Author's note: In the pilot, Cameron says that she opened a bank account, back in 1963... well, it bugs me. Was the bank there in the first place? Where did the money come from? Who built the TDE in the vault? So many irrelevant questions trapped inside my head. This is the story of Cameron and her sidekick, John Reese (and it's a love story, of course.) Nothing fancy, nothing serious.
Summary: A girl from the future travels back in time to build a bank. To do that, she will need money, a crew and a faithful companion, John Reese. Prologue: 1954, which at some point is about a foot.
1963
A LOVE STORY
PROLOGUE
1954
WHICH AT SOME POINT IS ABOUT A FOOT
I could tell you about my privileged childhood but I certainly won't go into much detail. My father worked at the plant, he was an engineer for the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power (he made large amounts of dough) and my mom, she stayed home and she was perfect. I mean, she had a penchant for early morning daiquiris and gin and tonics, sure, but she was always classy, if not a bit disheveled. She'd take my brothers and I to the pier and buy us some bear claws and we'd eat them leaning against the weathered guardrail, watching the surfers below take on the waves. She was wild before the flowers and the acid, my mom.
She would remind me of her sometimes.
I met her in 1954. I was sixteen at the time and all made of stretched out limbs (I was too scrawny to have a chest of my own.) I'd grown six inches during the last summer and I must've been six-two or something. I was handsome, or so my mom would say, but I didn't get the matter of girls too hot. There was this gal I almost necked with in the back of my uncle's car but that was ages ago.
So when she looked at me with her doe eyes, all sweaty and messed-up hair, you could say that I was under her spell. And that's when the madman stuff began.
"Beat it, chief," he said.
He was something of a boar: three hundred pounds of cured ham, only with grizzly hair all over and a pair of black eyes that said, "I'm gonna rough you up, Mac." He was standing between me and a glazed shelf laden with a hundred bottles and flasks. Some were red and amber, others got a dead reptile resting lazily at the bottom and one was green - emerald even - and you could see the word "sinthe" on the piece of label that dangled wetly from the glass.
"I ain't chancing the fact that you got enough dough to afford our rates," Boar said, bored. Always talking about rates, Boar, always talking about dough. He was right though, I barely had enough money to ride the train back to school. "Did Frank let ya in again?" he grunted.
Frank was Boar's brother and he bounced at the entrance and he looked kinda boarish too. Frank liked me, you see. Well, he liked my mother. I mean, he liked her a lot. He was all head over heels for her, if that ever meant something. He used to do some roofing work in our lot in Anaheim and my mom would bring him lemonade on the hot days. It's a bit tragic, right? A girl brings you some piss-looking liquid and you say, howdy ma'am, and her dress is bit too tight that day and voilà, you're in love. So Frank, he let me in, told me to grab a seat, take a peek at the girls, and that Boar would fill my tumbler with anything I fancy. Thing is, Boar didn't fancy my mother and he certainly didn't fancy my face.
"I could tell you about my mom and your brother, how they met," I said. "Maybe you'd offer me some Southern Comfort then."
Boar crushed the butt of his Camel under a calloused thumb and puffed the last drag toward the ceiling then he leaned in to grab the golden railing running the bar's edge. He was taking his time, making a point. I usually hate bastards that do that. I was too yellow to mention it.
"Ain't no comfort coming your way," he said and was back under the counter, fumbling and cursing. "Off the stool, Johnny-boy. Go hit the sack," he called out from below. He was no rag chewer, Boar, but at least he was not a conceited sonuvabitch, like most people I know.
So I left the counter, a bit dejected, and I struck a match to light a cigarette. I was already halfway through my deck of Luckies. I'd tell myself I was a moderate smoker even though I'd smoke like a madman if my hands weren't busy with a highball (filled to the brim with some booze, preferably).
The Greyhound (mind the "e") was a small night club. It was a bit ugly and vomit-looking too. The wallpaper was a thing disembarked from the thirties or something, all made of blue and gold, ferns and peacock's feathers. Tables and chairs were scattered at random in the smoky room and there was no head-waiter, no one to tell you that you were underage. It was so poorly lit that you could've been six years old and order a Coke and whiskey. The downside was that you had to get through Boar to get a drink and you'd have an inkling by now that he was not the most permissive person in the world. He was running this two-man business with his brother and he was keeping close tabs.
I sat down at one of the tables. It was still early and the place was half-empty but I had to watch my watch, so to speak (I had to ride the train back to school and they'd stop running at some point, which was around two in the morning.) A couple was seated in front of me, sipping a dry martini and a whiskey sour. I leaned in and tried to listen to their conversation but they were not talking to each other, they were just watching the musicians on the small stage. The Greyhound had this stage installed against the far wall with a beat-up piano on it, some drums and an upright bass. The guy playing the upright bass was intense. I swear I'd never seen someone give the time to an upright bass like that (and it's a strange instrument to make love to.) The band was playing Sweet Georgia Brown and it was good enough in my opinion but certainly not the best I'd heard.
