Snow Job

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was written as part of a raffle prize for the people made donations to CancerCare in honor of Dean Stockwell's 70th birthday. Five hundred dollars was collected. This donation helps sustain this worthwhile organization that provides online support to cancer patients and their families. Congratulations to the winner whose generosity allows me to publish Snow Job here.While written as a raffle prize, the story was inspired by an overnight stay made by the author and a traveling companion. Some of what you will read isn't that far from the truth.

SPECIAL THANKS - The story was inspired by an overnight stay made by the author and a traveling companion, "the brunette in Delaware" whose "whimsical" sense of humor created many a scenario in this story.

DISCLAIMER: This Quantum Leap™ story utilizes characters that are copyright © by Bellasarius Productions and Universal Studios. No infringement on their respective copyrights are intended by the author in any way, shape or form. This fan fiction story is written solely for the entertainment of the readers and are not for profit. All fiction, plots, and original characters are the sole creations of the author.

Part One

There's snow and then there's snow. The difference being that the first is a delicate white dusting of picaresque scenery where you sit inside by a warm fire looking out through a huge window at tiny flakes dancing on branches of winter willow trees. Then there's the kind of snow that when you're driving makes seeing your hood ornament impossible. They were thick in the middle of that kind of snow. Not only was snow falling faster than the stock market in '29, they were on a two lane back road in the middle of Indiana farmland. It was the snowstorm of the century and it was only 1988.

Neither one could see a thing. The older man sat in the passenger seat, shook his head at his friend and growled, "Admit it, would you? Sam Beckett, boy genius, screwed up big time. We've been driving for nearly four hours now. We are miles from South Bufu and it's your fault. Thank God we ate lunch before we left."

Six time PhD, MD and Nobel Prize winner Sam Beckett grew up in Indiana. He knew how to drive in snow. "We're fine. You just don't understand lake effect snows."

"What's to understand? Lakes have water. Cold air turns water to snow. Problem isn't the snow. It's you thinking you can drive when you can't see ten feet in front of you."

There really wasn't any legitimate argument to fall back on. Admiral Albert Calavicci was right and Sam didn't like being wrong. He especially didn't like it when he made huge stupid mistakes. Leaving his cousin's campgrounds when the weather reports predicted record setting snows in the middle of the Snow Belt was stupid. Bragging that he could drive in any kind of snow storm was stupid. Turning off the main highway was way stupid and ending up being completely lost was the most stupid of all. "Al, I know it looks like we're in trouble here, but we'll be fine. Just give me a few more minutes to get us back on 80 and we'll be in Chicago in three hours." Then it occurred to him to ask, "Where is South Bufu?"

A grumbled, impatient snarl sounded out, "Below the belt."

It made no sense to Dr. Beckett. He looked over at his passenger in order to placate the admiral's frazzling nerves. Squinting out the front window Al suddenly pointed like an Airedale spotting a duck. "Look out!" Through the thick snow, Sam saw the front headlights of a farm truck barreling toward them. He swerved to avoid a head-on and managed to keep control of the rental car as it spun against the draw of the passing truck. With a ka-chunk, ka-chunk and a final hiss, the car came to a stop. Sam wasn't sure which direction they were aimed. "God, that was close."

The little Admiral was ready to blow a gasket. "You think so? Listen, buddy, you find some place for us to wait out this wonderful Midwestern weather so we can get to Chicago in something other than body bags."

There was no sense in arguing. Al was absolutely right. It was time to suck it up and own responsibility for their near miss. "Okay, okay. Let me get out and see if I can find any markers around here. I'm not sure where we are."

"Lovely." Al stared at the younger man who just seemed to be staring back. "What? You think I'm going with you? Nice try, Beckett. I don't know anything about Indiana except that it's east of Illinois and west of Ohio. You want to find markers? Then go find them. I'm waiting here."

