Charles Pendelton

	Charles Pendelton
	© 2008 Marty Langdon

Chapter 23

        The wonderful workings of a time machine

Pete suggested we all take a walk to the Eltingville train station. Since neither of us could
come up with a better idea, we complied. Ten minutes later, we arrived at Joe’s Optimo cigar
shop adjacent to the train station where we entered. John looks at the cigars but buys nothing.
Pete looks at the Tiparillos and winds up buying a pack of Tijuana Smalls.

Whilst I, not wanting to get lost in the shuffle, request a pack of Muriel Coronas.

Joe was a cigar-chomping Brooklyn native who always had a cigar in his mouth. No one
understood him when he spoke that unintelligible jargon, but we respected him nonetheless.

Upon exiting the cigar store, which was partly a convenience store, I paused under the
overhanging sign to light my cigar. After sparking it five times, my cricket lighter would
emit its final flame. So small was this delicate bead of light that it almost seemed to be
levitating above the lighter itself. Knowing it was about to disappear, I began puffing in
and out while continuing to release the gas. One usually puffs that way when using a
match to light a stogie. The flame will flare out like a torch.

As we ascended the steps leading up to the Eltingville train station, it didn't take long for us
to grow restless. As I stood over the yellow line, looking down at the tracks, I felt like a gerbil
running the wheel. My heart was speeding, and it seemed as though I were running on only one
pint of blood. Enervated and weak, would be the best way to describe it. I felt the life being
sucked out of me by an unknown force and, in its place, the very principle of agitation.

I was confused beyond reason as the world, which had forever spun in
one direction, had now suddenly decided to come to a grinding halt.

Like a bus ready to overheat, I removed my thin flannel shirt. I then thought about what
I had done before removing my T-shirt as well. John could not fathom me walking around
bare-chested and began to act very embarrassed and ashamed. He then started to walk in
the opposite direction before stopping, like a little boy who suddenly realized he had been
following a stranger. Sheepishly he made his way back but refused to make eye contact.

Peter, who was acting very truculent, kept to himself,
and it was quite apparent that he was living in malice.

Similar to the animals of the forest when they are provoked, it appeared
that humans were not exempt from becoming increasingly territorial either.
And that little observation could certainly prove to be a danger to us all.

As I gazed at the metal sign, I saw the word, Eltingville. I had
never thought about it before, but it was now becoming significant.

What did it mean, that strange name?

I know it was foolish to dwell on, but I couldn't help but wonder. It was only then,
did I suggest that we walk the tracks. Since we were all feeling a bit adventurous,
Pete decided it wasn't such a bad idea. We then hopped down from the old wooden
platform and began our descent into oblivion. I tried to imagine what we must look
like to the ghosts and apparitions now watching us from the station as we faded
away into the distance.

                                                               Pg 112
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There was always something watching someone it appeared
(from my mind's eye) as if from a ubiquitous window in time,
and I found that to be exhilarating.

Looking back, my eyes took a second to focus, similar
to a cheap camera that was always on and ready.

                                 Hamilton Streetcar - Invisible people

How wonderful it felt to be in motion,
to be moving unrestrained.
So free were we now to travel,
to go about our way without restrictions;
to follow our own instincts and senses
without rules and regulations posted everywhere,
showing us where we can and cannot go,
telling us what we can and cannot do.

With each step I took, I began to feel as though we were
walking in a dream, and the further we got, the more
memorable the whole night seemed. It appeared as though
Captain Jack had given us our own private island.

In the distance, I could see the Hawaiian restaurant coming into view. There were many lights
fashioned to shine upon that faded brown metal sign, which bore the name of the remarkable
establishment. As we passed by, I could clearly see the white vinyl letters that had curled up
around the edges, giving it a more pronounced look. Thus, creating a sharper appearance.

So intrigued was I by the withering of the years that I found myself entranced in its hypnotic
presence. I was completely baffled at how it now looked more Polynesian and exotic than
it ever did before. All because of an error in manufacturing that caused the material to
shrivel over time. As we gradually came closer, I realized these permanent white stick-on
letters actually had more of an authentic look to them as they got older, almost like a new
form of Asian lettering. It seemed as if they were now ‘fully accentuated’ by the whole
aspect of the South Pacific Sea and a foreign culture we've come to adopt and love.

Below the overpass, calcium carbonate deposits from rainwater, combined with an
accumulation of sprayed rock salt, form small, brittle stalactites on its discolored
underbelly. It is a buildup over time, from when water and salt become trapped within
the pores of the old concrete. Gradually, it finds its way out by trickling downward.

