Breakfast at the Hi-Way with MLK

 I hadn’t gone out for breakfast after swimming laps in a long time.  Pandemic you know.  But the numbers were going down, and I threw caution to the wind.  Who would have thought eating out was daring two years ago?  I slid into the Hi-Way Restaurant and took a stool at the counter.

I had imagined my order while swimming, and where I would sit.  I love to be close to the kitchen, watching the waitresses pick up the orders, gab with the cooks, talk to the regulars.  And I like the Hi- Way’s omelets.  Not a love affair mind you.  Their omelets are done on the griddle and not in a pan, but they’re big and loaded with good ingredients.  A generous slab of hash browns too.  I get mine with coffee, a cold glass of milk, and buttered rye toast.  It’s not the best omelet you’ll ever eat, but it's damned good.

I was so taken with the prospect of my breakfast I ignored the quiet well- dressed man sitting next to me.  How I overlooked him I don’t know.  He had close-cropped hair and a pencil mustache.  He was wearing a shiny expensive suit.  He was black and looked oddly familiar, though I only saw the side of his face.

“Morning.  How you doing today?” I said.

“Just fine. You?”

He continued to face forward so I couldn’t see his face fully.  He was having coffee, poached eggs, and wheat toast.  I kept looking at him.  He must have sensed my gaze.  He looked at me sideways.

“Sorry to stare sir.  I’m pretty sure I haven’t met you before, but you look familiar.”

He had intense eyes and prominent cheeks.  He smiled.

“I take it you don’t see a lot of negroes here.”

“No.  Ottawa is a pretty white town.  Not very diverse.  You picked a good place for breakfast though.  Good lunches too.  Giant menu.  Busy as hell so the food is always fresh.  You passing through?”

“You could say that.  Yes.”

I stuck out my hand.

“Dave McClure.”

He took his hand in mine.  Big strong hand.

He hesitated before speaking.

“Marty.  Marty King.  Nice to meet you.”

He had a smooth deep voice.  I swear to God I’d heard that voice somewhere too. I couldn’t shake the familiarity. 

“So, where you from Marty?”

“Atlanta, Georgia.  I do a lot of traveling.”

“Where you headed?”

“Hard to say.  I’m traveling solo.  On something of an adventure.”

“I’ve done some of that myself.  Best way to travel, I think.  Are you enjoying our area?”

“I just got here.  I’ve never taken a trip like this.  It’s hard getting used to actually.”

The waitress slid my omelet in front of me.  Hot and beautiful.  It had been so long since someone else made me an omelet.

“Can I get you anything else honey?”

“My milk.”

They always forget the milk seems like.

My fellow diner had finished his eggs. 

“How about you honey?  Ready for your check?”

“Ah….no, ma’am.  Do you have any grapefruit?”

“Sure.  Half a grapefruit?”

“Yeah.  And a fill up on my coffee.”

“Coming right up.“ 

The man turned to me once again.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk further about your community.  Would you care to continue this conversation a bit more privately?  Say in one of the booths?”

He sounded so formal, but I was anxious to talk with him more myself.  Our waitress was walking by.

“Excuse me, ma’am, we’re going to grab a booth if that’s OK.”

“Sure thing.   Sit wherever you want.”

We took our food to a booth near the back and sat across from each other.  I decided to tell him what I was thinking. 

“I know it’s impossible, but you look exactly like Reverend Martin Luther King.”

He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

“Sir, I know you will think what I’m about to tell you is highly unlikely. And if I were you, I would also be extremely skeptical.  But the fact is, I am the Reverend Martin Luther King.”

How do I get mixed up with crazy people? was the first thought that entered my mind.  It started when I was a kid and continued throughout my life.  Being a social worker didn’t help.  I get sucked in every time.

“Is that so?”

He nodded.

“You’re crazy.” 

I turned my attention to my omelet.  I had a cheesy forkful of egg, peppers, and onions followed by a chunk of hash browns dipped in ketchup.  I washed it down with a swallow of milk and looked at him blankly.

“Please sir, bear with me.  I assure you I am not mentally ill.  If you will only listen…”

“Is Emmet Till joining us?  That would be just as likely.  Look, you’ve done a remarkable job of making yourself look like Martin Luther King, but today is February 28, 2022, and you cannot be Martin Luther King.”

