A Change in My Life, 2/?
Title: A Change in My Life, chapter two
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: K+/PG; rating could rise later
Word Count: 3,688
Main Characters: Fictional Rockapella (Sean, Scott, Elliott, Barry)
Summary: The night passes. Elliott has a near-encounter with a stranger that leaves them both shaken.
Will be posted to 10_hurt_comfort when complete.
Chapter Two
I've Been Washed Up, I've Been Put Down, and Told I'm No Good
The sound of the ticking grandfather clock filled the otherwise silent room. Elliott glanced up at it before returning his attention to the heavy book in his lap. To his side the fire crackled in the hearth, warming the autumn night.
Evenings at home were generally spent studying and planning for the next day's classes, and it was usually a welcome escape from the hectic days at the university, but tonight the feelings of isolation that had plagued him in the morning had never left. The more the clock ticked, the more it seemed to accentuate, even taunt, the fact that Elliott was alone.
It was not that he wanted a girlfriend right now; he could try to get over his shyness enough to talk to Ms. Parker if that was the case. It was something else, a deep longing and desire he had held since the bullies had told him that no one would want to be his friend unless they were looking for a bodyguard. He wanted to find out that it was not true, that somewhere out there was someone to call a friend and brother. Someone who would want to call him one.
He closed the book with a sigh. He was living in a dream. Ever since his childhood he had been looking for such a person without finding one. There was no one like that for him. Most people in life had treated him indifferent, if not cruel. But instead of returning an eye for an eye, he had simply retreated further into himself. He had no desire to hurt anyone; even when he had to fight back out of self-defense from a physical attack, he left it for a last resort.
And now his eyes were watering. There must be some dust somewhere, maybe in the binding of the book. He was so insistent about keeping things in order because even the slightest speck of dust could bring out his allergies. But this was a book borrowed from the university library, and they were probably not as conscientious about that sort of thing.
He set the book aside, groping in his pocket. But then he groaned. Amid the shock in the morning, he had completely forgot that he was out of Astelin. He had been supposed to go get more on his way home.
He ran a hand into his hair. He could just wait until tomorrow, but if he was so rushed on his way to the airport he might forget again, or just not have the time to begin with. The wisest thing to do would be to run out right now and get it. Wal-Mart would still be open.
He was already sniffling as he eased himself out of the chair and went about extinguishing the fire. Then he shuffled to the front door. Taking down his turquoise jacket, he fumbled his way into it and opened the door. The night was clear, at least---or at least it looked that way. There was no telling how many particles of smog were floating around.
He hurried down the steps and into his car, wrestling with his keys as he searched for the right one under the glow of the overhead light. There it was, hiding behind several other, almost identical, keys. Shoving it into the ignition, he started the engine. The motor roaring to life was a relaxing sound.
In spite of the infamous bad traffic, he preferred to use a car instead of public transport. Using a car might take longer, but it gave him peace of mind. The most alarming thing he could imagine was sitting on the subway or a bus, surrounded by strange people staring at him for one reason or another. And his allergies would probably attack in droves.
For once, luck seemed to be on his side. By taking the side roads as much as possible, he was able to avoid the worst of the congestion. He came out onto a main street not too far from his destination.
Now the cars were getting thick. Some of them were probably returning from some social event or another, while others were headed to bars, nightclubs, and just about anything else imaginable. Elliott steered to the nearest semaphore, waiting while the light stayed red.
Why did it feel like someone was looking at him? He frowned, looking to the side. The car next to his was a limousine, its windows tinted and concealing the occupants. Someone in that vehicle was watching him; he could feel the eyes on his person. But why? To be in a limousine the person must be famous, and Elliott surely was not. Why would they find him so interesting?
The urge to roll down his window and call to the person in the other car was almost overwhelming. At the same time, his shy nature rebelled. Why should he do such a thing? People did not do that, especially in New York. They minded their own business. But it felt like his personal space was being invaded. He was still being stared at.
The light turned green just as he made up his mind. "Why are you looking at me?!" he called, rolling down the window as engines revved.
The back window of the limousine lowered slightly, but the driver was forced to drive away as cars began to honk. Elliott frowned, starting his own engine. Could he follow the limo? It was not likely; it was up ahead now, turning to the left. But he could try. He maneuvered around a brown car that had gotten in between him and it.
