Tom Hanks - Uncommon Type - Some Stories

Bert wished he could go through time right then, forward to the morning, then back to 1939, to the Fair that was filled with so many promises of the world as it could have been.

On that first birthday visit, Cindee felt ridiculous in the old-style clothes. Bert, though, was in heaven in a double-breasted suit made to measure by the tailors of Chronometric Adventures. He marveled at every little detail, every second of the twenty-two hours they spent in 1939. How small New York City seemed! The buildings were not tall at all, so the sky was much more open, the sidewalks had space for everyone, and the automobiles and taxis were huge and so roomy . The cabdriver wore a tie and complained of the traffic out to Flushing Meadows, but if that were a traffic jam, Bert would take it.

The World’s Fair featured the tall Trylon and the huge orb called the Perisphere, both one-of-a-kind architectural marvels that were bleach white and brilliant against the open blue sky. The Avenues of Patriots and Pioneers were meant to be taken seriously and—get this— Courts were dedicated to Railroads and Ships, celebrating technologies that required engines the size of his WhisperJet. There was a Giant Underwood Typewriter, an Aquacade Show, and Electro, the Mechanical Man—he walked and counted numbers on his steel fingers! Chronometric Adventures supplied a pair of VIP passes so Bert and Cindee never had to wait in line.

The fairgrounds were kept spotless. A light breeze wiggled the flags and pennants. The hot dogs cost five cents. Fairgoers were dressed to the nines, and some women even wore gloves. Hats were on most men’s heads. Bert wanted to see all of the World of Tomorrow, but Cindee was uncomfortable in her ugly shoes and wouldn’t eat hot dogs. They left around three in the afternoon, bound for drinks and dinner at the Hotel Astor in Times Square. Cindee was tipsy, tired, and sick of all the cigarette smoke by the time the two of them were back in room 1114 for Progression, the trip forward in time.

Two weeks later, Cindee loaded the WhisperJet with her pack of girlfriends and flew to a spa in Morocco, allowing Bert another twenty-two hours of 1939. He ordered morning coffee for just himself from Percy, the room service waiter. He had breakfast alone in the coffee shop in the Hotel Astor, the gorgeous place smack on Times Square. He had the same cabbie with the tie. Alone, he covered areas of the Fair he had missed, like the Town of Tomorrow and the Electrified Farm; he had lunch in the Heinz Dome, surveyed the Temple of Religion, and celebrated the workers’ paradise that was the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. He listened to the conversations around him, studied the enthusiasms of the fairgoers, noting the lack of foul language and the bright colors of the clothing—not a black-on-black outfit to be seen. Fair employees seemed proud to work in their various uniforms. And it was true; a lot of people smoked.

It was on that second visit, without Cindee, when he spotted a petite, lovely woman in a green dress. She was sitting on a bench by the Lagoon of Nations, overseen by the massive sculptures of the Four Freedoms. She showed a modest amount of leg over brown shoes with straps. She carried a small purse and wore a hat with a white bud of a flower on it, more of a cap, really. She was engaged in an animated conversation with a young girl, dressed more for Sunday school than a day at the Fair.

The two of them were laughing, talking with their hands, whispering secrets to each other like they were the best of pals on the best of days in the best of places—they were the spirit of the Fair in feminine form.

Bert couldn’t take his eyes off them, watching as they left the bench, heading arm in arm toward the Eastman Kodak Building. He thought to follow them, to see more of the Fair through their eyes. But his watch showed nearly 5:00 p.m., meaning there were little more than two of his twenty-two hours remaining. Reluctantly, he turned for the taxi stand that stood outside the North Entrance of the Corona Gate.

Another tie-clad taxi driver drove him back to Manhattan.

“Ain’t the World Fair something?” the cabbie asked.

“It is,” Bert replied.

“You see the Futurama? The trip to 1960?”

“I did not.” Bert, born in 1966, chuckled to himself.

“Oh, you gotta see the Futurama,” the cabbie said. “It’s in the GM Building. It’s a long line, but worth it.”

Bert wondered if the lovely woman in the green dress had seen the Futurama. And if so, what she thought of 1960.

Although the human body takes a terrific beating by traveling back and forth in time, the Chronometric Adventures Medical Team gave Bert the go-ahead for a third trip. The World’s Fair was too vast to see on just two visits, he explained to Cindee, which was true. What he didn’t tell her was that, on his return to Flushing Meadows in 1939, he’d spend the day looking for the lady in the green dress.

She was not in any of the buildings dedicated to the great humanitarian works of U.S. Steel, Westinghouse, or General Electric. She was not somewhere in the Plaza of Light, the Avenue of Labor, the Court of Peace, or Continental Avenue. She was nowhere Bert had searched. So, a few minutes before 5:00 p.m., he headed to the Lagoon of Nations, and, sure enough, the woman in the green dress was there, her little friend in tow, on that bench under one of the Four Freedoms.

He sat on a bench close enough to hear them compare notes on the marvels of the Fair, their local accents turning New York into Noo Yawk. They simply could not decide what to do next, before the evening came and the Fountains of Light would put on a show of technical, colorful wonder.

Bert was trying to summon the courage to speak to them when they rose up and hurried off to Eastman Kodak arm in arm, chatting and giggling. He watched them as they walked away, admiring the feminine carriage of the woman in the green dress, her hair bobbing against the back of her neck. He thought about following them, but the time was getting late and he had to return to room 1114.

For weeks, for every other minute, Bert thought of the woman in the green dress—of the way she talked with her hands and of her bobbing hair. He wanted to learn her name, to know her, if only for an extra hour or so of 1939. When Cindee announced she was joining Kick Adler-Johnson on a horseback ride through Cuba, he booked another exam with the Chronometric Adventures Medical Team.

He was on the bench by the Lagoon of Nations at 4:45, and yes, right on the tick of the singularity clockwork, the woman in the green dress and her young friend sat down and began their conversation. Bert guessed she was probably in her mid-thirties, though the fashions of the times made everyone look older by today’s judgments. She was heavier than Cindee, than most modern-day women, as the 1939 diet was not very calorie conscious and exercise, then, was the stuff of athletes and laborers. The woman had an actual figure; the curves did her service.

He’d planned on what to say in this first conversation with a woman he had wanted to meet for over eight decades. “Excuse me,” Bert said. “Do you ladies know if the Futurama is running today?”

“It is, but the line is very long,” said the woman in the green dress. “We spent all afternoon in the Amusements Area. What a time we had!”

“Have you rode the Parachute, mister?” The girl could not have been more delightfully enthusiastic.

“I haven’t,” Bert confessed. “Should I?”

“It’s not for the weakhearted,” the woman said.

“You go up and up and up,” the girl said, waving her hands. “You think you are going to come floating down slow and soft. But you don’t. You land ka-joink !”