Date: Thu, 12 Dec 1996 22:07:08 -0800
Message-Id: <199612130607.WAA05078@dfw-ix12.ix.netcom.com>
From: lnslicer@ix.netcom.com (Laurene Slicer)
Subject: 'Twas the Night Before - Part One

'Twas the Night Before - Part 1

   Project Quantum Leap decorated itself for the holiday season. The
cafeteria reflected international traditions for Christmas, Hanukkah,
and Kwanza. The colors swirled in gaudy displays whose hand-crafted
look lent a homelike atmosphere to the paneled walls. The seriousness
of the work done in the other project rooms was just not a welcome
topic of conversation at meal time and that was a written edict from
the administrator.

   Admiral Al Calavicci, Project Administrator and writer of the
cafeteria order, entered with Dr. Verbena Beeks on his arm. Between
his red suit accented with silver shoes, and her African print
Namibian dress they almost out shone the twinkling lights on the tree
in the corner - until you looked into their eyes. They whispered
hellos to people and smiled appropriately, but neither one was in the
mood of the season despite their clothes. The cafeteria help passed
the evening's meal to them and they sat at the Admiral's Table, a
small place tucked in an out of the way corner.

   Al played with the steaming ratatouille on his plate. Verbena
actually made some attempt to eat. "Come on, Al. I know this is always
a hard time for you, but not eating won't make anything better."

   "I'm not very hungry. That's all."

   "When did you eat last?"

   "Yesterday, I think."

   "Not good, Admiral."

   "Verbena, I'm not interested in debating my eating habits. The
problem is getting Sam home."

   "I thought there was no business talk over meals here."

   He wrote the rule. A good military man didn't break rules. So
rather than defy the order he was certain made sense, he stood up,
kissed her hand and said, "I'll see you later."

   After sighing loud and long, Verbena kept on eating. She knew there
was no talking to him when he was in one of his "moods."

   Al made his way out into the hallway and, while he liked the clean
lines of the project, he hated its sterility. That was one of the
reasons he paid special attention to the cafeteria when helping design
the grounds. The food would be good and the furniture would not be
institutional. It worked. The cafeteria was the center of the project,
a refuge from problems, a place for good coffee, fresh sandwiches and
an occasional sinful dessert.

   When he really sat back and considered the totality of his life, he
knew that it was the middle of the road he couldn't cope with. Give
him tremendous highs and lows that would kill most people - those he
could deal with, but this day to day stuff with no changes, that was
killing to him. You'd think having a best friend lost in time, leaping
into other people's auras and making changes in that person's life
would be enough to keep a man interested, but Sam Beckett had been
leaping for over eight years. Things started to be repetitious and the
past dozen leaps were repeats of very boring stuff. Sam needed to get
home and that needed to happen yesterday or the Admiral would go stark
raving mad.

   The fact that Christmas was the next day didn't help either. Like
his life in general, his history with Christmas was checkered. The
Christmas he spent with his wife Beth was wonderful, but they were
apart from her family and she was a little lonely. Then there was the
one in the orphanage after his father died. That was almost the worst,
nearly as bad as the eight Christmases he spent caged in a Vietnamese
prison camp. Those angry imprisoned holidays sometimes overshadowed
the joyous Yuletide he spent circling the earth in a NASA
spacecraft. Sublime. Ridiculous. The story of his life and now he had
to learn to deal with mundane and he found he wasn't good at it.

   In the past, when Ziggy, the computer that linked Al to his buddy
Sam, when Ziggy announced Sam had leaped, Al would almost "leap" into
action himself. Now, when Ziggy vibrated the device surrounding the
Admiral's right wrist, Al merely shrugged and turned toward the center
of the complex, toward the Control Room and whatever ho-hum adventure
awaited.

   As he turned the corner, he met up with Verbena again. "You got the
word, too?"

   "Yes, Admiral. Gooshie paged me. He's having trouble linking to
Sam. I guess there's a problem with the visitor."

