DR. PORTER, I PRESUME?
A/N: One of Sam's many adventures that takes place during the Kennedy administration.
"It all started when a time-travel experiment I was conducting went a little ca-ca. In the blink of a cosmic clock, I went from quantum physicist to Air Force test pilot—which would've been fun, if I knew how to fly. Fortunately, I had help. An observer from the project named Al. Unfortunately, Al's a hologram, so all he can lend is moral support. Anyway, here I am, bouncing around in time, putting things right that once went wrong. A sort-of time-traveling Lone Ranger with Al as my Tonto. And I don't even need a mask. Oh, boy."
—Dr. Sam Beckett
April 22, 1962
It was just another typical day, and just another typical leap. For the umpteenth time, Sam was standing in the middle of a flashing swirl of blue lights. Not that he didn't like his job, but this was the one part he wished he didn't have to deal with. Why the hell did I agree to go to Woodstock? he thought in annoyance. Every time I go through this, I feel like I'm having an acid flashback.
The next thing Sam knew, he was standing beside a coffee pot with a cup of coffee in his hand. Right away, he knew something was up, because he didn't even like coffee. His philosophy on the matter was, how could something that smells so good taste so horrible?
"Hi, Travis," a short blond nurse smiled as she passed by him. And there was no mistaking the look in her eyes. She was hungry for love, and Sam was the main course.
"Travis?" he repeated to himself as he turned around and looked in the mirror. Staring back at him was a young man with reddish-brown hair, freckles, and was wearing a white lab coat, pale blue dress shirt, brown pants and shoes, and a dark red tie. "Oh, boy," he murmured. "I don't suppose I've leaped into Tony Dow or Ricky Nelson, did I?"
"Are you coming?" the nurse asked as she finished her coffee.
"Oh, yeah, I'll be right there," Sam answered.
"Don't take too long," she said as she threw her coffee cup away.
"I won't," Sam said. After she left, he turned back to the mirror and whispered, "Really, Ziggy, what is it with you and doctors? And if I didn't know any better, I'd think that nurse had the hots for me."
Just then, the portal door opened, and Al stepped out, looking like his usual smiling self, and wearing a red checkered dress shirt with dark blue jeans and beige leisure suit shoes. "Hi, Sam," he said, taking a puff on his always-handy cigar. "Boy, that nurse sure has the hots for you, doesn't she? I still remember the first time I fell for a nurse."
"Al..."
"I'd just woken up in a MASH unit near Ho Chi Minh City, and I could've sworn the first person I saw was Rita Moreno. Or at least somebody that looked like her. Or was it Marlo Thomas?"
"Al."
"No, it was one of my wives who looked like Marlo. I even bought her a hat like the one Marlo had for our first anniversary. Now that I think about it, that's a large part of the reason why she left me."
"All right, Al, who am I, and what's my mission?" Sam wanted to know. He was in no mood for jokes, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was avoiding an overly-aggressive nurse with the sex drive of a rabbit.
"Okay, let's see here," Al said as he put the cigar in his teeth and punched a few buttons on the handlink. "You are Travis Porter, late twenties, and it's April 22, 1962. And you're an intern at a hospital in Toledo, Ohio. According to Ziggy, you're supposed to help a six-year-old boy overcome his fear of needles."
"Okay, okay," Sam said. "I was kind of hoping I was playing a doctor on TV, but that doesn't sound too bad."
"Uh, Sam, you might want to rethink what you just said, especially after the last time you played a doctor on TV," Al reminded him. Judging from his tone of voice, he was clearly trying to forget about that crazed soap opera fan who wanted Sam to father her baby. Even though he was a hologram, it still took him some time to get over that one.
"Point taken," Sam agreed. "So, is there anything else I should know?"
"No, not at the moment," Al said. "Why don't you get back to work, and if Ziggy comes up with anything else, I'll let you know."
"Right."
"Oh, and watch out for that nurse. Ziggy says that her name is Jeanne Hopper, and she's forty years old. She's getting over a messy divorce, and is on the prowl."
"Gee, you don't say," Sam said sarcastically as he put his stethoscope across the back of his neck. As he threw his coffee cup away, he thought, I know every job has its downside, but this is ridiculous.
"Good of you to join us, Dr. Porter," a heavyset middle-aged Haitian woman said when he came out of the lounge. "Here's a patient for you."