He sat back in the booth.

“Would you at least listen while I try to explain?”

“Have at it.  If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my breakfast while you talk.”

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d listened to a fantastic story and pretended to believe it. 

“Thank you, Mr. McClure.  I came here from Albany, Georgia.  Albany is possibly the most backward and segregated city in the whole state.  Ralph Abernathy joined me there.  This was all happening after the Freedom Riders were assaulted in Montgomery, Alabama in the summer of 1961.   It was so difficult for our followers to maintain a nonviolent stance, but they did, even after they firebombed our busses.”

I looked at him as I chewed on the last of my hash browns.  Pretty detailed story.

“I arrived in Albany in mid-December, and we immediately organized a protest march of over 700 protesters.  Biggest negro march that had ever taken place in Albany.  Ralph and I were arrested that day.  It looks like we’re going to trial.  I don’t care who defends him or how well known he may be, if a black man goes to trial and is convicted in Dougherty County, Georgia he’s going to get considerable jail time.”

 He paused. 

“But that’s an improvement over the days of Reconstruction in the South, when we would have simply been lynched.”

I looked at him closely.

“So, you’ve obviously learned a lot about Martin Luther King and the movement.  And you’ve managed to copy his looks.  Let’s see if you know anything about him personally.”

I took my phone out of my pocket and turned it on.  I pressed the Google icon and searched for Martin Luther King timeline.

“In 1961 how many children did you have?”

“Three.”

“Who was your last child and when was that child born?”

“Dexter.  Dexter Scott.  Coretta brought him into the world on January 30, 1961.”

“Who was he named after?”

“He wasn’t named after a person.  We named him after the Dexter Avenue Church in Montgomery where I served as pastor before we moved to Atlanta.  His middle name is Coretta’s maiden name.”

“What day of the week was January 30, 1961.”

“It was a Monday.  I’d preached that Sunday at Ebenezer Baptist, my new church home in Atlanta.”

 “Who did you follow as pastor at Ebenezer Baptist?”

“No one.  I became co-pastor with my father.  They have come to call him Daddy King, which I think is disrespectful.  He is Martin Luther King Sr., and a great man in his own right.”

His story followed the facts.  We looked at each other with questions.  He started.

“Where are you getting these questions, Mr. McClure?  And what is that gadget you hold in your hand and punch with your thumbs?”

“It’s a phone.  A smartphone.”

“You’re saying that thing is a telephone?”

“Yes.”

His eyes widened and he sat back.

“Now who’s mentally ill Mr. McClure?  You expect me to believe that little flat box is a telephone when it doesn’t have a cord or a dial, and you don’t speak into it?  How dumb do you think I am?”

“It’s more than a phone.  It’s also a computer.  It’s connected wirelessly, as radio or television would be.  Sort of.  It allows us to connect to the internet.”

“A computer in your hand?  That’s impossible.  And this internet?  Is that an oracle of some kind?”

“Well, the internet is very hard to explain.  But trust me, these little gadgets have profoundly changed the world.”

“Why should I trust you when you don’t believe anything I say?”

“Because technically, and it’s a big technicality…how should I say this?  In 2022 you are no longer living.  I know that to be a fact.”

“That’s no surprise.  I’d be 93 after all.  Born in 1929.”

“Exactly.  Look at me.  I’m 70.  My hair is gray.  I have brown spots on the backs of my hands.  My face is wrinkled.  Now, look at yourself.”

I turned on the camera in my phone, reversed the lens, and put it in front of him so he could see himself.

“What is this?”

“It's you right now.  Does that look like a 93-year-old man to you?" 

My breakfast companion was silent.  We both sipped our coffee.

“Marty, if you are Reverend King, explain how you got here.”

He took a big breath.

“This is the hardest to believe, even for me.  But it started with meeting Mr. Vonnegut.”

“Kurt Vonnegut?  The author?”

