People smiled inwardly when they saw Gerry on the bus. He was dressed like a Teddy Boy from 60 years ago, but he was a teenager in 2025. His pride and joy were the authentic drape coat with velvet collar and the narrow, tight trousers.
Gerry was not a loner. There were more like him in the city. People who worshipped Little Richard, Chuck Berry and, of course, Buddy Holly. They loved the past more than the present.
He was going to The Rockola, a dive in an obscure alleyway. Gerry dodged the winos and homeless and when a nutter wanted to sell him religion, Gerry pushed them aside and with the woman’s curses ringing he made towards the club entrance.
Suddenly, he was blinded. His head pounded. He bent double to ease the pain. When after some moments he steadied himself an old-fashioned delivery van trundled past. Then he noticed the men wearing hats and macs, and the women in full skirts. They were dressed for the 1950s, but they weren’t the rock n rollers he had come to meet.
Something was wrong. He pulled the phone from his pocket, but it had no signal.
Panicking he sped back to the main road. The buildings suffocated him. He didn’t recognize the shops. There was a butcher’s where a student bar should be.
He crossed the street, dodging antiquated buses and taxis. He paused for breath by a newspaper stand. Then in horror he saw the date: 4 February 1959.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 