(no subject)
It had taken him a couple of months, but when Sam Clay had turned in for the night on Thursday the 29th of January in what was apparently the year 2009, he'd found himself feeling pretty good about the turn his life had taken lately. Sure, he might have been sleeping on what was not so much a bed as a crudely sewn-together sheet stuffed with dried grass, in a hut that didn't contain a whole lot else, but why focus on the negatives? Besides indoor plumbing and hot water - which, in the best of cases, had only ever been intermittent anyway - it wasn't like the Chelsea Rathole'd had much to recommend it over this. And he had the basics covered, anyway: clothes stacked neatly in one corner, books in another - mostly respectable, though there was a pulp or two mixed in there too; no sense in letting the business get away from you, even if you'd found yourself on a semi-permanent tropical break. He had paper and pens enough to last for weeks, and felt sure that his inspiration to write would be returning any day; the bookshelf had even, a few weeks ago, been generous enough to produce a whole handful of original Escapist comics. There wasn't much point in keeping them to read - the interiors were, by now, as familiar to him as the stories his mother had told to put him to sleep as a kid - but he'd cut the covers off carefully, one by one, and they were tacked up on one wall, serving as close as he could get to a little window back home. The first issue, Joe's cover that had likely been responsible for all their future success, with the Escapist delivering a solid roundhouse to the jaw of none other than Adolf Hitler himself, was central among them, and it was that image that lingered in Sammy's mind after he'd shut his eyes.
Light streaming into the hut the next morning woke Sammy, and he'd gotten all the way up from the mattress, stretching stiff legs gingerly before he'd realized that something was different. Against the wall, where there'd been a whole lot of nothing the night before, now stood a brand new, top of the line Capehart Panamuse phonograph. Next to it was a rack that held a collection of records that, at first glance, looked like it rivaled the one he'd had at home in size. He did a literal doubletake, unable to believe at first that it wasn't a trick of the light or his own wishful thinking; it wasn't until he set his hands on the lid that he began to really believe that it was here, and real. Didn't help explain why it had shown up, of course, but when he found the tag with his name on it he started to grin.
The records it came with looked like they included all of his old favorites, as well as some that he'd never heard before - some, even, that hadn't been published yet when he'd been whisked out of the real world. He picked out a big band swing album, the kind of music he'd been missing bitterly ever since he left New York, and set it on the turntable with all the care of a new father touching his infant son for the first time. Then he turned the volume up and stepped outside his hut, lighting his morning cigarette and listening to the gorgeous tones of the Capehart echo against the trees. Yeah, this whole scene was definitely starting to look up.
[Find Sammy inside or outside his hut at any time of day listening to his new phonograph - he's not going anywhere anytime soon. The records are mostly big band, swing and jazz from the 30's and 40's; if there's anything in particular you'd like him to be listening to, feel free. It's an amazing time to meet him, and he definitely needs to get to know some more faces! ST/LT a-ok. Replies will be ST until I'm off work, but after that I'll be around all night.]
Light streaming into the hut the next morning woke Sammy, and he'd gotten all the way up from the mattress, stretching stiff legs gingerly before he'd realized that something was different. Against the wall, where there'd been a whole lot of nothing the night before, now stood a brand new, top of the line Capehart Panamuse phonograph. Next to it was a rack that held a collection of records that, at first glance, looked like it rivaled the one he'd had at home in size. He did a literal doubletake, unable to believe at first that it wasn't a trick of the light or his own wishful thinking; it wasn't until he set his hands on the lid that he began to really believe that it was here, and real. Didn't help explain why it had shown up, of course, but when he found the tag with his name on it he started to grin.
The records it came with looked like they included all of his old favorites, as well as some that he'd never heard before - some, even, that hadn't been published yet when he'd been whisked out of the real world. He picked out a big band swing album, the kind of music he'd been missing bitterly ever since he left New York, and set it on the turntable with all the care of a new father touching his infant son for the first time. Then he turned the volume up and stepped outside his hut, lighting his morning cigarette and listening to the gorgeous tones of the Capehart echo against the trees. Yeah, this whole scene was definitely starting to look up.
[Find Sammy inside or outside his hut at any time of day listening to his new phonograph - he's not going anywhere anytime soon. The records are mostly big band, swing and jazz from the 30's and 40's; if there's anything in particular you'd like him to be listening to, feel free. It's an amazing time to meet him, and he definitely needs to get to know some more faces! ST/LT a-ok. Replies will be ST until I'm off work, but after that I'll be around all night.]