DISCLAIMER: The characters are the property of Bellasarius Productions, Vivendi and anyone else involved with Quantum Leap.
STREET KID
The leap was over. Time traveler Sam Beckett had completed his mission successfully. The car accident killing the family of four in the Black Hills had been averted. There was only one thing that seemed odd about it. Admiral Al Calavicci, his Observer from the future, usually hung around until he leaped out, but this time, Al was nowhere to be found. The blue glow of a leap surrounded Sam and he entered that unknown state for that unknown period of time. He finally landed at his next assignment and he had to smile.
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Sam liked to leap into kids. Their problems were usually not big deals, but just a little beyond the coping skills of a young person, so he really felt satisfied when solving a crisis with his adult thought processes. This was the first time he had leaped directly into school though. He was sitting in the back row of a classroom and by the look of the haircuts around him circa the early '50s. The children were 16 or 17 years old, all boys, all dressed in navy pants, white shirts and dark ties. The pretty nun writing at the blackboard clinched it for certain. This wasn't just a school. It was a Catholic boys' high school. He would really need Al this time. Dr. Sam Beckett had been raised farm belt Methodist, not urban Catholic like his best friend, Admiral Al Calavicci.
He glanced around the room at the other boys, most of whom were trying to understand the structure of the molecular compound the nun wrote on the board. On the far side of the room one boy was doodling. A tough looking little guy in the second row stared out the window paying absolutely no attention to the lecture or the teacher. Another boy in the seat next to Sam was barely awake. Sam was comforted in knowing if he got called on at least he'd know the answer. This was easy stuff for a five time PhD and MD. Now, if he only knew his name. The thought crossed his mind to check the inside of the book opened in front of him. Yep, there it was, Joseph O'Brien and an address somewhere in Manhattan, New York. The lovely angel-faced nun started asking questions, the kind of questions teenaged Sam Beckett loved to talk about, but he wasn't sure about Joseph, so when pretty Sister What-a-waste asked for responses, he didn't raise his hand. A few boys volunteered, but were wrong. The nun walked to the desk of the tough little guy. She put her hand on his shoulder. The kid didn't flinch. The rest of the class heard him sigh loudly in incredible and highly dramatic boredom. Sam wanted to laugh, but he kept quiet. The nun asked the boy, "Do you have an answer?"
The little guy in the second row turned slowly to face the board, rattling off the compound's properties in a dull, uninterested voice, but he was right and even went beyond the initial question, probably because he didn't hear the question. The other boys cringed in their seats letting Sam know that the smart-aleck was the class brain and obvious outsider. From the look of him, he probably skipped a year or two. Sam stopped in the middle of his thoughts, his mouth dropping open. It was the early '50s. This little grade-jumper was tough, smart, skinny, curly-haired and living in Manhattan. Sam spoke a little too loudly, "Oh, boy." The class laughed.
A crimson blush flooded Sam's face. The nun looked at him with daggers, "You have something to say, Joey?"
'No sister. He's right." The class laughed again.
"Damn right I am, but how would you know?" The boys all continued to laugh. The tough little guy turned around and glared at Sam. It was the Admiral, probably at age 13 or 14. It was a bit of a stretch to see the adult Al in this cherubic-faced boy, but it was him. How many times had Sam seen those eyes give him that same look?
The pretty nun stopped them all short, "Alberto, after school, the detention room." Al didn't respond in any way. It seemed this was not his first trip.
The half asleep boy next to Sam whispered, "Smart ass little dago is getting detention again."
The bell rang and the boys all stampeded out of the classroom. He watched as the little guy pushed his way through the other boys despite the fact they did their best to get in his way. Sam smiled and thought to himself, "This is a future astronaut?" He tried to catch up with Al. As he did, he said, "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything."
"So I get to stay after school. It's better than the orphanage," and he took off up a flight of stairs.
Al's comment made Sam's heart sink. He always had odd feelings about Al's childhood since his friend never brought it up on purpose. Then he suddenly realized he had to go to his next class and he didn't know what or where it was. A familiar whooshing sound made him turn. He figured the look on Al's face would be priceless. It probably would have been, except this guy was dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit with an appropriate regimental-striped tie.
In clipped English speech he began, "Good day, Sam. You're in St. Patrick's Catholic Preparatory School for Boys in Manhattan. It's Thursday, March 11, 1948. You leaped before your birth again. We still can't quite figure how you do that."
In a dazed voice, Sam flatly said, "Probably a result of the simo-leap."