Boar would employ a few girls to keep the crowd entertained. They were dancing on the small stage, dressed in that shimmery, flesh-colored fabric, something that went quite high on their thighs and ended in lace. The first one was a colored girl and she was beautiful with her big brown eyes. She had legs that went up to Seattle and delicate ankles. The second one was a bit older but she was a fine-looking gal. She had that thin layer of sweat on her that I always find very appealing in a woman. They were dollies, for sure, hot mamas. But the third one, oh man. She was lost in it, eyes shut in bliss, her pouty lips slightly parted. She moved like an angel. Her hair was a complete mess and some wet strands were placated on her forehead. I found myself mesmerized, watching her twirl and swerve. At some point she half-opened her doe eyes and she looked at me as if she'd been waiting for me in that crumby place and that was it, she'd just put a spell on me.
And that's when the proverbial manure hit the fan.
The lights went out for a second and when the second generator kicked in, cops were gushing down the stairs, crowding the place. The band went on for a while before they noticed the cops and the song stopped erratically, one false note at a time. There was a lingering moment of incomprehension before chaos ensued. Everybody started to run someplace and I bolted out of my seat. We were all running for different reasons, I guess. That man, for not getting caught with his mistress. That fellow, over there, for carrying a concealed gun. Me, because my father would certainly kill me with a dulled spoon (I was supposed to be fast asleep at school.) I'd know later that Boar used to run a small business with the local Irish mob and that one of the mobsters had been caught during a hold-up and that he'd been quite chatty. One third of Boar's turnover was fraudulent but he'd serve youngsters like me and that was enough to appreciate him. I wasn't gonna stay and protect his hard-earned stash of smuggled gin and vermouth though. So long, my friend. In the growing mayhem, I found the stairs leading up to the street, but someone found me just before that. I was tackled and brought down to the floor by an unstoppable force. It felt like a bull had just run over me.
"Stay right here!" the cop grunted, puffing while he got back up. He was a big mustachioed man. He raised his baton, aiming for my belly… and then, a foot.
Well, not just a foot hanging there, midair (I'm not my aunt Annie, I don't see crazy things.) The foot was moving fast and it was beautiful, really. It had nice sinews, you know. The toes were small and painted red and they moved a bit slower than the foot itself so that they seemed to follow it unrelentingly, dragged in the wind. It's a strange thing to say about a foot but the main idea is that it was fine-looking. It was well above my league. My own right foot looked grotesque compared to it, all big and calloused. If they were to make feet-cubs together, it'd be one of those situations where you'd pray for them to look like their mama. I mean, look at my goddam foot! It could be in love with this fine-looking tootsie, it'd make no difference. The tootsie would go like, "Later, 'gator, see you under the bridge" and it'd be moving inexorably toward its destination, which was a head. And now you're thinking, that's horse manure, he's a crazy sonuvabitch. Just hear me out. The pretty foot, it connected with the pig's head so hard that inertia seemed lost between the various components of his face. His big mustache and nose remained where they were while the rest moved away at high speed and then the all picture turned red and the cop flew across the room and crashed into the upright bass on the stage.
The girl lowered her leg and pretty foot and she looked at me with her doe eyes and she said, "Come with me if you want to –" Two cops tackled her so hard that the three of them went through the counter in a hail of splinters. Boar cursed and tried to protect the glazed shelf with his shaggy body and limbs. That was my cue to skedaddle.
I ducked and doubled over and I ran, half-crouching, half-standing in the stairs, until I reached the entrance of the Greyhound with a bunch of other patrons. Once we'd made it to the street, we scattered like a flock of sparrows. I ran like a madman and I turned around when I got to the corner of the street. Frank was lying flat on his belly, a pig on his back, and I whispered below my breath, come on, man, show'em some action for Chrissake, but I know he'd been in the cooler already and that he was right to play along.
I sprinted away until my lungs felt like two sacks of fuming embers, then I told myself that I might look awfully distrustful, so I just walked at a brisk pace. My mind was boiling with a million things. The girl was probably public enemy number one by now but I was just a bystander, right? I'm a bystander, I repeated as a mantra, I'm a bystander. I'm clean.
The night was sultry and I was sweating bullets under my coat so I loosened my tie a bit and I strode, darting an occasional glance behind my shoulder. I arrived at the train station around midnight. The place was bereft of life, except for me, some kind of a big lizard on a wall, and a woman who'd rather side-saddle her luggage than sit on the bench. I paced the platform up and down, convinced that the mustachioed cop would soon appear at the top of the stairs to beat me with his truncheon and take me in. Some serious Damocles shit was looming overhead and I could feel it in my belly, my bowels tangled in knots.
