Chapter 6
The air was clear, the day was warm, and Sam had a new lease on life. Taking a stroll, he got himself a good look at the commune he had leaped to. Tepees spotted the plains, with a few small structures that had been built around the large dome where Sam had been the previous night. He could see a few outhouses, and a shack with the word ‘showers’ painted on a sign.
The dome itself was actually quite stunning to look at; each panel within the geodesic frame was its own unique colour. They looked primarily made from metal, and Sam wondered about the insulation—it looked like it could have been something of an oven given the strong sunlight.
He continued to the outhouses, and winced as he approached—he didn’t need to open the door to be able to smell them. Oh boy!
Well, he figured, he had to go. So he held his nose and opened the rickety door. As the wave of stench came at him, it almost reminded him of the barn back on his farm when the manure needed cleaning out. The thought made him feel kind of… well, nostalgic.
Somehow, the filthy inside of the outhouse wasn’t enough to bother him that much, and he instead made a mental note to give the place a good clean later. If he didn’t really know what he was here for, he decided that he could just wing it and help out wherever he was able. Even if it wasn’t his goal, he could at least leave the place in better condition than when he arrived.
He moved on to the showers, and although the water was stone cold, he found it invigorating.
It was at this point that Sam began to wonder why he was in such a good mood, when these kinds of inconveniences would normally get under his skin. He wasn’t his usual self—but he was certainly not upset that he was taking all this in stride.
As he emerged from the shower shack, rubbing his wet hair with one of the towels that sat in a stack by the door, he caught sight of a small, barefoot boy kicking a soccer ball by himself on a patch of grass.
He sauntered over to the kid, wondering who he was and where his parents were.
“Hey there,” he said as he approached. “Want another player?”
The boy’s face lit up. “Yeah, okay!”
He kicked the ball to Sam, who inelegantly returned it. Sam didn’t think he’d ever played soccer; he was more of a basketball kind of guy. But this was nice.
“Hey, uh, where are your Mom and Dad?” he asked casually as the boy lined up a dropkick.
“Mom’s still sleepin’,” said the boy.
The ball let loose, flying over Sam’s head. He chuckled, running after it. He kicked it back towards the kid, and ran after it.
“And Dad?”
“I don’t got a Dad. Mom said he was mean, and that’s why she came here before I got born.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. So, this place was a refuge of sorts for his mother. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Mike,” the boy said, kicking the ball back towards Sam. “And, um, you’re… Richie, aren’t you? I seen you around. You never talked to me before.”
Sam picked up the ball, and moved closer to Mike. “Uh, yeah. Listen, everyone’s gonna be calling me ‘Al’ for a while.”
“How come?”
Sam twirled the ball on his finger as though it was a basketball, buying time as he decided how to explain the complicated situation. “Well, good question. See, I might look like Richie, but I’m actually… another person.”
“Like you’re his twin or somethin’?”
Sam rolled this idea around in his mind. “Sure. Like an identical twin who’s filling in for him a little while.”
“Oh, I get it. So you’re… Al?”
Still wishing that hadn’t been the name he’d blurted out, Sam nodded, his cheeks flushing. “Yeah. I’m Al.”
He offered the ball to Mike, who took it, and gave it another mighty dropkick, sending it hurtling through the air, bouncing off the side of the dome.
“You’ve got a good kick, Mike,” Sam said, grinning, and ruffling the boy’s mop-top.
“Thanks! It’s kinda all there is to do around here,” Mike admitted.
“You don’t have books to read, or—?”
“Oh, I can’t read.”
“You can’t read?” Sam was surprised for a moment, but then realised that there didn’t seem to be a school around here. “Doesn’t anyone teach you things?”
“Sure,” Mike said, “I learn a lot about doing stuff around here. Mom’s teaching me how to cook, and Danny’s been showin’ me how to build stuff.”
“But not how to read?”
Mike shrugged. “Is reading fun?”
Sam’s eyes lit up. “Fun? You bet it’s fun! And you’d love how much you can learn for yourself once you know how to read.”
Mike considered this, then looked up at Sam earnestly. “Can you teach me?”
Sam crouched to his level, smiling. “Well, I don’t know how long I can stay, but I can start you off, and maybe find you a mentor. How’s that sound?”
