twenties. She had gone forward and received Christ as her personal Savior in a little, segregated church several years back. But, that letter stirred her heart. And, the sermon was making her think. Did she, too, have a date with destiny? Or maybe a future child would.
She would vividly remember this day many years later, when her little boy would become the first black mayor of this town. How he might have had the get-up-and-go anyway to become mayor, how she woudl have shared her dreams anyway, but as of that day she would be sure it came to pass. Because she was going to promise God if she had a child, to raise him to be the most upstanding citizen they'd ever had, so he could overcome the prejudice and one day possibly be mayor.
1934:
Mark Wyman looked at the letter in his hands. He kept looking, staring really, at that date. Almost 50 years - it would be celebrating its Golden Anniversary shortly. Except...
Cutbacks had really hit Western Union hard. The Great Depression was not getting much better in California, and especially not out here. The U.S. government had some works programs, but with so many out of work, what did people care about an artifact like this?
He supposed he could pitch it; but it was old, and he supposed worth something. He could sell it, it would mean more food for his family. Or, maybe he could wait for 19 years just to see...but what were the chances?
And yet, what could he gain; who would buy it? Well, he knew there were collectors of artifacts. They could open it, and decide its value. Then make the decision as to what to do. After all, even if they did decide to seal it back up how would someone in 1955 know what it was sealed with in 1885?
"A fiery horse, the speed of light; a cloud of dust, and a hearty 'Hi Ho, Silver.' Return with us now to those thrilling day of yesteryear..."
Mark sighed. He'd know what to do. If the Lone Ranger were here, he would know exactly how to handle this situation.
As he listened to the rebroadcast from a Detroit station, he pondered this mysterious man with a mask. It seemed so real, so endearing. And, so timeless. Indeed, forget the stories about Emperor Norton, or some strange man just testing human resolve, it was possible...
Mark sat upright. Could it be? Nah, the Lone Ranger was fiction, wasn't he? And yet, time after time, that's what the people thought whom he and Tonto encountered in their journeys.
But, why would the Lone Ranger be doing this? Perhaps to appoint a successor? Perhaps sometime, years down the line, he knew there could be problems, and he wanted someone to fill his shoes? Why wasn't he there now for them, then? Mark didn't know.
He laughed at himself. He was the new boss, with the cutbacks, and he had the right to decide what to do. And here he was, just hoping a man with a mask on a white horse would show up to help him.
But, what if? And, even if it wasn't from the Lone Ranger, didn't he have a duty? Wasn't that what the Lone Ranger's creed was all about - doing what was right?
He put the letter back int he safe. Forget those who say to ignore stuff like that. It'll be delivered when it says to be delivered. We gave our word almost 50 years ago.
A man's word should be as good as gold. The Lone Ranger would probably say just that, he realized.
1955:
Mark stared at the date on the calendar and looked at his watch. It was almost time.
He assembled the Western Union staff in his office and thanked them for staying a little late. "I know it's pretty unusual, but this has been an unusual day. A day we've looked forward to for seventy years in this office.
"When the Depression forced severe cutbacks, we almost took it home to one of our safes, or even sold it. I was left with the responsibility to see to it that it got to this date in one piece. And, I couldn't stand to take it out. Listening to the wonderful radio program, the Lone Ranger, as it was re-broadcast by our local station out here back in 1934, I got the sense that I, too, was on a mission. A mission not unlike his. It may or may not have been a man with a mask who delivered this back in 1885, but a part of me even thought to myself, what if? What if, this really was a message from the Lone Ranger? Who know, it might be."
He went to the safe, and pulled out the letter, then faced the crowd again. "In a little over two hours, one of you will be called upon to fulfill destiny. To deliver this letter, to whoever, or whatever, might await you. Have you decided who it shall be?"
David Collins stepped forward, as if he was back in the late 1930s, playing as if he were Flash Gordon, and preparing to meet some strange, alien adventure. Whether it was as a child himself, or enjoying these adventures with his own boys, there was one thing certain about him. He loved a good story. And, if nobody was there? Well, then he'd turn it into a great bedtime story the next night; and invent something far more spectacular than what he'd likely face; a person, there to receive his letter, finishing what Mark Twain had called a great test of human nature.
