The Nick of Time

Flanked by two police officers, Michael Brandenburg felt ashamed standing before his wife, like he was a truant child caught playing hooky.
"We're concerned about your husband," the first officer, a young woman with short blonde hair said. "The D.A. won't press charges this time, but see that he gets help."
"I don't need help," Michael muttered.
The second officer chimed in. "Sir, you jumped off a moving train," he said.
"I slipped," Michael said.
"Watch your step," the lady cop replied. To Renee Brandenburg she said, "Take care, ma'am." As the front door closed, Michael wished that they had thrown him in jail.
With a disgusted grimace, Renee surveyed her husband. His suit jacket was torn and missing a button, his necktie smeared with grease. "Just look at you," she said. "You're a mess. What were you thinking?"
"I slipped," he repeated glumly, not looking her in the face. He shuffled past her into the kitchen and made himself a cup of black coffee with a double shot of whiskey. A minute later, Renee stalked into the kitchen behind him, dangling a credit card bill in his face like she was serving him with an arrest warrant.
"You don't get off that easily," she harangued him. "What is this?"
Michael sipped the bitter concoction. "Looks like a piece of paper.”
Renee slapped the bill down on the kitchen counter. "I'm talking about the $250 charge from Richardson Scientific Laboratories in Delaware!" she yelled. "What did you buy?"
"A Geiger counter," he confessed.
"A Geiger counter?" she shrieked. "For what?"
"Next month we're having a science exhibit at the Society," he explained calmly. "So I ordered an old Geiger counter, circa 1928. They'll reimburse me for it."
Renee glowered at her husband, looking for a reason to continue her tirade, frustrated at finding none. "A science exhibit?"
"Yes," he replied with strained patience.
Renee shook a finger at him. "You're on thin ice, mister." With that, she stalked out of the kitchen.

At work, Michael found respite from the outside world. From the antique furniture to the hundreds of first edition books in the small library to the mundane artifacts formerly found in homes and factories, everything in the building softly bespoke a simpler time over a century ago. Michael often walked around the place for hours, examining the books in the library, smelling their musty bindings and delicately leafing through the pages. Or he would scrutinize every item on display behind the glass barriers in the adjacent room, thoroughly reading the description of each piece as if he were visiting the tiny museum for the first time. Even the telephone was a reproduction of an 1884 model. The only glaring anachronism was the PC on his desk, a grotesque, humming plastic and glass monster that dominated the entire scene. He had suggested to his boss that they put the behemoth in the back office, where no one would be jarred by its incongruity. But Irv had laughed, replying, "Michael, you're too sensitive."
Michael had finished entering some data an hour earlier, and had tucked the pile of papers into his lower desk drawer. He sat hunched over a stack of magazines, reading for the fifth time an article in an April, 1992 issue of Discover.

 One consequence of such cosmic distortion is that strings could forge shortcuts in space, in much the same way that twisting up a piece of paper can provide faster routes for an ant scurrying from one side of the paper to the other.1