"All right," Sam answered as he took the chart and went into the exam room in front of him. He was greeted by a short, thin brunette who looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties, and wearing a pink Jackie Kennedy-style dress and cat's-eye glasses. With her, sitting on the table, was a little boy who looked about six years old that had the same hair color as his mother, and was wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt and jeans.
"Hi, there," Sam said. "I'm Dr. Porter, and you must be..."
"Tommy Daniels," the mother said.
"You look like a Tommy to me," Sam commented as he put his stethoscope on and prepared to examine Tommy, which made the mother and son laugh.
As he finished, Al appeared beside him and whispered, "Good thinking, Sam. Travis told me that he uses humor to build rapport with his patients."
"Right," Sam whispered back, then turned back to Tommy and his mother. "Well, what do you say we take care of business?"
"No shots!" Tommy yelped. He jumped back and grabbed his mother's arm, almost piercing the skin with the grip he had on it.
Sam gave Mrs. Daniels a questioning look. "He's afraid of needles," she explained as Tommy buried his face into her shoulder.
"I see," Sam said. Then, turning back to Al, he whispered, "Great. So, just exactly how do you propose I pull this off?"
"Hey, don't look at me, pal," Al said defensively. "I don't give the assignments, I just..."
"Guide me (you) through them," the both said at the same time. Sam had heard that speech from Al too many times to count, and to put it bluntly, he was sick of it. Just once, he'd like to see Al get into one of the crazy situations he'd had to deal with.
"Look, if you'd rather fight off Miss I-Haven't-Had-Any-Since-Truman-Was-In-Office, be my guest," Al went on. "Besides, Ziggy says there's an 84% chance that she'll end up with somebody who works here, anyway."
"Forget it. I'm here to help little Tommy overcome his fear of needles, and that's what I'm going to do. And personally, I don't care if this nurse gets a date with the Surgeon General himself."
"Okay. Fine," Al said. "I'll just sit back and watch you with this kid. He's too old to see me, anyway."
"Good," Sam said, then turned his attention back to Tommy. "Well, I can help you with your fear of needles, if you'll do exactly as I say."
"What?" Tommy asked as another doctor came in and prepared the shot.
"Close your eyes," Sam instructed as he laid a hand on Tommy's shoulder. He reached into his pocket. "Okay, you can open them now."
When Tommy did, he saw the bottles of blowing bubbles in Sam's hand. And you should've seen the look on his face.
"I figured maybe this could help you take your mind off the shot," Sam said as he handed one to Tommy. "And you know, the best direction to blow them is toward the ceiling. When that light up there hits them, you can see all the colors of the rainbow."
"Cool!" Tommy exclaimed as he opened the bottle and started practicing. "Hey, he's right, Mom! Look!"
"Okay, Tommy," Sam said after a minute. "I hate to tell you this, but it's time for the shot now."
Tommy nodded, and kept blowing bubbles under his mother's impressed, watchful eye. Sam cleaned Tommy's left arm and very quickly gave the shot, then put a Band-Aid over it.
"Is that it?" Tommy asked. "Wow, I didn't feel anything."
"That's it," Sam told him. "Just remember to think about the bubbles the next time you get a shot. That's all there is to it."
"Okay," Tommy agreed.
After Sam came out of the exam room, Jeanne was there to meet him. "Hello," she said seductively, running her hand down his arm.
"Uh—Jeanne," he said. "I need to talk to you."
"Sure, what's up?" she asked as Sam motioned for her to follow him into the lounge.
"Well," Sam began, clearing his throat, "I don't know how else to say this, but I mean—well, I personally think you're a great nurse. We all do, but, uh—well, you see, the thing is..."
"Travis, did anyone ever tell you that you sound like Bobby Kennedy when you hesi-tate like that?" Jeanne asked.
Way to let her down gently, he thought in chagrin. This clearly wasn't going to work.
"Jeanne-I-don't-think-I'm-the-right-one-for-you," Sam blurted out. If beating around the bush wasn't going to cut it, this was the next best thing. And sure, he felt bad about hurting her feelings, but what choice did he have?
"Say that again?"
"I said, I'm not the right one for you," Sam repeated. "It's not that I don't like you as a person, because I do. It's just that—well, we don't have anything in common. Besides—and I'm sorry to be such a jerk by the way, but don't you think I'm a little young for you?"
