back to the future

Wildcat File Photo Arizona Daily Wildcat Tony Carnavale

Well, not really. It was a guy from two thousand years in the future. He wasn't really an alien, and he certainly doesn't qualify as the plural. And he didn't really abduct me; I just ran into him at Starbucks. But what do you expect? I need to attract your attention, to make you want to know more. And saying "I talked to a guy from the future at Starbucks (by the way, he had a mocha)" is just not as intriguing as "I was abducted by aliens." I think you understand where I'm coming from here. I think you see my problem.

So anyway, I was just hanging out at Starbucks because that's where you go when you're as cool as me. I was chillin' by myself, half-eaten scone in hand, when this guy shuffled over to my table. He was all smelly and dirty.

"Spare change?" he asked.

"Sorry," I said.

"I'm from the future," he said. "Two thousand years in the future, to be exact. I'll tell you about it for a quarter."

He should've said that sooner.

Twenty-five cents and one mocha later, the guy from the future honored his promise.

"So what kind of names do they have in the future?" I asked.

"They would be hard for you past-dwellers to comprehend," said my new friend. "My full name has 49 syllables, many of which are not spoken so much as they are danced. You would never be able to pronounce it, and to even hear it would make your eyes bleed and your tongue tingle. But you can call me 'Chuck.'"

"I'm really lucky," I said. "It's not everyday that I'm chillin' at Starbucks and a guy from the future shows up."

"What is this 'chillin'' word you speak of?" asked Chuck. "I am unfamiliar with it."

"Oh, it's just something cool people do when they're bored," I responded.

"Chillin'," said Chuck. "Chillin'."

"Very good," I said. "Now tell me about your political system."

"We have honed it down to a fine science," he said. "The old methods of selecting leaders were inefficient and frequently led to argument and disappointment. We've abolished this 'voting' practice of which you're so fond."

"Really? How do you pick a president?"

"Oh, we don't call them 'presidents' anymore," said Chuck. "We call them 'Jon Bon Jovi,' after a phrase that appears so frequently in our records of human history that it is obviously of great importance."

"You're right," I cried. "Jon Bon Jovi is hugely important."

"That is good," said Chuck. "Anyway, we determined that the most important element of a Jon Bon Jovi's personality is his ability to withstand the most dire and painful torture. So we lock all the candidates in separate rooms, and whoever stays alive the longest becomes our newest Jon Bon Jovi."

"That's not particularly torturous," I said. "It must take forever."

"Oh, no," said Chuck. "Their deaths are quick and agonizing. The rooms are wallpapered with hundreds and hundreds of these," he said, handing me a photograph from his satchel.

"Ah, now I understand," I said, handing the picture back. "But how did you obtain a photo of Kate Moss?"

"Is that what you call her?" laughed Chuck. "We thought she was an ancient folk symbol for death."

"Well, yes," I said.

Chuck finished his mocha with a perfunctory sip. "I must be off now," he said. "Time to return to the future."

"Why did you come here in the first place?" I asked.

"Your race is about to be nearly destroyed by a plague of unparalleled proportions," he said. "Though humanity will survive, civilization will be obliterated, and it will take precious centuries to rebuild it. Fortunately, we of the future have not only devised a means of time travel, but also a vaccine."

"That's silly," I said.

"No, it's true," said Chuck. "'Life imitates bad movies.' Have you not heard that expression? Take this." Chuck pressed a tube of paste into my hand. "It's the vaccine. It also makes a mean cookie frosting."

"I believe this stuff about Jon Bon Jovi and Kate Moss, but a plague?"

"I do not lie," cried Chuck, running out the door. "It is your duty to save humanity."

And that's the last I saw of him. I know what you're thinking. The guy was a fraud. Just another homeless bum out for a quarter and a mocha at the expense of a stranger. Well, you're probably right. I feel like a real idiot now. Boy, am I embarrassed. Still, it makes for an interesting story, doesn't it? Maybe you'll remember it fondly years from now and tell it to your grandchildren. Me, I'm gonna make some cookies.