J A M E S A N D L E E 19 “That’s truly amazing, James.” “Isn’t it though?” Leaving the kitchen, we went our separate ways to perform our morning routines before we set out to fix the problems that others are either too lazy to fix themselves or too busy to care about fixing. Either way, the result is the same: They pay us, and we fix their problems. After washing, shaving, and dressing, I decided to do one more thing before we left for work. I had to check on my beloved time machine. Our workshop is by far our largest room. Unlike the rest of our home that possessed that warm, earthy, homey feel that can only be associated with the love of dirt, darkness, and constantly drip- ping stalactites, our workshop had a more traditional ambiance. We had spent a small fortune on crafting and laying sheetrock to cover all the walls. Likewise, we cleared out all the stalagmites and stalactites, buffed the natural marble floor, and put in a drop- ceiling. While some people might have found it appalling, Lee and I thought that the pre-subterranean look was…refreshing. The moment I walked into the workshop, my eyes immedi- ately fell upon my glorious invention. Slowly I approached it, sa- voring every drop of its innate beauty. With nervous fingers I reached out and touched its cool, steel frame. Oh, the bliss! I thought. My willpower shattered, I lunged forward and embraced my creation. If I could have wrapped my arms around the entirety of the machine, I would have, but alas, I held what I could. I do not know if you have ever held a time machine in your arms, but to this day, I cannot think of a greater or purer love than that of a man for his time machine. There is just something so intoxicating about a device that can rip apart the fabric of time, render space obsolete, and— grandest of all—possess two dozen cup holders. It was my masterpiece, my greatest achievement, my pride and joy, and soon—very soon—it would be finished.