What was he doing? How did he know the window was even being lowered so someone could talk to him? It could have been a complete coincidence. Something bizarre had gotten into him or he would never consider doing what he was doing now. But for some reason, he could not let the limousine get away.
He turned left, driving down a street filled with fancy apartment complexes on both sides. Already the limousine was nowhere in sight. It could have pulled into one of the many parking garages if the occupants lived in one of the high-rise suites. Or it could have kept going straight, getting off this road before Elliott had arrived.
He certainly could not check all of the parking garages---at least not first thing. He drove to the end of the street, where it intersected with another crowded highway. Of course, the limousine was nowhere in sight.
He slumped back in the seat. He had never felt such a profound, haunting sadness as he did now. And he most certainly could not explain it. The person in the limo would have been a total stranger. Yet he felt as if he had lost a dear friend.
"Who were you?" he whispered to the night. "Who were you?!"
There were no answers to be had.
****
Barry leaned back in the leather seat, his eyes narrowed. The chauffeur was still winding his way around buildings and over streets to return to the suite where Barry lived alone, but the bassman was barely aware of it. He was shaken.
The strange curly-haired man in the silver car . . . who was he? Barry had never seen him before, of course; even if he had, it would have only been in passing. Still, when their cars had been side-by-side, he had felt something impossible and bizarre. He knew that man, somehow he knew that he did. He had been rolling down his window to ask the other's name when they had been forced to drive away. And now the silver car was lost.
"Barry?"
He ignored his manager's voice. Why . . . why did he feel like something precious had slipped from his grasp? Would the feeling ever leave? Or would it stay right there, taunting him all the time?
"Barry! Hey!"
Finally he looked to the bewildered Barlow. The blond man was staring at him, frowning in confusion.
"What is this? You've barely heard a word I've said. Ever since we stopped at that last intersection, you've been zoned out. And I've been trying to talk to you about the mini-interview you promised to give."
Barry grunted. ". . . Did you see the car next to us?" he asked.
Barlow blinked. "The one you couldn't take your eyes off of? Sure."
"Have I ever met the man who was driving it?"
Now Barlow gave him a look of utter disbelief. "Are you kidding? Of course not, unless he came to the opera some night. I can't remember every single face who passes through there."
"I didn't think so." Barry turned away, gazing out the window again.
Barlow threw up his hands in exasperation. "What's with you?! It was just some strange guy."
"No." Barry continued to stare outside. "He was much more than that."
****
The sharp jangling of the telephone roused Sean from a dead sleep. He groaned, rolling over to grope for the receiver on the nightstand. "Hello?" he mumbled into the nearest object. But the phone continued to ring. Muttering, he rose onto an elbow, squinting as he tried to adjust to the near-darkness. He had been talking into the banana he had left there to ripen. Setting it back down, he grabbed the real phone.
"Yeah, what is it?" he asked, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.
An angry voice snapped back at him. "Where's this month's rent?"
"Rent?!" Sean stared at the clock in disbelief. "It's almost midnight and you're calling to whine about rent?!"
"I'm balancing my checkbook and I just realized I still don't have your rent payment," his landlord retorted. "You promised you'd have it in by yesterday!"
"I'm working on it," Sean said. "I'm getting it together right now, in fact." Scraping it together was more like it. He really could not say when he would have the full amount. But he supposed he had better forget about having anything other than more Ramen for breakfast. The rest of his "spare" money would have to be added to the rent fund.
"You should have 'gotten it together' by yesterday," was the growled retort. "I'm nice enough to let you stay here for reduced payments. You'd better keep your end of the bargain."
"You'll have it in the morning," Sean said, even as his stomach began to sink. Where was he going to get the rest of the rent money by then? Singing on street corners would not net him enough to cover it.
"I'd better, or I just might lose patience and evict you for real," the landlord snapped.
"Oh have a heart," Sean said, his own patience beginning to give way. "When I've missed payments, I've always made it up to you, haven't I?"
For a moment there was silence on the other end of the line. "Yes," was the grumbled reply.
"Then quit worrying and bellyaching," Sean said. "You know I'm an honest guy."