   His pace increased in speed just a little. The promise of trouble
made him almost happy. At least he would have something to do. "Did he
say what kind of trouble?"

   "You know Gooshie. If he puts more than five words in a sentence,
the meaning gets garbled."

   The Control Room door slid open with a whoosh and Gooshie sort of
just stood there with a puzzled look on his face. He looked to the new
entrants, like a child looks to his parents for answers about anything
and everything. "I. . ." his lips moved, but no sound came out.

   Al asked, "Is Sam in danger?" A gentle shake of Gooshie's head
calmed Al's brief fears.  "Okay, then, what's the problem?"

   "The visitor. He's. . ." the same lip motion took over.

   Verbena took the programmer's hand. "Should we go in and talk to
him?" This time Gooshie nodded. "Okay. You stay here. The Admiral and
I will handle the visitor."

   At the Waiting Room door Al said, "Maybe I should go in alone. If
this guy is crazy, I don't want you hurt."

   "I don't want you hurt, either."

   He winked and entered the Waiting Room wondering exactly who was in
there. The panel slid closed behind him and he turned to see this new
person. A Fermi suit doesn't look good on too many people. Skintight
white full body leotards don't hide any trouble spots. The man sitting
on the dais was a little larger than most and maybe a little shorter
and also a lot older. Al never remembered seeing a beard and hair
quite that white before. "Hello, my name is Al. What's your name?"

   The man smiled with such gentleness and sweetly chuckled. "You
don't know me, do you?  You never did. I always thought that was very
sad."

   This guy was playing games with him and he wasn't going to join
in. There was no doubt who the guy looked like, but then it was
Christmas. A million men were donning beards and white hair. Al tried
again. "Who are you?"

   The chubby little man lowered his eyes, "I hoped our meeting would
go better than this."

   Al knew where the nut case was going. "Alright. You're Santa
Claus."

   "If you say so."

   Al turned his head just a bit, trying to keep the visitor from
seeing him roll his eyes. "Yeah, right and I'm Frosty the
Snowman. Now, what's your real name?"

   "That depends on where you were born."

   Well, that went nowhere, but Al needed information. "Okay. Let's
try this. What year is it?"

   "What year do you want it to be?"

   Al was gifted with intelligence, talent, strength, and courage, but
patience was something else again. The little he did have just flew
out the window and he stomped out of the Waiting Room to go find it
again. Verbena and Gooshie were standing together near the Control
Console. "Alright, where's Sam?" Fish lips tried to say something, but
only guppy breath emerged. "Gooshie, get it together here. Where is
Sam?"

   Verbena spoke for the programmer. "Seems that Gooshie has an odd
lock of Sam."

   Minutes earlier, he had been wishing for a change in the action, a
new twist, a new situation to solve, but having Santa Claus in the
Waiting Room and an "odd" lock on Sam wasn't what he was looking for
(though he'd have been hard pressed to tell anyone what he was looking
for.) Back to Gooshie - "Odd? Why odd?"

   Finally, real words came out. "Well, I have a lock on him, but I
have no time established."

   'Uh huh. So? What are you telling me?"

   This situation never presented itself before and Gooshie knitted
his thin wispy brows together to try to work it through. "Seems that I
can get you to Sam, but I don't know where he is and before you ask,
no, I don't know why and no, I don't know how and I don't know who or
what or when or. . . or. . ."

   Verbena led him to a chair. "Sit down before you hyperventilate."

   "Hyperventilate after you center me on Sam."

   Gooshie's backside barely met the seat when he bounced onto his
feet and to the console where he had some kind of control. "Ready,
Admiral."

   Al picked up the handlink from the charger and marched into the
Imaging Chamber with all the conviction he could muster. The silver
disk matched his silver shoes and the visual swirled around him until
he landed next to Sam.

   There he was. It was evening and the stores were all closed, but
Sam stood there, upturned bell in his hand, wearing a damp red velvet
suit, staring into the snow and sadly calling out "Ho! Ho! Merry
Christmas!"

