Young Again

Chapter 1

"I've been running for so long, I don't know how to stop." - Age of Adaline, in theaters April 24

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Kansas City, Missouri 1944

 I rolled the now empty bottle between the palm of my hands. "Oh, c'mon Parker, tell us," Frank slurred.

Leaning back I stared at my oldest friend; forty-seven, greying, tiring and a helluva good drunk. Frank Harris, a senior factory worker at Fairchild Manufacturers was the first to really take notice of me. When he had found me on the streets of San Diego in 1940, I had been living off scraps in alleyways, rainwater and whatever I could find through garbage. I was alone, said to be delusional and good for absolutely nothing, no army wanted me.

To this day, four years on, I had no idea what had possessed the man to help me but whatever it was, I would forever be in his debt.

We would do this a lot, a few of us maybe just four; drinking until we could do no more. Frank was the last one standing; Tim and Ian had already dozed off after their seventh drink.

I chuckled only to shake my head. "You're not drunk enough," I finally murmured and passed him another bottle in which he popped open and started sculling from moments after.

Quickly he wiped his mouth with the back of his blackened hand then pointed at me again. "All right, out with it!"

I didn't speak much about my origins; where I had come from, my family or life before the factory. Frank always tried to extract something from me and when we were sober, I was tight lipped and stiff but when I was well aware Frank was drowning in liquid poison; I knew it was quite safe to let a few things slip. 

I smiled downwardly at the fading colours in the carpet then allowed my head to loll to one side. "Four years ago, I woke up in San Diego; drenched in water with a horrid headache – absolutely freezing –"

" – the hell you swimming in San Diego for!" Frank blurted drunkenly.

I leaned forward and pushed the bottle towards his lips again. He graciously complied and sculled another few mouthfuls, drops seeping out from the corners of his mouth.

"I wasn't swimming, Frankie boy. I fell overboard and drowned."

Frank appeared oblivious to my words, too drunk and too distracted to properly acknowledge them.

"Keep going! Atta boy!" he almost sung.

I chuckled again. "So there I was, alone on a beach that bore little to no resemblance to the beach I thought I knew." I paused and glanced momentarily at Tim and Ian, still fast asleep. I continued. "Not long after, I stumbled towards this pub – the man behind the counter nearly called the cops on me – it wasn't even opened yet and there I was bashing on the door. I guess he pitied my chattering teeth, he didn't have any."

"Toothless?!" Frank gasped.

"Toothless," I echoed amusedly. "Anyway, the old chap asks me what I'm doing and I can't say anything, I was struggling to even recall my name. But y'know what got me really scared?"

Frank leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes opened widely. "What?" he spurred.

"The TV had colour!" I exclaimed.

Frank slapped his knee then cheered. "Why that's...that's...I don't – well of course you – when was the last time you saw a bloody television?" he questioned his tone changing from excitement to puzzlement.

"1930 of course, a small one in a window – that was my first television; it was black and white and not many people had one of course, they were just kicking off."