"Just get the money." A click sounded in Sean's ears as the phone was hung up on the other end.
Sean winced, pulling the receiver away and replacing it in its cradle. "Talk about a burr in your blanket," he grumbled.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes as he laid back down. Oh well. He would get the money; he always did, somehow. Even while people around him had turned to crime out of desperation, he had stayed on the straight and narrow---and he was still getting by. He would figure out what kind of quick job he could do in the morning. There was no sense worrying about it now.
He pulled the pillow closer, soon drifting back to sleep.
****
"Ohayo! Ohayo! Ohayo!"
Scott started awake at the sound of the alarm, nearly tumbling over the side of the bed. At the last moment he caught himself, breathing heavily as he gripped the covers.
"I hate that thing," he mumbled, as it continued to incessantly wish him Good Morning in Japanese.
He slumped down, burying his face against the softness of the pillow. He had to be up for a nonstop flight back to the States and all he could think of was going back to sleep. He had scarcely finished packing up the dressing room last night before exhaustion had washed over him again, in spite of his vow not to return to slumber. He did not even remember the ride back to the hotel.
"Don't tell me I fell asleep in the car," he muttered as he pushed himself into a kneeling position. "Louie'd really get a kick out of that."
But unless he had developed short-term memory loss, that must have been exactly what had happened. And unless he had sleepwalked up to bed, Louie must have carried him.
An immense yawn tore free as he sat up, his blond curls bouncing with the motion. At least disturbing nightmares had been absent from his slumber this time. In fact, he could not recall dreaming about anything whatsoever. He had been altogether dead to the world.
A glance at the clock sent him scrambling out of bed and in the direction of the bathroom. He had to get ready now. He had forgotten to set the alarm to wake him up at the proper time to be ready for the long flight. If he was not downstairs in five minutes, he was going to be late.
He had packed up the rest of his belongings and was practically leaping into fresh clothes when Louie banged on the door.
"Scotty, we've gotta get out of here right now! Are you ready?"
Scott fought with his stubborn trousers, almost crashing onto the floor as the leg refused to straighten out. "I . . . I will be!" he called back, forcing his foot through the opening. "Just a minute. . . ." He pulled his pants on and grabbed his shirt, throwing it on and fumbling with the buttons with one hand while snatching his luggage with the other. Then he ran into the hall, gasping for breath.
Louie observed the kid's frazzled appearance for all of two seconds before hurrying to the stairs. "You forgot a button," he announced over his shoulder. "Your shirt's all crooked. Nevermind, you can fix it on the way!"
Scott jogged down the stairs, frustration building as one of his socks began to descend. He would have to fix it when they got to the shoe lockers. Maybe he could rebutton his shirt then, too.
"Crazy flight system we've got," Louie remarked as they reached the bottom and barreled towards the front desk. "The timezones really mess things up! We're catching a nine-thirty flight, but we'll arrive in New York around eight-thirty the same day! Who said you can't go back in time?"
Scott managed a chuckle. "Pretty crazy, alright," he agreed.
"And the jetlag! Oh Mama, as you'd say. We need several days just to get over that!"
As they arrived at the desk, Louie gestured to Scott to speak to the desk clerk. Louie did not know a "lick of Japanese," as he put it, so he had been having the very fluent Scott handle most of the communications. Still half-asleep, Scott talked to the clerk as the card keys were returned.
"I hope your stay has been pleasant," the man said.
"Oh, very," Scott said with a tired grin. "We'll be back next time, as usual."
With that he moved to follow Louie, who was already making his way to the genkan.
The harried manager was soon there and opening the shoe lockers, nearly throwing Scott's shoes at him as the blond arrived. Scott managed to catch them, setting them on the floor before pulling up his sock and stepping into them. He swayed, grabbing at the wall.
By now Louie was already rushing outside. Scott was forced to make a swift recovery. He snatched his luggage, hurrying after the older man.
Hopefully he would have a chance to sleep on the plane. In spite of the rush, he felt like a zombie.
. . . And why did the thought of zombies make him want to smile? He was not certainly not the first one to the TV on thriller night.
