Hit the streets

The license has an address for the agency; 870 Market Street, Suite 314. About a ten block walk. You decide to go there, since that's where the nightmare seems to be leading you anyway. You put the wallet back in your jacket and head towards the door, your hand reaching out to pluck a fedora off a hook.

A hat? You don't wear hats. A baseball cap now and then but certainly not a fedora, and certainly not one that fits your head so well. You take it off and look at it, then hold it in your hand as you lock the door and descend the stairs to the lobby.

Outside the street is reasonably busy. Every man you see wears a hat, most of them something similar to the one in your hand. You put it on and walk east on Post, turning south on Powell. At the corner of Powell and Geary you see a kid hawking newspapers, something you've never seen other than in an old movie.

"Hey kid, give me one of those," you say. He hands it to you and you bring a handful of change out of your pockets. "How much?"

"You kiddin' me? Same price as yesterday," he replies. You hand him a quarter and he looks at it with irritation. "C'mon Mac, I ain't got change for that."

"Keep it," you say walking away and opening the paper. It's the Chronicle, but looks nothing like the Chronicle you know. You're staring at the date and barely hear the kid calling his effusive thanks behind you. "Thanks Mister. That's swell, thanks a lot."

Yeah, thanks a lot. The date on the paper is April 23, 1925. Ninety years before last night.