My Trip to the Future

I woke up face down on the sidewalk in front of Bar Nine, an unremarkable dive on Ninth Avenue between 53rd and 54th streets. My temples throbbed with an arrhythmic flutter as I struggled to reconstruct the events that brought me to my current lateral position. It was no use. Every relevant detail from the previous night had evaporated in a fog of mindless karaoke duets and drinking games. The only thing I could remember with certainty was that, at some point in the evening, I had foolishly agreed to sample a Popov-based fruit concoction, offered to me by a sallow-faced lady who claimed to be a professor of romance languages at Hunter College. The cocktail was of questionable origin to say the least.

As I stumbled to my feet, orienting myself as best I could, I soon discovered that I had not merely passed out. I had been transported. But to where? The surroundings of Hell’s Kitchen were at once familiar and unrecognizable—an amalgam of pre-War walkups, floating bubble-shaped condos, and towering skyscrapers that dwarfed the Empire State Building. I called to a young delivery boy as he exited a nearby bakery.

“You, there. What day is it?”

“Why, it’s Labor Day,” the lad replied.

Indeed, a clock above the boy’s head confirmed the date: September 1st, 2138. Somehow, the cheap vodka had propelled me almost 130 years into the future. It was the only explanation.

In a panic, I hailed the first hovercab that came my way. The vehicle, identifiable as a taxi only by its familiar mustard-colored hull, swooped down and opened its hatch. There was no driver, only a navigation system known as the Mujibur 5000, a kind of auto pilot, which was programmed to exhibit the grouchy temperament of a real-life New York City cabby. When I asked it to take me uptown to the East 70s, it grumbled something about wanting to avoid the construction for the Second Avenue Subway, which, not surprisingly, was still in phase one. As an alternate route, Mujibur suggested we take the 79th Street traverse over Wal-Mart Park.

I snapped this pic from a hovercab

Wal-Mart Park? Did I hear that correctly? Unfortunately, I did, and Mujibur confirmed the gruesome truth: Central Park, New York’s famous oasis of lush landscapes, had been renamed for the ubiquitous retail giant known for its low prices and substandard working conditions. Upon learning of the change, I recalled that back in my own time Wal-Mart was making headlines for its aggressive attempts to build a superstore in Queens. (Workers’ unions had blocked the company’s previous efforts to break ground in the city.) According to Mujibur, Wal-Mart will not only be successful in its bid, but its victory will set off a chain of legislative events that will reshape the American landscape into a flavorless macrocosm of corporate pomp.

Yeah, right. What else is new? I suspected that Mujibur’s grim description was nothing more than the product of a melodramatic subroutine in its programming, and yet I still found myself unable to quell my curiosity: How much change, I wondered, can really take place over 13 decades? I asked Mujibur to fly me around the country so I could see for myself, to which it replied, “Forget it, buddy,” and activated the ejector seat—sending me soaring over the West Side Highway and into the Hudson River, where I almost cracked my head open on a titanium statue of Chesley Sullenberger. Undeterred, I quickly swam over to New Jersey, leased myself a pair of John Deere turbo boots, and started off on a national tour, determined to discover what had become of America’s precious landmarks in the mid-22nd century.

A postcard from the Chase Needle gift shop

Seattle, Washington —
Chased Into Submission

Having lived in Seattle for three years, I was particularly distraught over the shameless alteration of its most famous symbol, the Space Needle. According to a plaque at the tower’s base, the city of Seattle fell on hard times in the 2040s, after the ratification of the 31st Amendment effectively banned the sale and distribution of all coffee, tea, and related products. Caffeine prohibition spelled disaster for Starbucks, one of Seattle’s largest companies, which tried for a time to reinvent itself as a fashion label for ladies’ athletic wear. The company’s rebranding efforts were a dismal failure, and the new Starbucks folded within a year. Other large companies in the region—Microsoft, Boeing, Eddie Bauer—soon followed, as most of their employees were apparently unable to function without caffeine. By 2049, JPMorgan Chase was the only solvent employer left in the Pacific Northwest.