"I'm elected, Sir."
With those words, David was handed the letter. He pondered the enormity of 70 years worth of history. So much had happened; what would happen between now and 2025? For a brief instant, he considered leaving something of his own for the people there, but relented. It wouldn't be the same. There was no way the same mystery, nay, legend, could rise around his as arose around this letter.
He considered the great number of theories. Area historians liked to speak of Emperor Norton. When had he died, David wondered. Could this be from him?
Others had pondered the Lone Ranger. Had there been an actual one? Many speculated that the radio and now television show had some basis in reality, and that this man in a mask had actually delivered a message to some future person. Maybe...maybe it would be appointing a new Lone Ranger. After all, the man who received this would need to have as much faith as the man who sent it. Faith that it would actually be getting there.
Then, there was Flash Gordon//Buck Rogers type speculation. David's youngest, then six, had even told him he thought it was a time traveler sending a message to himself. The family had had such a wonderful time with that one. It was the zaniest, most ridiculous idea anyone had offered, but that was the wonderful mind of a six-year-old. A child who might some day be exploring the stars himself.
Then, of course, there were the scoffers, those who believed that nobody could possibly be there. To them, he was one of those old P.T. Barnum would trick into "seeing the egress." They laughed at his confidence; but, to him, it was nothing more than doing a job. Western Union had been used, Western Union would be dutiful and deliver.
As he approached the appointed place, he reminded himself to be businesslike. No questions to the recipient about the Lone Ranger, or Emperor Norton; good grief, certainly no questions about time travel. He could just hear his boy asking if the man he was approaching was really from 1885 - or even 1985. He barely stifled a laugh at the absurdity as he approached the man.
"Are you Marty McFly?' David asked.
"Who are you?"
"Western Union. There's a letter for you." He noticed that Marty was a little shocked as he took it. "It's been sitting in our office for 70 years. We were wondering if anyone would be here to receive it."
But not me, he told himself as he left, thinking again of the Lone Ranger. His work was done there. But, as he traveled back to the office to report his success, he thought about what he would tell his children.
No, he told himself. Just tell them you delivered it. And let them make up the adventure. That's what this whole series of events, over seventy years, has been anyway. Just one fun adventure.
The Legend of the Telegram
1885:
Thomas Meyer stared at the strange man in disbelief. The man walked out of the Western Union office as if...well, as if he'd just asked about the weather, or requested directions to the nearest saloon.
Saloon? Naw, not even a saloon could be responsible for this!
"Emperor Norton..." Thomas mumbled.
"Excuse me?"
Thomas smiled toward the young man. Just twenty, the man who'd come up behind him come out searching for a job, and gotten hooked up with Western Union. He wanted to settle down in this great Paradise of a state, and had finally settled on this nice little settlement. "Oh, you wouldn't know him," Thomas replied. "Guy who played like he was Emperor of the United States back in the 1850s and 1860s, wrote a bunch of decrees in the paper, wound up with quite a bit of fame. He was harmless enough, so the paper published 'em. It's not like he was gonna do anything against the Union out here, with his modest means; well, modest except in pomp and ceremony."
The new employee listened as Thomas explained how he'd met Emperor Norton once, back in 1859, shortly after coming out West. And now, 26 years later, Thomas Meyer was talking about him as if he were a legend. The lavishness with which "Norton I" had lived was fascinating, as were his actions. A crazy man, to be sure, but the kind of thing that inspired parades and gave people something to do back when the land was being tamed.
Of course, this was still part of the Wild West. Thomas had come from San Francisco - where he'd worked for the U.S. Post Office - out here shortly after Western Union opened up their first office. It wasn't the kind of place a man his age went to settle down, but he was always a man of adventure.
"So, that was Emperor Norton?" William Randolph was confused - that man hadn't been at all lavish in his appearance. And, he was a lot slimmer than his boss was describing Emperor Norton.
"Huh? Oh, no, no. Sorry, I just got a little carried away reminiscing'."