The man continued, "Your name is Joseph O'Brien, but everyone calls you Joey. You're not exactly the big man on campus, but you're not at the bottom of the list either. That honor apparently goes to the little Italian boy in your class." Sam was just staring at him, "What's wrong?" Then the phrase finally hit him, "And what's a simo-leap?"
Sam paused and still staring he asked, "Who are you?"
"Oh, no. Not again? Your memory is scrambled eggs."
"Swiss cheese, not scrambled eggs." He wanted an answer, "Who are you?"
"Edward St. John V. Do you remember the Project?"
He had to think a second. "Yeah, usually, but I don't know you at all. Where's Al?"
Now it was St. John's turn to want answers rather than give them. "Who's Al?"
"The Project Administrator."
"I'm the administrator of Quantum Leap. I don't know any Al."
"The little Italian kid is Al."
"Right." Gazing into the handlink he stammered, "Alberto Michelangelo Calavikki. That is quite a remarkable name for such a little boy."
Using good Italian pronunciation and gesticulation, learned from Al, Sam corrected him, "Calaveechee. He's the real Project Administrator."
"The boy with the chip on his shoulder?" He punched a key or two and seemed surprised. "Hm, he'll be 14 in two months. Not a very big child."
Sam had no use for chitchat. "Listen to me. I don't know you. You're not the Project Administrator. Al Calavicci is. Now something had to have happened. I must be here to change something for Al so that he becomes the Project Administrator instead of you. What am I supposed to do to make this right?"
St. John was hurt and in no mood to discuss Al. "What are you talking about? I have been the Project Administrator since the very beginning. Now, you tell me you want to change the future so that I don't have a part in this?"
The man looked genuinely wounded. Sam didn't mean to minimize the man's commitment, but "You're not supposed to be here. I don't know you. I have never seen you before in my life."
"I'm not sure what to say, Samuel. I know we talked about the potential for something like this to occur, but I never thought it would. It's a bit disconcerting." St. John started playing with the handlink. "I'm going to go work on this with Alpha." The Imaging Chamber door opened and St. John began to disappear.
Sam called out, "Wait, what's up with Al?"
St. John's hand flew to his mouth in shock. "Oh my, how could I ignore the welfare of a child? I am so sorry." He sighed at his error. "Let me check." The handlink was accessed. "Dear me, he runs away from the orphanage where he lives. So far that's all I can find. I promise you, I'll work on getting more information. We never let children down, Sam. Never." St. John left Sam alone.
Sam knew that in his childhood Al had run away often, but something must be incredibly wrong if Sam was sent to help. The only words that came to him were, "Damn. Damn, Damn."
A priest replete in cassock touched his shoulder, "Joseph, why are you using that language?"
Looking into the old man's face Sam felt a chill. "I don't know, Father."
"Go to your next class, Mr. O'Brien."
"Yes, Father, but I don't know where my next class is."
"Open your notebook to your schedule and refresh your memory. Understood?"
"Yes, Father."
"See me after school in detention. Maybe you'll learn not to blaspheme."
"Detention? Me, sir?" Detention, thank God for bad language.
"Yes, sir. You." The priest made his way down the hall.
Sam was pretty happy about getting detention. It meant an opportunity to meet up with Al. He checked his notebook, found out he needed to go to English class in room 245. Looking up at the door nearest him he saw number 247. "You lucked out, Beckett." and he ran to the next door down, slipped into class and then realized he didn't know where to sit. "Oh, boy."
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Thirteen-year-old Al Calavicci already had a harder life than people three, four, five times his age. He knew anger and heartache from his earliest days. He and his sister Trudy lived with their parents in Manhattan's Little Italy. He loved his sister more than life and fought his fair share of fights defending her. Unlike her brilliant older brother Trudy was born with Down syndrome. Al's father wanted to keep Trudy at home with the family. Al wanted that too, but his mother had a hard time dealing with this imperfect reflection of herself.
The night his mother ran off with another man was permanently etched in Al's memory. He pleaded with his mother to stay, but the words of the seven-year-old didn't hold much stock and in the heat of a New York summer, she left him alone with Trudy. Their father, as usual, was out of town on a construction job.
Six days later, when Vincenzo Calavicci returned, he found his home clean and neat and his wife gone. Al and Trudy barely survived on the little food their mother purchased before she left. Big brother "Allie" fed his sister, bathed and toileted her, dressed her, read to her, held her when she cried for her mommy and waited until she was asleep before he permitted his own tears to fall.