“Yes.  We were both delayed on a flight out of Chicago.  He was on a book tour for his latest novel, Mother Night, which I had read and enjoyed very much.  We were caught in a snowstorm and had lots of time on our hands. While I discussed the challenge of how to best lead the fight for civil rights, Mr. Vonnegut had such fanciful thoughts.  It was so refreshing.  I began to share my feelings with him.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been stuck in my work.  Very discouraged.  Doubting my leadership.  I explained to Vonnegut my thoughts about Albany.  I think the mistake I made there was to protest segregation generally rather than against a single and distinct facet of it.  Our protest was so vague we got nothing, and the people in that community were left very depressed and in despair.  I feel as if I failed them.”

“And how did Mr. Vonnegut respond?”

“He said I needed to talk to Billy Pilgrim.”

“Billy Pilgrim?  Wait.  I was an English major.  I read nearly all of Vonnegut’s books.  Billy Pilgrim is a character in Slaughterhouse-Five.  He doesn’t show up in Vonnegut’s writing till 1969.”

“Well, he showed up at O’Hare airport yesterday, which for me was February 27, 1962.”

“How could that be?” 

“I have no idea, Mr. McClure.  Just because I have achieved some level of notoriety in my life does not mean I am all-knowing.  Vonnegut wrote Billy Pilgrim’s name on a piece of paper and gave it to me.  I looked up and saw a peculiar little man walking my way.  He sat down beside us.  Mr. Vonnegut introduced me to Billy and told him I needed a lesson in time travel.  Wait.”

He dug around in his coat pocket, fished out a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

“OK,“ I said.  “Billy was a science fiction writer.  Learned about time travel on the planet Tralfamador.  At least that Vonnegut’s story.  Billy Pilgrim had the ability to become ‘unstuck in time.’  He ends up in both the future and the past, and because of that, he looks at the world very differently.  We are trapped in time while Billy is freed of time.  What happened next?”

“I told Billy how discouraged I was.  I told him that perhaps if I could see what my work would accomplish in the future, find out if or when the struggles and prayers of America’s negroes would result in equality, I might be able to continue to lead the fight.”

“And?  Marty, get the point please.”

“He asked me where I wanted to go and to pick a date.  So, I said 60 years into the future.  I thought that might be enough time.”

“Enough time for what?”

“To see if my people have made the progress in America we so hope for.”

“And why Ottawa?”

“I didn’t want to end up in the South if everything had gone to hell in America.  Plus, I once heard a story of a negro from Louisiana who found refuge in a stop on the Underground Railroad in this town during the days of the Runaway Slave Act.  Before the civil war.  Good core of abolitionists in the area.  Some guy in Princeton named Lovejoy.  Plus, Lincoln first debated Douglas here.  That’s where I entered 2022, in your Washington Park."

"I woke up on a park bench facing the Lincoln and Douglas statues.  Then I walked up here. Look, all I need is to read newspaper and magazine accounts of the movement.  I need to learn about the America that has evolved since our struggles in 1962.  Then I have to go back.”

“It’s an unbelievable story.”

“How about this Mr. McClure? Let’s stop talking about how this happened and start talking about America.  Where are we now, as white people and black people living in the same country?  Just tell me what you know.  You seem fairly well informed.”

I took a deep breath.  Where do you start?

“A black man was elected president of the United States in 2008.  And he was re-elected in 2012.”

He was dumbstruck. 

“Was he from a prominent black family?”

“No one you would know.  He came out of nowhere.  His mother was from Kansas and his father was from Kenya.  He served with dignity and class.  He and his wife and two daughters were wonderful representatives of the black community.  You would have been very proud.”

He began to tear up. 

“A group of young black men and women opened the National Museum for Peace and Justice in downtown Montgomery, Alabama.  It’s known as the lynching museum.  It documents and memorializes more than 4,000 lynching victims, lists names and ages of black men and women murdered at the hands of white vigilantes throughout America by state.  I visited there in 2019.  It took my breath away.  The cat is out of the bag on that bit of black history.  And by the way, today is the last day of February, which is National Black History Month.”

“I didn’t think those lynching stories would ever be recorded, let alone told publicly.  You know, don’t you, that black history is American history.  The history of lynching is white history too.  Our ancestors, yours and mine, both endured it.  We all have to come to terms with our pasts.”

“Yeah, well that’s not proving to be easy.”

“What about the justice system?  Life for negroes generally?”