"Oh, it's no problem, Sir. In fact, this Norton fellow sounds fascinating. So, who was that?"
"Well, I suspect it's a relative. He mentioned it was a message, or decree, once I told him how I'd heard of Norton I, and in fact had met him. And, he told me a certain spot - co-ordinates and everything - that this letter was supposed to be delivered to. Only one problem - and this is what makes me sure it's gotta be from him, and that's why I pay it any attention at all. There's nothing there."
"Nothing?!" William was dumbfounded.
"Nothing; no buildings, no trees, no roads, nothing. Now, granted there could be something there someday..."
William sensed his boss was lost in thought again. He made a half circle with his right hand and said, "...but, that doesn't help us deliver it now. Rrright?" William thought he was certain, but now he was doubting himself.
"Well...yes and no. See, here's the tricky part. He gave me the date on which it's to be delivered."
A nod. "And?"
Thomas opened his mouth, closed it, and finally handed William the piece of paper it had been written on. "This is the date."
"WHAT?!?!" William read it half a dozen times, and each time the year read "1955." Seventy years in the future. "What...?" he said in a calmer voice.
"Son, you and I know that letter's as good as dead with the Post Office. I don't know if you're going to live to be ninety. But, I sure as heck won't reach 133." He placed a hand on William's shoulder, and spoke solemnly. "When I was with the post office, we had a sacred motto. Now, I'm going to ask you to do them one better for Western Union. Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor gloom of night, nor death, shall keep you from your appointed rounds."
"You want me...to deliver this..."
"...Or, see that it gets delivered in 1955."
"Right." He glanced at the envelope, sensing the beginning of an adventure that could well outlive him. But, as his grandpappy always said back East, there's a lot we don't know that we won't know till we get beyond this world. It was amazing how things like that came back to him sometimes.
Grandpappy would have faith, he told himself. He'd say just get it done. God will take care of the finer points. With a broad grin, he said, "You can count on me, Sir." "I knew I could. I can spot a good man when I see one."
1901: The elderly writer and comedian - or what many could consider elderly int hat day and age - wandered into the Western Union office. "Now, what was it you wanted me to see?"
"Well, Sir," William remarked as he opened the safe, "I want your opinion on something, being a man of great insight."
The man nodded slowly as he examined the letter - with a note from William that read "do not deliver till 1955" - and listened to the story. "Very interesting. And you say there is no road that goes along there?"
"That's right, Sir."
"You know, I am reminded of P.T. Barnum. He wanted to keep people moving in his show, so in one room near the back he had a sign which said 'See the Egress.' Everyone would rush outside, of course, thinking it was some great thing. Except that 'egress' means 'exit,' and the people then would have to pay to get back in."
William smiled faintly, though he tried not to let on that he'd fallen victim to that one himself.
"I believe this is a test. A test the man cannot expect to live to see, but that he believes will follow him beyond the grave. A test of human nature."
"Do you have any suggestions? I mean, we are remodeling the office, and it does seem odd to some that it should be kept in this office for over 50 more years. I do have a personal safe that it could be placed in, like a time capsule."
"Oh, no no no, that is part of the test. This person obviously wishes to see what we are made of. I have always said it is best to always do good - it will please some and astonish the rest. If you do good, in other words keep this till 1955, it will astonish the world."
"And, if nobody is there to receive it? I mean, the exact time to deliver it is even specified," William exclaimed in sheer amazement at the audacity.
"You're going to wait 70 years and then be worried about the time of day? Why, that is utter foolishness. If he were going to wait that long, then certainly he would be sure to give an exact time, because otherwise you would be on pins and needles the whole time."
"But, I mean, to predict someone will be there at precisely that time..."
"And instead you would rather he request a courier be waiting the entire 24- hour period? That is more foolish than telling you a specific time! You should be thankful that he did leave you with a specific time; that should give you even more hope that he will keep his end of the bargain. In fact, to me it is proof positive that he will."
William nodded. The approach was odd, but it did have a certain logic to it. A comical logic, perhaps, but a logic. And, the unique way of looking at it, the exact time making it more normal, not more preposterous, did fit with the genius of the man.
