Making money.

First thing's first, if you're trapped in the far flung future with no way to return home, you should really look into getting some money. You know, for food, shelter, companionship...

You make for the nearest commerical area, mingling with the crowds. While your fashion sense may be a little... outdated, you find yourself more at home than in your own time in one key area: As couples dash to avoid the rain, to make it to restaurants in time for their date, you notice there are just as many same-sex couples milling around, hand in hand, arms around each other, as there are opposite sex.

Walking up to a public terminal, you begin using it, glad it's not massively divorced from a modern (to you) touchscreen, albeit much much faster. You key in "PAWN SHOP" and are able to find a nearby establishment.

Just before you walk in, you pat yourself down, trying to think of something you could pawn to get a little cash. Then your hand alights on it, the small rectangle in your jacket pocket. Surely your phone would fetch a decent price? After all, it was an antique now. And it wasn't like you had anyone to call.

"Hey." you say, walking in. The proprieter, a man in late middle age who looks as though he hasn't slept in weeks, nods as you approach.

"How can I help you?"

"I was wondering" you begin, a little awkwardly "just how much I could get for this."

You set your phone down on the counter. He picks it up, disinterested. Until, he opens the pleather case, and sees the device proper.

"This legit?" he asks, trying and failing to contain his excitement.

"As anything in here." you respond.

"Jesus H. Where's a chump like you get something so valuable?"

"Let's just call it a familiy heirloom." you say. "What's it worth?"

"Market on vintage tech has been booming for years. Corporate kids love playing pretend, like they're living in the Before Times." the pawn shop owner says. "You'd be cleanin' me out, but for something in such good quality, I should be able to give you oh... a quarter mill."

Now it's your turn to make an exclamation of surprise.

"A quarter... million? Like $250,000?" you ask.

"Yeah. You down for that?"

You nod, and the propprieter goes into his back room. You hear a rusty safe swining over, and before too long, he returns, counting out three tall stacks of hundred dollar bills.

You pocket them about your person and walk out, buzzing with excitement, despite your lack of a phone.

You knew the sensible thing to do would be to find a hotel for the night. Somewhere safe, then try to come up with some leads on your time machine, prepare to talk to the cops again tomorrow.

And yet... using the terminal, you'd noticed a red light district in walking distance of where you were right now. It would seem the USA's attitude to sex work, thankfully, had become a lot more liberal. You had more money than you knew what to do with burning a hole in your pocket. Surely it couldn't hurt too much, to sample the delights of the twenty second century?