Somewhere in Time by Richard Matheson Page B

know it works and the project is simplified to the status of repetition, a most important practical consideration occurs to me. Clothes.
    Weird-but I mean weird-that, all this time, it never crossed my mind that to be in 1896 with the clothes I'm wearing now would prove so calamitous it could undo the entire project.
    Obviously, I have to find myself an outfit fitting to the time I'll be in.
    Where do I find it though? Tomorrow's Friday. I don't know why I have this conviction that it has to happen tomorrow. I do have the conviction though and don't intend to fight it.
    Which leaves only one possibility regarding clothes.
    � � �
    Looking through the Yellow Pages. Costume houses. Obviously no time to have one tailor-made. A shame I didn't foresee the need. Well, how could I? It wasn't till after noon today that I even accepted the possibility of reaching her. Last night and this morning, I was calling it a delusion. A delusion! God, that's incredible.
    Here's one. The San Diego Costume Company on 7th Avenue. I'll go there first thing in the morning.
    No point in continuing tonight. It might even be dangerous. What if I broke through inadvertently, wearing this damned jumpsuit? I'd look bizarre wearing an outfit like this in 1896.
    Tomorrow. That's the big day. I'm so convinced of it I'd bet-
    No need for betting. It's not a gamble.
    Tomorrow, I'll be with her.
    November 19, 1971
    Five oh two a.m. Getting up now. Temptation not to move. Have to move, though, have to rise and shine? Not bloody likely. Getting up though. Even if I fall down. Get my clothes on ... get downstairs and to the beach, the air. Walk this headache into the ground.
    Because today's the day.
    You can't win, head. Today's the day.
    � � �
    Eight forty-three a.m. On my way to San Diego. For the last time. I keep saying that. Well, it's true this time. No need to come again.
    Headache's not exactly gone but not bad enough to prevent me from driving.
    Odd how removed I feel from everything I see around me. Is it possible that part of me's already in 1896, waiting for the rest of me to show up? Like the part of me that stayed at the hotel the other day while the rest drove to San Diego?
    Sure, it's possible. Who am I to deny anything at this point?
    � � �
    Nine twenty-seven a.m. Good luck all around. There weren't a lot of choices to make but one suit in the costume house might have been made for me. It's on the seat beside me now, nestled in tissue paper in its box. I hope Elise likes it.
    It's black. The coat is what they call a frock coat. Awfully long, goes down to the knees, for God's sake. The man tried to tout me on what he called a morning coat, but the way it was cut, sloping away from the front to broad tails behind, it seemed a little limited as far as use.
    The pants-the trousers, sir-are rather narrow with braided side seams. I also have a high-collared white shirt, a single-breasted, beige-colored waistcoat with lapels, and an octagon tie which suspends from a band fastened behind the neck. I'll really look like a dude. I trust it's all appropriate. It looked good in the mirror. Right down to the short boots, also black.
    A rather strange experience talking to the man at the costume house. Strange because I felt only partially there. He asked me why I wanted the costume. I told him I was going to an 1890s party tomorrow night-not entirely untrue now that I think about it. I told him I wanted to look as authentic as possible.
    How long did I plan to rent it? I was tempted to answer: seventy-five years. Over the weekend, I told him.
    I was on the verge of leaving San Diego when it dawned on me that going back to 1896 well dressed wouldn't buy me a cup of coffee. It's incredible that I had also overlooked so elementary an item as enough cash to tide me over until I can find employment. I can't imagine what I had in mind. Asking Elise for money? The vision makes me cringe. Hello, I love you, may I borrow twenty dollars?