Dreamsman

Chapter 1 - Where and When Am I

BANG. CRASH. RATTLE. The sounds around me rattled like a miniature tornado had blown through a special effects studio. One second I'd been in my office, tapping my pen on my desk; the next I found myself standing in a cramped San Francisco hippie shop, circa mid-1960s. My nose instantly twitched from the swirling mix of patchouli incense, body odor, and a pungent hit of something very herbal.

I blinked under neon paisley lights, trying to orient myself.

"Ah shit—what the…?" I mumbled, rubbing my temples. I guessed I'd landed about sixty years in the past, give or take.

"Um… excuse me?" I ventured, turning in slow circles, half expecting some random cosmic messenger to appear and tell me what the hell was going on. Instead, I got a wall-to-wall display of tie-dye shirts, beads, bandannas, and old vinyls. My eyes snagged on a tall rack of denim that looked so rough it might've been spun from recycled sandpaper.

A figure emerged from behind a stand of hand-knitted hats—a dude with a scraggly beard and droopy eyes, wearing a faded vest with a name tag pinned crookedly on the pocket: Willard. He flashed a lazy grin, one that looked like it might slip right off his face if he tilted his head too far.

"Hey… maaan," he drawled, dragging out the word like it weighed a hundred pounds. "Welcome to Groovy's Corner. You, uh… looking for some threads?"

My heart still hammered from the shock of the sudden time jump, but I tried to keep a lid on my freak-out. "Yeah, you could say that," I replied, nodding toward the scratchy denim. "I was just curious about those jeans. What's with them?"

Willard's grin stretched even wider. "Ah, the Hemp Blue Jeans, maaan. They're the new thing." He poked around in his pockets, finally producing a wrinkled magazine ad. "Check it out… see? Hemp denim's all the rage."

I craned in for a closer look at the faded picture of carefree hippies rocking those rough-looking pants. "They, uh… look itchy."

His eyes gleamed with half-lidded excitement. "I got some in the back," he said, pointing down a narrow corridor.

I shrugged, curiosity outweighing common sense, and started meandering through the racks of tie-dye shirts. Why the hell did I land here? I wondered. Usually, I had at least some clue. Just as I was about to ask Willard another question, I heard high-pitched voices drifting from behind a makeshift changing-room curtain. The voices were playful, giggly, so light they sounded like college freshmen letting loose for the first time.

I paused, momentarily hoping I might find my girlfriend Kiley rummaging around. She'd been tagging along in these strange time-jumps recently, popping up in bizarre places. But the laughter I heard wasn't hers—it was too shrill, too unfiltered, and definitely stoned.

Tipping my head closer to the half-drawn curtain, I stepped forward. Easy, Kevin, I told myself, no need to scare these people. But before I could knock or clear my throat, the curtain whipped aside.

That's when I nearly choked.

Two young women—about eighteen, if I had to guess—were standing there, wearing hemp jeans so outrageously skimpy they left zero room for imagination. One pair had a plunging V-shaped cut in the back, dipping so low it practically outlined the top of her ass crack. The other jeans had a mirrored V in the front that looked like it barely avoided giving a full frontal shot of her crotch.

"Whoa," I blurted, my cheeks burning. I tried to tear my gaze away from those scandalous waistlines, but it was like a car crash—I just couldn't look away fast enough.

The tall girl, dark-haired and bright-eyed, stared at me through a haze that screamed I am high as hell. A lazy grin tugged at her lips. Her shorter friend, sporting an even tinier halter top, snorted with laughter the second we made eye contact.

"Well, helloooo," the tall one drawled, leaning on the half wall so her braless chest jutted out. Her nipples pressed conspicuously against the thin fabric. "You here to watch us model? We charge, you know."

My face felt like it was on fire. "Sorry, I was just—" My voice caught in my throat. I did not want to stare directly at their barely contained boobs, but it was hard to unsee. "I heard voices and thought…"

"It's okay, cutie," the shorter one teased, stepping forward. She wore an even tinier scrap of cloth for a top, and her hemp jeans were slung so low I couldn't figure out how they stayed on her hips at all. "Check us out. We're sexy as fuck, right?"

She giggled again, eyes half-squinting and smoky. Her friend laughed too, a lazy, airy sound. "We're thinking of making money off these groovy looks," the taller girl chimed, patting a Polaroid camera on a nearby shelf. "We'll give you some saucy pictures—only five bucks a shot."

