Rating: White Cortina
notes: First posted LoM fic, *eep!*
One of the first things he’d seen when he woke up was the eight-track, the same Bowie song that had been playing on his iPod just before the accident.
When Chris came in to work one morning, pleased with himself about the flash new eight track player he’d just bought, Sam bit his lip, and didn’t tell him how briefly that technology would exist.
Almost the only thing that hadn’t changed tremendously in his journey backwards through time. Then and now, cassette recordings of prisoner interviews, even if then, it was standard procedure, and now it was an innovation from those forward-thinking officers in Hyde.
He’d nearly bought a small cassette player for his bedsit, but in the end, he couldn’t resist the notion of vinyl LPs, a pleasure of his youth recaptured, and instead, he’d acquired a small record player, with unimpressive speakers and the glorious needle hiss he’d long forgotten in a world of CDs.
The Record Album.
He was drawn back, again and again, to the record shop with its dual memories – overlaid with memories of spending his pocket money as a teen, seven and ten and twelve years hence, and in fascinated staring at the album jackets now, looking from time to time to see what had just been released, the long-remembered and the quickly-forgotten, measuring the distance to the future.
He’d try to remember when each classic album was released, The Beatles and the Stones, Slade and T. Rex, and Bowie in all his various phases.
He wondered if he’d still be there a few years hence, to watch punk break all over again.
It was almost the last thing he saw before the accident, his iPod hooked into the car sound system, something of the sound leaking in even through his agitation as he raced to try and save Maya.
Often, he thought that if one thing, one physical item, could have come with him, he’d have chosen the iPod and the decades of music it contained.