“Okay!” Mike said, grinning.
Then a thought occurred to Sam. “Are there any other children that live here?”
“Yeah,” Mike said with a nod. “There’s Tilly and Geoffrey and Karma.”
“Karma?”
Mike shrugged. “She’s five,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Sam chuckled. “Well, maybe we could set up a little makeshift classroom and teach all of you at once.”
“Okay,” Mike said, “as long as it’s not a con-form-ity factory.”
“Conformity factory…?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Now who taught you that one?”
“Danny says that’s what schools are.”
“Does he now?” Sam smirked. “Well, not if they’re done right.” He stood, looking towards the dome. “I’d better go see Danny, huh?”
So, this was why he was here. It must have been, Sam decided. He was here to make this commune not just a collaborative place to live, but a place where children could learn. And while he was at it, he could probably improve the living situation—assuming he had the time.
He rubbed his hands together, excited to grow this place to its full potential. He’d heard bad things about hippie communes in his youth. Some of which was true, and much of which was propaganda. But, being here, he saw nothing inherently wrong with the ideals of living in a communal place, sharing everything as a family. It was kind of inspiring, really. It was just that they needed a bit of guidance. And Sam seemed to be perfectly positioned to be such a guide.
As he neared the dome entrance, he caught sight of the generator positioned against the outer perimeter, and he wondered if he could even do something about the power situation.
Okay, he thought, Outhouse needs an overhaul. Even if I can’t get in a septic tank, I can probably think of a better way to compost the waste and redirect the nasty smells. Meanwhile the showers could use some water heating.
Kids need a classroom and a teacher, and definitely some books. Maybe some kind of basic renewable power could be set up, if I have that kind of time on my hands. Hydroelectric, if there’s a water source—just need to build a water turbine, and these people seem pretty industrious.
If there’s no moving water, maybe I could rig up some home made solar panels or wind turbines. If I can charge a series of car batteries…
As he listed off all his tasks, he realised that his idea of a relaxing vacation involved working really hard. Well, if that was how he relaxed, then so be it. He didn’t get seven doctorates by sitting on his hands. And even if he couldn’t put all these ideas into use, he could write them down in the hopes that they’d finish what he started when he inevitably leaped away.
Now, what else do I need to do?
He passed through the door, into the dome, and immediately breathed in the scent of eggs cooking in the kitchen area.
Breakfast. That’s what I need to do.
* * *
Around twenty-nine years in the future, Al stepped into the Waiting Room to see how Bobby was doing.
The relief doctor, Doctor Bellinger, was writing something on the kid’s chart, and Al nodded to him.
“How’s our guy, Doc?”
“Well, there doesn’t seem to have been any deterioration in his condition, but I’d hesitate to say it’s stable.”
“Has he been talking at all?”
“No, not as such. He seems to be pointedly ignoring me.” Doctor Bellinger put the chart down, leaning over the patient. “Bobby? Are you going to talk to the Admiral?”
At this, Bobby’s eyes seemed to clear somewhat, and they popped wide open. “Admiral? Where?”
Al furrowed his brow as he watched Bobby stiffen and glance erratically around the room.
Al waggled his fingers. “I’m the Admiral, kid.”
“Shit,” Bobby said, shutting his eyes, his shoulders dropping again. “How… how did you find me?”
“What do you mean, how did I find you?” Al scratched his temple. “Were you lost?”
“You think… ugh,” Bobby moaned. “You’re gonna send me to Vietnam, aren’t you?”
Al exchanged a tense look with the Doctor. “Well, you were drafted, weren’t you?”
Bobby covered his face with his hands. “I’m too sick to go to Vietnam, man. Don’t make me go. I’m too sick. This doctor knows I’m too sick.” He gestured at Bellinger. “Please…”
He looked feebly at Al, his eyes moist and pleading.
“Look…” Al said with a pitying smile, “I promise you, as long as you’re this sick, we won’t be sending you to Vietnam, okay?”
He could only promise that much, but it seemed to appease the kid, who once again drifted off into sleep.
Al left the Waiting Room with more questions than he had before he’d entered. And it seemed like a job for Verbena, as usual.