For as long as he could remember, the most random things could overwhelm him with strong feelings. Stuffy neighbors alternately annoyed and amused him. Detective movies made him sad, even if there was a happy ending. Thoughts of criminals running loose filled him with an unexplainable dread and a desire to stop them.
And under no circumstances would he ever, ever set foot in Charlestown, Massachusetts. The name alone put a dark feeling into his heart. It had baffled anyone he had known who had mentioned the historically important place. He would not even watch documentaries on the American Revolution when they showed or discussed Charlestown.
On the other hand, things like zombies, fedora hats, and fake snow made him go through a whole range of other emotions. Sometimes he was happy, other times bittersweet. Sometimes he felt such an intense longing for something he did not even understand that he wanted to reach into the nothingness and pull out what was haunting him---for it almost felt tangible.
And when he thought about it, he was anxious to get to New York for more reasons than one. Something was there for him in Manhattan, and not just the first part of his U.S. tour. He could sense it. Maybe he would find all of his answers there.
He had not mentioned this to Louie, nor did he intend to; while Louie genuinely cared about Scott, he thought the kid was a little kooky in the head sometimes. Scott's insistence that something was absent from the concerts was a sign of rabid perfectionism to Louie, whether or not it had any base in reality. He would just scoff at Scott's thoughts on New York, calling it idealism and insisting that he must just be excited for the tour. And Scott was, but that did not change the feeling that something far more important than a concert tour was waiting there.
What about the form he had cradled so lovingly in his dream? If that person was still alive, would he be in New York? Would Scott recognize him if he was?
He shook his head. Now he was really getting crazy. It was one thing to have intense feelings to believe in, but dreams? Let alone dreams that could not be true?
On the other hand, how did he know it could not be true? How could any of these things he sensed and felt be true? They looked impossible every way he tried to study them, but he could not deny his heart. It was too strong. Maybe the dream was not any more bizarre than these feelings.
"What is it?" he murmured aloud, gazing at the trees waving in the autumn wind. "Memories of another life I really lived? What happened to me that I'm not in it?"
And in this other life . . . was he as isolated as he felt here? He was grateful for Louie, who sometimes looked upon him almost as a surrogate son figure, but it was so hard for them to connect in a lot of ways. He could not help wishing that Louie would take him more seriously when he spoke of these strange and deep feelings. Most of the time he felt more detached from his manager than anything else.
On the other hand, he had come to feel that the person he had been with in his dream was someone to whom he had been very close. And whether or not they ever met again, he prayed that person was alive and safe.
"You okay, Scotty?"
He started. Louie was giving him a weird look as the rented limo pulled over to the curb.
"Oh . . . yeah, I'm fine," Scott said with a weak smile. "Just fine. . . ."
Louie shook his head. "Okay then. Get in. Time's a-wasting." He pulled open the door.
Scott sighed but climbed in, pulling his luggage with him. Louie followed suit, shutting the door after them.
Scott leaned back in the seat, watching Tokyo pass by outside the window. He could hardly wait to get through the long flight back. Then he would learn whether New York did hold the phantoms of this other life.
****
"No! No, Elliott, you have to stay awake! Elliott . . . please . . . don't go. Don't go! . . ."
Scott's eyes flew open. Once again he was breathing heavily, sweat trickling down his face.
But no one else on the airplane noticed. Louie was asleep in the seat next to him, while the other nearby passengers were involved in their own activities. Some were working on laptops, while others watched the in-flight movie and still others took naps of their own. Outside the window, clouds floated lazily through the sky.
Scott slumped back in the seat, running a hand through his bangs. "Elliott," he whispered. So now he had a name, though to whom it belonged was a mystery. Was it the man he had been holding in his other dream? Or was it someone else?
Would he ever know? Maybe it was too much to hope for that New York would have the answers. What if this Elliott had died? How would he ever find out?
He gripped the armrest. The very thought of this mysterious Elliott being dead twisted his heart and filled it with a profound anguish he could not explain. Elliott was alive. He had to believe that.
Otherwise, he was suddenly not sure how he would stand to keep sitting here for the rest of the flight. And it would be almost impossible to get past Louie if he wanted to pace up and down the aisle.
He turned, staring with blank eyes out the window at the peaceful clouds.
"People change," he sang to himself. "Every day . . ."
And he wished they didn't.
