Play@YSDC

"Yes, please. Thank you, Jenkins." Terry spoke before taking the clothes and examining them. As soon as Jenkins left, Terry stripped and began dressing. After he was done, he waited patiently for Jenkins to return with his personal possessions.

"You're welcome, sir," said Jenkins, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

Terry noticed that the clothes were of a slightly different cut than he was familiar with. The bottoms of the pants legs were slightly flared outward, for one thing. While Jenkins was out of the room, he got dressed. A couple of minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

"Are you decent, sir?" came the butler's voice from the other side.

"More than I was the day I was born." Terry replied, as he hooked his hands into the pockets of his legs. "What do you call these things, Jenkins? They feel strange, you know?"

Jenkins entered carrying a silver tray much like the one on which brunch had been served. This one held an elegant black leather wallet, a ring of keys, a pair of stylish sunglasses, a gold-plated cigarette lighter, and a small humidor that might fit in the pocket of his suit's jacket. "Here you are, sir," he said, setting the tray down on the bed. "Ah, your trousers. Yes, I believe they're called 'bell bottoms.' They're all the rage these days, but I don't know what people see in them. It looks like something a sailor would wear."

Terry nodded, and took everything from the tray. He tucked the sunglasses into the pocket of his jacket, along with the humidor. The side pocket held his lighter and his wallet. The keys occupied the opposite pocket.

"No kidding. Well, I think I'm ready now. Lead the way, Jenkins."

"Follow me, sir," said Jenkins. He led Terry out the door and down the grand staircase, then across the foyer to the front doors, which he opened. Outside, it was a hot and sunny day. A semicircular driveway was at the foot of a short set of steps leading down from a marble porch. Parked on the driveway right next to them was a Rolls Royce with a tall black man in the driver's seat. He was dressed like a typical chauffeur, with one of those flat hats on his head, and he turned to greet the two men with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Master Williams," he said, "Mr. Jenkins."

"Good afternoon, Griffith," said Jenkins. He went down the stairs first and opened the back door of the Rolls for Terry, standing to one side to allow him to get in.

"Good to see you...Griffith." Terry spoke, and offered his hand. "I think I'd like to go to the bank today, and maybe some other places too. How are you doing? Feeling up to it?"

"Always, sir," said Griffith, returning his handshake with a solid grip. "Hop in. I'll have you in Philly within the hour." He opened up the glove compartment and pulled out an 8-track cartridge, placing it the Rolls Royce's player. David Bowie began to sing, but it was a song Terry had never heard before:

Didn't know what time it was, the lights were low
I leaned back on my radio
Some cat was layin' down some rock'n'roll lotta soul, he said

"Ah...I like David Bowie a lot. Thanks for that, Griffith. Have we ever had man-to-man talks, or has it just been employer-employee? You'll have to forgive me. I can't remember speaking to you in...a while. I think I might have had too many drinks last night." Terry explained, adding a bit of forced laughter at the end.

"I like David Bowie just as much as you do, sir," said Griffith as Terry got in the back seat and Jenkins shut the door. "You're quite welcome. Yeah, we often chat during these drives. What's on your mind, sir?"

The music continued to play while they talked and Griffith started driving down the driveway:

Then the loud sound did seem to fade
Came back like a slow voice on a wave of phase
That weren't no D.J. that was hazy cosmic jive

"As strange as this is going to sound...I don't remember being this rich. I remember everything from the early morning of Thursday. I think it was a Thursday, and it was July. The year was 1969. I don't remember anything up until this point in my life. But, what do we usually talk about, Griffith?"

"You must have partied harder than normal, sir," said Griffith, driving through an open wrought-iron pair of gates in the wall surrounding the estate. He turned onto a road. "We usually talk about the regular guy things: sports, music, girls."

The music played from the speakers, its quality higher than anything Terry had ever heard coming from a car stereo:

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds

"Sports, huh? Right...Right...I could understand music, sure. Girls? I don't happen to have anyone I'm seeing, am I? I suppose that would be hard to explain right now on why I don't remember her!" Terry joked. "When did I employ your services, Griffith? Is there an interesting story about how we met? Jenkins told me I traveled a great distance to recruit him. All the way from England."

"You're with a different girl every night, sir," said Griffith. "Honestly, I don't know how you do it. It's not just the money that draws them. Anyway the story about how you hired me isn't anywhere near as interesting."

Bowie continued to sing on the radio:

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He told us not to blow it
'Cause he knows it's all worthwhile

"I've only been working for you for a couple of years, since your last driver retired. I'm from Philly, and that's where you found me. Used to work for a limo service."

"I see." Terry spoke, and asked no more questions, opting to listen to the music instead.

Griffith drove onwards, and the 8-track continued to play more David Bowie music. A few of the songs were familiar to Terry, such as Space Oddity, which had just been released days before he had stolen the Morpheus. Others were completely new to him, but he recognized Bowie's voice and that they shared the same style. The Rolls eventually reached the New Jersey Turnpike, which took it to the Ben Franklin Bridge. It rolled across the Delaware River and into downtown Philadelphia, taking the crosstown expressway to the Ben Franklin Parkway. From there, Griffith navigated through the streets to Market Street and found a parking spot near a large bank. "Here we are, sir," said Griffith. "Chase Manhattan Bank."

"Thank you. Please wait here." Terry asked, and stepped out of the car. He walked up to the bank and opened the door. He checked his wallet to see what it contained.

Terry first noticed that his wallet contained a wad of cash. It consisted of mostly $100 bills, though there were also some smaller denominations. He also had a New Jersey driver's license (with an expiration date in 1978), Social Security card, voter registration card, and an American Express platinum credit card. He entered the bank, which was doing brisk business. It was Friday afternoon before a holiday weekend, so there were a lot of people inside wanting to get their banking done, as they wouldn't have another chance until Tuesday.

"Ah, Mr. Williams," said a bank employee, a tall, bald man in an impeccable suit and a solid maroon tie, walking across the lobby. "Are you here to see Mr. Rosen?"

"I believe so. Just a few minor things, you see. I don't need an appointment, do I?" Terry asked, closing his wallet and placing it back in his pocket.

"Of course not, sir," said the man. "Mr. Rosen is always happy to see you. This way, please." He led Terry to the back of the bank where an office door bore a nameplate reading "Mr. Abraham Rosen." The bank employee knocked on the door. "Mr. Rosen, it's Mr. Williams to see you."

"Send him in, please," replied the crackly voice of an older man.

The man nodded and opened the door, allowing Terry to enter. The office was small but luxurious. There were two leather chairs in front of a hardwood desk that was kept neat and tidy. Behind it, a bald, wrinkly man in his sixties was slowly rising with the aid of a gold-topped ebony walking stick. He smiled when he saw Terry and extended his hand. "Ah, Mr. Williams," he said. "Good afternoon."