“Those Kro-maggots really threw off my style,” Rembrandt complained, as he looked down with disdain at the dated navy blue mod-style suit Quinn had picked out for him. “I woulda still been wearing my shimmering suits and sporting my ’stache if it weren’t for them.”
Quinn watched him, as he prepared for his day busking with Sam. The four of them that weren’t laid up in bed were downtown, among the masses. Quinn and Colin were going to watch the performance, waiting for enough change to come in to get them a cab fare, then head off to this world’s – and time’s – version of his home.
It was true that Rembrandt’s fashion choices had changed since he’d been back on Earth Prime, and subsequently held captive. He had dropped his larger-than-life outfits and bravado quite a bit, and he recalled Remy had once been quite possessive of his moustache - a trademark look for the Cryin’ Man - but it had been gone since his imprisonment. He’d also taken a lot of pride in his showy suits in the past, but he hadn’t worn any in a long while.
Quinn figured that his ideas of things going back to the way they were must have been shattered enough for him to give up on his style. And it was true, the Kromaggs had completely thrown a wrench into all of their plans to return home and resume their lives. Remy’s hope of rekindling his career was extinguished the moment those bastards invaded.
His attention moved to Sam. He’d been surprised to see the older man’s real appearance. He didn’t know what he expected, really, but it was still quite a trip to see the true face of the person who’d looked like Maggie for the previous few days, as they worked on repairing the timer. He had towered over him, though he knew that the guy behind what he called the ‘aura’ of Maggie was actually near 6 feet in height. Now, they were pretty close in height, though Quinn still had a couple inches on him.
He still hadn’t really explained the science behind his ability to travel in time, and of course Quinn wanted to know everything. He’d explained his basic theory, tying a string together and balling it up. That made enough sense, but taking the place of other people? That was the part that puzzled him.
Sam seemed, to Quinn, like some superhero, using his swiss army knife of talents and incredible compassion to leave a trail of sunshine and rainbows through time. If anyone could get him to believe in a higher power, it would be Sam Beckett.
Still, if it was a higher power dragging them all around at present, they sure weren’t making it easy.
Sam dropped a hat on the ground, and Rembrandt began the opening “ohh” to his hit song. After a moment, Sam began chimed in with an “oooh,” playing the part of the backing singers.
“My friends ask me, why I cry,” Remy crooned.
“Cry-y…” Sam sung softly, giving a wink to Quinn.
To start off the money, Quinn threw in the last of his change.
“Good luck, guys,” he said, and stepped back next to Colin, who was enjoying the performance in its own right.
“They’re both great singers,” he said, tapping his toe.
To Quinn, the only thing Sam didn’t seem to be any good at was acting like a woman. He wondered how many times he’d had to feign being one at this point.
“They’re really something,” he finally said.
Colin squinted at him. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”
Quinn went over what he’d just said in his head, and realised that to someone unfamiliar with that phrase, it really meant nothing. This kind of thing had been happening since he’d met Colin. He frequently had to remind himself that Colin had a different vocabulary.
“I think it’s short for the phrase ‘something else,’ which insinuates some level of distinction, I guess,” he explained. “So it means they stand out among others who might be compared to them. Usually it’s a phrase of admiration, though occasionally it’s meant to point out some negative qualities. Depends on the tone of voice.”
Colin nodded thoughtfully.
“Cool,” he said, borrowing the slang he’d learned from Rembrandt.
The song came to a close, leaving the performers with 6 more quarters than they’d had before. That was a start.
“Any requests?” Rembrandt asked, partly to the crowd, and partly to Quinn and Colin.
“YMCA!” Someone called.
Quinn covered his mouth to stifle a chuckle. He’d forgotten that was a pretty new song at this point in time.
Rembrandt looked at Sam to affirm that he recalled the song through his memory troubles. Sam gave a tight nod and a grin. He counted them in, and began:
“Young man,” they sang in unison.
“There’s no need to feel down…” continued Rembrandt.
The two of them seemed to just get each other’s cues without rehearsing, and Quinn admired that.
Now it really seemed that people were gathering. This had been a good prompt. As soon as the chorus started, people started dancing and clapping in time. But it wasn’t the dance that Quinn typically knew; only Rembrandt and Sam were doing it. The dance must not have existed yet, he guessed.
However, by the end of the song, the crowd had picked up on the movements. Quinn wondered if they had just introduced the dance to history.
As the song closed out, Quinn checked the hat. It had at least quadrupled in value now, and he looked back at Colin with a thumbs up.
“Thanks guys,” he said to the singers as he grabbed enough change to pay for the fare. He stood and patted Rembrandt on the arm.
