Goldie’s eyes widened. “You’re not kiddin’ me, right? I-I mean, this isn’t one of them theme towns where everybody dresses up in historical clothing and plays their part like in a movie?”
The woman looked her over, now truly worried.
“Sweetie, I think you’d better have a cup of coffee and sit down. You seem to be a little confused.” She went over to a chair that had a collection of rag dolls on it, set them on the floor, then brought the chair over to her. She was wearing slightly baggy slacks, a plain blouse, and a gold cardigan sweater.
“Here. You sit down. My name’s Clara. I’ve got a pot of coffee going on the heating plate in the back. I’ll fix you a nice cup. You want a little cream with that? Sorry, but I don’t have any sugar. A lot of people don’t right now.”
The visitor decided to take the advice and sit in the chair provided.
“I’m Goldie,” she said, plopping down. “I know this is gonna sound funny, but I don’t know how I got here, Clara,” she confessed. Her eyes started to become moist. “I-I don’t know how I got to this place… to this time. Yesterday, I thought I was dyin’… and today—I woke up here.”
“Sshh,” the shop owner said, like a mother soothing a child. “I’m sure we can figure it out.” She patted her guest on the shoulder, then turned and walked toward the back of the store while Bing Crosby continued to sing on the radio. “Believe it or not,” she said as she went, “the exact same thing has happened to me.”
Goldie looked up at her. “Really?”
“Really. I was down the street at Clancy’s having a drink with some friends a few years ago, and the next thing I know, it’s two days later, and I’m over in Golden. And it’s not from just alcohol, either. Blackouts can be brought on by extreme stress. You lose someone overseas, honey? Army? Navy? Marci Hurst, here in town, lost her oldest, Jerry, and she walked around for weeks in a daze. She totally lost all track of time. He was in the Navy and died at Midway, but she was never really sure if…”
Goldie’s shoulders slumped as Clara continued to tell her story about Marci Hurst’s son from the back of the store. But Clara’s empathetic tales had nothing to do with the bizarre events that were happening to her. So, she slowly rose from her chair, at a loss, then exited the store.
Back on the wooden sidewalk, she hadn’t gone but a few more storefronts further down the street when a 1939 black-and-white Ford with a red bubble light on its roof and a decal on both front doors that said “Sheriff’s Department” rolled up to meet her. A man in a brown suede jacket got out of the car. He was maybe her age or a few years older, had short-cropped blond hair and blue eyes, and stood at five feet eleven. He wore a tan police uniform with a matching shirt and slacks and had a star-shaped badge under his open jacket. He also wore black cowboy boots. He wasn’t wearing a tie or a policeman’s cap, and he didn’t carry a gun. As he got out of the car and came toward her, Goldie noticed he walked with a slight limp.
“Oh, Christ,” she sighed under her breath, not liking cops in the present, past, or any other time.
“Howdy,” he drawled in a low voice.
“Wow. VeryWestworld,”she replied, underwhelmed.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Nothin’. What can I do for you, officer?”
“I thought maybe I could do something foryou,”he replied with a little smile. “Drive you back to the hotel? It’s pretty cold to be wandering around in short sleeves.”
He spoke slowly like a cowpoke in a Tex Ritter movie.
She looked down the street toward the Sparkledove Arms, then back at him.
“How do you know I’m stayin’ at the hotel?” she asked.
“Maddie, the owner, gave my office a call,” he replied, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets. “Said you got up this morning and seemed mixed up about where you were. If you’re ill, being out in this weather without a coat isn’t going to help.” He stepped over to the driver’s side door of his police cruiser and opened it for her. “May I?” he asked, offering her a ride.
“Sure,” she shrugged, her arms slapping the sides of her legs.
“Good… wouldn’t do to have our most important visitor come down with the flu,” he said as she climbed in.
“What does that mean?” she asked. But he didn’t answer. He shut the door, then turned to round the car. As he did, Clara came out of her gift store with folded arms over her gold cardigan sweater, apparently looking for Goldie. The officer raised his chin and called out, “I’ve got her, Clara.” She nodded, smiled at Goldie in the car, then went back into her store.
As soon as the officer got behind the wheel and closed his door, Goldie started her interrogation.
“Whatdoya mean, I’m your most important visitor?”
“Well, everybody’s excited you’re here,” he explained, starting the engine. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen to us every day.”
“Yeah, well, it don’t happen tomeevery day, either,” she cracked.
He put the car in gear, and they started to head down the street. Goldie looked around for the seat belt and shoulder strap, but there wasn’t one. There weren’t any in the car at all.
“So, why am I special?” she asked.