Vince tried to provide a home for his two special children, but he was not used to being a father. When an extraordinary offer for work in the Middle East turned up, he thought he was doing his kids a favor by leaving them behind, but what little extended family they had was unwilling to take a troublesome pair like Trudy and Al, "a retard and a smart mouth." There was no other choice in Vince's mind. The job was not going to wait and he had to go. That meant placing his children in St. Paul's Home for Orphans.
Al remembered packing his and Trudy's belongings into two small cases. Not even one of their few toys was allowed, just articles of clothing. Al insisted on carrying the cases himself. The betrayal he felt with his father's decision was too great. Despite hours of explanations, he couldn't understand why his father was leaving them again. With too much maturity for one at his tender young age, Al promised Trudy he'd never leave her. Their parents might not care, but he did. Vincenzo told his son not to cry and he didn't. The boy figured he cried enough when his mother left.
His father promised that life would get better, but just like outside the orphanage walls, Trudy was ridiculed and made the butt of ugly practical jokes. Three weeks after they arrived at the orphanage he and Trudy experienced, for the first time, the monthly parade of prospective adoptive parents. Despite Al's outrage, Trudy was locked in the basement so no one would see "the dummy." Al waited until the reception area was filled with visitors and then beat on the bolted door leading downstairs and screamed "Let my sister out! Let her out!" Al was dragged out of the room kicking and still screaming. The entire scene was an embarrassment Mother Theodora never forgot or forgave. When the couples left, Trudy and Al both were locked in the basement for 24 hours without meals. It was a childhood humiliation that helped create a very angry man.
Three long years later, Al's father returned to New York and tried to reestablish a home for his family. A new house was bought, their new castle, but it was a castle in the air. A fast, aggressive, incurable cancer quickly killed their dream. Vince died and his children were again given over to a system that paid only lip service to caring.
When they reached the orphanage, Al was completely unprepared. Trudy was going to Willowbrook Institution for the Mentally Ill. Al knew his sister couldn't live a happy life without him and he had promised never to leave her, but now that promise was about to be broken, "No! Don't take her from me! I'll go with her! She needs me!"
Al's sister cried for her only friend. "Trudy want Allie! Allie no go!" Her anguish tore Al's big brother heart into pieces that would never fully heal and Trudy was dragged off screaming his name. It was a torment Al had nightmares about for years.
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Sam got through English. He hated diagramming sentences when he was a kid and as it turned out, he still hated it. The bell rang announcing his freedom and his final class of the day, gym. He was ready to play and this was ideal. Chuckie Lynch, in great perplexity, told him where the gym was located and Sam happily made his way down the steps and the long corridor to the locker room. Finding his name taped on the outside of his locker helped, but the combination on the small door had him stymied. There was no way he could get in. He was staring at the lock when Al entered. "Close your mouth, O'Brien. You look like a damned guppy."
He had to play the role, so he said, "What's your problem?"
"You! Forget your combination again?" Sam looked sheepish. "14 left, 25 right, 6 left."
Sam followed the instructions and the lock popped open, "How did you know?"
"You're the one who started calling me Al the Pick."
Sam cringed and whispered, "Sorry."
He, Al and the other boys dressed for gym. Finally Sam got a chance to see himself in a mirror. Joey O'Brien was an average looking kid with kind of a sweet face. He stood out in only one respect. He was big, not fat, but tall and husky, the kind of kid high school football coaches love.
Today's activity was gymnastics. Sam had always been good at team sports, basketball and baseball especially. The individual sports were less successful for him and this boy whom he inhabited was not particularly built for high bar routines.
The boys flew to the equipment with the trampoline being the favorite. Al moved toward the horse. Sam thought, "Figures. The hardest apparatus to work." The coach blew his whistle and the boys gathered around him, all except Al who still moved toward the horse. He stood next to it and listened from afar. The boys got their assignments. Sam was smiling. Joey was assigned to Al's group.
Sam watched his best friend and just like chemistry class, this was Al's domain. Sam watched him mount the horse and do a routine the older boys couldn't compete with. Al moved onto the bar, the rings, then the trampoline and finally tumbling. Sam was amazed at his grace. The rest of the class was merely annoyed, but Al focused so intently on mastering the art that their sneers weren't even noticed. Sam was seeing in this teen young an excellent mind, uncanny concentration and the survival skills he'd need 15 years down the line when viciously incarcerated for eight years in Vietnam.