Then he would not have forgotten Elliott.
Fandom: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Rating: K+/PG; rating could rise later
Word Count: 3,688
Main Characters: Fictional Rockapella (Sean, Scott, Elliott, Barry)
Summary: The night passes. Elliott has a near-encounter with a stranger that leaves them both shaken.
Will be posted to 10_hurt_comfort when complete.
Chapter Two
I've Been Washed Up, I've Been Put Down, and Told I'm No Good
The sound of the ticking grandfather clock filled the otherwise silent room. Elliott glanced up at it before returning his attention to the heavy book in his lap. To his side the fire crackled in the hearth, warming the autumn night.
Evenings at home were generally spent studying and planning for the next day's classes, and it was usually a welcome escape from the hectic days at the university, but tonight the feelings of isolation that had plagued him in the morning had never left. The more the clock ticked, the more it seemed to accentuate, even taunt, the fact that Elliott was alone.
It was not that he wanted a girlfriend right now; he could try to get over his shyness enough to talk to Ms. Parker if that was the case. It was something else, a deep longing and desire he had held since the bullies had told him that no one would want to be his friend unless they were looking for a bodyguard. He wanted to find out that it was not true, that somewhere out there was someone to call a friend and brother. Someone who would want to call him one.
He closed the book with a sigh. He was living in a dream. Ever since his childhood he had been looking for such a person without finding one. There was no one like that for him. Most people in life had treated him indifferent, if not cruel. But instead of returning an eye for an eye, he had simply retreated further into himself. He had no desire to hurt anyone; even when he had to fight back out of self-defense from a physical attack, he left it for a last resort.
And now his eyes were watering. There must be some dust somewhere, maybe in the binding of the book. He was so insistent about keeping things in order because even the slightest speck of dust could bring out his allergies. But this was a book borrowed from the university library, and they were probably not as conscientious about that sort of thing.
He set the book aside, groping in his pocket. But then he groaned. Amid the shock in the morning, he had completely forgot that he was out of Astelin. He had been supposed to go get more on his way home.
He ran a hand into his hair. He could just wait until tomorrow, but if he was so rushed on his way to the airport he might forget again, or just not have the time to begin with. The wisest thing to do would be to run out right now and get it. Wal-Mart would still be open.
He was already sniffling as he eased himself out of the chair and went about extinguishing the fire. Then he shuffled to the front door. Taking down his turquoise jacket, he fumbled his way into it and opened the door. The night was clear, at least---or at least it looked that way. There was no telling how many particles of smog were floating around.
He hurried down the steps and into his car, wrestling with his keys as he searched for the right one under the glow of the overhead light. There it was, hiding behind several other, almost identical, keys. Shoving it into the ignition, he started the engine. The motor roaring to life was a relaxing sound.
In spite of the infamous bad traffic, he preferred to use a car instead of public transport. Using a car might take longer, but it gave him peace of mind. The most alarming thing he could imagine was sitting on the subway or a bus, surrounded by strange people staring at him for one reason or another. And his allergies would probably attack in droves.
For once, luck seemed to be on his side. By taking the side roads as much as possible, he was able to avoid the worst of the congestion. He came out onto a main street not too far from his destination.
Now the cars were getting thick. Some of them were probably returning from some social event or another, while others were headed to bars, nightclubs, and just about anything else imaginable. Elliott steered to the nearest semaphore, waiting while the light stayed red.
Why did it feel like someone was looking at him? He frowned, looking to the side. The car next to his was a limousine, its windows tinted and concealing the occupants. Someone in that vehicle was watching him; he could feel the eyes on his person. But why? To be in a limousine the person must be famous, and Elliott surely was not. Why would they find him so interesting?
The urge to roll down his window and call to the person in the other car was almost overwhelming. At the same time, his shy nature rebelled. Why should he do such a thing? People did not do that, especially in New York. They minded their own business. But it felt like his personal space was being invaded. He was still being stared at.
The light turned green just as he made up his mind. "Why are you looking at me?!" he called, rolling down the window as engines revved.
The back window of the limousine lowered slightly, but the driver was forced to drive away as cars began to honk. Elliott frowned, starting his own engine. Could he follow the limo? It was not likely; it was up ahead now, turning to the left. But he could try. He maneuvered around a brown car that had gotten in between him and it.
