Ludicrous

Aaron stood alone at the bar in his white shirt and beige slacks. He smoked a Pall Mall and sipped a gin martini. He observed the New York crowd in front of him, the Gibson girls, the downtown lesbians, the uptown matrons, and the pursed-lip intellectuals. He wondered if the machine had malfunctioned this time, because he must be invisible. None of the women noticed him.

He didn’t think he was all that bad looking. Sure, he had no chin but somehow managed to get Jimmy Durante’s nose. And his hair parted a little too far down the side of his head, and it was a little bit too straight for this ‘20s crowd. Hell, he was a little too straight for anyone at this speakeasy. If he’d been in the ‘20s, he probably would’ve stayed away from alcohol, even if he did love gin martinis.

“Ralph, come over here,” the pencil thin-mustachioed bon vivant said to the jolly round suit on the other side. “There’s a party over at Billy Bixler’s later on. Get everyone to come.”

And before Aaron knew, they’d all filed out to the new party, but since no one knew Aaron, they didn’t ask him to go. He wanted to go that party, badly. Just like all the other places and times he’d wanted to be included, but wasn’t. Could the time machine transport him some place more congenial?