   It was the straw that he needed and he laughed that unique high
pitched snicker that belied his high-ranking military station. "Oh,
yeah, you're good. I'd give you, hey, maybe a nickel."

   Under his breath and from behind the fake beard Sam muttered,
"Where have you been? I haven't seen a soul since I dropped in here
and where exactly is here?"

   "Good to see you, too." He played with the handlink and tried to
see if Ziggy had any answers for him. "We have a little problem, Sam."

   "I hate when you say that."

   "Yeah, well, I'm not to thrilled about it either."

   The cold made Sam's toes numb. "Give me something to go on
here. I'm freezing to death."

   "You're a long way from freezing to death, but you do look a little
cold."

   "Where do I live?"

   "Live? Hell, I don't even know who you are!" His hand smacked the
handlink which whistled back at him in protest.

   "Then forget Ziggy and ask the visitor."

   He smacked the handlink again, this time with no response from the
pouting piece of machinery. "I already did."

   Al didn't want to go any further with that confrontation, but Sam
wasn't going to let it rest.  "So, what did he say?"

   "Nothing."

   "He won't talk?"

   "No, he talks fine - too much maybe. He says he's Santa Claus." Sam
stared at him and stared and then stared more. "Hey, don't look at me
like that. I didn't say he was Santa Claus."

   "So, I leaped into a loon. What year is it?"

   Remembering the answer he received to that question, Al parroted,
"What year do you want it to be?"

   "You're not helping."

   That was true, but it wasn't his fault. He wanted to tell Sam the
name, the place, the year, the reason why he leaped into the loon, but
he didn't have any of that information. "I'd like to, Sam, but Ziggy
and Gooshie are stumped and the guy in the Waiting Room is no help at
all." Al looked around. "You know, even for night time, it's awfully
quiet here. Where is everybody?"

   The two time travelers looked around at the scene. It was a picture
postcard perfect cityscape with falling snow, older brownstone
buildings, an occasional light left on in the windows. The block
looked vaguely familiar to Al, but he wasn't able to put his finger on
it.

   "It's been like this since I arrived. Not a soul."

   Al had moments when he got what the called "creepy crawly feelings"
and he was getting them now. "Yeah, something's wrong here. It's like
this isn't any place at all."

   Sam had a different reaction. "Really? I kind of feel like it's
every place."

   Now Al felt the chill, but it wasn't the weather. A weird thought
flitted into his head and he asked, "What year do you want it to be?"

   "What?"

   "What year? Pick a year."

   Sam had no idea where Al was going. "You pick a year."

   Hesitation and the tiniest bit of fear entered his voice when he
told Sam, "Ask for 1979."

   "Why?"

   A curt loud, angry growl startled Sam, "Just do it!!"

   Stunned, surprised and completely mystified, Sam agreed to the
demand. "It's 1979."

   With a flash of light, the street bustled with activity. It was
1979 and Al knew exactly where they were. "Damn, Sam. This is
1979. Look at the cars, the clothes on the people. This is '79."

   "What are you talking about? It can't be 1979 just because I said
so."

   Al wandered around the street a little more. "Geez, Sam. This is
weird."

   "You're starting to scare me, Al."

   All sorts of impossibilities filled his head and he didn't know how
to start explaining them since there was no explanation. A elevated
train rumbled by overhead. "We're in Chicago. That much I can tell,
but nothing else makes sense."

   "Ask Ziggy what's going on."

   A couple of good wacks yielded nothing useful. "She just asked me
to leave her out of this." Suspiciously he looked at Sam, "Can she do
that?"

   "Of course not!"

   "Yeah, well you tell her. She just turned herself off." The
handlink suffered more abuse, but no amount of coaxing would bring it
back online. "We're on our own here, Sam. I'm going to go back and
talk to 'Santa Claus' and see what he can tell me."

   "Wait, Al. I'm freezing here. Where do I live?"