Almost immediately, Sam realized that was the wrong thing to say, because Jeanne's facial expression went from aroused to puzzled to pissed. "You know, I wish I had a dollar for every time someone's ever made a stink about my age!" she snapped. "I'm well aware that I'm no spring chicken, but I sure as hell don't need to be reminded of it. Just looking in the mirror is enough of a reminder!"
"Jeanne, look..."
"Oh, save it!" she sharply cut him off. "I'm only forty, for crying out loud! And furthermore, I happen to think I deserve to be loveed after catching that pig of an ex-husband of mine doing it with our accountant in his study! But I guess a little compassion from my colleagues is too much to ask, right? Well, don't worry, because I'd much rather end up old and alone with seventeen cats than waste my time with a pencil-necked ass like you! And to be perfectly honest, Travis Porter, none of us nurses think your jokes are funny! GOOD-BYE!" And with that, she whirled around and stormed out of the lounge, slamming the door behind her.
For a minute or so, Sam just stood there at a complete loss for words. "Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Al asked as he appeared.
"Oh, shut up," Sam barked. The last thing he wanted was to hear Al's feeble attempt in lightening the burden he carried with each leap. And frankly, he just wanted to be left alone.
"Hey, whoa!" Al exclaimed. "What'd I do?"
Sighing, Sam flopped down on the couch. "I'm sorry, Al," he said, taking the stethoscope from around his neck, putting it in his lap, and sounding calmer than before. "I'm just having a hard time here. First, Jeanne's throwing herself at me, and after I turned her down, she practically turned into Joan Crawford."
"Well, on the upside, Tommy's no longer afraid of getting a shot, right?"
"Right."
"In fact, according to Ziggy, Tommy becomes a med student at this particular hospital in the fall of '78, and Travis is his mentor."
"Wow, really?"
"Uh-huh. As a matter of fact, Tommy's—or Tom, as he's now called—specialty is pediatrics."
All of a sudden, the lights on the handlink started lighting up like Atlantic City. This was clearly big news, judging by the look on Al's face. "Sam!" he said excitedly. "Ziggy's really impressed with your work this time!"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, remember when I said that Jeanne was going to meet someone who worked here?"
"Yeah,what about it?" Sam asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"Get ready for this: there's an orthopedic surgeon that's moving here from Portland and starting here tomorrow, Paul..." He smacked the side of the handlink with his hand "...Paul Norris. Yeah, Paul Norris. He's a widower with thirteen-year-old twins, Annie and Pat. And the best part is, Paul and Jeanne knew each other from college. Ohio State, to be exact."
"Do they end up getting married?" Sam asked. In the back of his mind, he hoped they would, so she wouldn't be chasing him for the rest of her life.
"Let's see," Al said as he pressed a few buttons on the handlink and gave it a little shake. "No, not right away. Ziggy says that's why her first marriage fell apart. But in a couple of years, they will. They happen to get engaged on the same day that JFK is assassinated, and their wedding is the exact same day that the Beatles came to America."
"Get out of here!" Sam marveled. "Really?"
"Yup," Al grinned. "Well, according to Ziggy, you're all done here."
You know what? Whoever invented the saying "a picture's worth a thousand words" clearly had the look of relief on Sam's face in mind when Al said that. In fact, Sam was so pumped, he actually jumped up with both fists in the air. "YEAH!" he shouted. And that's when the blue haze surrounded him, thus ending his mission in this time.
When the haze faded, Sam found himself sitting behind a dark brown oak desk, and there was a pocketwatch and buzzing intercom beside him. Right away, his first thought was that he was still Travis Porter, and it was now 1978, which meant that little Tommy Daniels was now the med student that Al had told him about. "Yes?" Sam said, pressing the intercom button.
"Dr. Ryland, your next patient is here," a bored-sounding woman's voice with a heavy Philadelphia accent answered. And let it be known that the intercom had clearly seen better days.
Dr. Ryland? Sam thought in surprise. He looked in a nearby mirror, and looking back at him was a middle-aged black man with a bushy beard and thick salt-and-pepper hair around the edges of his head.
"Oh, boy," he murmured. He was right about the decade, but wrong about the person, year, or location. At any rate, he had a very bad feeling about this leap. And it wasn't just because the Hair Club for Men hadn't been invented yet.
THE END