The train slid like a snail on the tracks and came to a halt with a soft clang. I got in, found a non-suspicious seat (if such a thing exists) and waited for the boy with the cart so I could buy a coffee and a magazine or two. With all the stops, it was a two-hour trip from LA to my school in San Diego and normally I'd say I was in no hurry, but this very night, I was fidgeting like crazy. I was sleepy, too, like every time I was stressed out, and at some point I fell asleep, drooling against the window. I dreamed of sheets made of shiny, lacy fabrics, and I dreamed of her satin-smooth skin, and I felt a poke.
"Whaddayamean!" I yelped myself awake. I was being poked.
"Coat, gimme," a voice said.
I gave my coat to the voice and the poking stopped. My vision was all fuzzy and the little things were only starting to take shapes. The voice wrapped itself up in my coat and came to sit in front of me on the opposite seat. The boy wheeled the cart to us and asked if we wanted something so I paid for two coffees but she wouldn't take it. Yes, the voice was a she, a she-voice attached to a very beautiful she-face. Her hair was still a complete mess though.
"Thanks," she said.
"Thanks?"
"For the coat. Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
She cocked her head and said, "I am."
"What?"
"Mentioning it. I am."
"Yes… no. It's just a thing we say."
"Oh, thank you for explaining." Then, "Your time. The sixties. It's nice. You can dance."
What a strange thing to say. Right now she was little more than a small head protruding from an oversize coat. Her eyes were a bit wide and she was looking around like she was searching for something long-lost in the blurry landscape. I had a million questions for her, beginning with what in Jupiter's sphincter was she doing here on the train, but I wanted to play it casual, nonchalant.
"That cop you kicked," I said, "we could get into real trouble."
"Wanted to hit you."
"I know but… the cop hits you, you don't hit him back. It doesn't work the other way around, y'know? Well, pigs work that way."
"Pigs?"
"Pigs. Cops. Coppers. The Man."
"The Man."
"Yes, the Man. Big Brother's watching ya, all of that. Did they make you read that stuff at school? Boy, they did at ours and I just hated it. All that bolshie obsession."
She tiled her head again. "You are strange," she stated.
"Am I now?" I laughed. "You got a name?" I asked and she nodded. "What is it?" But she didn't answer. "I'm John," I said, coaxing her a bit. "John Reese."
"Like my John," she replied.
I didn't know what she meant by that. She was not making much sense, this girl, and I was under the impression that I was not making much sense to her either.
"Thanks, by the way," I said after a while. "For the cop, I mean." I didn't know how but she hadn't been hurt. Those two cops had played rugby with her starring as the ball. But she was peachy keen. The keen queen of peaches. So I asked, "You okay?"
She parted her lips slightly as if she was taken aback by the fact that I was asking if she was okay but she said nothing. She just nodded after a while and her hair gently wobbled around her pretty face. It's in that precise moment, I think, that I decided I was in love with her. Head over heels.
"You build stuff," she finally declared.
"Do… I?"
She nodded. "You can build stuff for me."
Boy, she was nuts. But I chuckled and said, "Maybe I will someday. I love to draw."
"Architect."
"That's right. Architect, maybe one day. If I stop flunking my classes."
"Military school," she said.
"What? No. Well, if that cop had caught me then my dad would've sent me, for sure."
She blinked slowly. "What year is it?"
"1954, silly."
She looked at her pale hand, counting her fingers, then she stuck her cheek against the window and stared at the sky.
"No stars," she said, "I made a mistake." She showed me her hand like she was disappointed to see only five fingers on it. "Seven years." Then she snapped upward, tightening my coat around her with one hand, and she grasped my tie firmly. "Military school. Architect. Will you remember?" she asked. She seemed coherent for the first time since we'd met.
"What?" I croaked. She was choking me.
"Military school. Architect," she repeated. "It's your fate, John Reese." And with that she ran toward the head car.
"Wait!" I gasped but she was already away.
I decided to stay put. I was waiting for her to come back. I mean, I was in love with her, she couldn't just be gone like that. When the train stopped at San Diego, I was feeling depressed and the boy with the cart came to me squealing and he handed me a tiny piece of paper.
"From the girl," he said and departed.
"Hey!" I called him back. "Where did she go?"
"She left the train at San Clemente to give someone a bell. Sorry, pal."
I looked down. Childishly written on the paper were the words: Good luck with the Man. I'll be back.
Then I saw them through the window: three cops, waiting for me. I found myself bolted to my seat, the searing feeling in my guts spreading to my legs. I recalled her words just before they entered my car.
It's your fate, John Reese.
Author's note: I guess you all know who the girl is. Why John Reese is named John Reese, however, will be revealed later... (I feel like it's not really a mystery, after all). Like I said, nothing fancy, but feel free to review.