HERCAMORE B. SMITH AND THE UNOPENABLE BOOK
by Rob Lichter, inspired by a title by Ed Garrison III


Professor Rudolph Alexander Smith was the chair of the physics department at the University. He was a highly respected and well-liked presence at the school. The Professor’s only living family member was his son, Hercamore. Hercamore was unlike his father in almost every way. He was slovenly, watched loads of reality television and rarely, if ever, used his mind for anything worthwhile and derided those who did. His father, the professor, had been known to shrug and say, “Sometimes it skips a generation,” and pick up another hors d’oeuvre.
Hercamore felt that the Professor went out of his way to make him feel stupid. Besides feeling that his father was a condescending snob, Hercamore also resented his parents for naming him the name they named him. His mother was no longer alive so Herc rarely ever thought of her. His umbrage was focused on his father.
One beautiful, sunny afternoon, Herc was watching the game on TV. It was a close one, and Herc held partly-chewed Doritos in his mouth. He had stopped chewing at the snap of the ball and he’d yet to feel the need to resume. As the touchdown was made, Herc came to realize two things; the phone was ringing and he was in the middle of eating Doritos. He went back to chewing and picked up the phone.
“Myeah?” he managed.
“Mr. Smith, this is Professor Hardin at the University. I work with…worked with your father,” said the voice on the phone.
“What happened, he get you fired?” Herc replied.
“What? No! He’s, I mean, I was his colleague until his death...” Hardin finished weakly. Herc swallowed and muted the TV.
“Dead?” Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?” asked Herc.
“Professor Rudolph Smith, yes. Is this…Hercamore? His son?” asked hardin, sounding unsure.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Wow, really? The old man’s dead, huh?” said Herc.
“Why, yes,” continued Hardin, “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I’d assumed you’d been told.”
“The old man never tells me anything. Or if he does, I don’t understand it,” explained Herc.
“Well…well, this is a bit awkward, Mr. Smith. Your father’s remains were donated, per his wishes, to the biology department. He left a will and wanted the University to have everything. I-I didn’t know how you’d take this and felt I should speak with you, personally.”
“Mr. Hardin, if my dad left you his stuff, then go ahead and take it and leave me alone,” snapped Herc.
“It’s Professor Hardin, Mr. Smith, and I’m happy to hear you won’t be any trouble. Oh, he did leave you one thing. A book.”
“A book? What a joke! It’s probably some ancient Sumatran math poetry or something, right? Condescending prick!”
“No, actually I don’t know what sort of text it is. The book has no markings on it whatever. In any case, Mr. Smith, it belongs to you now. I can have it shipped to you if you like…”
“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” said Herc, his eyes drifting toward the aftershave commercial. “Hey, wait a minute. I don’t have to pay for shipping or anything, do I?” he asked, testily.
“No, Mr. Smith. I will make sure it’s taken care of. Good day to you and…I’m sorry for your lo-.” Herc hung up before Hardin could finish.
Several days later, a package arrived at Hercamore’s house. He signed for it and brought it inside. Herc opened the brown wrapping paper and sliced the box open with a blade. Opening the box, he saw, nestled in the shredded newspaper, a dark blue velvet bag with a drawstring. Herc reached in and removed the bag. It was heavy. He pulled the drawstring, opening the bag, and pulled out a leatherbound book. Hardin was right; there was no writing on it anywhere, just a plain brown cover. He tried to open it but it wouldn’t open. He looked for a clasp of some kind but found nothing. The book simply didn’t open. He looked in the box for something else, but saw nothing. Then he noticed a small slip of paper inside the velvet bag. He picked it up and held it to his eyes. It had writing on it, like a fortune cookie fortune, but in his father’s handwriting:
“For Hercules, Sometimes it skips a generation.”
“What a dick,” thought Herc and tossed the book and the bag into the shredded paper and went to go watch some TV.
When the game was over, Herc got up to throw out the empty chip bag and he passed the table the package was on. As he walked past, he glanced inside. The book and the bag were there, resting on a newspaper inside the box. Herc stopped and stared. He was sure it had been shredded paper, not a full newspaper in which the book had been packed. He chalked his confusion up to not really caring all that much and went to bed.
The next morning, Herc came downstairs and walked past the package on the table again. Curious, he looked inside and saw the book, the bag, and a whole bunch of shredded paper. He reached in and tried to open the book again, but to no avail. He picked up the note and read it again.
“Hercules,” he said to himself, “My name is Hercules?” In a burst of hopefulness, he went down to the cellar, to the file cabinet. Herc pawed though the files until he found it: his birth certificate. He opened the manila envelope it was it and scanned it until he found his name.
“Hercamore Benoit Smith,” he read softly. Why did his father call him Hercules? It sure was cooler than Hercamore! Hercules was a cool-ass name! Was his father trying to be nice to him by giving him a cool nickname? In no universe did that make sense. Hercamore filed the certificate away and settled on the fact that he never understood his father and vice versa. He went back upstairs and picked up the book. Again, he tried to pull it, pry it, bend it, but it still didn’t open. Frustrated, he brought it with him into the living room and sat down in his chair. He put he book on the side table and realized he didn’t have a beer. Rectifying this, he returned to the living room, grabbed the remote and sat down. He took a sip from his beer and rested the bottle on the book. After flipping the channels for a bit, he found a reality show about a midget baker who had 8 kids.
“Bingo,” he said and picked up his beer. He took one swig and almost spit it out. The beer had gone completely flat. He forced himself to swallow and stared at the bottle in utter confusion. He picked up the book and the bottle. He walked to the entertainment center in which the TV rested and slid the book onto a shelf between a potted cactus and an autographed baseball on a little stand. The ball read “Reggie Jackson” in ballpoint pen. Herc went to the kitchen and swapped out his beers. He tested the new one. It was fine. He took another taste of the old one. It was flat. He took the new one back to the living room and rested it on the table next to the chair. He was tentative at first, but the new beer was just fine.
