The time-travelers’ return was underwhelming at best, mainly because it happened twenty minutes or so after they left. There was a big ceremony where they got into the machine – a large shiny sphere, and then twenty-one minutes (and fourteen seconds) later the ball was back: considerably dented and blackened, its earlier rainbow-white sheen replaced with a singed, smoky look; one of the doors was crushed and melded into weird shapes.
A lid for every pot—a sadist for every masochist—a Jew for every sycamore tree—and a beautiful, simply gorgeous woman, for every block of Manhattan.
At McNally Jackson they keep the Bukowski, and the Burroughs, behind the counter, not on the shelf with the rest of the American fiction: in their respective places, or where their respective spaces should have been lined with paperback volumes, are two plastic placards that read: “Bukowski: ask at the counter,” and then a little later on down,
T became more genuine, more inclined to consider other people’s opinions and questions, the later in the day it was. This was in direct contrast to how he actually felt throughout the day in his head. Inside, T was regressing away from anything, everything. Outwardly he conveyed the opposite. He did not know why. Though he thought it might be tied to what he viewed himself as when he was out of bed.
Mrs. Clauster ran her first grade class at the Brentwood School for Gifted Children with an iron fist, so her students were relieved when the young substitute shyly entered their classroom. The name she printed on the chalkboard was “Ms. Winkle,” with an emphasis on the independent woman’s title, and her gentle style endeared her to the class immediately. Except for Henry Worthington. Henry fell madly in love.
Aware that his age and height might be problematical,