“So, uh… what do you guys do for money? And clothing?”
Sam paced the hotel suite, looking down at the clothes he wore - a set of floral pajamas from Sheriff Maggie’s closet, that were several sizes too small and threatening to split at a number of seams, especially the shoulders, where they were so tight he had little freedom of movement in his arms. Not to mention the smears of dirt and blood from his experience being abducted.
He’d been stared at all the way here, even after borrowing Quinn’s jacket.
Quinn gave him a once-over, and couldn’t help but laugh. Then he scratched his head as he chose his answer to Sam’s question.
“Well, when we can’t find work, we tend to go to less legal means.”
“Less legal?” Sam pressed his lips together.
“Oh, you know, we do a little digging around to see if our doubles have bank accounts… but, in 1978, Colin and I were little kids, so…”
“I’m sure this world’s Cryin’ Man could spare some scratch,” Rembrandt’s eyes were shining with nostalgia for his glory days.
“Wait, wait. I don’t want to be taking other peoples’ money,” Sam said, indignant. “What if we’re caught? Besides, we already spent enough time locked in a jail cell.”
“It ain’t technically theft if we’re the same person, right?” Rembrandt added.
Sam looked him up and down. “You’ve aged twenty years, don’t you think someone’s gonna notice?”
Quinn laughed. “You’re quite the goody two-shoes, you know that?”
Sam chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, so I hear. I just have a strong moral compass is all.”
“So we find work,” Quinn said, shrugging. “Shouldn’t be so hard in the seventies to find cash work, right?”
“Not for a soul singer who can do a perfect impression of a chart topper,” Rembrandt said smugly.
“You know, we don’t know how things are different in this world,” Colin said, coming out of the bathroom. “For all we know, you might never have been popular.”
“Yeah, and pigs might fly,” Rembrandt said, brushing off the insult with a grin. “Let’s face it, you guys would never make it through slides without my entertainer money.”
He looked at Sam, eyes narrowed. “You might have seven doctorates, but you got any musical talent, Doc?”
Sam felt his cheeks burning. “I’m kind of a doctor of music, too.”
Rembrandt stared at him for a moment, mouth agape.
“This guy…” he said, looking at the others. “Does anyone else feel inadequate right about now?”
In response, Colin nodded heartily while Quinn shrugged, with a small cringe.
Ugh, they think I’m some kind of Superman, thought Sam. Little did they know how often things went pear-shaped on his leaps due to gaps in his knowledge.
Sam threw up his hands defensively.
“Look, maybe we can busk together or something,” he said.
“What do you play, Doc?”
“Classical piano, guitar, a little singing… maybe more. Honestly with the way my memory is, the best way to find out if I play something is to put it in my hands and see if I start making music or ear-splitting noise.”
“Okay, well, we ain’t got instruments here, but we can try some a capella. Don’t suppose you know ‘Cry Like A Man?’”
“Wait, that’s one of your songs? Sure, I know it just fine.”
Rembrandt smiled broadly at this, as if it was rare for anyone to recognise the song. He recalled Al calling him ‘One Hit Wonder.’
It must be tough to make table scraps singing on the street after being a star.
A noise from one of the beds pulled him from the conversation. Maggie, who’d been sleeping feverishly for the past couple of hours, was stirring.
He moved to her bedside, and sat on the edge of the adjacent bed.
“Hey, you feeling okay?”
“How long was I asleep?” She squinted, regaining her focus.
“Not long enough for me to change into better clothes,” he said with a self-conscious grin. She smiled sadly at him.
“My head still hurts, but my heart’s not beating out of my chest so much.”
“That’s good.”
Maggie looked at the other three, letting her eyes track from one to the other.
“It feels so strange. It’s like I don’t have any clear memories of knowing you all, but I trust you as if I did. I don’t know which part of my mind is which version of myself…”
Her gaze moved to Colin.
“I’m… sorry for the…” she gestured to her head.
“It’s alright.” Colin’s face had no hard feelings; he just seemed sad. “In the end, that head injury allowed me to–”
Maggie interrupted: “–See me and Al…” She crinkled her nose. “This is just too weird.”
“Do you remember anything about the future?” Quinn asked.
“Not much. A lot of… blue?” She tilted her head.
“That’ll be the Waiting Room, I think,” Sam guessed.
“Oh god, yeah,” Maggie said, recalling. “There was a lot of that. Waiting, I mean. I was bored out of my mind.”
“So we’ve definitely established that our Maggie is part of you,” Colin said, stroking his chin.
“I don’t like it.” Maggie brought her knees up to her chin, and hugged her legs. “Which… one of me is even talking right now?”
Sam leaned forward and grabbed her hand.
“We just need to figure out the math and we can come up with a way to undo this. Just hang in there, okay?”
Maggie nodded, though she didn’t look convinced, and she certainly didn’t look him in the eye.
“Alright,” Quinn said, standing. “Colin and I will go get us all some… uh, period appropriate clothes, and look for work while we’re at it.”
“I appreciate that,” Sam said warmly, and looked towards Rembrandt. “Shall we rehearse?”
* * *
The San Francisco of the late seventies was highly nostalgic to Quinn. Cable cars rattled along the hilly roads, while loud car engines sputtered. The smell of tobacco, mingled with exhaust fumes, drifted through the air. The faint tune of ‘MacArthur Park’ by Donna Summer could be heard, coming from someone’s radio, or perhaps record player. The cars were all shades of brown, orange, olive green, and the occasional sky blue. The people on the street wore flared jeans, sharp lapels, platform shoes, and sideburns to rival Colin’s.
“This sure brings back memories,” Quinn said, walking alongside his brother, who was much more out of his element.
“It smells funny,” Colin said, screwing up his nose.
“Yeah, you get used to it. Though the lead levels in the air and soil are actually pretty toxic.”
This prompted Colin to raise his shirt over his nose.
Quinn chuckled. “Don’t worry. I grew up in this environment, didn’t I? Just avoid eating paint chips.”
The pair came upon a department store. Quinn rummaged in his pockets, and pulled out some cash.
“Okay, I have twelve bucks. I don’t know exactly how much things cost in the 70s but I hope that will be enough for a few items of clothing.”
Colin scrounged an extra four dollar bills from his pockets, and a few quarters. Quinn headed for the door of the store, then felt Colin’s eyes on him. He turned.
“What?”
Colin’s hands were in his pockets, and his shoulders taut. He rocked on his feet.
“Quinn, have you considered that… your parents are here?”
Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Well, sure, probably. But we don’t know what kind of Earth we landed on. They’re almost certainly not my folks.”
“I’d kind of like to meet them anyway,” Colin said, mouth askew.
Quinn nodded. He guessed Colin wanted to see how Quinn had grown up, find out what he missed out on. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see his Mom and Dad, of course. It was just that, how would he approach them? What would he say? Could he tell the truth? Dare he warn his Dad about the accident in about 6 years time, and would it make a difference? But then, the thought of seeing his father alive was a pretty difficult opportunity to pass up.
“Sure, we can see them, I guess.”
“Let’s go tomorrow,” Colin suggested.
“If we have money for a cab by then, sure.”
His mind also wandered to the Professor. What was he doing with himself in 1978? Had he come to the States yet? Just when did he get his teaching position at the university here? More importantly, could he potentially assist them?
But, for now, they had a wardrobe to fill.