What was he doing? How did he know the window was even being lowered so someone could talk to him? It could have been a complete coincidence. Something bizarre had gotten into him or he would never consider doing what he was doing now. But for some reason, he could not let the limousine get away.
He turned left, driving down a street filled with fancy apartment complexes on both sides. Already the limousine was nowhere in sight. It could have pulled into one of the many parking garages if the occupants lived in one of the high-rise suites. Or it could have kept going straight, getting off this road before Elliott had arrived.
He certainly could not check all of the parking garages---at least not first thing. He drove to the end of the street, where it intersected with another crowded highway. Of course, the limousine was nowhere in sight.
He slumped back in the seat. He had never felt such a profound, haunting sadness as he did now. And he most certainly could not explain it. The person in the limo would have been a total stranger. Yet he felt as if he had lost a dear friend.
"Who were you?" he whispered to the night. "Who were you?!"
There were no answers to be had.
****
Barry leaned back in the leather seat, his eyes narrowed. The chauffeur was still winding his way around buildings and over streets to return to the suite where Barry lived alone, but the bassman was barely aware of it. He was shaken.
The strange curly-haired man in the silver car . . . who was he? Barry had never seen him before, of course; even if he had, it would have only been in passing. Still, when their cars had been side-by-side, he had felt something impossible and bizarre. He knew that man, somehow he knew that he did. He had been rolling down his window to ask the other's name when they had been forced to drive away. And now the silver car was lost.
"Barry?"
He ignored his manager's voice. Why . . . why did he feel like something precious had slipped from his grasp? Would the feeling ever leave? Or would it stay right there, taunting him all the time?
"Barry! Hey!"
Finally he looked to the bewildered Barlow. The blond man was staring at him, frowning in confusion.
"What is this? You've barely heard a word I've said. Ever since we stopped at that last intersection, you've been zoned out. And I've been trying to talk to you about the mini-interview you promised to give."
Barry grunted. ". . . Did you see the car next to us?" he asked.
Barlow blinked. "The one you couldn't take your eyes off of? Sure."
"Have I ever met the man who was driving it?"
Now Barlow gave him a look of utter disbelief. "Are you kidding? Of course not, unless he came to the opera some night. I can't remember every single face who passes through there."
"I didn't think so." Barry turned away, gazing out the window again.
Barlow threw up his hands in exasperation. "What's with you?! It was just some strange guy."
"No." Barry continued to stare outside. "He was much more than that."
****
The sharp jangling of the telephone roused Sean from a dead sleep. He groaned, rolling over to grope for the receiver on the nightstand. "Hello?" he mumbled into the nearest object. But the phone continued to ring. Muttering, he rose onto an elbow, squinting as he tried to adjust to the near-darkness. He had been talking into the banana he had left there to ripen. Setting it back down, he grabbed the real phone.
"Yeah, what is it?" he asked, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.
An angry voice snapped back at him. "Where's this month's rent?"
"Rent?!" Sean stared at the clock in disbelief. "It's almost midnight and you're calling to whine about rent?!"
"I'm balancing my checkbook and I just realized I still don't have your rent payment," his landlord retorted. "You promised you'd have it in by yesterday!"
"I'm working on it," Sean said. "I'm getting it together right now, in fact." Scraping it together was more like it. He really could not say when he would have the full amount. But he supposed he had better forget about having anything other than more Ramen for breakfast. The rest of his "spare" money would have to be added to the rent fund.
"You should have 'gotten it together' by yesterday," was the growled retort. "I'm nice enough to let you stay here for reduced payments. You'd better keep your end of the bargain."
"You'll have it in the morning," Sean said, even as his stomach began to sink. Where was he going to get the rest of the rent money by then? Singing on street corners would not net him enough to cover it.
"I'd better, or I just might lose patience and evict you for real," the landlord snapped.
"Oh have a heart," Sean said, his own patience beginning to give way. "When I've missed payments, I've always made it up to you, haven't I?"
For a moment there was silence on the other end of the line. "Yes," was the grumbled reply.
"Then quit worrying and bellyaching," Sean said. "You know I'm an honest guy."