Sam muttered something best left unheard by the former astronaut. Opening the door was hard and it slammed shut against the wind and pelting snows. Walking away from the car was grueling and Sam had to hold onto his buttoned coat. Considering the direction the wind blew Sam figured the car pointed west. He made his way toward what he thought was the shoulder of the road. Snow came up to his knees and at 6'1" he knew that was way too much snow to keep driving in. He hated when Al was right about his silly mistakes. There was too much snow to keep going and before he completely separated himself from the car, he decided to turn back. As he looked behind, he saw a small sign half buried in a snow bank. When he got close enough to read it, he was both elated and deflated. There was a motel a quarter of a mile farther west. Unfortunately, it was the French Lick Motel and Lodge. They were nowhere near French Lick, Indiana so he knew there was only one reason to assume the name and his lothario companion was going to have a field day. Bottom line - they needed shelter and if it was going to be in the French Lick Motel, then so be it.

When he got back in the car, Al was blowing warm breath on his gloved hands. "You find anything, Sir Edmund?"

The reference to Sir Edmund Hillary was enough of a dig to put Sam over the edge. "You know, I could have just walked away. Pretended I got lost and left you out here to freeze to death."

"Now, there's a threat." Al knew Sam would no more desert him than he would desert his own mother. They were friends beyond even their own understanding; brothers of the mind, of the heart, of the soul who could not be more dissimilar if they tried to be. Despite a childhood of poverty, want and abandonment, Al Calavicci grew up to be a true American hero. After a life of flying airplanes and space ships, he had enough. Concentrating on his interest in quantum mechanics, he hooked up with a kid, a kid who was so wet behind the ears he still looked bug-eyed at things he thought were neat.

Sam Beckett grew up on a dairy farm in central Indiana. A life filled with opportunity for success was his from the moment of his birth. Meeting up with the admiral didn't start joyfully. Sam had to sew stitches into Al's knuckles after the older man was pulled away from a fight with a broken vending machine. Neither one decided to befriend the other. It was just something cooked up by the gods and ultimately fulfilled by the fates. There was no doubt to anyone that Sam and Al were brothers willing to go to the wall for each other, but now they were out in the middle of a place Al not-so-lovingly called South Bufu and Sam was going to pay for his error for a long time, a very, very long time.

The car decided not to cooperate. The spinout screwed up something in the engine and with a blizzard surrounding them, there was no way to diagnose and fix it. Sam also knew that car engines were not his territory. The quantum physicist could do basic stuff, but when it came to engines, the admiral was the genius with wheels or wings. He could make almost any broken mechanical thing work again.

Sam didn't want to give voice to the next leg of their journey. After heaving a sigh just a little louder than the wind outside, he looked over and offered the obvious, "The car won't start."

"Good observation, Sherlock. What does that mean for me?" Sam's eyebrows raised and turned the 35-year-old face into a pre-teen whose dog really did eat his homework. Al stared into the innocent mug and chewed on the end of an unlit Chivello cigar. "There's no way to fix this car out here." Sam's face morphed into a Bassett Hound puppy. "No, no, no. I'm not walking in this stuff. It's got to be 10 degrees out there!"

"It's about 25 and it's not that far a walk, only a quarter of a mile. It's longer than that from your office to the Imaging Chamber at the Project."

"Yeah, but that's all indoors and climate controlled." He had to look out the window. "Put away the face, Sam. You know you always get me with that face."

Sam forgot that the innocent thing got to Al every time. Time to play it up. "There's nothing else to do. We won't miss the motel if we stay on the road."

The wind decided to kick up a few notches and whistle through the rented car's windows. "Good grief. I never liked forced marches, but at least we did them in Florida." The edge of Sam's smile turned down dropping the last straw. "Don't do that, Sam!" Al buttoned the top button of his calf-length camelhair coat, pulled his fedora down, tucked his gloves into his sleeves, pulled on the door handle and pushed. Then he pushed again, and again. The door wouldn't budge. "This is good. There's too much snow for me to open the door."

It took a bit of work, but Sam was able to push open his door. "Wow, in a few more minutes, we would be stuck in here. Climb over to this side." If looks could kill, his eyes were daggers, steam spewed from his ears - pick a cliché. Al's blood pressure made his face redder than the cold was going to make his nose.

Sam squeezed through the small opening between the car and the drifting snow. "It's only two blocks, Al. You can do it. You're a big boy now."

