His research had shown that whiskey, gin and beer were the biggest sellers at prohibition speakeasies. He thought gin tasted like pine trees and he wasn’t a fan. The only beer he could see was in tin cans behind the bar.
“Whiskey,” Campbell replied.
Not knowing how much drinks went for and since the bartender didn’t say anything Campbell set a ten dollar bill on the table. The Bartender set down a glass half full of watered down whiskey, no ice. When he took a sip it tasted like gasoline smells and he had to force himself to keep a calm face not say, ‘my god that was disgusting.’
“Keep ‘em coming?” the man asked. Campbell nodded and the bartender walked over to the next new customer.
Campbell took a look around the room. A young dark haired man in a black suit had just sat down at a stool a few places over from him and a young couple were walking through the door. The men were all in suits, the girls in loose flowing dresses that hung to just below their knees and were very colorful.
He tried to zone in on a conversation between the bartender and the newcomer.
“Anyway,” the young man said as he set down his glass of gin, “This jalopy pulls up and out walks this guy, no, out stumbles this guy. He’s obviously loaded. And he walks right up to the copper and slurs, ‘excuse me sir, do you know where I could get a drink?’”
The two men laughed for a minute, and then the young man asked for another drink. He’d downed the first one in about three sips.
Campbell hung around for a while and had two more of the awful watered down whiskeys, listening to conversations. The bar was getting a lot busier as it got later into the night. Pretty soon there was a girl walking around with a tray selling packs of Camels and Lucky Strikes for a dime each. The band started up around eight o’clock and it didn’t take long for drunken girls to start dragging drunken guys onto the dance floor.
It wasn’t quite Swing dancing they were doing, but it was very energetic and Campbell was having a good time watching. A roulette wheel sat on one of the tables and a few people were gathered around playing. He decided to join in but as he was walking over the band stopped playing and the bartender yelled, “Shut it,” and the whole room went silent.
Someone walked over and put his ear against the door for a few minutes. Campbell felt his heart start to speed up and he got that queasy feeling in his stomach. There were cops outside and he was certain he was about to be caught breaking the law fifty years before he was born. There wasn’t anywhere he could run or hide. He could use the device and get out of there, but that wasn’t really feasible, not in this place. It gave him a little thrill.
He couldn’t tell what happened in the pet shop façade on the other side of the door, but it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes before the cops were gone. Either they were paid off or just couldn’t find anything, but almost immediately the band was playing again. He waited another ten minutes or so and finished his third drink before he decided to take off.
When Campbell got outside it was raining and he hailed a cab. He told the cabby to take him west and drop him off at the edge of town, which got him a curious look but he paid the man and he didn’t ask questions.
“Why not?” Mary McCormick asked with a bit of a pout.
“Because you’re a woman,” the soldier replied. He pulled the musket out of her hands and went back to cleaning the barrel. Mary reached out and tried to pull the musket back, but his grip was too strong.
“If we’re to go to war, then I ought to be able to shoot,” she said, struggling now with both hands to free the weapon from the soldier’s hands.
They were standing in the field just outside of the town limit, where a range had been set up. After news of the declaration got around every man in Boston grabbed his musket and set out to brush up on his marksmanship. Mary had wandered over to see the action and quickly decided she needed to brush up herself. She started by picking up a musket for the first time ever, and it happened to be this man’s.
“Your place will not be on the field, young lady,” the soldier said as he won the tug of war.
“My place,” Mary insisted, “will be where I say it is.”
At that moment a roar of gunfire came from the firing line, a few yards from where Mary was arguing with the soldier. A few dozen men were trying to synchronize their fire like they knew the British would. The few actual soldiers that were present knew that if the militia felt professional in practice it would greatly improve their morale on the actual battlefield. They had a lot of work to do.
“Would someone get this spoiled brat away from me!?” the soldier yelled.
Mary opened her mouth to retort, but the soldier was saved by another young woman who took Mary by the arm and walked her away from the field.
“What on earth are you doing out here?” Elizabeth Greene asked.
“Learning to shoot,” Mary answered plainly. Then she glared at the soldier, “Or trying to at least.”
“I think your beau is looking for you,” Elizabeth said.
“He’s not my beau,” Mary responded, a little defensively. “Two years is far too long to not propose.”
Mary and Elizabeth had been best friends practically from birth, and though they were close to inseparable most of the time, they had very different ways of looking at things. Elizabeth was more of the dress-up-and-hang-out-at-fancy-balls type of girl, whereas Mary tended to run off and get herself into trouble. And where Elizabeth was anxious to get married, as a young girl of her station was supposed to, Mary tried her hardest to look as though she couldn’t care less about the prospect of settling down and growing up. Which is probably why she went after that foreigner when he showed up two years ago. Mary’s father had been pushing for her to find a husband, so she attached herself to the first man who came along that she knew her father would hate.