Another bell and the end of the day came with the memory that he had detention. Sam showered, watched as the older boys either ignored the future astronaut or made bullying remarks. If they only knew what the kid was going to accomplish. Al paid no notice to any of them. He simply showered, dressed and made his way out of the locker room. Sam called to him, "Hey, Alberto, wait up." He ran to Al's side, "I got detention, too."
They walked together in silence. Al finally mumbled, "Don't call me Alberto."
"Okay, if you say so."
Another minute passed, "So, O'Brien, what did they get you for?"
Sam grinned, "Blaspheming." He saw the left corner of Al's mouth turn up, a typical Al smile, so he went on, "I said 'damn' and Father Somebody got all bent out of shape."
"They're always bent out of shape. I think it's the dresses" Al opened a classroom door, went in and Sam shadowed him, sitting down in the desk next to Al's. Six other boys were already there and scattered throughout the room. Al looked annoyed, "You following me?"
Sam shook his head, "No. I just don't like detention too much."
"You're not supposed to like it." Al had the same sarcastic tone in this voice that Sam had heard how many times before. "It's detention, stupid."
They sat there for half an hour. The purpose was supposedly to make the boys study, but Sam kept glancing at Al's paper. He was drawing and to Sam's increasing wonderment he discovered Al's talent for art. That was something he'd completely forgotten.
The 30 minutes flew by and the prisoners were released. "Hey, Al. Got a second?"
"For what?"
"I'll walk home with you." Al just grunted. Sam kept up the conversation, "I saw what you were drawing." There was no response. "It looked cool. What was it?"
Young Al didn't know what to make of this boy who had suddenly befriended him. It had been a long time since any of the boys sought his company. Joey was an okay kid. Not the brightest guy, but few, if any, at the school were actually in his league. He wouldn't trust Joey, but talking might be okay. "It was a set design."
Sam was clueless. "What's that?"
Al looked at him with the same look he used when Sam said something really dumb. "When you do a play, you have to make a set. I draw sets."
"For whom?"
"Whom? You're using the English language correctly. What happened?"
"We had to diagram sentences today. I guess it's a holdover." Sam wanted to know more about the set designs. "Was that for a real show?"
"I just do them to waste time." He squinted at Joey. "Why the sudden interest in theater? You haven't worked on any of the school plays."
"You do?" Sam was surprised to hear that young Al was involved in any extra curricular activities.
"Geez, do you pay attention to anything other than hockey? Yeah, I did the stage design for 12 Angry Men last year. The lighting was mine, too."
"Sounds like you like the theater a lot. Ever think of going into acting?"
With a candor that surprised himself, Al admitted his love of the theater. "Sometimes. I think it could be okay."
"You know, I was thinking."
Smart aleck Al was back. "How did it feel?"
"Ha-ha. Come on, Al. I want to ask you a favor." The boy raised his eyebrows in a typically older Al fashion and Sam continued, "You're real smart in chemistry. I'm not. Would you help me study, you know, after school?"
"You want help in chemistry? Bill Mason is good in chemistry, almost good as me and I thought he was your friend."
Thinking fast was getting to be old hat for Sam. He immediately came out with, "Well, see, that's part of it. I don't want him to think I'm stupid."
The cynical throaty laugh Sam heard so often was already there. Al shook his head. "I got to tell you, if you're seen with me, you'll be called worse things than stupid. Hanging around the runt, wop bastard isn't the best move for your class standing."
Sam's heart melted for this young boy. His own teen years were incredibly easy considering his genius lQ and having to deal with his brother's death, but Tom didn't die. Al gave up five years of freedom to save him. If Al didn't become project director, Tom would be dead again. The complete ramifications of this leap were just beginning to sink in. It wasn't only Al being changed. It was every leap Sam had ever taken. St. John was a good person, but he wasn't the same kind of man. He turned to his future friend, "Listen, I want to get to know you better."
There was nothing in their history that would have made Joey want to be with him. Al had to ask, "Why?"
"Because I think . . ." He paused to try and come up with a plausible answer and then decided on the truth, "Someday you're going to be important and I want to be able to say I knew you when we were kids."
"Einstein says, 'Imagination is more important than intelligence.' I got to say that if you think I'm going to be important, then you got the imagination stuff down cold."
"I'm serious. There's something about you that's special."
Now he really thought O'Brien was yanking his chain. "Get lost, Joey." Al ran out the school's main entrance and continued running in the steady gait Sam found familiar, but at this particular time, strangely uncomforting. Al was going to run away. He wanted more information and the only person who could give it to him was Edward St. John V.
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