Wilbert stepped out of the time machine and stretched. He arched his back, shoulders backward, pelvis forward, and reached up for the sky. Debbie in his step aerobics class had told him to do that after long journeys. But, of course, she didn’t know that “long” for him meant decades or hundreds of years. He liked Debbie, or at least he liked nailing her in the ladies’ locker room after step aerobics class.
He looked around. Just a few farmers in dungarees. Thank goodness, the weather was good. One time he’d landed near the North Pole back in 1906, and he’d dressed for his intended destination, Aruba in 2032. Summer, he could tell – farmers had truckloads of corn and hay.
“Pardon me,” Wilbert said to one farmer, a sixtyish man with dark leathered skin, “would you know where I might find a restaurant?”
“Go to Aunt Millie’s,” he said. “She’s always got some good eats. But I’d put on some clothes, buddy, before you walk in there. Otherwise she’s liable to tan your hide for public indency.”
“What’re you talking about?” Wilbert said. He was wearing jeans and a tank top.
“Lift up your pants. I can see your undershorts. Scandalous, buddy, scandalous.”
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