“You two are great as a duo,” he said. “Check the record stores to find out what’s flying off the shelves, and you’ll do just fine.”
Rembrandt nodded in agreement.
“Good luck with the parents,” he said, looking behind Quinn, at Colin. “What’ll you tell ’em?”
“Think the truth will be a bit much?”
“I’m gonna say yes,” Rembrandt’s eyes were dancing.
“Well in that case, I don’t know. We’ll think of something.”
* * *
As the taxi pulled up at Quinn’s house, Colin picked nervously at his fingernails, suddenly gripped by terror.
His own parents, though they died when he was young, were supposedly doubles of these parents. He couldn’t recall anything about them, but that didn’t stop him from being overcome with nerves as the prospect of meeting them crystallised.
He stepped out of the car as Quinn paid, and looked at the neighbourhood around him. A quiet street, with much less of the offensive smell characteristic of the downtown area, though it was still there, underlying the brisk fall air.
Quinn had pointed to this house, surrounded by a white picket fence. A white two-storey home with a patio in the front, garnished with a carefully manicured garden. It was the kind of home Colin could have only dreamed of as a child.
Colin stepped up off the road, and stared at the house. He sensed Quinn coming up behind him, and felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Home, sweet home,” he said. He was looking at it with poorly masked emotion.
“What are we going to tell them?” Colin asked, feeling glued to his spot.
Quinn looked unsure for a moment, but his expression cleared into resolve.
“We’re journalism students looking for human interest stories.”
Colin felt his brow furrow. “Human interest?”
“You know… interesting stories that aren’t necessarily news, but put a spotlight on someone in the community.”
Colin frowned. Quinn chuckled.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Just remember, your name is Colin… uh, Firth. And mine is Jim Hall, okay?”
Colin mouthed the names, tasting them. They were bitter.
“Okay,” he conceded. “Colin ‘Firth’ it is. Why Jim Hall?”
“Uhh, it’s just a name I used with my Mom’s double once. Not such a different situation, to be honest.”
He approached the gate. It opened smoothly, and he looked back with a smirk.
“This gate’s been squeaking since I was twelve. But, I guess in 1978, I’m not twelve yet.”
He continued up the path, and climbed the stairs as Colin closed the gate behind him, and surveyed the garden.
A young golden retriever came from around the corner and bounded towards Quinn. It sniffed him for a moment, before flopping to the patio floor and rolling over.
“Bopper!” he exclaimed, and started to rub the dog’s belly. “Aw, you’re so young and energetic.”
Colin reached the top of the stairs.
“He’s cute.”
“Go on, give him a pet,” said Quinn, standing.
Colin stepped forward, and held out his hand. Bopper stood up, and gave it a sniff. His tail started to wag and he lifted his snout, awaiting a fuss.
Colin gave his face a rub, and scratched behind his ears.
“Some guard dog,” came a voice, and the brothers looked towards the door to see Michael Mallory standing with his arms folded, looking at them with slightly narrowed eyes.
Both Colin and Quinn were momentarily speechless. Colin didn’t remember much about his father, but hearing that voice knocked the breath out of him.
“Uh, sorry,” Quinn said once he found his voice again. “This little guy is a sweetie, we couldn’t resist the exposed belly.”
“He doesn’t usually do that to strangers,” said Michael, scratching his head. “Well, dogs are usually a pretty good judge of character. Who are you?”
“I’m Colin… Firth,” Colin proclaimed, and held out his hand. Michael shook it.
“And I’m Jim Hall,” Quinn added, also shaking the hand. “We’re journalism students looking for human interest stories. We heard you’ve got some kind of child prodigy for a son? We’d love to hear more about that. Quinn, right?”
At the mention of his son’s name, Michael stiffened.
“How do you know my son’s name?”
Quinn was nervous now. “Word of mouth,” he said haltingly.
Michael’s face was dark. “Not interested.”
“If you don’t want us to interview him, what about you?” Colin tried. He knew Quinn wanted him to just stand there looking pretty, but Quinn was clearly losing the battle here. “You’re a scientist, are you not?”
Quinn picked up on his cues, and pulled himself away from his floundering. “Oh yeah, we hear you build backyard rockets. Got anything in the works right now?”
Michael was looking behind them towards the street.
“Some other time, perhaps.”
He stepped back, and grabbed the handle of the door.
“You have a good day,” he said as the door shut.
Colin locked eyes with Quinn. Both were equally bewildered with what had just transpired.
“He was being… protective of me,” Quinn muttered. “But why?”