Written by Brendan H.
June 24, 1901
As he knocked on the door to the old man’s workshop, Landon Kerr, personal accountant to William Elwart Barclay and, as an offshoot of those responsibilities, the general manager of the Brooklyn Whales, braved for what he knew would come once the door opened. There was a certain claustrophobic uneasiness to these affairs, Landon reckoned—never unpleasant but not wholly pleasant either.
Inside, nearly indistinguishable from the dusty blueprints strewn about, sat Mr. Barclay. The old man was still and his gaze fixed upon some contraption that Kerr could not quite make out from the doorway. Barclay, old and worn, was a formerly renowned inventor. His workshop, like the old man, was long-passed its productive years. Instead, on most days, not unlike the pharaohs of old, Barclay retired to his workshop and sat among the relics of his prime years while serving as an unwilling observer of the relative wrath of time.
As Landon entered the workshop, he got a better glimpse at Barclay’s contraption. The device was new and, to Landon’s eyes, obscene. The machine was huge. Wires, gauges and protruding pieces of metal—like some kind of mechanical Medusa—covered the face of the device. He made a mental note to figure out its price tag later, but it looked expensive. And, Landon noted, one thing Barclay could not afford was expensive.
With a creak, like an unmaintained phonograph, Barclay spoke in the direction of the box.
“Hello?” the old man croaked towards the unsettling contraption. “This is William Barclay. Who are you?”
Nervous, Landon interjected. “They’ve done it again, Sir.”
“Who?” the old man asked.
“The Whales, sir.”
“The what?”
“The baseball team, Mr. Barclay. They’ve won another Eastern Cup.”
“What’s that, now?”
“It’s very good news, sir. They are champions for the second consecutive year. They could win the whole league. They are going to play a team from out west. Our manager, Mr. Williams, tells me they are quite formidable adversaries.”
“Oh, OK.”
“The local paper would like to run a feature on the success of the club and has requested an interview.” After a long pause, Landon finished. “I’ll ask Mr. Williams to do it.”
“Very well. Anything else, Landon?”
“I was hoping to discuss your spending, sir.”
“Not today, Landon. I am busy.”
And with that, recognizing that no further progress was to be made with his employer, Landon turned to leave the workshop.
As he reached the door, he could hear the sound of Mr. Barclays talking towards his box, trying to communicate with some mechanical phantom who refused to answer. Landon empathized.