"You have some good points, Mr. Twain. Thanks; I'll be sure it stays here."
1919:
"There was something you wanted to see me about?'
"Yes, Chief." Spencer Stanton led his new boss over to the safe. "Since Mr. Randolph died in that influenza epidemic that only recently subsided, we've had it pretty rough. But, there's one special delivery that...well..."
Charles Stanley raised his eyebrows at the date; 1955.
"As you can see, Sir, it's a telegram written over 30 years ago, to be delivered over 30 years from now. It's kind of acquired star status here."
"I see."
"So, Mr. Randolph left strict orders that whoever was left if he passed on from the influenza should make sure their new boss was willing to keep it here."
Spencer smiled. "Who am I to mess with tradition."
"Mark Twain himself saw it, and believes the person will be there."
"Mark Twain. Wow. Well, I'll make a note to keep watching, and waiting."
1928:
Billy Sunday was just finishing up the sermon. "My friends, look upon that telegram in your Western Union office," he cried out, sweating profusely from his constant moving about the stage; he moved so much he would sweat like this even if the tent revival was in the middle of February in Ohio. "Consider it - 70 years, the span of time the Bible promises us on this earth! And yet it has already outlived many of you out here. Take note of it, my friends! We are not promised tomorrow! That telegram represents your lives! Each of you has a date with your Maker, but it need not be in 1955! It could be 1945, or 1935, or even in the next five minutes! Please, the Lord pleads with you, come to Jesus Christ tonight, repent of your sins and receive his forgiveness, before it is eternally too late!"
Viola Harris was the product of a very poor home. But, this young lady had dreams. Dreams that she would one day escape the drudgery of poverty in Hill Valley - poverty that had caused her home, on the wrong side of the tracks, to escape the great prosperity that had overtaken the nation in the Roaring Twenties. She had gone forward and received Christ as her personal Savior in a little, segregated church several years back. But, that letter stirred her heart. And, the sermon was making her think. Did she, too, have a date with destiny? Or maybe a future child would.
She would vividly remember this day many years later, when her little boy would become the first black mayor of this town. How he might have had the get-up-and-go anyway to become mayor, how she woudl have shared her dreams anyway, but as of that day she would be sure it came to pass. Because she was going to promise God if she had a child, to raise him to be the most upstanding citizen they'd ever had, so he could overcome the prejudice and one day possibly be mayor.
1934:
Mark Wyman looked at the letter in his hands. He kept looking, staring really, at that date. Almost 50 years - it would be celebrating its Golden Anniversary shortly. Except...
Cutbacks had really hit Western Union hard. The Great Depression was not getting much better in California, and especially not out here. The U.S. government had some works programs, but with so many out of work, what did people care about an artifact like this?
He supposed he could pitch it; but it was old, and he supposed worth something. He could sell it, it would mean more food for his family. Or, maybe he could wait for 19 years just to see...but what were the chances?
And yet, what could he gain; who would buy it? Well, he knew there were collectors of artifacts. They could open it, and decide its value. Then make the decision as to what to do. After all, even if they did decide to seal it back up how would someone in 1955 know what it was sealed with in 1885?
"A fiery horse, the speed of light; a cloud of dust, and a hearty 'Hi Ho, Silver.' Return with us now to those thrilling day of yesteryear..."
Mark sighed. He'd know what to do. If the Lone Ranger were here, he would know exactly how to handle this situation.
As he listened to the rebroadcast from a Detroit station, he pondered this mysterious man with a mask. It seemed so real, so endearing. And, so timeless. Indeed, forget the stories about Emperor Norton, or some strange man just testing human resolve, it was possible...
Mark sat upright. Could it be? Nah, the Lone Ranger was fiction, wasn't he? And yet, time after time, that's what the people thought whom he and Tonto encountered in their journeys.
But, why would the Lone Ranger be doing this? Perhaps to appoint a successor? Perhaps sometime, years down the line, he knew there could be problems, and he wanted someone to fill his shoes? Why wasn't he there now for them, then? Mark didn't know.
He laughed at himself. He was the new boss, with the cutbacks, and he had the right to decide what to do. And here he was, just hoping a man with a mask on a white horse would show up to help him.
