Jeff felt a certain hardness under his backside, like he had fallen asleep on a plush chair and come awake on a park bench somewhere.
He opened his eyes and stared at his destiny: a large and messy lounge of some sort, outlines indistinct in what must have been the reflected light of evening street lamps. There was no doubt about it. The broken-down couch in the corner, worn wooden study tables to the right, books and papers and misshapen armchairs strewn around like some old rummage sale--this was a far cry indeed from the cool flowing continuum of the control room. The Thorne had worked after all.
Jeff strained to keep his adrenaline in check. Not even a cleaning person in the unlit room. Good. It was late at night, maybe even a weekend. No one to bump into. He pulled a low intensity fireflighter from his pocket. In the weak approximation of daylight, the lounge looked even more 20th century. Remarkable! On the floor near his feet, he noticed a ratty looking issue of Look magazine. The August 23, 1963 date on the cover caused another rush in his veins, but told him not enough of what he needed to know. The magazine could have been lying around for years by the looks of this room.
He had to know the exact date of his arrival. It would tell him which of the eight plans to implement. Clutching his deliberately nondescript suitcase, he walked quickly to the door. He noticed a torn Time magazine dated October-something, 1963, and frowned.
Jeff delicately opened the door and patted the shirt of his janitor's outfit. He was an academic with strong ties to the working class--his great-great-grandparents had slaved in sweatshops--and he welcomed the prospect of testing out his jargon, costume, and identity on the local populace. Unfortunately--or fortunately--no victims were in sight. He walked out, carefully closed the door behind, and strode in search of an exit.
"Sher-er-ry, Sherry baby. She-er-ry..."
For some moments now, Jeff thought he had been hearing a faint falsetto whining. He walked down the last flight of stairs, out into the street, and recognized the shrieks as "Sherry"--an early rock hit by the Four Seasons. More inconclusive evidence, not particularly heartening. He'd done a special lecture on the Seasons and the Beach Boys just last year, and knew for a fact this song came from the summer of 1962.
The air felt chilled, like maybe early October. A '59 or '60 Fairlane 500, from which the Seasons' song seemed to be emanating, was no more help in establishing an exact date than the song.
The street beyond the Fairlane looked clearer and uglier than he'd expected--a bright messy watercolor spilling onto itself. He wondered what his expectations about this place were really based on. Probably more on Andrews' "Village Square" hit of last year than the hours of 1980s film and photographs he had reviewed till his eyes had burned with fatigue.
He spotted a blonde girl in what used to be called dungarees walking towards him. "Uh, pardon me, Miss," he said as nonchalantly as he could, "do you know the time ... and the date please?"
She gave him a strange look and glanced at her watch. "A quarter to twelve," she said, without slowing a step.
Well thanks a lot, Jeff thought. "Excuse me, Miss, I'm sorry to bother you, but if could you tell me the date as well..." He found himself shouting after her. She just kept walking. He shook his head and walked the other way.
The chill was beginning to eat at him as he made his way towards West Fourth Street and Washington Square Park. There the usual complement of derelicts and weirdos--some things never change, he smiled--were keeping the late-night vigil. No point in trying to get a straight answer about the date from that crew. He sighed, then noticed the quaint old phone booth on the corner. He picked up the receiver and pumped in eight quarters in rapid sequence to make sure he would get a connection. "Hello, Operator, could you tell me what today's date is?"
"The date, sir? I'm sorry, but we're only supposed to give out numbers."
"Well, is there a number I can call to find out the date?" A faint odor of urine permeated the booth.
"Checking, sir. No, I have a number for the time, but I don't see one for the date."
"Well, then, do you think you could be a human being instead of, uh, a com-puter, and tell me the date anyway?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but we're only supposed to give out numbers."
"And have you no function in the universe or reason for existence other than giving out numbers?"
"I have no function, sir."
Jeff slammed the phone down and shook his head. I'd make a great diplomat, he thought. At this rate, I--
"Having trouble with the phone, Jack?" Jeff turned to find himself addressed by--was it a slacker or a hippie?--about 25 years of age. "The phone company's been hangin' everyone up lately, man."
"Yeah," Jeff smiled, "it's getting worse and worse. Look, I wonder if you might be able to help me. I'm disoriented, I've got to know what the date is." Jeff leaned out of the booth, deaf to the quarters that clanged in the coin return.
"I can dig it, man, really."
"Good, then, can you tell me what the date is?" He inhaled deeply of the less tainted air outside the booth. Compared to what he had just been breathing in, it smelled like perfume.
"Well, like, that's a difficult question, man. I mean it's November 21st now, but it'll be November 22nd in a few minutes. And of course for the cats over in England it's already been November 22nd for a few hours, and--"
"Ok, good," Jeff said. "And the year?"
"The year?"
"Right, the year--as in 19..."
"Oh, well that's the same everywhere, man. 1963."
"What?"
"I know it, man, time flies faster and faster these days..."
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