“You know he’s been waiting for his commission to come through,” Elizabeth said. Then she lowered her voice as though the next part was a secret. “And I heard he was just made Colonel this morning.”
Mary stopped in her tracks. She stared into Elizabeth’s eyes for a moment, trying to read whether this was a joke or not. Then she tried to stifle a scream of excitement and hugged her friend so hard she almost pulled her off the ground.
“He’ll ask you to the ball,” Elizabeth when Mary finally let go, “I’m sure he will make the announcement there.”
Mary’s excitement was almost cut short by prospect of having to dress up and attend another fancy party.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Probably at the pub, celebrating,” Elizabeth said.
Mary squeezed her friend’s hands and gave her a big smile. Then she ran off.
“Where have you been,” John McCormick asked rather sternly. “You know it’s unseemly for a young lady to be wandering the streets unattended.”
“I was with the Colonel,” Mary replied. She had just walked in the front door of her father’s house. It was lavish, furnished with tapestries from France and couches from Germany. Her father was a fairly influential man.
“He’s not a Colonel yet,” John said, following her. She had walked past him and was heading for the kitchen.
“Haven’t you heard, father?” she began, but cut herself short. She turned to the young black girl cutting carrots at the counter and said, “I’ll have some bread and cheese.” The slave hurried off to the pantry.
“Heard what?” John was getting angrier. He loved his daughter, but sometimes she just got on his nerves. He was sure she did it on purpose. And as much as he wanted her married, she was becoming too old to be single, that weird foreigner was far from his first choice of suitor.
“The declaration, father,” she said it plainly, as if she was surprised she was the one to tell him. “The Congress has voted for war.”
The slave came back with her snack and before John had a chance to respond Mary was out the door, walking off into the gardens. He hurried to follow her.
“
Has he been given his commission then?” he asked, his opinion of the awkward foreigner already changing somewhat.
“Of course,” she said. “And I believe he’ll be stopping by this evening to ask my hand.” She said that last part with big smile, her cheeks getting a tint of red. Her father was a little stunned.
“And that would be your decision then?” John asked.
She’d been so excited she hadn’t stopped to actually think about it. When faced with that question she paused. She was certain that’s what she wanted, wasn’t she?
Chapter 4
“And furthermore,” the skinny young blonde brought her report to a conclusion, “It is a well established fact that men who drive lifted trucks and powerful, flashy sports cars are attempting to overcompensate for the small size of their penises. I believe it is for this same reason that Titus constructed the Coliseum.”
Campbell was sitting back in his chair, his feet on the desk. This was the third student so far to present their paper. The first had bored him nearly to sleep and he had to stop himself from berating the second kid for all the historical inaccuracies. He had given up hope when this one stepped to the front of the class and he almost immediately spaced out, fiddling with the device. He jumped back into reality when she cleared her throat and he realized the entire class had been staring at him for the past minute.
“Your thoughts, professor?” the blonde asked. There was something in her eyes that was at the same time flirtatious and pissed off.
“You’re saying that Titus constructed one of the most amazing feats of engineering in the ancient world because he was ashamed of a tiny penis?” Campbell responded.
“I think it’s pretty obvious,” she said.
“And I’m amazed you graduated high school,” Campbell said, which got him a nasty stare from the girl and round of laughs from the class. “This is an archaeology class, miss. If you want an outlet to vent about your personal experience with the opposite sex, take philosophy.”
“Isn’t the point of archaeology to speculate on the reasons why people in the ancient world did what they did? I’m just offering up a possible explanation,” the girl said.
Campbell wasn’t in the mood to debate with a student, but this girl at least seemed to be thinking. And that, he felt, was a grand improvement over his usual experience with these kids. He turned to the class held out his hand.
“Thoughts?” he offered.
One of the guys in the back row piped up. He was one of the preppy jock types, full of himself and loaded with his daddy’s money. The type of kid who cared more about his hair than his homework.
“I drive a Ferrari,” the kid said, “and I’d be more than willing to show how not small my dick is.” That got another round of laughs.
“Thoughts on her opinion of archaeology, jackass,” Campbell said.
There was a boy in the front row wearing thick glasses and a t-shirt displaying a bloated Jabba the Hutt. He raised his hand and waited patiently for the professor to call on him. Campbell pointed.
“I think that in the study of history is important to speculate on why people did what they did,” he said with nasally voice. “But, it is also important not to let your own opinion get in the way. Be prepared to be wrong.”
“Finally something intelligent out of this class,” Campbell said. He turned to the girl standing in front of the class. “There’s your answer. I’ll give you credit for trying to follow the spirit of archaeology, but the paper was supposed to be historical significance of the structure itself, not why it was built. C.”
She looked as if she was about to pout and he braced himself for some long-winded speech on how he was being unfair but just as she opened her mouth the bell rang.
“Thank god,” Campbell said, a little too loudly. He stared at the ceiling and told his students to leave their papers on his desk on their way out. He didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling until he was certain they had all left. He was still absent-mindedly fiddling with the device and he looked up at the clock on the wall. It was noon. He had two more hours till his next class.