   "You better not be expecting an answer, kid. How the hell would I
know? The white rectangle appeared behind Al. His parting words were,
"If you could change the year, maybe you can change the place. Wish
for Miami."

   With a poof Al was out of sight and Sam stood in the wet Chicago
snow. "Damn. Wish for Miami. I'd rather be in Hawaii." Another poof
exploded and Sam found himself still with bell in hand, still sporting
long white whiskers, but wearing red shorts and tennis shoes. The
lamppost was replaced by a palm tree. Drizzly rain/snow was replaced
by warm, sweet breezes and wild orchids perfumed the air. This time,
the bell dropped from his hand and clattered on the sidewalk. Only one
thing was similar between here and his last location. "No one is here,
either." There was no doubt about it, the routine of the last too many
leaps was broken (shattered actually) into little tiny pieces. "I'm in
Hawaii! I don't believe this."

   Remembering he needed a time as well as a place to be, Sam
announced to the sea, "It's 1994," and people appeared racing down the
sidewalk on roller blades, strolling along the beach in front of
him. "Oh, boy!"

   A kid on a skateboard flew past flinging a few coins in the bucket
at Sam's side. "That's 'ho, ho, ho' mister!"

*******************************************************

   Al had nothing to go on and no one to go to except the bearded
fellow in the Waiting Room. He took Verbena by the hand. "You're
coming with me."

   "Where?"

   They stopped outside the Waiting Room door. "The guy in here thinks
he's Santa Claus and I got to tell you, there are weird things going
on with Sam."

   "Why weird?"

   He related the tale of Sam's calling the year and it
happening. Verbena put her hand on his forehead. "I'm not sick." He
jabbed his finger toward the door. "That guy is. The only thing I can
figure is he's a part of Lothos."

   "And Lothos is?"

   "The evil Ziggy, the one that tries to undo what Sam's doing. I
thought we were rid of him, but now I'm not sure."

   "Al, this man says he's Santa, not Satan."

   His Italian brown eyes darted about as he calculated the
possibility, "Santa, Satan, it's an anagram. The same letters,
Verbena."

   She looked at him as if he were crazy. "Don't let your vivid
imagination run wild here, Admiral. Take me to see Santa."

   Together they walked into the Waiting Room and found Santa curled
up on the dais, his hands tucked under his head and a soft snore
escaping from his pink-cheeked face. When Verbena looked at the
visitor, she saw Sam, not the man he claimed to be. It was only Al
that saw the visitors for their true selves and saw Sam as his true
self. It was a phenomena that made life occasionally difficult, but
right now, when he needed Verbena to believe some part of his story,
it was making his life miserable.

   "Looks like Sam to me."

   Reminding Verbena of the facts he said, "He always looks like Sam
to you. Trust me on this one. This guy is short, fat, bearded, rosy,
the whole nine yards."

   "I wish I could see what you see," and the room flashed white, just
like the street had earlier. Verbena stumbled backward after the light
cleared. "Oh, my goodness."

   Al caught her before she fell. "What's wrong? You okay?"

   Her jaw dropped open and a finger pointed to the visitor. "It's
him."

   It was an internal debate. Should he be concerned? This might be
part of the evil leaper's activity. Or should he revel in the idea
that some magical being dropped into the Project? "You see what I see,
right?"

   She nodded slowly, "How?"

   Thinking back Al said, "You wished you saw what I saw and your wish
came true. Now, you find out who the hell this guy is. I need answers
and Ziggy has dropped out of the picture.  Wake him up."

   She didn't want to go near the visitor. A lot of odd things had
happened at Project Quantum Leap, but there were a few certainties
that kept her going. One was the visitor always looked like Sam. No
matter the personality, gender, size or shape, Sam was Sam. Now Sam
wasn't Sam. "You think he's dangerous?"

   It was Al's turn to look at her as if she was crazy. He started
shadow boxing. "I can take Santa Claus. What do you think?"

   "Not funny, Al."