In winter, the exterior wall resembled a glistening waterfall of white, like frozen milk.

One that is smooth to the touch as polished glass, while in summer, parts of the
exterior surface appear to be caked and crumbling, as if it has already begun its
transformation into rock salt. In certain areas of Brooklyn, you will find there are
literally piles of accumulated concrete powder decorating the appearance of old
structures and exposing the rusted steel used to secure the entire railway's facade.

As we exited the overpass and moved on, I saw an old, barbed wire fence to my left.

Covered in rust and decaying, it stood there like a monument from another time, whose
only purpose now, I thought, was to just exist until the sentinels of time whisk it away.

Toward the middle, it bowed like a swag valance,
for a tree had grown through it.

As that tree continues to grow, it has no other choice than to devour whatever is
in its way until nothing remains. One day, I am sure that part of the fence is going
to be either gone or dangling many feet in the air, like an old kite string. Further
ahead, the superannuated fence just seemed to stop, leaving its bare, rusting
threads to dance like fibrils in the wind. Soon, neither us nor they shall remain.

It didn't take long before we approached the Annadale station.

It was around this time that I felt it grow stronger still. Looking up,
I noticed a large banner had been draped across the trestle that read:
“Welcome to Annadale Junction,” and I was elated.

                                                               Pg 113
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John noticed it, too, and asked happily, “What's a junction?” I explained to him that a
hundred years ago, there were no train stations. In those days, a train stop was called
a junction. And now, I think we might very well be back in time. Of course, Peter was
not within earshot to spoil it for me because, again, I was making it up as I went along.
A chance I could infuse my ideas into the mind of another participant on the journey.

If you looked at the situation as I did in the present tense, you would then
have to ask yourself a simple question. Who in their right mind would ingest
a psychoactive substance and then go outside to try and act normal?

           ((((((((((((((((Isn't that what coffee is for? ))))))))))))))))

John marveled at the thought of it and was filled with glee. Forthwith, he was
overcome by insurmountable little bursts of adrenaline. The kind we so often
felt as children on an excitable day. It wasn't too long after when my mind
began to prefabricate wild yarns, and in my head, I imagined we had passed
through an invisible doorway, a doorway leading back instead of forward.

The 1980s had miraculously vanished, and I was walking down the tracks before my
parents were born. It was an incredible feeling, kind of like being in a dream where
you are living somewhere else. You know every room in that house; until you wake up.

I could almost envision horse-drawn carriages awaiting me
on the other side of the tracks, the taste of fresh water from
a hand-drawn well, and the scent of honeysuckles from afar.

As the wheels inside my head began to spin faster, my senses were more attuned to creating
the next scene. In my mind, I saw the sun standing still in the midday hour where women in
fancy apparel walked nonchalantly. They who gently twirl their parasols behind them are,
in fact, sporting their femininity. I can now hear them whisper very excitedly to one another
while vying through the corner of their eyes for perspective grooms. Never at any time were
these damsels grandiloquent in nature but rather quiet and shy.

The modern contrivances of the day had dissolved, as did the sun, and all that remained
were the dying embers of time extracted from a shadowy canvas that lined the sky. That
immense glory forever fulfilling the pages of hope from a book I never thought would be
written in my lifetime. One that lay in a dark corner of my mind, long discarded.

At last, the annals of truth will be revealed,and the days of my life shall be recounted.

Euphoria was coursing through my veins like an analgesic, and I was now
oblivious to everything except that which resided in my own macrocosm.

Although it was only a state of mind, our imagination was taking us to new heights.
Weird things were beginning to happen in my brain, and I honestly felt I had somehow
breached the threshold in making the transition from 1982 to 1882. As we proceeded
down the tracks, following two shimmering rails of lighted steel, we truly felt like
the lords of all creation.

But this was just not meant to be, for up ahead in the distance,
we heard what would ultimately be the end of my evening.

   The Twilights - Stop the world for a day

                                                               Pg 114
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Reviews for chapter 23

Joe Yasner - When very word begs to be written, you are no longer a writer but an artist! Congrats fella!

