The Museum of Future Past, Part 2
Issue #496 Keith’s SciFi Musings February 11, 2024
“Where did you say this place is supposed to be again? Shouldn’t we be there by now?”
“Next stop, man. Not far.”
“That’s what you said 20 minutes ago, Charlie.”
“Yeah, well. You know what they say, right? Good things come to those who wait.”
I have to say, it wasn’t how I expected it to look. At least not from the outside. Made me wonder if maybe the guys at work knew what a museum was supposed to be, or even if they knew what the hell they were talking about period.
I mean, when I say the word ‘museum’, what image immediately comes to your mind? Tell the truth; it’s some huge, impressive-looking building made out of brick or stone, built like it was never meant to be destroyed. Right? Or if it’s not that then maybe you’re seeing something really modern but still impressive, like something outta The Jetsons, or like that.
But not like this.
After George and I got off the bus, all I could do for a minute was stare at the small worn-out sign posted at the front edge of the property in front of the shabby, two-story wooden frame building parked way back at the rear end of what looked like a vacant lot full of weeds - except that the weeds had been mowed. Who the hell mows weeds? The sign was big enough, like four feet across by maybe three feet tall, and it was held up on two aluminum poles to put it up to eye level. There was a smaller sign hanging from the bottom proclaiming that the museum was OPEN.
Really? How could anybody tell?
“This is some weird shit,” said George. “What the hell kinda museum is this? Looks like a glorified two-story garage. Or maybe a woodshed.”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I gotta admit I was expecting a little more than this.”
“A little more?”
We looked at each other, then back at the museum. And that’s when we saw her. This huge beaming smile on her face, standing out front of the museum and waving excitedly for us to come over, looking like everybody’s favorite Black grandmother; silver-gray hair pulled back in a bun, modest flower-patterned dress, comfortably overweight.
When she saw we weren’t moving, she laughed and started making her way over to us over the carefully mowed weeds.
“Should we run now or later?” said George, in a kinda joking but not really sort way.
“You don’t run from Grandma, man. Ever.”
“First time for everything.”
But then it was too late.
Come back next week for Part 3! Will that be the conclusion? That’s up to the story!
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