"Just get the money." A click sounded in Sean's ears as the phone was hung up on the other end.
Sean winced, pulling the receiver away and replacing it in its cradle. "Talk about a burr in your blanket," he grumbled.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes as he laid back down. Oh well. He would get the money; he always did, somehow. Even while people around him had turned to crime out of desperation, he had stayed on the straight and narrow---and he was still getting by. He would figure out what kind of quick job he could do in the morning. There was no sense worrying about it now.
He pulled the pillow closer, soon drifting back to sleep.
****
"Ohayo! Ohayo! Ohayo!"
Scott started awake at the sound of the alarm, nearly tumbling over the side of the bed. At the last moment he caught himself, breathing heavily as he gripped the covers.
"I hate that thing," he mumbled, as it continued to incessantly wish him Good Morning in Japanese.
He slumped down, burying his face against the softness of the pillow. He had to be up for a nonstop flight back to the States and all he could think of was going back to sleep. He had scarcely finished packing up the dressing room last night before exhaustion had washed over him again, in spite of his vow not to return to slumber. He did not even remember the ride back to the hotel.
"Don't tell me I fell asleep in the car," he muttered as he pushed himself into a kneeling position. "Louie'd really get a kick out of that."
But unless he had developed short-term memory loss, that must have been exactly what had happened. And unless he had sleepwalked up to bed, Louie must have carried him.
An immense yawn tore free as he sat up, his blond curls bouncing with the motion. At least disturbing nightmares had been absent from his slumber this time. In fact, he could not recall dreaming about anything whatsoever. He had been altogether dead to the world.
A glance at the clock sent him scrambling out of bed and in the direction of the bathroom. He had to get ready now. He had forgotten to set the alarm to wake him up at the proper time to be ready for the long flight. If he was not downstairs in five minutes, he was going to be late.
He had packed up the rest of his belongings and was practically leaping into fresh clothes when Louie banged on the door.
"Scotty, we've gotta get out of here right now! Are you ready?"
Scott fought with his stubborn trousers, almost crashing onto the floor as the leg refused to straighten out. "I . . . I will be!" he called back, forcing his foot through the opening. "Just a minute. . . ." He pulled his pants on and grabbed his shirt, throwing it on and fumbling with the buttons with one hand while snatching his luggage with the other. Then he ran into the hall, gasping for breath.
Louie observed the kid's frazzled appearance for all of two seconds before hurrying to the stairs. "You forgot a button," he announced over his shoulder. "Your shirt's all crooked. Nevermind, you can fix it on the way!"
Scott jogged down the stairs, frustration building as one of his socks began to descend. He would have to fix it when they got to the shoe lockers. Maybe he could rebutton his shirt then, too.
"Crazy flight system we've got," Louie remarked as they reached the bottom and barreled towards the front desk. "The timezones really mess things up! We're catching a nine-thirty flight, but we'll arrive in New York around eight-thirty the same day! Who said you can't go back in time?"
Scott managed a chuckle. "Pretty crazy, alright," he agreed.
"And the jetlag! Oh Mama, as you'd say. We need several days just to get over that!"
As they arrived at the desk, Louie gestured to Scott to speak to the desk clerk. Louie did not know a "lick of Japanese," as he put it, so he had been having the very fluent Scott handle most of the communications. Still half-asleep, Scott talked to the clerk as the card keys were returned.
"I hope your stay has been pleasant," the man said.
"Oh, very," Scott said with a tired grin. "We'll be back next time, as usual."
With that he moved to follow Louie, who was already making his way to the genkan.
The harried manager was soon there and opening the shoe lockers, nearly throwing Scott's shoes at him as the blond arrived. Scott managed to catch them, setting them on the floor before pulling up his sock and stepping into them. He swayed, grabbing at the wall.
By now Louie was already rushing outside. Scott was forced to make a swift recovery. He snatched his luggage, hurrying after the older man.
Hopefully he would have a chance to sleep on the plane. In spite of the rush, he felt like a zombie.
. . . And why did the thought of zombies make him want to smile? He was not certainly not the first one to the TV on thriller night.
For as long as he could remember, the most random things could overwhelm him with strong feelings. Stuffy neighbors alternately annoyed and amused him. Detective movies made him sad, even if there was a happy ending. Thoughts of criminals running loose filled him with an unexplainable dread and a desire to stop them.
