Date: Thu, 17 Oct 1996 16:20:23 -0600 (MDT) From: "Katherine R. Freymuth" Subject: The Impossible Dream - Chapter 7 Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Okay, here's where I've taking a lot from "Mirror Image". Please don't sue me for copyright infringement. A forewarning: it may not be accurate to the episode in a lot of parts but it will help solve some of the questions at the end of MI. I've placed Sam's memories in CAPITAL LETTERS. One in particular does not come directly from the television series but is rather my own interpretation of the event. Enjoy! ------------------------------------------ Chapter 7 "I'm here, Sam. Hang on," the voice told him. It was a voice full of concern yet it was strong, almost commanding. It was a voice which he knew but, for some reason, he couldn't identify. "I won't leave you." There was a door in front of him. He went through it without hesitation. He looked around. He was in a large room - a bar, to be more precise. Tables and chairs were set up all around. The whole bar looked like it belonged in the Fifties. He looked quickly to his right. There was a wall covered with black and whites pictures and newspaper articles. The whole situation was very comfortable to him. *A leap I can relax with*, Sam thought with a smile. Still, there was something wrong but Sam couldn't put his finger on it. It didn't feel like a normal leap to him. It was almost.... Well, Sam didn't know what it was almost. *Might as well just ride along until Al gets here.* He looked towards the bar. A fat man stood behind the bar, drying glasses. Sam walked over. For some reason, he really wanted a beer. He took off his white sun hat and placed it on the bar. "What have you got on tap?" he asked the bartender. "Schlitz," the bartender answered. "Schiltz?" Sam repeated. The name was vaguely familiar. "And Iron City and Decator in bottles," the bartender said. "Schlitz'll be fine," Sam told him. "Regular?" the bartender asked. He lifted the glass he was drying. "Or schooner?" Sam smiled. "Schooner," he told him. He hadn't had a schooner of beer for a long time. "Coming right up," the bartender told him. He dispensed the drink and gave it to Sam. "How much?" Sam asked. "That'll be ten cents." Sam smiled. *Ten cents for a beer. I'm definitely in the Fifties.* He dug into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He gave it to the bartender who rung it up and closed the cash register with his belly. Neither had looked at the date on the quarter: 1995. The bartender returned with Sam's change as Sam took a drink of his beer. He accepted the fifteen cents and looked up as the bartender walked away to finish drying his glasses. Sam froze, putting his beer down in shock. *It's me!* he thought. "That's me in the mirror!" The bartender laughed. "Well, who else did you expect?" Sam studied the reflection. "Look at me! I've got gray hair!" He touched the lock of gray at his forehead. "And crow's feet!" he exclaimed, touching the sides of his eyes. The bartender laughed again. "When's the last time you took a good look at yourself?' Sam smiled slightly. "It's been a while." "Well, you shouldn't let so much time pass or you might lose your sense of reality." The bartender exhaled. "I shouldn't be talking. I still think of myself as a skinny kid." He walked over to the wall of pictures. "It took this picture to snap me out of it." Sam looked at the picture. It was the bartender, all right. He was younger, dressed in an old World War II army uniform, gun held at his shoulder. The picture, however, indicated a playful mood. "You stuck your stomach out to make yourself look fatter," Sam surmised. "No, I didn't," the bartender said seriously. Sam looked at him. He was about to apologize when the bartender started laughing. "Yes, I did," he said truthfully, patting his belly. "You were in the war?" Sam asked, looking at the picture. The bartender nodded. "Whole bunch of us from Coqsburg went together." *Coqsburg?* Sam thought. *Where's Coqsburg?* He looked around. Nothing helped. "Do you have today's paper?" he asked the bartender. The bartender frowned. "No. Afraid I already tossed it out." He hesitated. "Wait. I think I might still have the sports page." He searched under the counter. "Phillies lost. Again. Ah! Here you are." He gave the small section of newspaper to Sam. Sam studied the top of the paper. "The Philadelphia Chronicle, August 8th, 1953. It's my birthday." *Literally.* "Oh! Well, happy birthday!" "Thanks." Sam looked at the clock just above the door. "Twelve forty-five," he read. "I was born at twelve thirty in Indiana. So, that'll be forty-five minutes from now." The bartender shook his head. "Fifteen minutes ago," he corrected. "The town voted not to go on Daylight Savings Time. So, when it's twelve forty-five in the Mid-West, it's also twelve forty-five here." Sam's eyes widened. "Well, that means that I was born roughly about the time I walked through that door." He turned and looked at the front door as he spoke. *This is too weird.