The Arrival: 1984

The carpet is rough against his cheek. Nubby. Worn. It smells like floor wax and dust and something faintly sour, the kind of smell that lives in public spaces no matter how often they’re cleaned.

Sam blinks.

The ceiling above him is white, institutional, with a fluorescent fixture that hums and flickers. His head throbs in rhythm with the light, a dull pressure behind his eyes that makes him want to close them again.

He doesn’t.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows, then into a sitting position. The room swims for a moment, then settles. A common area. Couches upholstered in a pattern that looks like it was designed to hide stains. A bulletin board covered in flyers. A television mounted high in the corner, playing music videos.

Girls Just Want To Have Fun. The song spills from the TV speakers. Cyndi Lauper’s voice, bright and defiant, fills the space.

Sam stares at the TV. It's in a bulky, heavy piece of furniture. It has a curved screen. A CRT.

He looks down at himself. A button-up shirt, light blue, tucked into slacks. Loafers. The clothes are his—they fit him—but they feel wrong. Too formal. Too stiff. He doesn’t remember putting them on.

He doesn’t remember anything.

His name. He knows his name. Sam. That’s there, solid, like a rock in a river. But everything else is a blank. Where he came from. How he got here. What happened before he woke up on this carpet.

He pats his pockets. His left pocket yields a thick wad of cash, the bills old and unfamiliar. His right pocket holds something folded. Paper.

He pulls it out.

The handwriting hits him first. He knows it. The slope of the letters, the way the t’s are crossed with an upward flick. His handwriting. He’s sure of it.

MISSION:

The date is April 12, 1984. Your location is Dickinson College in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

You have one week.

Your target is Stan Parker, an economics student. He will be at a party at the Kappa Sigma fraternity house this evening. You must convince him to invest everything he has in BHP (Broken Hill Proprietary). You must not fail.

Sam reads it three times. The words don’t change. They sit there, black ink on white paper, impossible and absolute.

1984.

He looks up. The room is full of details he didn’t register before. A rotery phone on the beat-up end table next to the couch. A copy of the campus newspaper on the coffee table, the date in the header: April 12, 1984. A girl walks past the open doorway, her hair big, her jeans high-waisted, a Walkman clipped to her belt.

His chest tightens. His breath comes shorter.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

But the carpet is rough under his palms. MTV on the set playing music videos. The girl with the Walkman is gone, and another one is coming, a group of them, their laughter carrying down the hall.

He folds the note and shoves it back into his pocket.

The group enters the common area. Three girls, a guy. They’re talking over each other, mid-laugh, mid-story. One of the girls notices him. She stops.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Her voice is kind. She has an open face, friendly eyes, dark hair pulled back with a scrunchie.

Sam forces himself to stand. His legs feel unsteady. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You look a little lost.” She tilts her head. “And… you’re a little overdressed for a Friday.”

He looks down at his button-up, his slacks. “I guess I am.”

“Just got in?”

“Yeah. Just got in.” The lie comes easily. “I’m Sam.”

“Jessica.” She smiles. “Well, Sam, if you’re looking for something to do tonight, you should check this out.”

She points to the bulletin board behind him. He turns. A flyer, bright red, with blocky white text: Kappa Sigma Spring Fling. Tonight. 9 PM.

He pulls it off the board. “Thanks. I think I will.”

“Cool.” She gives him one more look, appraising, then rejoins her friends. They disappear down the hall, their voices fading.

Sam stands alone in the common area. The flyer is in his hand. So many questions. The note is in his pocket. The mission is waiting.

He needs to blend in.

He finds a student heading out and asks for directions to the nearest mall. The guy points him toward a shopping center a mile off campus. Sam walks. The air is cool, spring-tinged, carrying the smell of wet pavement and cut grass. Cars pass—boxy, angular, nothing like the smooth curves he’s used to. He doesn’t know how he knows that. He just does.

The mall is small, two floors, anchored by a department store. He finds a men’s shop and buys jeans, a t-shirt, a worn denim jacket. The cash works. The clerk doesn’t blink at the old bills.

He changes in the fitting room. The jeans are stiff. The t-shirt is soft. He looks at himself in the mirror and sees a stranger who looks more like the people on the street than the man who woke up on the carpet.

He buys a copy of the Wall Street Journal from a newsstand near the mall entrance. He doesn’t see any computers. Of course he doesn’t. It’s 1984.

The motel is a ten-minute walk from campus, a low building with a flickering sign that reads Carlisle Inn. He pays for a week up front. The room is small, the bedspread floral and faded, the television a bulky box with a dial. He sets the newspaper on the desk and sits on the edge of the bed.

He opens the Journal and finds it. BHP. Broken Hill Proprietary. The stock is trading at a fraction of what it will be worth. He doesn’t know how he knows that either.

He closes the paper and stares at the wall.

Seven days. One target. A mission from a version of himself he can’t remember.

He changes into his new clothes. The jeans, the t-shirt, the jacket. He folds his old clothes and leaves them on the chair. The cash goes into his front pocket. The note goes into his jacket.

He checks the flyer. Kappa Sigma. 9 PM.

He leaves the motel and starts walking.

The campus is alive with evening energy. Students crisscross the quad, carrying books, laughing, shouting across the grass. A group of guys in polo shirts huddle near a bench, passing a bottle in a paper bag. The air smells like beer and perfume and the first warmth of spring.

He wanders around the campus until nightfall, getting a feel for the layout. He finds the Kappa Sigma house. It’s a large white building with a wraparound porch, lights blazing from every window, music thumping from inside. A banner hangs over the door: SPRING FLING.

He stops at the edge of the lawn.

His heart is hammering. His palms are damp. He has no plan, no script, no idea what he’s going to say to Stan Parker when he finds him. He only knows that he has to try. He doesn't even know why. Only that a note with his own handwriting tells him that he has to.

He walks up the porch steps.

The door is open.