Finally, I’m near achieving what every dedicated Eagles fan hopes for. I’ve made the pilgrimage. In a few short blocks, I’ll reach our Mecca—a corner in Winslow, Arizona. The sign. The chance to take a selfie. And maybe I’ll get lucky with a girl in the flatbed Ford.
The club back home says nobody ever gets that. Everyone’s dream, but it’s just a myth, a line from a song—not reality. The corner’s real, but not the girl.
I could cheat. I didn’t use my teleportation or time-bending skills to get here. Just trains and buses. A small cheat couldn’t hurt too much. Just a little control of a lovely local. I might not get caught.
Besides, the rules against using our powers for personal gain are stupid. What can it hurt if we adjust reality, just a bit, to make life easier? There’s no real consequence that I’ve seen, just the punishment from the “powers that be.” I chuckle to myself, self-impressed with my wit.
Then again, I could accidentally screw it up. I’m still learning and don’t have one hundred percent control over my powers. I forget sometimes to keep that control. Mom’s bailed me out of more than one inconvenient, or merely embarrassing, teleportation snafu. I was lucky security didn’t lock me up that time in high school. I just popped into the girls’ showers at the football game. Too much ogling the cheerleaders and oops. Thanks Mom.
I continue my walk down 2nd Street, the old Route 66. Almost there, I can see the sign up ahead. This is fabulous. I can’t wait and break into a run. So exciting … POP—a rush of cold, a flash of light.
What the fuck? Where am I? Where’s the corner? Where the hell is Winslow?
I’m standing in the middle of an open plain. Green grass everywhere. A cool breeze, earthy smells, clear blue sky—and quiet, like quiet quiet—just the wind.
Which power did I let loose?
In the distance, a group of wooly mammoths, so not the twenty-first century. Time bending. Crap. But where? Okay. Okay. Mountains to the west. A sharp, shortened horizon to the south. Maybe I’m still where Winslow will be.
Past the mammoths, a small band of people have spotted me and are heading my way at a run. As they grow closer, I see their hide clothes, their long spears with pointed stone tips.
Crap. This can’t be good.
Take it easy. You can figure this out.
I focus, reach down to tap into my time sense and get myself out of here.
Focus. Focus. POP—I’m back in Winslow. At least I think I am. There’s the corner, the sign, the flatbed truck, but when? And where in the hell did all these off-worlders come from? Tall, frail-looking people with enormous heads, a short, stumpy creature with six legs, something that looks like a praying mantis, but six feet tall. Shit. I thought we were the only ones here.
Strangely, they’re all wearing Eagles T-shirts of some kind, taking selfies in front of the sign and the truck. I must have broken my brain. This is just too weird.
One of the short, stumpy guys approaches, trailing a bunch of others just like him, all with merch.
Extending his neck to eye level, “Hey buddy. Can you take a picture of our club?” he asks in perfect West Coast English.
What’s a guy to do? I say sure and take their picture.
Handing back his camera-thing, “Who are all these things, err—people?”
Still at eye height, “We’re Eagles fans, dude. Just like you guessing from your shirt. By the way—pretty vintage. Where’d you get it?”
“At their concert at the Sphere in Vegas. In December last year.”
The stumpy guy looks surprised, at least I think that is “surprised.”
“What are you talking about? Dude, the Eagles haven’t performed in over fifty years. They’re probably all passed by now.”
Fifty years. Just when am I. “What year is this and where did you all come from? This is not making sense.”
“It’s 2099 on your calendar. And we’re from around the area. Planets close enough to have been listening to the Eagles since we picked up the first transmission back in 2001. But how did you hear them in 2026?”
“It’s a long story, but I can bend time. I’m here by mistake. Overshot my return trip.”
“Man, that’s too bad. But boy, you got to see them. I’d pay real money to hear them live.”
Well, there’s a thought. Real money hmm. “So, how much did you have in mind?”
“You set the price. Anybody here will pay serious coin to see a live concert.” And that’s how I started Temporal Concert Specialties—standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.