He paused, closing his eyes and massaging his temples.
The call came at 3:50. Irv and his secretary had left for the day, and Michael, feeling frustrated and hopeless, closed the magazine and stuffed the whole stack into his leather briefcase.
"Olde City Historical Society," he answered.
"What time do you close?" asked the voice on the other end.
"Ten minutes, sir," Michael replied.
"I'm a block away. Can you wait a little?"
"No problem," Michael assured him. If he missed his train, he would arrive home an hour later, maybe two, if he were lucky.
Michael was staring straight at the thick oaken door when it slowly swung open. Across the threshold he saw a man of about 45 dressed in gray slacks, a short-sleeved, button down yellow shirt and a burgundy tie.
"I called ten minutes ago," the stranger announced.
Michael sat without speaking a word for several moments, staring in fascination at the visitor without knowing why. Then he recovered.
"Hi," he finally replied, standing up and coming around the desk to shake the stranger's hand. "Mike Brandenburg."
"Herb Wells. You still have that gift shop?"
"Absolutely," Michael told him. "Come on."
The building echoed with the tapping of their shoes on the stairs as the two descended into the downstairs gift shop. Michael slid behind a counter near the entrance, and flicked a switch hidden underneath. With a faint humming, the 30 x 30 store came alive with the soft glow of faux gas lamps along the walls.
Wooden bookcases and curio cabinets stood in perpetual attention against every wall, proudly showcasing all manner of antiques, collectibles and reproductions. Herb was drawn to the locked glass case on the counter top. Four rows of various bills were on display, from a 1776 Colonial 12-pence note to an 1882 100-dollar gold certificate. Herb tapped on the glass with his index finger, like a Blackjack player requesting another card.
"How much?" he asked, indicating a pink and black 1864 Confederate note.
"Seventy-five dollars," Michael replied.
"Wow," Herb replied. "Seventy-five bucks for a five-dollar bill!" He pulled four twenties out of his wallet. Michael wrote up a sales receipt, calculating the total in his head.
"$80.25."
"Good old Philadelphia sales tax," Herb replied, fishing out two dimes and a nickel. He turned his attention to a Union cavalry cap sitting on a shelf behind the counter. "How much for that?"
"$300," Michael said. "We'll sell it one day."
"Maybe to me," Herb said. "I'm a big Civil War buff."
The two were walking out the front door together five minutes later, Herb with a little paper bag containing his purchase.
"Just out of curiosity, Mr. Wells," Michael inquired. "What do you do? History teacher?"
"Physics, actually," Herb informed him. "At Penn. I just love history, that's all."
"Really?" Michael replied with genuine interest. "I majored in Physics my first two years in college. My father wanted me to be a scientist." He laughed. "I thought he was going to disown me when I changed to Social Studies." After a pregnant pause, he added, "May I ask you a strange question?"

Michael sat morosely on the R5 train, the Philadelphia Inquirer tucked under his arm. He couldn't recall whether it was Tuesday or Wednesday, but it didn't matter. He took a deep breath and hauled himself to his feet. He walked past the fourth row of seats, staggered and nearly fell as the train wobbled slightly. He continued, moving closer and closer to the door at the end of the car.
"Sir," he heard the conductor call. "What're you doing?"
Michael didn't answer. He looked out the window one last time as the train rushed by the JC Penney's to his right, one mile before Paoli station. His mind numb, he forced open the doors ahead of him and stepped out onto the narrow platform between the cars. What were the chances? One in a billion? Still, he was sure he had found something.
"Hey!" shouted the conductor.
Michael looked at the familiar landmarks whipping by, the wind creating a dull roaring in his ears. The oak tree with the heart carved into the trunk. Greely's Auto Repair. Einstein's Bagels. He could faintly hear the conductor's running footsteps pounding behind him. Right hand in his pocket, Michael grasped the steel and glass tube as the beeping became louder and faster.
The doors behind him burst open. A hand seized his shoulder. Michael jumped.

Time slowed as Michael tumbled through the air, his body spinning like a fan on the low cycle. He saw the ground rushing forward to swallow him. Before the impact, a flash of blue enveloped his entire body, blinding and deafening him all at once. He rolled roughly along the hard earth, churning up a cloud of dust.
He opened his eyes –his senses restored- and sat up slowly. Two children were running toward him – a boy and a girl. He was dressed in overalls and a brown felt cap, she in a long yellow dress, pinafore and pigtails. Under the boy's arm was a bundle of newspapers – The Bulletin.
"Mister," they called to him. "Are you all right?"
He looked around and saw a small wooden building to his left with a hanging sign that read Paoli Station. The same old Paoli station. But it wasn't. The stores, buildings, everything was different. A few feet away from him stood a steel pole, curved at the top like a hangman's gallows, a sack marked U.S. Mail dangling from it.
Michael stood up with effort. He brushed the dust off of his suit and tie as best he could, smiling gently at the children. "I've never been better," he replied.

1 Freedman, David H. Time Travel Redux. Discover. April, 1992.