He looked down and stared at the device for a few seconds. Then he looked up at his desk and saw his car keys. He thought for a second. Then he grabbed his keys, pocketed the device and headed out the door.
Forty-five minutes later he was standing on the scorched circle in the middle of the woods. He pulled the device out of his pocket and flipped the date to 1928. He braced himself for the fireworks and a few seconds later he was walking back towards Boston.
“One more?” The Bartender asked.
“I shouldn’t,” Campbell replied, he had just finished his third. “Ah, what the hell.” He slid the glass in front of the bartender.
The man poured him another whiskey. It was the same bartender as the last time. Campbell had learned the man’s name was Mickey, he owned the place. Campbell had been there for a little over an hour, watching the people coming in and out and trying to pick up how they talked and how they acted. He was studying history from the exact moment it happened and for the first time in a long time he was actually having fun.
At first he had intended to just come back to the speakeasy for his lunch break, have one drink and head back to class. But after his third he realized it didn’t matter how long he stayed, he could just show back up in his own time at the exact moment he wanted, as long as it was after he left and he gave himself enough time to get back to the school in time, so he stayed and had another drink.
“You all alone tonight?” Mickey asked. There was a lull in the influx of young lawbreakers, so he figured he’d make conversation.
“Just taking a break from work,” Campbell replied.
“This late at night?” Mickey said. It was nearly midnight. “What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
That caught Campbell a little off guard. Saying he was a professor wouldn’t make sense, and he wasn’t even sure if his university was around back then. He thought for a second before answering.
“I’m a writer,” he said. He figured that would make more sense, writers didn’t really have schedules.
“Oh yeah?” Mickey said. “Anything I would know.”
“I sincerely doubt it,” Campbell said, taking a sip of his whiskey. It still tasted bad, though he was getting used to it. He had tried the tin can beer at first but it was as bad as he had expected.
Mickey opened his mouth to say something, but just then an older man in a grey suit with a scantily clad young girl on his arm walked up to the bar right next to Campbell. Well, scantily clad for 1928.
“What can I do for you, John?” Mickey asked the newcomer.
“We’d like a little alone time,” the man said, slurring a bit.
Campbell had watched this guy come in half an hour ago and he was already drunk, though Campbell thought he may have done a little pre-gaming. The girl had already been in the bar when Campbell got there, talking with a young man in one of the booths. But, he thought he had seen the girl leave earlier and noticed her come back in.
“You know the rules young lady,” Mickey said. He had produced a key from under the bar and slid it across towards the man, but he kept his hand on it.
“You get ten percent and we’re gone within the hour,” the girl said. She was drunker than the guy was, and Campbell figured she couldn’t have been more than seventeen.
The man put a ten dollar bill on the counter and Mickey lifted his hand off the key. The man led the young girl off towards the back of the bar. Mickey pocketed the money.
“Quite a business you’ve got going here,” Campbell said.
“It gets me by,” Mickey replied.
“Aren’t you worried about getting caught?”
“Not tonight,” Mickey answered. “That man is a detective. As long I keep him happy he makes sure the other coppers stay away, and gives me a heads up when he can’t.”
“Quite a business,” Campbell said again.
“You ready for anot
her?” Mickey asked.
“Naw,” Campbell said as he stood up. “I ought to get going.”
“Have a good night then, mister,” Mickey said. “What was your name again?”
“John,” Campbell answered.
He walked out and hailed a cab. He was about to tell the driver to take him to the edge of town, but he thought about it for a second and figured it would probably be a bad idea to get in his car and drive back to the college after spending the past hour drinking. He asked the cabby where there was a cheap hotel and he crashed for the night in 1928. Then he got up in the morning and headed back to work, after the longest and most entertaining lunch break of his life.
For the rest of the semester Campbell would visit that speakeasy at least once a week, though never again on his lunch break. He got to know a few of the regulars and the bartenders. People mostly went to speakeasies to get plastered but he always left pretty early. He found it relaxing, escaping to another time. It was hard for him to worry about anything there because it didn’t quite feel real.
When summer came around he didn’t have to work for a few months so he decided he would see ancient Rome. He packed a duffel bag with some jeans, a couple of t-shirts and some ancient Roman clothes. Again he was trying to not stick out. He picked a simple tunic, and leather sandals. He didn’t get any pants because no one wore them in Rome. He had to make a toga because the costume store didn’t have anything that wouldn’t have looked cheesy and raised eyebrows.
The toga was off white and he chose not to adorn it with any colors. That way he wouldn’t be mistaken for a really wealthy or prominent man, but it would be obvious he wasn’t poor either. It consisted of about seven yards of linen cut in a gradual half oval and wrapped around the body in an intricate pattern that held it up without any buttons or a belt. This is why they had slaves, he thought to himself the first time he tried to put it on.
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