   The old man still lay happily asleep. Al approached and gently took
the chubby shoulder in hand. Rocking the man just a bit he said, "Hey,
there. Wake up. We have to talk."

   The visitor voiced a cartoon yawn, stretched as far as his stubby
little arms would go and then sat up. 'That was splendid. I enjoy
taking naps. You should try sleeping a little more, Al.  You're going
to work yourself sick."

   "Yeah, well. This is Verbena. She wants to talk to you."

   Stroking his beard neatly he faced the psychiatrist. "Little
Verbena. I always thought you had the prettiest name. Reminds me of
fragrant flowers. What can I do for you?"

   "The Admiral thinks we should talk."

   "Oh, I'm sure he does." Looking at the slightly retreating military
man the visitor asked, "Al, did you ever think you'd be an important
Admiral in the Navy?"

   This guy was a master manipulator, but then Al had been up against
the best and was even considered one of the best himself. "My career
isn't the subject here. You are. Now, who the hell are you? And don't
play games. I need answers now. Sam is floating out in nowhere because
of you and I won't have it."

   He grabbed his bowlful of jelly and roared a big Santa laugh. "My,
oh my. You are authoritative when you need to be, aren't you."

   "I can be the biggest pain in the ass when I need to be. You ready
to cooperate?"

   Verbena took his arm, "Al, that's probably not helping matters."

   "I don't have time for subtlety. We could lose Sam."

   His little toes vainly tried to touch the floor and finally a few
did. He slid down from the dais and stood in front of the pair." Trust
me, you will not lose Sam. That I can promise you and I promise very
few things. Now, what shall we talk about?"

   Al closed his eyes in frustration, ground his teeth and patted his
jacket looking for a cigar.  He cursed his prior cursing of the
mundane and the fact that he'd forgotten his Havanas again.  "You are
going to tell me why Sam can call the shots when it comes to what year
he's in."

   "That's easy. He's me, right?"

   "Yeah, so?"

   "I can be at any year I want. Time for me doesn't move
linearly. All time for me is the present, past and future. Whenever I
want to be, I am, so if he's me then he can be whenever he wants. He
can also be wherever he wants. It's a delightful life, you know."

   He spoke like what he was saying made all the sense in the world,
but the Admiral wasn't buying it. Hiding his exasperation wasn't
easy. "You're going to tell me what I want to know right
now. Understand?"

   The kindly old elf took Al's hand in both of his. "Yes, I do."

   Italian temperament was at a fast boil. Al shook off the gentle
hands and walked out before he said more than he should.

   With a sad, sweet sigh, the visitor told Verbena, "Stubborn,
stubborn, stubborn."

   Verbena guided the visitor back to the dais and help him slide back
up. "He's a good man."

   A short grunt and a big push got him back up on the dais. "Oh, I
know. He's a special one."

   "We think so."

   "I'm sure you do, but you don't know what I mean. Al Calavicci is
uniquely blessed. He's a special one." Verbena didn't understand. "_A_
special one," the visitor repeated, but it still made no sense at all.

*******************************************************

   Without bothering to miss a step, the Admiral entered the Control
Room, picked up the handlink, stormed up the ramp toward the Imaging
Chamber and ordered, "Gooshie, center me on Sam."

   The walls changed around him and he was once again with Sam Beckett
somewhere. At least this time, they were inside where Sam could be
warm and safe from winter weather. Sam watched his buddy appear beside
him. "Al, look. Look where we are!"

   "Can't you ever start a conversation with 'hello?'"

   "Sorry. Hello Al. Now, do you know where we are?"

   The room was familiar to him, but nothing stirred great
memories. "I don't know. Looks pretty ordinary to me. Kind of
country."

   "Exactly. They can't see me, either. It's like I'm a hologram. Al,
this is my house and it's 1958. I'm five years old."

   "No one's here, Sam."