But, what if? And, even if it wasn't from the Lone Ranger, didn't he have a duty? Wasn't that what the Lone Ranger's creed was all about - doing what was right?
He put the letter back int he safe. Forget those who say to ignore stuff like that. It'll be delivered when it says to be delivered. We gave our word almost 50 years ago.
A man's word should be as good as gold. The Lone Ranger would probably say just that, he realized.
1955:
Mark stared at the date on the calendar and looked at his watch. It was almost time.
He assembled the Western Union staff in his office and thanked them for staying a little late. "I know it's pretty unusual, but this has been an unusual day. A day we've looked forward to for seventy years in this office.
"When the Depression forced severe cutbacks, we almost took it home to one of our safes, or even sold it. I was left with the responsibility to see to it that it got to this date in one piece. And, I couldn't stand to take it out. Listening to the wonderful radio program, the Lone Ranger, as it was re-broadcast by our local station out here back in 1934, I got the sense that I, too, was on a mission. A mission not unlike his. It may or may not have been a man with a mask who delivered this back in 1885, but a part of me even thought to myself, what if? What if, this really was a message from the Lone Ranger? Who know, it might be."
He went to the safe, and pulled out the letter, then faced the crowd again. "In a little over two hours, one of you will be called upon to fulfill destiny. To deliver this letter, to whoever, or whatever, might await you. Have you decided who it shall be?"
David Collins stepped forward, as if he was back in the late 1930s, playing as if he were Flash Gordon, and preparing to meet some strange, alien adventure. Whether it was as a child himself, or enjoying these adventures with his own boys, there was one thing certain about him. He loved a good story. And, if nobody was there? Well, then he'd turn it into a great bedtime story the next night; and invent something far more spectacular than what he'd likely face; a person, there to receive his letter, finishing what Mark Twain had called a great test of human nature.
"I'm elected, Sir."
With those words, David was handed the letter. He pondered the enormity of 70 years worth of history. So much had happened; what would happen between now and 2025? For a brief instant, he considered leaving something of his own for the people there, but relented. It wouldn't be the same. There was no way the same mystery, nay, legend, could rise around his as arose around this letter.
He considered the great number of theories. Area historians liked to speak of Emperor Norton. When had he died, David wondered. Could this be from him?
Others had pondered the Lone Ranger. Had there been an actual one? Many speculated that the radio and now television show had some basis in reality, and that this man in a mask had actually delivered a message to some future person. Maybe...maybe it would be appointing a new Lone Ranger. After all, the man who received this would need to have as much faith as the man who sent it. Faith that it would actually be getting there.
Then, there was Flash Gordon//Buck Rogers type speculation. David's youngest, then six, had even told him he thought it was a time traveler sending a message to himself. The family had had such a wonderful time with that one. It was the zaniest, most ridiculous idea anyone had offered, but that was the wonderful mind of a six-year-old. A child who might some day be exploring the stars himself.
Then, of course, there were the scoffers, those who believed that nobody could possibly be there. To them, he was one of those old P.T. Barnum would trick into "seeing the egress." They laughed at his confidence; but, to him, it was nothing more than doing a job. Western Union had been used, Western Union would be dutiful and deliver.
As he approached the appointed place, he reminded himself to be businesslike. No questions to the recipient about the Lone Ranger, or Emperor Norton; good grief, certainly no questions about time travel. He could just hear his boy asking if the man he was approaching was really from 1885 - or even 1985. He barely stifled a laugh at the absurdity as he approached the man.
"Are you Marty McFly?' David asked.
"Who are you?"
"Western Union. There's a letter for you." He noticed that Marty was a little shocked as he took it. "It's been sitting in our office for 70 years. We were wondering if anyone would be here to receive it."
But not me, he told himself as he left, thinking again of the Lone Ranger. His work was done there. But, as he traveled back to the office to report his success, he thought about what he would tell his children.
No, he told himself. Just tell them you delivered it. And let them make up the adventure. That's what this whole series of events, over seventy years, has been anyway. Just one fun adventure.