for a job. I made myself a peanut butter sandwich. We were out of plastic bags, so I wrapped it in a piece of newspaper and stuck it in the side pocket of my jean jacket. I put a can of Coke in my other pocket, then climbed the stairs to the third floor, feeling a little foolish, still half convinced that the door had been nothing but a dream.
Trying to Buy a Comic Book
I buried my hands in my pockets and faced the wind whipping up the face of the bluff. Below, the town looked like a map, the houses laid out in a grid of gray streets, fading green lawns spotted with red and yellow leaves. Blue smoke corkscrewed up from the chimneys, flavoring the air with the smell of burning wood. The cornfields at the edge of town had gone golden brown, the trees on the skirt of the bluff had lost nearly all their leaves, the sun shone cold and brilliant against a clear blue sky.
I wasnât in August anymore.
Tiny people and black cars moved about the streets. Even from the bluff I could see that all the cars were old-fashioned, like from the thirties. Turning away from the bluff, I rested my eyes on the abandoned hulk of Boggsâs End. It, at least, presented a familiar shape.
I had a pretty good idea where I was, but I wasnât quite ready to believe it.
I decided to walk into town. On my way down the winding dirt road I saw only one car. I recognized it as a Model A, just like in
An Illustrated History of the American Automobile,
only this one had been painted bright yellow, and the driverâs side door hadbeen lettered in black paint: F. S. D ELIVERY . The car slowed and the driver, a blond kid about my age, gaped at me. Another car, an Oldsmobile, came up behind him. The driver beeped his horn. The kid looked back, shifted gears, and continued up the hill.
I was becoming a believer.
The sign at the edge of town pretty much clinched it.
W ELCOME T O
MEMORY
POP . 880
Either the townâs population had grown by over eight hundred people, or I had been propelled into the past. The closer I got to the center of town, the more certain I became. The streets were paved with smooth brick. Cars and trucks sat casually parked on either side. Most of the vehicles had seen better days. The newest one I saw was a two-tone Buick, brown on gray, probably about a 1940 model.
People stared at me as I walked by. Apparently they didnât get many strangers in town. I walked down to River Street, feeling distinctly self-conscious. The hotel, which had been an abandoned three-story hulk the last time Iâd seen it, now sported a fresh coat of white paint. The sign above the lobby door read, NO VACANCY . I looked through the window. Four men sat smoking cigars, staring at a polished wooden cabinet. What were they doing? One of the men reached outand adjusted a knob on the front of the cabinet.
They were listening to an old radio.
Except it wasnât an old radio. It was a new radio.
When was I? I suppose I couldâve just asked somebody what the date was, but I didnât want to look stupid. I stepped back from the window and looked up the street. No stoplight. The semaphore, I remembered my mom telling me, had been installed when she was a kid. So it was sometime before the fifties, but after the invention of the radio.
The building I knew as Oleâs Quick Stop was now called Gleasonâs Market. Maybe they would have a newspaper or a magazine. I opened the door and walked in. The woman behind the counter had on the ugliest dress I think Iâve ever seen, a dull-colored, flowered thing that made her overfed body look even lumpier than it probably was. Behind her, standing on a ladder and wiping the edge of the top shelf with a rag, stood a kid wearing a blue apron over a dingy white sleeveless undershirt and a pair of jeans that hung so low I could see the crack in his butt. His head was separated from his shoulders by a collar of lardcolored flesh. I was staring up at him when the head rotated like that of
Trying to Buy a Comic Book
I buried my hands in my pockets and faced the wind whipping up the face of the bluff. Below, the town looked like a map, the houses laid out in a grid of gray streets, fading green lawns spotted with red and yellow leaves. Blue smoke corkscrewed up from the chimneys, flavoring the air with the smell of burning wood. The cornfields at the edge of town had gone golden brown, the trees on the skirt of the bluff had lost nearly all their leaves, the sun shone cold and brilliant against a clear blue sky.
I wasnât in August anymore.
Tiny people and black cars moved about the streets. Even from the bluff I could see that all the cars were old-fashioned, like from the thirties. Turning away from the bluff, I rested my eyes on the abandoned hulk of Boggsâs End. It, at least, presented a familiar shape.
I had a pretty good idea where I was, but I wasnât quite ready to believe it.
I decided to walk into town. On my way down the winding dirt road I saw only one car. I recognized it as a Model A, just like in
An Illustrated History of the American Automobile,
only this one had been painted bright yellow, and the driverâs side door hadbeen lettered in black paint: F. S. D ELIVERY . The car slowed and the driver, a blond kid about my age, gaped at me. Another car, an Oldsmobile, came up behind him. The driver beeped his horn. The kid looked back, shifted gears, and continued up the hill.
I was becoming a believer.
The sign at the edge of town pretty much clinched it.
W ELCOME T O
MEMORY
POP . 880
Either the townâs population had grown by over eight hundred people, or I had been propelled into the past. The closer I got to the center of town, the more certain I became. The streets were paved with smooth brick. Cars and trucks sat casually parked on either side. Most of the vehicles had seen better days. The newest one I saw was a two-tone Buick, brown on gray, probably about a 1940 model.
People stared at me as I walked by. Apparently they didnât get many strangers in town. I walked down to River Street, feeling distinctly self-conscious. The hotel, which had been an abandoned three-story hulk the last time Iâd seen it, now sported a fresh coat of white paint. The sign above the lobby door read, NO VACANCY . I looked through the window. Four men sat smoking cigars, staring at a polished wooden cabinet. What were they doing? One of the men reached outand adjusted a knob on the front of the cabinet.
They were listening to an old radio.
Except it wasnât an old radio. It was a new radio.
When was I? I suppose I couldâve just asked somebody what the date was, but I didnât want to look stupid. I stepped back from the window and looked up the street. No stoplight. The semaphore, I remembered my mom telling me, had been installed when she was a kid. So it was sometime before the fifties, but after the invention of the radio.
The building I knew as Oleâs Quick Stop was now called Gleasonâs Market. Maybe they would have a newspaper or a magazine. I opened the door and walked in. The woman behind the counter had on the ugliest dress I think Iâve ever seen, a dull-colored, flowered thing that made her overfed body look even lumpier than it probably was. Behind her, standing on a ladder and wiping the edge of the top shelf with a rag, stood a kid wearing a blue apron over a dingy white sleeveless undershirt and a pair of jeans that hung so low I could see the crack in his butt. His head was separated from his shoulders by a collar of lardcolored flesh. I was staring up at him when the head rotated like that of
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