Love of the Ages

Three

Later that afternoon, Bobby found himself helping to haul the the numerous shopping bags that filled the trunk and back seat of a certain young woman's SUV. Well, she'd told him that it was really an acronym for sports utility vehicle, and that she more often called it a truck than anything else. He supposed those facts didn't much matter in the grand scheme of things, considering what a fucked-up Day he'd had after waking up.

The World around him was so strange and different, and not just 'cuz he was in one of the few bigger Cities in North Carolina. Aerin told him it wasn't as big as Charlotte, or even Greensboro, but the City of Burlington was decently big in its own right. Compared to other small towns–such as the one she hailed from about ten miles away–it might as well've been as big as Los Angeles.

Walking in the door that led to the porch where they'd been smoking, he was startled to see another woman on the couch. He'd noticed another SUV parked in the driveway, but he'd thought it was just a spare for when the young woman in front of him needed it. Realizing that someone else–who actually looked a lot like an older version of his ally–lived here was enough to make him wanna scream. Maybe she was another friend, or maybe she was a foe, but he was tempted to run back out the door so he wouldn't have to find out.

"Bobby Dall?" the older woman breathed, her hazel eyes wide in shock.

"Yeah, this is Bobby Dall, and no, you're not seeing shit, Mama," Aerin said.

"What the hell's going on?" she asked.

"Got me," the young woman answered. "Imagine my surprise to wake up and find him in my bed with me when we both know I went to bed alone last Night."

"But–he's so young!"

"Well, I am only twenty-three," he said, his tone sounding a bit sassier than he meant for it to. "Or at least, that's how old I'm supposed to be."

"Hon, you're in 2016–you're supposed to be in your fifties," she told him.

Surprised, the bassist's mouth opened and closed as he floundered for a response.

"She's right, Bobby," his ally sighed. "If ya hadn't done all this teleporting and Time Traveling, you'd be a fifty-two-Year-old single father of two."

"Wait, what?" Bobby damn near squawked like a Parrot.

"Remember what I told ya about your band earlier?" she countered.

Nodding, all he could do was pick up the bags of clothing he'd dropped in his shock.

"Well, this is basically an alternate Reality," Aerin started. "If you'd stayed when and where you're supposed to be, you'd have gone on to be featured on those two albums I told ya about, get married, and have two kids."

"Not to mention get divorced around 2000," the older woman spoke up. "Which'd be why you're supposed to be a single father."

"Well, clearly, I'm not married, nor am I father–that I know of," he sighed. "If I've any kids running around out there, they're with groupies I only had one-Night stands with."

Laughing, the younger woman told him that was a possibility, even if he'd stayed in the correct Time and place. After all, rubbers weren't nearly as reliable as one'd like to think they were, even here in the Future–they broke and allowed the conception of numerous unplanned babies, among other things. It was entirely possible that he'd hundreds, maybe even thousands of kids he didn't know about in addition to the two he was supposed to have with his ex-wife.

Overwhelmed, the bassist merely took the bags of clothing to the bedroom he'd woken up in, where she'd already taken the bags she'd been holding while she was talking. He just wanted to take a shot–or fifteen–go back to bed, and wake up back 1987 Los Angeles, or wherever he'd passed out at. Nothing was making any sense to him, and it was starting to give him a really and truly nasty headache.