“There are still far too many black people in prisons and jails.  A huge disparity in maternal and infant deaths for black people, low rates of homeownership, big income gap.   It's very disproportionate.'

“And police brutality remains a big problem.  Although it came to a head recently.  A black man, George Floyd, was arrested in 2020 for passing a counterfeit bill in Minneapolis, and when he resisted being placed in a squad car, a white policeman kneeled on his neck until he died of asphyxiation.  That white policeman was convicted on three charges, one being second-degree murder.  He was sentenced to 22 and a half years.”

That’s in the North.  What about the South?”

“A young black man named Ahmad Arbery was jogging through a white neighborhood in 2020 near Brunswick, down in Glynn County, Georgia when he was murdered by three white men in pickup trucks.  Killed him with a shotgun.  They claimed he was stealing from a construction site in the neighborhood, but no evidence was ever brought forth."

Local police claimed the district attorney advised them to make no arrests though the DA later denied that.  The shit hit the fan so to speak when one of the perpetrators insisted video of the shooting be made public.  It was shared across the country.  72 days after the murder the Georgia Bureau of Investigation was brought in, a special grand jury named, and murder charges filed.  All three were convicted of murder and sentenced to life.”

“It was filmed?  Why on earth would one of the suspects want a film of a murder made public?”

“He thought it would exonerate him.”

“Who filmed it?”

“One of the perpetrators on his cell phone.”

I held up my phone.

“It's also a movie camera.  These phones are changing the world.  The same thing happened in Minneapolis with the man who was choked to death, George Floyd.  A pedestrian near the scene filmed the whole crime, nine minutes of it, and put it out on social media.”

“You can control your own press?”

“In a fashion, yes.”

“Let’s go back to Georgia.  How in God’s name were white men convicted of murdering of a black man by a jury of Georgia citizens in Glynn County of all places?”  

“It was transferred to Cobb County.  A jury of eleven white people and one black man came back with the verdicts.  And just this past week a black woman was nominated to the Supreme Court.  If she’s confirmed she will be the third black person to serve on the court.”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Well, Rev. King, actually you didn’t.”

He looked at me and smiled. 

“You’re not telling me much about my own life going forward.”

“You’re not asking much.  Did Billy Pilgrim tell you it’s possible to change the course of history while you travel through time?”

“No, he did not.”

“Even if you could, I don’t think you want to.  You did a magnificent job leading the movement.  You may not have accomplished what you wished, but your life going forward from 1962 is a triumph.  They will be the most productive years of your life, and of the black community in America.”

“Do you have any advice for me?”

“Use the media, especially TV, to let white people see and feel the reality that black people have always known.  Think visually.  Pay attention to Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and his feud with Bull Connor in Birmingham.  Don’t be discouraged.  And don’t stop fighting for justice.  Every day after you go back will be precious.”

“Anything else?”

“Well.  You should stay out of Memphis.”

“Stay out of Memphis?  No national black leader can ignore Memphis.  It's one of our most important communities.”

“Well, if you must go, stay away from the Lorraine Motel.”

” But that’s where we always stay in Memphis.”

“OK.  Do what you have to do Dr. King.  God speed and God bless.”

“Could you drop me off at the local library Mr. McClure?  I have a lot of reading to do.  And when it closes, I plan to go back to the park bench I woke up on this morning and pray to God that when I go to sleep, I wake up back in Georgia in 1962.  I can’t stay here.  It’s obviously not my time.  Apparently, I have important work to do.”

I drove around town and showed Dr. King our murals, our old downtown courthouse, and the confluence of the Fox and the Illinois rivers.  Then I dropped him off at Reddick library.

Before he got out of the Buick he shook my hand, thanked me, and stepped out.  As he was shutting the door, he asked me one last question.

“I don’t know how I will ever be able to communicate the things I have learned today from the future.  How can I account for this new knowledge?”

“Look to the bible Reverend.  You remember what worked for the prophets right? They’d go up on a mountain and come down claiming to have had a vision.  Sometimes they told their followers God spoke to them in a dream.  You can make something like that work for you too.”

“I’ll consider that.  Thank you, Mr. McClure.  It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Dr. King.  You are a hero to millions of people, and that includes me.”