About a year ago, a friend and I sat around over dinner plotting how to make the best of time travel.
Clearly, we didn’t figure out the science behind it. We’re just lay people, after all, not geniuses. But we did hit on a pretty foolproof plan.
First, we’d convert all of our money into pre-1930 currency. Then we’d do whatever we needed to do to go back in time, and make our way to Hollywood, circa 1931/1932. While there, I’d get in good with George Cukor and his pool parties; maybe Cary Grant and Randolph Scott never would have happened if I’d been there first. Who’s to say? Not me. I can’t see the future-past.
Anyway, we were a little concerned about money. The Great Depression, you know? So we decided we’d bring copies of some of the best-selling books of a few years later. When the time was right, we’d present copies of things like Forever Amber to publishers, and make a little money that way. Or maybe we’d just smartly invest in Broadway shows like Oklahoma! or Life with Father. The details don’t matter. What matters more is that we’d be in on the ground floor of some pretty choice Hollywood scandals.
(We worried about what World War II would mean for me, too, but decided that since I wouldn’t have any sort of official presence, with birth certificates and the like, it’s doubtful if I’d get drafted.)