Bucket seats with an automatic on the floor are a pain in the ass to crawl over in winter clothes. The only thing going for the admiral was his size. Being small paid off on occasions. It didn't take long and wasn't as complicated as he thought it was going to be, but he still wasn't letting Sam off the hook. "Yeah, well don't forget we have luggage to cart along with us." Al found himself outside in the blizzard. "Swell, just swell. Open the trunk, Nanook."

Sam made his way to the back end of the car. "Why are we hauling luggage? We'll only be here a few hours."

Following in his friend's footsteps, Al found his duffel in the trunk and threw it into Sam's hands. "Hold onto this for a minute." The garment bag was still inside the trunk. He opened it and pulled out a pair of jeans. After taking his duffel bag back, he rolled up the jeans and stuffed them inside along with some sweats and a robe. Low mumbles cut through the whipping winds. "Damn motel better have an iron." Moving aside he said, "Get your stuff."

He looked at the admiral quizzically. "We'll be back on the road in a few hours."

The duffel bag handles were thrown over his shoulders like a backpack. "Then you can point your finger at me and laugh." The unwieldy bag was adjusted to as good as it gets and Al waited. "You're not taking anything?"

"No need to. We are just getting inside to be warm and if we don't start walking soon, warm is something we won't know for a very long time." Adding punctuation to his statement, Sam slammed down the trunk. "Ready?"

Finally, the admiral smiled. He knew Sam was trying to appear in control. The situation turned into a game and Al was getting ready to win. "Okay, do what you want. You move out first. I'll be right behind you."

"Behind me?"

"Yeah, you're bigger than I am. You'll get through the snow easier. I'll be right on your ass, so move before the snow reaches parts that I'd rather not get frozen."

Sam started to laugh. Al could almost always get him to laugh. He lifted up his size 12 boot and started trudging along the edge of the road making their pilgrimage to the French Lick Motel.

It took them nearly an hour to get the quarter mile to the rundown housing. A flickering purple neon sign with a few lights out welcomed their arrival at the French Lick Motel. It was even worse than Sam imagined and a whole lot better than some places Al had seen in his younger days. The Admiral started giggling. Exhaustion and the absolute ridiculousness of the sign had him out and out laughing in only a few seconds. Seems that a series of neon tubes had burned out and fluorescent pink color flashed Lick Me and Lodge. "So, we're staying at Lick Me and Lodge? You didn't bother to tell me this, Sam. This is choice."

The stories were going to be expanded upon until the plight of the two travelers would become a work of fiction worthy of John Irving with illustrations by Salvador Dali. "This is the French Lick Motel."

"And that makes it better?" The laughter got bigger and bigger. If he wasn't sure of burying himself in the drifts, Al could have doubled over. "You are some piece of work, Beckett." He walked past his friend toward what appeared to be the check-in.

The French Lick Motel looked like it had never been new. Dilapidation was obvious even through the mists of falling snow. The office was at the end of the single story, oddly blue structure. A faint yellowish light filtered through a window frosted over like a Christmas card. Separating the office from the rooms was a covered walkway containing two vending machines. Past the machines were doors to three rooms and that was it. To the side was a parking lot far too large for the number of available rooms. The French Lick Motel was not a destination for families making their way cross country. This was a by-the-hour motel for truckers wanting a little exercise.

Al knew Sam was mortified. The Midwestern morals the scientist grew up with cringed at the kind of place he was going to be entering. Al's own values were less Puritanical and if pushed, he would admit to encountering similar establishments at various, more randy times in his life. After staring at the door for a few moments, Sam took the plunge and stepped toward the entry. He had to work at pulling open the screen door and he was grateful to see the ragged wooden door behind it pushed into the room. Once inside, they looked around for some sign of life.

Yellow light was produced by two bare bug lights bulbs above the check-in. Al walked around staring at the dirty walls and the one chair against the back wall. A milk crate turned upside down had two dog-eared Car and Driver magazines from 1956 laying on it. The Admiral picked one up. "Hey, a classic! I think I'd actually like to read this." He tried to thumb through the pages, "If I could unstick the pages." With a bit of disgust he tossed the magazine down. "I don't even want to imagine what that goo might be. Glad I still have my gloves on."