In the spring of 2050, Chase reached an agreement with the Washington State Legislature to purchase Seattle for $1 and assume the city’s debt load. Seattle Mayor Frances Bean Cobain opposed the deal but mysteriously disappeared before negotiations were complete. (Her remains were pulled from Lake Union several years later.) Once Chase Bank became Seattle’s official owner, it renamed the city’s famous landmark (What else?) the Chase Needle and turned it into a 605-foot ATM. I tried to go up to the tower’s observation deck for a closer look, but as a non-Chase customer I was promptly escorted off the premises.

St. Louis, Missouri —
I’m Not Lovin’ It

The Gateway Golden Arches, circa 2084

During my trip to St. Louis, I spoke with a holographic tour guide, designed to look like Buddy Ebsen, which filled me in on the horrifying chain of events that led to the redesign of the city’s iconic Gateway Arch.

In 2078, McDonald’s Corp. was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for its instrumental role in combating world hunger. Public health organizations disputed the award, asserting that the apparent drop in world hunger was a statistical illusion created by an overall decline in world population, itself the result of mass sterilizations caused largely by the consumption of McDonald’s products. Nevertheless, as a newly esteemed Nobel laureate, McDonald’s became a beacon of hope throughout the world. In 2081, the fast-food chain became the first corporation to gain entry into the United Nations, and it subsequently poured several trillion dollars into the construction of a new U.N. headquarters in St. Louis, which by that time had become the epicenter of world industry and culture. The headquarters’ design included an arch-shaped structure identical to the famous monument that has dominated the city’s skyline since 1965.

One coat of amber paint later, and the Gateway Golden Arches were born. The monument, which once stood as a tribute to the pioneering American spirit, is now the only place in the world where Shamrock Shakes are sold year round.

Mt. Rushmore in 2138

Mt. Rushmore —
All Hail the Lizard King

When I first learned that the Geico Gecko’s likeness had been carved into Mt. Rushmore, alongside our country’s most revered leaders, I was certain that a firestorm of protests must have followed the decision. Ironically, it was the least controversial of all the alterations I had witnessed. Immortalization on Mt. Rushmore is a rare distinction reserved exclusively for former presidents. By default, this fact would seem to preclude the addition of a fictional talking lizard. But after speaking with a local history professor in Keystone, South Dakota, where the monument is located, I learned that the Geico Gecko—aside from saving millions of Americans 15 percent or more on car insurance—actually served as the nation’s 58th president.

According to the professor, the Geico Corp., which is known for its witty commercials about disgruntled cavemen and other off-beat topics, outdid itself during the election of 2092 when it launched its “Elect the Gecko” campaign, a series of satirical commercial spots featuring the CGI lizard in a phony bid for the presidency. While the commercials were meant as a spoof on political rhetoric, their popularity inspired millions of American voters, fed up with the two-party system, to vote for the Geico Gecko as a write-in candidate. The lizard won the popular vote by such a wide margin that the electorate had no choice but to carry out the will of the people.

The Gecko was inaugurated amid very few dissenting voices, although some fourth-generation birthers contested the lizard’s eligibility, citing his Australian accent as proof that he was not a natural-born American citizen. Still, during his first year in office, the Gecko enjoyed approval ratings of well over 80 percent, and his popularity soared even higher after the Great War of 2094, in which U.S. forces invaded the Kingdom of Texas and put an end to a 25-year oil shortage that nearly obliterated the auto industry.

By the early 22nd century, Americans were uttering the name Gecko in the same breath as Washington and Lincoln, and a national referendum to add the lizard’s likeness to Mt. Rushmore was approved almost unanimously.

There’s No Place Like Home

After Mt. Rushmore, I took the next commuter tube back to New York City and kept my eyes closed during the entire three-minute ride. I decided I could not stomach the sight of further transgressions against the famous landmarks that I had once, if not loved, at least appreciated for their comforting familiarity.

The reality is, change is a part of life. But to see it happen all at once, without the benefit of contextual hindsight to soften the blow, is at best jarring and at worst depressing. I am just not ready for the future, which is why I was happy to awaken, the following morning, back in my own century. However repugnant I may find corporate overreach in the 2010s, I am happy to live in a world where some landmarks still have boring, utilitarian names like Central Park. It’s central. It’s a park. It’s a great name.

The next time I go out, I’m sticking with Grey Goose.

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