My brain scrambled to keep up. Polaroid hustle? Barely legal babes (by their own admission they were eighteen) in the back of a hippie store, offering me half-naked photos? What the hell is this timeline?

"Uh," I managed, clearing my throat and trying to regain composure. "I'm not really in the market for pictures."

The taller one pouted dramatically, stepping so close I could smell the mix of incense, weed, and sweat on her skin. Her hand splayed across my chest, nails skimming the thin fabric of my shirt. "Come on, man. We can slip back behind this curtain together. Maybe show you how these jeans look when they're… half off."

The shorter girl snickered. "Or all the way off," she said with another giggle fit that made her halter top bounce precariously. My heart hammered, part of me painfully aware of how unbelievably hot they both were, while the rest of me was screaming, Danger, Will Robinson.

I carefully lifted her hand away, swallowing hard. "Uh, that's… tempting," I admitted, and I couldn't deny my pulse was roaring in my ears, "but I'm actually looking for someone."

Both girls arched their eyebrows. "You got a friend around here, big boy?" the tall one purred.

I forced a grin. "Girlfriend, actually."

"Ooooh, girlfriend," the short one cooed, crossing her arms so her cleavage pressed up. "We haven't seen any other chick back here—except maybe two minutes ago when we felt that weird earthquake."

"Earthquake?" I repeated, frowning. Had I missed something? Or were they so high they felt phantom tremors?

"Yeah!" the shorter girl chirped. "Shook the whole place for a second. I squealed, she squealed…" She shrugged impishly. "We're all shook up, baby."

The tall one leaned in again, her breath warm on my cheek. "We figured it might be a sign, you know? Like, the universe telling us to get wild." She let out a throaty laugh. "So are you sure you don't want a Polaroid or two?"

She traced her nails down my arm, and I glanced just in time to see that scandalous V in the back of her jeans shift, revealing another glimpse of her ass. My mind was dangerously close to meltdown territory. "I really appreciate the offer," I said as politely as I could, "but I'm on a mission. Not sure how long I'm even going to be here."

The short one blew a playful raspberry, then winked. "Boooring. Your loss, sugar."

Still, they didn't seem upset, just disappointed. The tall girl gave me a lazy pout and leaned in to whisper, "Here's a freebie—if you change your mind…" She pressed a small Polaroid into my hand. The quick glance I took showed them, practically topless, both giggling into the camera. Definitely a collectible I shouldn't keep.

"Thanks… I think," I managed. My face flamed again when I noticed the tall one's top had slipped so far that I could almost see the entire curve of her breast. Jesus. I took a shaky step back, exhaling like I'd sidestepped a sexual trip mine.

They sidled back into the makeshift changing room, the short one blowing me a teasing kiss. "Later, cutie. We're here all day." One last grin, then the curtain swished shut. I turned away, the image of those hemp V-cut jeans etched in my mind.

I headed out toward the front, weaving past swirling tie-dye and dusty vinyls, trying to calm my pounding heart. What the hell is going on with these random time slips? And why a sexed-up hippie store in the mid-'60s?

Near the entrance, I spotted Willard again, drifting around like a leaf on the wind.

"Hey, man," I said, trying not to think about the fact that I'd nearly gotten roped into a weird Polaroid shoot. "So, uh, I saw your Mayan hemp jean models in the back. Their jeans are… interesting."

Willard gave a lopsided nod, as if it took him a moment to process my words. "They're definitely… how do you say… rough at first. But you break 'em in, and they become one with your vibe, man."

He didn't pursue the topic of the Mayan girls, so I raised an eyebrow. "So people actually buy these?" I pressed a hand to the coarse fabric on the nearest rack. "Because I'm not sure I want my thighs rubbing raw every time I walk."

Willard let out a dreamy chuckle that sounded like a weed-laced exhalation. "Folks around here are so stoned, they don't notice. Hemp's the future, man—eco-friendly or something. And who knows, you can, like, use it for other stuff, too." He gave me a knowing waggle of the eyebrows.

I stifled a laugh. "So basically, people buy them because it's cool in 1960-whatever, and they're too high to care they feel like sandpaper."

Willard nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly, my man. See, you get it."