And under no circumstances would he ever, ever set foot in Charlestown, Massachusetts. The name alone put a dark feeling into his heart. It had baffled anyone he had known who had mentioned the historically important place. He would not even watch documentaries on the American Revolution when they showed or discussed Charlestown.
On the other hand, things like zombies, fedora hats, and fake snow made him go through a whole range of other emotions. Sometimes he was happy, other times bittersweet. Sometimes he felt such an intense longing for something he did not even understand that he wanted to reach into the nothingness and pull out what was haunting him---for it almost felt tangible.
And when he thought about it, he was anxious to get to New York for more reasons than one. Something was there for him in Manhattan, and not just the first part of his U.S. tour. He could sense it. Maybe he would find all of his answers there.
He had not mentioned this to Louie, nor did he intend to; while Louie genuinely cared about Scott, he thought the kid was a little kooky in the head sometimes. Scott's insistence that something was absent from the concerts was a sign of rabid perfectionism to Louie, whether or not it had any base in reality. He would just scoff at Scott's thoughts on New York, calling it idealism and insisting that he must just be excited for the tour. And Scott was, but that did not change the feeling that something far more important than a concert tour was waiting there.
What about the form he had cradled so lovingly in his dream? If that person was still alive, would he be in New York? Would Scott recognize him if he was?
He shook his head. Now he was really getting crazy. It was one thing to have intense feelings to believe in, but dreams? Let alone dreams that could not be true?
On the other hand, how did he know it could not be true? How could any of these things he sensed and felt be true? They looked impossible every way he tried to study them, but he could not deny his heart. It was too strong. Maybe the dream was not any more bizarre than these feelings.
"What is it?" he murmured aloud, gazing at the trees waving in the autumn wind. "Memories of another life I really lived? What happened to me that I'm not in it?"
And in this other life . . . was he as isolated as he felt here? He was grateful for Louie, who sometimes looked upon him almost as a surrogate son figure, but it was so hard for them to connect in a lot of ways. He could not help wishing that Louie would take him more seriously when he spoke of these strange and deep feelings. Most of the time he felt more detached from his manager than anything else.
On the other hand, he had come to feel that the person he had been with in his dream was someone to whom he had been very close. And whether or not they ever met again, he prayed that person was alive and safe.
"You okay, Scotty?"
He started. Louie was giving him a weird look as the rented limo pulled over to the curb.
"Oh . . . yeah, I'm fine," Scott said with a weak smile. "Just fine. . . ."
Louie shook his head. "Okay then. Get in. Time's a-wasting." He pulled open the door.
Scott sighed but climbed in, pulling his luggage with him. Louie followed suit, shutting the door after them.
Scott leaned back in the seat, watching Tokyo pass by outside the window. He could hardly wait to get through the long flight back. Then he would learn whether New York did hold the phantoms of this other life.
****
"No! No, Elliott, you have to stay awake! Elliott . . . please . . . don't go. Don't go! . . ."
Scott's eyes flew open. Once again he was breathing heavily, sweat trickling down his face.
But no one else on the airplane noticed. Louie was asleep in the seat next to him, while the other nearby passengers were involved in their own activities. Some were working on laptops, while others watched the in-flight movie and still others took naps of their own. Outside the window, clouds floated lazily through the sky.
Scott slumped back in the seat, running a hand through his bangs. "Elliott," he whispered. So now he had a name, though to whom it belonged was a mystery. Was it the man he had been holding in his other dream? Or was it someone else?
Would he ever know? Maybe it was too much to hope for that New York would have the answers. What if this Elliott had died? How would he ever find out?
He gripped the armrest. The very thought of this mysterious Elliott being dead twisted his heart and filled it with a profound anguish he could not explain. Elliott was alive. He had to believe that.
Otherwise, he was suddenly not sure how he would stand to keep sitting here for the rest of the flight. And it would be almost impossible to get past Louie if he wanted to pace up and down the aisle.
He turned, staring with blank eyes out the window at the peaceful clouds.
"People change," he sang to himself. "Every day . . ."
And he wished they didn't.
Then he would not have forgotten Elliott.