   He nodded like a child being asked if he wanted more whipped cream
on his ice cream.  "They're bringing the tree in. This was the first
year Dad let me go with him and Tom to get the tree. Look out the
window. They're all there. Mom, Dad, Tom." Peeking through the
curtained window, Al saw the Beckett family laughing and trying their
best to get snow on each other from head to toe. Sam joined his friend
at the window. "I just wished myself here. It's great! Oh, Al.
Christmas was the best time. It was always happy. There's so much love
in our house."

   Tom Beckett pushed little brother Sam into a snowbank, but he got
his when Dad pushed Tom! The laughter from the family grew and grew
until it transformed into one huge sound of joy ringing through the
world. Big Sam grinned from ear to ear. "Al, this is real
Christmas. This

 is what I remember Christmas being."

   Seeing Sam happy was always a goal of Al's, but being reminded of
his own deprived childhood didn't do much for his mood. He smiled at
the grown little boy. "Yeah, this is what it should be for everyone,
at least once."

   They kept watching the 1958 Becketts as they dragged in the tree,
deposited wet boots, scarves and coats in the vestibule and hauled out
box after box of bright, colorful ornaments, most of which were really
ugly, but no one cared. It was Christmas and it was meant to be
spectacular with homemade memories of sparkly glass balls, lights that
burned out too often, and the scent of hot cinnamon cider. The time
travelers watched as the family sang and giggled and told stories
about the "old days" and hugged each other. Al noticed they hugged
each other a lot. More than once, his hand started to reach out to try
and join in, but holograms can't touch that world. He hoped Sam didn't
see.

   Hours later, the tree was trimmed and everyone settled in their own
spots with their mugs of cider. Thelma Beckett held young Sam on her
lap. Ten year old Tom leaned against his father's strong shoulder. The
fire gave out a glow of warm light and only the crackling of the logs
broke the quiet. Thelma held her son with such love that grown Sam had
to fight back a sniff or two. She started to softly sing a glorious
carol, "What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I
would bring a lamb; If I were a wise man, I would do my part; Yet,
what can I give him? Give my heart."

   The straw broke Al's back. "Sam, I got to go." The hologram walked
decidedly out of the Norman Rockwell picture.

   Sam followed. "Wait, Al. Wait." He caught up with the Admiral. "I'm
sorry. I got carried away. This was one of the best Christmases I ever
had. I forgot you grew up a little different."

   "A little." There was no bitterness in the words, just a melancholy
that he figured 60 years should have erased. "It's okay, Sam. I'm
really glad you had this. It's probably why you can contend with a
screw-up like me."

   The smile was there, but it rang false to Sam. "You ever get the
feeling we were meant to meet up, that it was pre-ordained?"

   Al was a matter-of-fact kind of guy. Things were or they
weren't. Deal with facts and you survive. Let too many dreams and
fantasies invade your life and you may as well sign yourself into the
psych ward. No, give Al realities - no matter how strange they were -
and then he could cope. "Don't second guess it, Sam. All that matters
is that we did meet."

   Neither man was really good at touchy feely stuff so the diverted
eyes and little coughs and toes grinding into the flooring were about
all they would do to agree. Sam then realized, "Good grief. You've
been here for hours and we never talked about my mission. Do you know
what it is yet?"

   "No idea. The guy says he's Santa Claus." Then it occurred to him,
"Though he never really said that was his name. It's just that who he
looks like."

   "I don't know what to do, Al. What's wrong in his life that we have
to correct?"

   "According to him, everything is wonderful. He makes me nervous."

   "I hate to do this to you, but go talk to him again. Find out
what's going on. I wish I could help you."

   Al smiled, "I don't think you can. Why don't you visit another
Christmas with your family, maybe one when Katie was little. It might
be fun to see Christmas through her eyes."

   Sam thought for a moment. "1965. She'd be four and a half then."
Looking upward, as if that somehow was the right protocol, he started
to say, "I want it to be. . ."

   "No! Don't change times yet. I want to be out of here." The
rectangle appeared and he left Sam to revel in his pleasant past.