Sam was trying to see into a small back office hoping to find a caretaker. He called out. "Hello? Is anyone here?" No one answered so he tried again. "Hello?"

The admiral looked inside the wood-burning stove in the corner, saw the last of an ember die out, and had to laugh again. "Keep calling. Maybe Norman is in the back taking care of Mom." Coming at Sam with an invisible kitchen knife wrapped in his fist, he squealed, "Whee! Whee! Whee!"

"Al, stop that. You're creeping me out."

"Yeah, well, Hitchcock decided against this place because it was too nasty." A broom leaned against the wall. "Have a feeling that hasn't been used in, oh, maybe a decade." He pulled the duffel off his back and dropped it next to Sam. "Just sign the register and let's go." While Sam was signing in, Al walked behind the counter and found one key. "Looks like we're in room two. Hope our neighbors are quiet." Tossing the key at Sam he kept talking, "On the other hand, if the television isn't any good maybe a glass at the wall would be entertaining."

"I can't believe you said that."

"Sure you can." Al winked and held the door open. "After you, Bwana."

"You going to stop with the names?"

"What do you think?" Sam started toward him. "Don't forget my duffel, Norman."

As he picked up the duffel, Sam warned, "Just remember what Norman did."

The Admiral didn't turn around. He simply continued softly squealing, "Whee, whee, whee!"

The younger man knew he was in for some major teasing. There was little to do except tune out the admiral and start doing mental gymnastics about the computer they were building. In fact, involving his friend in some calculations for the Project might be the thing to while away the few hours he figured they would be stuck.

The screen door hadn't had any chance to close, so Sam pushed past his buddy and walked toward the rooms. Since the wind blew drifts against the front of the building, the snow was well over his knees. The sky had darkened and it was a good thing they weren't stranded in their car.

From behind him, Sam heard the admiral ask, "You think they have a good restaurant here?"

The physicist stopped in his tracks and turned to face the voice. "You have got to be kidding." One look at Al's face and he knew he'd been had. "Okay, okay, so you're kidding. Once we get inside I'll go check the vending machines."

The Admiral had another reason to laugh, "Beckett, you're so easy."

The key rattled in the lock and with a few adjustments of the doorknob, it finally slid the deadbolt. Sam was about to push when Al stopped him. "Wait! Get the snow from the door or it'll all spill inside." Without waiting for help, Al started pushing the drift away from the entrance. Sam was glad to see that his buddy wasn't going to be completely impossible, but then the night was young.

Sam tossed Al's duffel on the bed and turned on the light. The overhead lamp held another yellow bug light, but at least this one was inside some kind of sconce. The two men stood at the door and stared. One queen-sized bed pushed into the far corner. A small table by the front window held up a sad looking television whose rabbit ears were wrapped in crumpled aluminum foil so brittle it was cracking with age. Two folding chairs were closed up and leaning against the table. A patterned carpet hid a lot of whatever spilled on it over the past millennium. A night table next to the bed was beat up, but still managed to support a lamp, a clock and a book. Al had to see what it was. "Ah, Gideon has been here."

Sam stumbled forward, eyes wide open and scared to his bones. "There's only one bed."

With a saunter worthy of his upper hand Al slowly walked to the younger man's side, put his hand on Sam's shoulder quietly saying, "As a general rule, one bed is all you need." He paused before whispering directly into Sam's ear, "Unless you're menaging a trois. In that case a second bed makes for some interesting positions." Al took off his coat and cursed at how wet it was. "I love the scent of wet camelhair in the morning." He treaded with misgivings toward the far end of the room hoping against hope that he'd find a closet that actually held a hanger. "Hooks, nothing but hooks." Looking back at Sam he continued, "Hopefully there will be a towel or two in the bathroom that has been washed sometime this decade." With Sam waiting and watching him as if he were about to fly off to fight another war, Al disappeared into the abyss. It wasn't too much of a surprise when a yellow glow emanated from the bathroom. "More bug lights, Sam, but we have two towels and a rat trap."

