Changing All Those Changes

3:

1958.

Paul loses himself for a moment, staring at the calendar in disbelief. The man behind the counter looks up when he sees him still standing there. Paul watches as his eyebrows raise slowly, his face filling with concern.

"You alright, there, pal?" he asks. "You're looking a little pale."

"I, uh..." Paul clears his throat, which had gone dry in the last few seconds. "Yessir, thank you." He turns on his heel, only letting himself pause for just a moment more, and then he walks away.

"You take care now," the man calls after him. Paul waves back appreciatively.

1958. Numbly, Paul realizes that that would certainly explain where he is - the only questions, then, are how and why.

It seemed more reasonable now that he was looking for Nashville's Houghton Club - after all, it would still be in business if this was 1958. And besides, if he could wake up in another decade, he could wake up in another country, right?

Paul continues the walk over onto the famous Music Row. Even this early, the buildings are lit up with dazzling lights and marquees. The street is packed with people, pacing around. He notices when not a single one of them seems to know who he is. It's a relief, not to be so on edge, but he can't help but also feel twinge of disappointment, going unnoticed.

He scans the signs, searching for one labeled with his destination. At the end of the way, he finds it: The Houghton Club.

The moment he pushes open the door, he is hit with a wave of smoke-filled air. It reminds him, painfully, of the old bars he and the band used to play in Hamburg. As it's still the morning shift, there are very few people shuffling around inside. Nevertheless, a group of workers are hecticly trying to piece together the stage, the focal point of the bar. You'd think they were setting up for a stadium concert, with the effort they were putting in.

One of the workers steps out of the back room, balancing two old - brand new, as Paul reminds himself - amplifiers. He watches as he fumbles with the heavy load, and instinctively rushes to his aid. As he grabs the amp on top and removes it from the worker's arms, he is startled to find that the face behind it belongs not to a man, but to a young girl.

"Oh," she says, startled but grateful. "Thanks very much."

Paul smiles and nods in that usual way he does when he meets a pretty girl. He helps her assemble the amps.

"Here for the show, are you?" she asks.

"I reckon so. Here, slide this one over that way..."

"Ah, I see... I'm awful sorry about this. You come in looking for some music and instead you've gotta carry an amp around."

"It's no trouble," Paul says. "I've handled a few of these in my time." The irony of the line stops him in his tracks.

As they finish up, the girl straightens up and smiles invitingly. "Well, help yourself to a seat. Last I heard, the band was still waiting on one, but I think they may be going on without him."

Paul allows himself a small nervous laugh. "That group would be... Jape's, would it?"

"Why, yes. You wouldn't be...?"

"I believe I'm the one holding up the show."

"Well, what are you doing here with me for? They're right back there." She points him toward a back room.

Paul thanks her and heads off towards the room, not knowing what to expect. He turns to glance over his shoulder at the girl one more time, but finds that she's already resumed her work. Paul realligns himself with the door and reaches up to open it, but just before he can knock, it swings open itself, revealing a young boy with a suiting fifties pompadour.

"Took you long enough!" he says, his voice caught in between relief and aggravation. Paul recognizes that tone as the one on the phone.

The boy grabs Paul by the arm and drags him inside hurriedly. Paul's feet slide out from under him and he struggles to regain his balance, keeping up with the boy. He wonders what he's got himself into.

The door slams shut behind them. As the boy drags him towards them, Paul sees that there are three other men in the room, and none of them seem very happy. One of them has his back to the door. Paul can hear that man muttering something to the other two; however, they all jump when they hear the door. The man evidently sees the other two looking over his shoulder at the approaching boy, with Paul in close pursuit, and turns to see for himself.

When Paul sees the man's face, he just about loses his footing again.

He processes everything quickly. Jape... must be short for J.P. Richardson... formally known as the Big Bopper.

"Glad you decided to join us, Paul," Jape says, thought not really looking very glad. It's that same voice that Paul recalled from "Chantilly Lace," that rumbling "this is the Big Bopper speaking!"

He opens his mouth to respond but no words come to him. Stunned, he shakes his head quickly, peering at Jape intently, as if fearing he would disappear if he ever happened to blink. He knows he should be thinking harder about a reply, but only one thought was blocking all of his creative channels: The Big Bopper knows my name!

Jape shoves a bass into Paul's arms. Paul stares wide-eyed down at the stunning old bass, awestruck.

Jape turns to the younger boy with the pompadour. "What's-a matter with him?"

"He'll wake up," says the boy, sounding unsure but ready to jump to his friend's defense. "He just, um... has had a rough night."

Jape looks back to Paul, an eyebrow raised skeptically.

"Not like that!" the boy interjects.

"If you say so," Jape says, not buying it. "Well, Frankie, you've got thirty seconds to get 'im lucid, all right? I'll tell Bonnie we're ready to go on."

He heads toward the door. Paul listens to his footsteps incredulously. The Big Bopper's footsteps. Like he's real, like he's alive...

Before he leaves, Jape gives one more pointed look over his shoulder.

"I've got him, I've got him," reassures the boy, evidently known as Frankie.

The moment he's gone, Frankie whirls back to Paul.

"What is the matter with you?" he asks. "Now's really not the time to be pushing him. You're already walking on eggshells with Jape."

Paul's eyes refocus, and he tries to get all of this through his head. "I... I am?"

Frankie gives a mirthless laugh. "Please."

Mildly amused, Paul figures that it would have been just like him in 1958 to get on his band members' nerves. But he couldn't imagine himself having the gumption to get on the Big Bopper's bad side. One of his heroes, at that.

"What song are we starting with, Frankie?" Paul tests out calling the boy by his first name. It feels perfectly natural.

"White Lightnin', like always. Are you... all set?"

Of course not. Paul couldn't have rehearsed the songs with this group. But he was familiar enough with the Big Bopper's recordings, and considered himself a good enough bassist to follow along.

"Sure, yes."

"Jape'll kill you, you know. He'll kill you dead."

"I know," Paul reassures him. "I'll be alright. Don't worry about it."

Within Frankie's concerned eyes, Paul could see a hint of himself there, too - youthful naivety and ambition, rolled into one.

"Fine," he concedes.

As if suddenly becoming aware of the other two figures in the room, Paul glances toward them. Neither of them says a word – they just stare at him gruffly, like he's done something wrong. Paul offers a grin. Nothing happens. He awkwardly looks away.

Just then, Jape bursts through the door again. In a loud, unrestricted voice, he beckons, "Showtime!"

Frankie and the two other men jump into action and follow him as he heads for the stage. It's all Paul can do to go along.