Herc woke up in his chair. It was dark out. The TV was broadcasting an infomercial for a CD set of Super Soft Hits from the 90s. Herc turned off the TV and stood. In the semi-dark of the room, he saw something strange above the TV. He flipped the wall light on and took a look at the small, potted cactus on the shelf. It was black and shriveled. Then he saw his beloved Reggie Jackson baseball. It was completely blank. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands. Nothing. The book caught his eye. Angrily, he picked it up and brought it back to the box it arrived in. He placed it back into the pouch and went upstairs to bed. As he climbed into bed, his phone rang, startling him.
“Yeah, what?” he barked.
“Mr. Smith, I’m so sorry to disturb you so late, but…may I ask…did you receive that book your father left you?”
“Mr. Haldin? That you?”
“Hardin, yes,” said the voice on the phone. He didn’t bother to correct him on the whole ‘professor’ thing. You’ve got to choose your battles.
“Mr. Smith, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. You must bring me that book immediately. Can you get to the University tomorrow? I promise I will make it worth your while.”
“Five hunnerd,” said Herc.
“What?” replied Professor Hardin, genuinely perplexed.
“Gimme five hunnerd dollars and I’ll be there before lunch,” said Herc. There was a pause on the other end.
“That will be fine. Please be here by twelve tomorrow, Mr. Smith,” said Hardin. Hercamore hung up and went to bed.
The next morning, Herc was driving and drinking a hot cardboard cup of coffee. The velvet bag was in the seat next to him. He arrived at the University at eleven o’clock and found the Physics Department. He walked down the hall until he found a door with his father’s name on it:
Professor Rudolph Alexander Smith, Department Chair
He knocked on the door. Professor Hardin opened it from the inside. He looked at Herc and then at the bag in his arm.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Smith. Thank you so much for coming. Please sit down. So sorry about the door, they haven’t gotten around to changing the uh…the name,” stammered Professor Hardin.
“So you’re the boss here, now, huh? Man. My dad leaved everything he owned to the school, you get a big promotion and I get a doorstop! Ain’t that a bitch!”
“Mr. Smith, if you’re implying that I receive one bit of pleasure from your father’s passing…well, I…I…” Hardin continued to stammer.
“Alright, alright, calm down, jeez! Anyway, I brought the book. You bring my fee?” said Herc, slapping the bag unceremoniously on the desk.
“Yes, yes, of course, here you are,” said Hardin, pulling a check from his pocket and handing it to Hercamore. Herc stared at the check and then to Hardin.
“Why are you so quick to pay me for this thing?” Herc picked up the book and put it in his lap, his brow furrowed. “What’s it really worth?”
“Mr. Smith, I’m afraid this isn’t about monetary value. This book is invaluable to the future of physics! This book is the internet! It is the internal combustion engine! Mr. Smith, no offense to you, but this book belongs in the hands of those who can comprehend it.” He reached for the book. Herc pulled it to his chest.
“So explain it. I have nowhere to be all day. Try me,” said Herc.
Hardin sighed and slumped into his seat. “This book, “ he began slowly, “is the Anachronisticon. It is the book of time displacement. Your father was working on temporal causality and quantum mechanics and through his work, he came into possession of the book.”
“So, you know what’s in it?” asked Herc, getting interested.
Hardin laughed softly. “Inside are the result of years of work. Inside are the calculations and results of innumerable experiments proving not only that time travel is possible, but exactly how to achieve it!”
“So why can’t you open it?” asked Herc.
“Because it hasn’t been written yet,” Hardin replied with excitement. “The Anachronisticon should not be in this time, yet it is. As it has not been written yet, it cannot reveal what has been written. Do you understand?”
Herc shook his head. “No, not really.”
“I told you,” muttered Hardin. “The book was written in an unknown plot in the timecurve grid. Whoever was working on it, let it slip backwards in time. This…future scientist…has lost his entire life’s work. We must keep it safe and return it to him once he shows himself. It may be a dozen years, it may be a hundred. But we MUST return it to him. If we do not, it will never be written and we will create a paradox. If this happens, a chain reaction will occur and time as we recognize it will cease to exist!” Hardin was standing now and breathing heavily. “Do you see now? If this book is not returned to its rightful plot on the timecurve grid-“ Herc stood up suddenly.
“You know what?” he said, smirking, “I think I’ll hold on to this thing. He began to walk to the door. Keep your check. I’ll keep the arachnophobia safe. If things get tough and I ever need to hock it, I’ll know where to go. Seeya!” and he was gone.
Hercamore kept the anachronisticon in the cellar, next to the file cabinet. In time, he forgot about it. In time, he changed. He met a woman, Charlotte Benoit. They fell in love. She moved in with him. They got married. In time, Charlotte became pregnant.
In the hospital, after she gave birth to their son, they were asked to name the child. Hercamore knew the power of a name. He remembered how happy he was when he thought, if only for a few minutes, his name was not Hercamore.
“His name is Hercules,” he told the nurse, “Hercules Smith.”



FIFTY YEARS LATER



Professor Hercules Smith was head of the physics department at the University. He was a highly respected and well-liked presence at the school. The Professor’s only living family member was his father, Hercamore. Hercules was unlike his father in almost every way. He was an asthete, an art collector, a philosopher and an intellectual. Professor Hercules took after his mother, but she passed years ago. He was currently working on a theory of temporal manipulation and he was getting close to the answer. He was scribbling frantically in his brown, leatherbound journal, when he got a phone call. His father was dead and he had left everything to his son.