.
2038
SO YOU DECIDE TO GET IN THE CAR with John Luke (which requires a little bit of time since the car is both low and tiny) and allow him to drive away. You look at him while you’re coasting through a parking lot.
“This is really weird,” you say.
“I understand.”
His voice sounds so . . . adult.
“What are you doing now?” you ask him.
“I’m a professor teaching at Louisiana State.”
You can’t help but laugh. “How’d that happen?”
“I went to college and studied and became a professor.”
“And what about the family business?”
John Luke shakes his head. “There is no more business. You and Mom decided to open a fitness and yoga place.”
“What?”
He doesn’t look like he’s joking. He turns and gets on a road that resembles I-20. But it’s different because the road seems to vanish ahead.
“All interstates are underground now,” John Luke says as you enter a tunnel. “They need less maintenance, and it helps with all the pollution.”
“Okay. What’s the yoga place called?”
“Body by WillKore.”
Something is definitely wrong with this future. You’re just not sure why.
“Uh, Professor John Luke? Are you married?”
“Yep.”
“Kids?”
“Have three of them.”
“How did you meet your wife?” you ask.
“Remember the thing —well, of course you remember it. Twitter? I actually found this girl who was a super-big fan of mine on Twitter. She turned out to be a sweet girl who loves the Lord and is a wonderful soul.”
“You found her on Twitter?”
He nods.
Again, you know something is really not right with the universe.
The car enters sunlight again.
“Are we heading back home?”
“Oh no. I can’t do that to you. I’m driving back to the other machine. To set things right.”
Some of the scenery looks exactly the same as it did —well, back in the present. Then you’re underground on another highway.
“Tell me about the rest of the family,” you say, curious but almost afraid to ask.
“Let’s see,” John Luke says, clearing his throat. “Jase became a professional golfer.”
“What?”
“Yes. Won the Masters twice . Uncle Al took his family and moved to New York City to start up a ministry. It’s currently the only active church in the city. And Uncle Jep . . . he’s doing his thing.”
“What happened?”
“He, uh —after he went on Dancing with the Stars , the whole music thing opened up for him. He’s got some of the bestselling albums of all time now.”
You start laughing and almost can’t stop. This is all pure insanity.
The fried pickles went to my head.
“What sort of albums did he do?”
“Disco. Which, well, you know. Disco went out in the seventies. But actually itcame back about five years ago —when Jep brought it back. The album you and Jase sang on with him was the biggest seller. You were like the Bee Gees, except —well, you’re the J-Robs.”
Before you can ask about the rest of the family, John Luke exits the new underground highway thing and heads down a country road.
“Taking me to another outhouse?” you ask John Luke.
He shakes his head. “No. But I am taking you to another time machine.”
You look at his goatee. “You finally grew some facial hair, huh?”
“Yes. But my wife wanted me to keep the dimple showing. It was a big campaign on Twitter —#keepthedimple.” John Luke doesn’t laugh like he thinks this is funny or ridiculous.
“Whatever happened to Twitter?”
He sighs. “There was like a whole war and everything. It got ugly.”
“A war. Like a media war or something?”
“No. Like a literal war. Anyway, long story. There’s not enough time.”
He slows down at a small, winding street off the dirt road you’re on. Then he turns and drives for about five minutes before arriving at an old wooden barn.
“Is that the time machine?” you ask.
“No. They can’t get them that big.”
“So, John Luke.” You have to ask before
2038
SO YOU DECIDE TO GET IN THE CAR with John Luke (which requires a little bit of time since the car is both low and tiny) and allow him to drive away. You look at him while you’re coasting through a parking lot.
“This is really weird,” you say.
“I understand.”
His voice sounds so . . . adult.
“What are you doing now?” you ask him.
“I’m a professor teaching at Louisiana State.”
You can’t help but laugh. “How’d that happen?”
“I went to college and studied and became a professor.”
“And what about the family business?”
John Luke shakes his head. “There is no more business. You and Mom decided to open a fitness and yoga place.”
“What?”
He doesn’t look like he’s joking. He turns and gets on a road that resembles I-20. But it’s different because the road seems to vanish ahead.
“All interstates are underground now,” John Luke says as you enter a tunnel. “They need less maintenance, and it helps with all the pollution.”
“Okay. What’s the yoga place called?”
“Body by WillKore.”
Something is definitely wrong with this future. You’re just not sure why.
“Uh, Professor John Luke? Are you married?”
“Yep.”
“Kids?”
“Have three of them.”
“How did you meet your wife?” you ask.
“Remember the thing —well, of course you remember it. Twitter? I actually found this girl who was a super-big fan of mine on Twitter. She turned out to be a sweet girl who loves the Lord and is a wonderful soul.”
“You found her on Twitter?”
He nods.
Again, you know something is really not right with the universe.
The car enters sunlight again.
“Are we heading back home?”
“Oh no. I can’t do that to you. I’m driving back to the other machine. To set things right.”
Some of the scenery looks exactly the same as it did —well, back in the present. Then you’re underground on another highway.
“Tell me about the rest of the family,” you say, curious but almost afraid to ask.
“Let’s see,” John Luke says, clearing his throat. “Jase became a professional golfer.”
“What?”
“Yes. Won the Masters twice . Uncle Al took his family and moved to New York City to start up a ministry. It’s currently the only active church in the city. And Uncle Jep . . . he’s doing his thing.”
“What happened?”
“He, uh —after he went on Dancing with the Stars , the whole music thing opened up for him. He’s got some of the bestselling albums of all time now.”
You start laughing and almost can’t stop. This is all pure insanity.
The fried pickles went to my head.
“What sort of albums did he do?”
“Disco. Which, well, you know. Disco went out in the seventies. But actually itcame back about five years ago —when Jep brought it back. The album you and Jase sang on with him was the biggest seller. You were like the Bee Gees, except —well, you’re the J-Robs.”
Before you can ask about the rest of the family, John Luke exits the new underground highway thing and heads down a country road.
“Taking me to another outhouse?” you ask John Luke.
He shakes his head. “No. But I am taking you to another time machine.”
You look at his goatee. “You finally grew some facial hair, huh?”
“Yes. But my wife wanted me to keep the dimple showing. It was a big campaign on Twitter —#keepthedimple.” John Luke doesn’t laugh like he thinks this is funny or ridiculous.
“Whatever happened to Twitter?”
He sighs. “There was like a whole war and everything. It got ugly.”
“A war. Like a media war or something?”
“No. Like a literal war. Anyway, long story. There’s not enough time.”
He slows down at a small, winding street off the dirt road you’re on. Then he turns and drives for about five minutes before arriving at an old wooden barn.
“Is that the time machine?” you ask.
“No. They can’t get them that big.”
“So, John Luke.” You have to ask before
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