The Myth of Wile E

Wormhole

The crew member (or, I guess, acting captain?) at the electronics store scowled at my tangled lump of red and black wires, still hooked up to a shriveled zucchini. He wasn't pleased to see either me or the gently used potato-battery kit. I was interrupting his afternoon snack of blue Icee and orange Cheez Doodles.

"There's a restocking fee," he slurred through benumbed, ink-blue lips.

"I could . . . put it back on the shelf myself," I offered.

"Still," he said.

I shrugged and explained what I hoped to exchange for the potato-battery kit.

He took a long, long drag on his straw, turning the ice from blue to clear. Finally he said, "What for?"

"My brother," I said.

"Like did he just wake up from a really long coma or something?"

"No . . . ?"

"Yeah whatever. Let me go check the stockroom." He tossed his de-blued Icee in the trash and added, "See if we got a wormhole back there that leads to 1983."

"Thanks," I said, and then, "Oh."

"Ehhhhhhh, I'm just messing with ya. Coupla years ago you'd be outta luck, but there's been all this interest in this crazy retro stuff all of a sudden. Typewriters, too, we got lotsa weirdos asking for those, and Betamax VCRs, even eight-track." He wiped his hands on his shirt, smearing eight lines of fluorescent orange doodle dust across his uniform, and then wiped his hands on his pants for good measure. "But yeah, 'roids? I think we got a few packs back there. How many you want?"

"As many as I can afford?"

"Whatever you say. Find anything else for you while I'm at it? Mimeograph? Beeper? Commodore 64?"

"Um . . . just the film today."