* As he watched, an old man entered the bar. His face was filthy, as if he had been working in a dirty factory. The face was adorned with a long white beard that complimented his hair. His dress was that of a working class man but they seemed to indicate that he was born in the East. Perhaps Russia. The old man walked up to the bar and slapped down a dime. The bartender poured him a shot of whiskey. The old man downed the drink quickly and exhaled, satisfied. Sam frowned. The smell was not pleasant. He watched in silence as the man left. "Holy macarel!" Sam exclaimed, waving his hat under his chin to help dissipate the scent. The bartender laughed. "I should've warned you. Gushie has the worse breath in Coqsburg." "Gushie?" Sam exclaimed, his eyes wide. The bartender nodded. Sam rushed out of the bar and looked around. The old man was nowhere to be seen. However, two boys working on fixing a bike were there. They stared at Sam with curiosity as to what was wrong with him. Sam looked at them carefully. He'd seen them before. He was certain. The boys, on the other hand, obviously didn't know him. *Weren't there boys that looked like them in another one of my leaps? Something about a bigamist?* He turned to go back into the bar. It was then he noticed the name on the window: Al's Place...... "HEY! TAKE IT EASY!" SAM TOLD HIM AS HE HELD THE MAN BACK FROM THE MACHINE. "NOW WHAT'S THE MATTER?" "NONE OF YOUR DAMN BUSINESS!" THE MAN YELLED IN ANGER. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN WE MET, AL? YOU WERE ANGRY AND DRUNK AND YOU WERE BEATING A VENDING MACHINE WITH A HAMMER?" "YEAH. WELL, IT ATE MY DIME.?" Sam entered the bar slowly. He slowly went to the bar, thinking. *Why does the name Al always seem to go with alcohol?* He looked at the bartender with curiosity. "You called that guy Gushie," Sam said. "Mmmhmm," the bartender nodded. "And... and your name's Al?" "Albert," the bartender clarified. "It's not Calavicci, is it?" "No. Not Calavicci." Sam hesitated. "That's funny because I know an Al. And a Gushie." Al the bartender shrugged. "Al's a common name." "Yeah, but not Gushie," Sam told him. Al shook his head in agreement. "The thing is," Sam continued, "that Gushie and the Gushie I know both have the same horrible breath." "Well," Al told him, "halitosis isn't uncommon with the old-timers." Sam hesitated. "Yeah, but there are also a couple of boys outside that look familiar too." Al leaned on the bar. "Don't all boys look a little alike?" "I guess," Sam told him. "It just seems a little strange. I mean, with me being me and all." He paused. "I guess that sounds a little strange. Doesn't it?" The bartender smiled. "Just a little," he told Sam, putting his thumb and forefinger close together. At that moment, a lanky older man came into the bar. His back was arched as if it would be painful to stand up straight. He wore clothes similar to that of the old Gushie except his hat was a owrn out fedora. The man had features that were strangely familiar, even though Sam was certain he had never seen the man before. "His name's Stawpah," Al told him. "Know anyone named Stawpah?" "I don't think so," Sam told him. But the name was familiar and was somehow related to the man's familiar features. "You no miner," Stawpah pointed to Sam before he sat at a table. Al was taking a Coke out of the refrigerator and taking a bowl of chips off of a shelf. He brought them both to Stawpah. "No, I'm just visting. My name's Sam." "_I_ was miner," Stawpah said with emphasis. "Work mine since I was boy. I used to load twenty-four ton in one day. Twenty-four!" he emphasized to Sam. "Today, fourteen ton. Big deal. My bubba could load fourteen ton!" he exclaimed with an Orthodox Sign of the Cross. "'Bubba'?" Sam questioned Al, who had returned to drying glasses. "Grandmother," Al explained. Sam laughed. "You don't believe me?" Stawpah challenged. "Take it easy, Stawpah," Al warned. "Let him finish his beer." Stawpah huffed. "You probably think how can cripple like me load twenty-four ton. I wasn't always like this," he said sadly. "I was strong, like bull. Working bottom of mine did this to me. Work in water." Sam looked at Stawpah carefully. He thought he had recognized the symptoms and Stawwpah's story confirmed it. *He has rheumatory arthritis*, Sam thought. But knowing what Stawpah had didn't help Sam find out what he was there to do. He couldn't be here for Stawpah. There was no cure for arthritis, especially in 1953. What was more, he didn't have any clue to why he was there. Where was Admiral Calavicci when he needed him? "I'm here, Sam," a voice told him. Sam ignored it. ----------------------------------------------- Well, that was Chapter 7. Chapter 8 is next. Kat Freymuth