Ronnie Mack - Coffee is not a psychoactive substance

Charles Pendelton - According to National Geographic magazine,
and every other place I've looked, caffeine is still the world's most
popular psychoactive drug. *Take a look for yourself and you'll see*

Caffeine is officially the world's most popular psychoactive drug

((((((((((((((((((((P.S. - It is also a stimulant))))))))))))))))))))

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                                                          This review was posted on Nov/15/22

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                                       This review was posted on Dec/22/22

                                         iqrabashir871 's review

The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 23 - The wonderful workings of a time machine

                                              Reader's Report by Iqra

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                                  This review was posted on Dec/31/22

                                  nehanegi1905 's review

The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 23 - The wonderful workings of a time machine

                                    Reader's Report by nehanegi1905

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                                       This review was posted on Jan/2/23

                                                 Hajranoor's review

The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 23 - The wonderful workings of a time machine

                                        Reader's Report by Hajra

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                                             This review was posted on Feb/2/23

                                 kanchanninawe's review

The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 23 - The wonderful workings of a time machine

Reader's Report by kanchan

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This review was posted on Mar/12/23

Reviewed by yashodha_95

This review was posted on Apr/20/23

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                                               Tayyaba17's review

The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 23 - The wonderful workings of a time machine

                                                         Reader's Report by Tayyaba

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                                           This review was posted on Jun/11/23
                                                                    Reviewed by pazkou
PK

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                                                                      Reviewed by tawhida
TW

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Reviewed by labia_1903

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Reviewed by andreamircheska
AM

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Reviewed by suma303755

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Reviewed by hinaspatel

HS

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sidrahumar120's review

The Embryo Man and Other Tales of Woe: Chapter 23 - The Wonderful Workings of a Time Machine

Reader's Report by Sidrah

SU

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This review was posted on Aug/12/23 (Evening)
Reviewed by rupalrao

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Reviewed by sampriktaada813

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Reviewed by qeilisha

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Reviewed by nusratjahan603

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This review was posted on Oct/28/23
Reviewed by ritikagoyal587

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Saleha Zainab - Oct 31 - Chapter 23
SZ

"The Wonderful Workings of a Time Machine"

**Imagery and Descriptive Language**: The passage is rich in descriptive language,
with the author using vivid imagery to create a detailed mental picture for the reader.
The descriptions of the surroundings, such as the cigar shop, the train station, and
even the decaying fence, are meticulously crafted. This imagery helps in immersing
the reader in the story and engaging the senses.

**Nostalgia and Surrealism**: The passage carries a strong sense of nostalgia,
with the author reflecting on the past and envisioning a different time. This nostalgia
is further accentuated by the mention of specific historical details, such as the
reference to the 1980s. The blending of the past and present creates a surreal
atmosphere, making the reader question the boundaries of reality.

**Introspection and Imagination**: The narrative is heavily introspective, with the
author's thoughts and musings dominating the text. The characters' actions are
driven by their imagination, particularly the protagonist's, who envisions a transition
from 1982 to 1882. This use of introspection and imagination allows for a deep
exploration of the characters' thoughts and emotions.

**Transcending Time**: The narrative theme centers around the concept of
transcending time, not in a literal sense but through the power of human imagination.
It encourages readers to contemplate how our surroundings and personal reflections
can transport us to different eras and emotional states. The narrative effectively
explores this theme through the characters' experiences.

**Writing Style**: The author's writing style is poetic and evocative.
It creates a sense of wonder and curiosity, which are essential for a
narrative that deals with surreal experiences and introspection. The
prose flows smoothly, contributing to the immersive quality of the text.

**Narrative Depth**: The chapter doesn't follow a conventional plot structure but is
more of a meditative and introspective exploration of the characters' experiences.
This approach may not be suitable for readers seeking a traditional narrative with
a clear plot and character development. In conclusion, this chapter titled as "The
Wonderful Workings of a Time Machine" is a beautifully written and immersive
exploration of nostalgia, imagination, and the power of human thought. It uses vivid
imagery and introspection to create a sense of timelessness and wonder in readers.

*Note* It has non-linear and introspective nature which may not appeal to all readers,
as it prioritizes the evocation of emotions and contemplation over a traditional plot-driven
storyline. But for reader like me who is aware of author's real life story and intention of
writing this book the case is different.

This review was posted on Feb/18/24
Reviewed by mariya

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Reviewed by sababaloch292

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Reviewed by adeeba

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Reviewed by poesiha

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Reviewed by preety

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Reviewed by aimanmengal3

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Reviewed by jayamalir234

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This review was posted on Dec/23/24
Reviewed by kalpana_patel

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PG 112) Cigar box label for Fine Cigars - http://tinyurl.com/mas7czv

PG 112) Digestion by Henry Gunderson - http://tinyurl.com/mbnpoj4

PG 113) Double life by Jacek Yerka - http://www.yerkaland.com/

PG 113) The Sentinel by Judson Huss - http://tinyurl.com/kn32xb5

PG 114) Coffee - If you're not shaking... - http://tinyurl.com/k4aarts

PG 114) Doors of the night by Vladimir Kush - http://vladimirkush.com/