I patted the jeans, torn between curiosity and the surreal fact that I'd apparently hopped decades in the past in the middle of a workday. "Alright, man, I'm intrigued. But, uh, can we talk price? I don't exactly have 1960s money in my wallet."

Willard tilted his head, chewing something—gum, or maybe an edible, for all I knew. "Well, I could give you a groovy discount. Or we could trade. Got any records? A stash? Karma points?"

"Karma points," I echoed with a smirk. "I'm a little short on that right now."

He shrugged, exhaling a thin cloud of incense-scented air. My head felt fuzzy, though I wasn't smoking anything. Might just be the thick haze in here, I thought.

Then I heard it: a faint, knock-knock sound at the periphery of my senses, like someone rapping on a door… or reality itself.

"Hey, wait," I said, raising a hand. My pulse quickened. "You hear that?"

Willard blinked, face scrunching in confusion. "Hear what, man?"

I strained to listen. Knock-knock. It was distant, but insistent. "There it is again," I whispered, feeling my stomach lurch. "You sure nobody's at the door?"

Glancing toward the exit, Willard looked as mystified as I felt. "We're always open. Nobody knocks. Maybe it's the cops…?"

A tremor shot up my spine. Fuck, not again. My vision wavered—like looking through a heat mirage. The tie-dye posters, the racks of hemp jeans, even Willard's slack-jawed expression, all started rippling.

"Oh no," I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for that Polaroid. I pulled it out: the two Mayan coeds, barely clothed, grinning at the camera. "I can't bring this with me…"

I thrust the photo at Willard. "Here—take this, I, uh… can't keep it."

He looked at me, perplexed. "Dude, you're tripping."

"I'm not on anything!" I hissed, but the wave was coming. I could feel it. "Willard, I think I'm about to—"

Suddenly the knock-knock sharpened into a KNOCK-KNOCK! so loud it rattled my teeth. My surroundings blurred again. The swirl of neon lights, the stench of patchouli, Willard's slowly bobbing head—it all twisted away like the spin of a kaleidoscope.

"Maybe you're about to… wake up?" Willard said, his voice echoing as though from the bottom of a well. "Your weird vibe's wearing off, bro."

I tried to form words, but the room spun in on itself. I felt a violent lurch—and—

Snap. My eyes flew open, heart hammering. I was back in my office, pen still in hand, an empty coffee cup teetering on the edge of my desk. My legs twitched, like they remembered the shift in gravity from the time slip. Sweat dampened the back of my neck.

"Kevin? Hey, Kevin?" someone called. My receptionist's voice, muffled through the door. "You okay in there? I thought I heard you call out."

I swallowed hard, wiping my forehead. "Uh—yeah," I managed, voice shaky. "All good. Just… knocked something over."

Silence, then a hesitant reply. "Alright. Let me know if you need anything."

I slumped back in my chair, mind reeling with the memory of that hippie store. The hemp jeans. The Mayan girls. The Polaroid. Willard. Jesus. My hand instinctively patted my pockets. Empty. No polaroid photo, no hemp jean fabric, no trace of that bizarre escapade.

Yet the memory burned vividly, like an afterimage on my retinas. The flush of heat at seeing those nearly naked girls. The swirling haze of weed smoke. The ominous mention of an earthquake. And just who the hell were those Mayan coeds?

I exhaled, forcing myself to steady my breathing. In a few minutes, I'd have another patient. But how could I focus on therapy after that kind of trip? Focus, Kevin. I had a job to do—even if my weird time-travel dreams kept dragging me into insane new escapades.

And somewhere in this swirling madness, Kiley might be wandering. Gotta find her.

I closed my eyes for a moment, mentally tucking away each detail for later analysis: the scratchy hemp denim, the dangerously low-cut V's, the Polaroid hustle, the mention of Mayan heritage. Every piece could be a clue about this messed-up journey.

Then I set my pen down, steeled myself, and turned my attention to the door. Life goes on, even if I'm flipping through decades like a broken record. I might've left those half-naked 1960s coeds behind, but part of me wondered if I'd see them again. In this bizarre time-tangled existence of mine, anything was possible.

"Alright," I muttered under my breath. "Let's do this."

With another steadying breath, I got up and crossed to the door, leaving the swirl of patchouli, hemp, and giggling Mayan coeds behind—at least until the next time the universe decided to knock.