I have to write a novel (part four). Looking at the plaque, I could tell at a glance it held dates for both corking and uncorking the time capsule.
"Not 1986. Please not 1986," I thought. It was probable that the time capsule was to remain sealed for a "time capsuley" number of years, such as 20, 25, or 100. So if it had been sealed in 1986 then there was a good chance it was due to be opened in 2006—and there wasn't much 2006 left.
"Not 1986. Please not 1986," I repeated, for dramatic effect, foreshadowing the inevitable. You're way ahead of me on this, aren't you?
I read the first date on the plaque: "SEALED DECEMBER 3, 1986"
Well, pooh.
The capsule's twentieth anniversary would be Saturday, December 3, 2006. I was reading the plaque on Thursday, December 1, 2006.
December 3 minus December 1 equals two days. Gulp.
This could be a dilemma, logistically speaking.
It's odd to think I could be distracted at this point, but I was: a blood soaked hand appeared to be floating inside the capsule. You have to admit, that's a pretty good distracter.
An odd choice of things to preserve, I thought. Could I really have been so intent on Timothy Findley's pennapping (or the Cats gals) back in 1986 that I'd missed the part of the ceremony where they'd cut some dude's hand off?
I leaned against the capsule for a better look and realized it wasn't a hand, it was a glove: the red golf glove of U.S. Women's Open champion Marlene Stewart Streit, now crusty and hard.
aside:
The glove, that is. Ms. Streit may very well remain crustless and pliable for all I know.
end of aside
Other items on display were: Jesse Barfield's bat; Borje Salming's hockey stick; December 3, 1986, issues of four newspapers; a platinum record by Sharon, Lois and Bram; a photo of the place where Lester B. Pearson was born in 1897; a box of Trivial Pursuit (huh?); student essays by Julia Basin, Aubrey Kassirer, and yours truly; and 1985 Annual Reports by the North American Life Assurance Company and Xerox Canada Inc.
What kind of boring-ass companies pick their own annual reports as contributions to a time capsule? Welcome to Yawnsville, population you.
And then my eyes were drawn down below the bloody(-seeming) (non-)hand where on a little shelf sat Not Wanted On The Voyage.
"Gimme back my pen, Findley."
My words came out sounding like "Gimeh buh muh PEH, FIMMY!" because my face was pressed against the capsule to peer inside it. The capsule was up on a railing/riser, so I had to lean far forward with my legs splayed wide. My hands were planted on either side of the capsule as I hugged it to hold myself upright. The right side of my face was mashed up against the clear plexiglass, my nose smushed to the side.
It's important for you to have a clear idea what I looked like at that moment, because that's how I appeared when I glanced up and saw the security guard looking at me from the other side of the capsule.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asked. It may have been the fact that the capsule muffled his words, but to me it sounded a little like "Can I distract you, Mr. Crazy Time Capsule Kissing Man, while my partner levels his tazer at your back?"
I think it was the way he said "sir."
Next time: the plaque distracts, and the date is finally revealed.