"Rat trap? You mean a mouse trap."

Coming back into Sam's view, Al held up a trap bigger than the Gideon Bible. "Not unless the mouse weighs 18 pounds." He held it up higher. "The spring was sprung, but I don't smell dead animal carcass." Tossing into a waste basket, he joked, "I think we're safe. Looks like the rats moved out awhile ago." Without his coat, he was feeling chilled. "Find the heat. Turn it up high. It's freezing in here."

Sam found something passing for a space heater bolted to the wall by the window. He flipped every switch, but nothing happened. "I don't think it works." Now he had ammunition. "So, you think you can get this to work, Mr. Mechanical Genius?"

The challenge was presented and every so often, when someone challenges, you just have to take it up. Al sauntered to the window. Looked at the situation and shook his head. "You know, Sam, sometimes solutions are pretty complicated." He leaned down and grabbed at something. "And then there are times when solutions are pretty basic." The cord was held in Sam's view. "Plug the damn thing in."

The quantum physicist never looked for easy answers first. It was a personality trait he was trying to change. It always seemed to happen when Al was around and that was the worst possible place. The Admiral had a good memory and these little lapses came around to haunt Sam time after time.

Al took Sam's coat and slipped the chain inside the collar over one of the hooks. The towel was wrapped over the other hook and Al gently placed his coat on the padding. A stickler for the condition of his clothes, Al did not want hook marks in his expensive custom-tailored overcoat. The equally expensive fedora was placed on top of a rickety shelf.

The heater started throwing out warm air rattling like Sumo wrestlers facing off in a ring filled with bubble wrap. Incessant crackling was a bit upsetting, but at least warmth filled the room quickly.

Sam set up the folding chairs and sat down. "Well, this is just swell." As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he cringed. "You're not going to forget I said that, are you?"

"Nope." The older man plopped onto the bed and the sway almost threw him off. "Damn, this thing has seen more action than me."

It was Sam's turn to laugh. "That's a statistical impossibility."

Al stared off thinking a bit, "Maybe you're right."

Sam snapped his fingers and muttered, "Damn. I didn't bring my briefcase."

"It's not too long a walk back to the car. Shouldn't take you much more than two hours or so." A little too much smugness snuck into Al's comment.

Sam was about to toss something at the admiral, but there was nothing within reach. "What are we going to do here?"

"We're going to wait until the ski patrol digs us out."

"Yeah, but just waiting like this with nothing to do - I'm going to go crazy."

A thought of Vietnam flipped in and fled as quickly. "Einstein, consider the worst possible scenario. Let's say we're stuck here for five days. Five days isn't all that bad. You got a roof over your head. It's warm. There's running water and indoor plumbing. The most difficult thing we may confront is being hungry. I think we could both survive fasting for a week or more. Now, you think even with all that you'd still go crazy?"

It made sense, but that didn't matter. "Yes, I will and you'll be the one paying for it."

"I'm beginning to see that." Al sat up. "Okay, here's what you're going to do. Put on your coat and go back to that vending machine. Get all the food you can pay for and if you can't pay for any, break the damn glass and grab what you can. We'll pay for repairing the machine."

Sam started going through his pockets. "I don't know how much change I have. You got any?"

"I don't carry change."

As Sam started putting on his coat, he nodded, "That's right. Now, how did you put it? 'There should be only one bulge in a man's pants and it shouldn't jingle.'"

Al laughed. "It's true. You don't want women staring at your crotch because it rattles."

Turning to his friend and in his most Puritanical voice Sam spoke quietly, "No, Al, I don't want anyone staring at my crotch for any reason."

Tormenting the scientist would be great fun. "Kid, you got to get out of Indiana before you get to be an old man and the way you're thinking, that's going to be in about three weeks. Go get food and something to drink. I'm not sure I trust the tap water here."

Sam grumbled and bundled and got himself to the door of the room. "I'll be back." The door opened and snow pelted in. "If I'm not back in an hour, tell my mother I love her." He shut the door behind him leaving the admiral alone in the godforsaken French hell.