Sam had become pretty used to applying makeup, but while it came easily to him, he never liked the idea that women were expected to do all these painstaking things to themselves just to be considered worthy of the world looking upon their otherwise ghastly faces. It was ridiculous.
On the other hand, the makeup in Yolanda Bennett’s bathroom was plentiful and well-used, so he figured she must enjoy it in some respect.
If he’d had to pick Yolanda’s colours himself, he might have made her look like a clown; he never really had a designer’s eye. But, fortunately, he could identify Yolanda’s preferences by the amount that was missing compared to the rest. Lipstick that was wittled to near unusable levels, eyeshadow with a deep ridge in its surface, where the applicator had been swept time and again.
As Sam completed the spread of the lipstick with a smack of his lips, he inspected his work. Yolanda’s medium-brown complexion was accented by a mauve over her eyes and lips.
Not a half-bad job if I do say so, Sam thought, batting his eyes into the mirror and assessing his choice of clothing: skin-hugging blue jeans, a pink tank top under a black designer leather jacket, high-heeled boots and a gold locket necklace around his neck. He was definitely getting better at this fashion thing, though he’d still had much less practice than most women, he assumed, whether those women liked it or not.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were enjoying this.”
Sam’s smile dropped as he spun around, eyeing Al.
“And just how long have you been behind me?” he asked flatly. Al didn’t cast a reflection, so it could have been five, maybe even ten minutes.
“Who me? I just got here,” said Al, with an innocent look. “Well, okay, I’ve been here long enough to see the kissy face you made. And hey, I ain’t judging. You look very pretty all dolled up.”
He leaned in, winking. “And, ah, so does your reflection.”
Sam rolled his eyes as he passed through the hologram in order to reach the door to leave. “Are you here just to make fun of me, or can I expect something productive to come out of this conversation? What am I doing here?”
“Who’s making fun?” said Al, waving around his cigar. “You know I used to be good friends with a drag queen — get to know enough exotic dancers, and you eventually meet a few gender benders in the mix.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, wondering where this was going.
“If you ever get home,” continued Al, “I should introduce you. Whole subculture there; you might find it fun. Big with the show tunes, and I know you like those.”
Al appraised Sam’s look. “You’d need to get a bit more creative, though. Drag style is a little more flamboyant — but hey, you got me to help with that.”
Sam didn’t have the patience to continue this line of conversation further. “Well, I’m never gonna get home if you don’t get to the point, Al.”
“Alright, crankypants.” Al poked a finger into his handlink, which responded with a wail. “Ziggy says you gotta meet some guy named Zach.”
There was a moment of silence, and Sam squinted. “Uh… where? When? Why?”
“Hold on, this brick’s on the fritz again.” Al pursed his lips as he gazed at the flashing handlink, before shaking it and jamming the heel of his hand into the side.
“Zachary Fernandez,” he finally continued. “He’s working at a grocery store across town. Looks like you gotta get him and Yolanda together so they go on to become… children…?” Al tilted his head.
“Become children?” Sam asked with confused exasperation.
Al smacked the handlink again. “Children’s entertainers. So they become children’s entertainers. This piece of junk needs a tune-up.”
“Okay, seems easy enough,” Sam said, rifling through Yolanda’s purse, before slinging it over his shoulder. “Where’s this store?”
“Oh, it’s a part of Boston you might remember, Sam: Main Street, Cambridge, near Lafayette Square.”
In other words, my old stomping grounds, thought Sam. And it’s 1972 — I could knock on my own door and meet my former self.
Sam couldn’t help but grin. Besides the time he leaped into the teenage Sam, this was definitely the closest he had ever gotten to crossing paths with himself.
Al narrowed his eyes. “Sam, I know what you’re thinking — and no.”
“Oh, I know,” Sam said, but his grin wasn’t going away. “But it sure will be nostalgic.”
* * *
Nostalgic it was. Sam’s smile returned as he wandered out of the subway station, up the stairs to the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of the early seventies university district of Boston, Massachussetts. Where he and Professor LoNigro of the MIT Physics faculty had first developed his theory of time travel. And now, Sam was living it, via the shoes of a twenty-four year-old woman with a talent for absurd children’s rhymes.
He gazed around, watching the nerds and jocks pass him by. It was all so familiar. Intensely familiar. So familiar that he actually felt déjà vu.
Across the road, a group of students laughed and chatted. He didn’t understand why, but he knew that one of the women in the group was about to stop and tie her shoe. And then, a moment later, she did just that.
Disoriented, Sam began to approach the group, wondering why it was so familiar. As he crossed the road, he didn’t see the car barrelling toward him.
But someone else did.
“Look out!”
Sam felt himself being shoved back to the kerb as the screech of a car’s brakes filled his ears.
Sam sprawled against the sidewalk, grazing his palms on the concrete.
But that was inconsequential; in front of him, the man that had just saved his life, was unconscious on the road, having taken the impact in his place.
A 19-year-old Sam Beckett, surrounded by loose thesis papers, and bleeding from the head.
“Oh boy…”