The Jacket

By Charles Elgee

When Greg Eagles discovers his old college jacket in a mysterious warehouse, he is sent back in time to his youth with a chance for a new beginning. But the past holds horrors that Greg and his new friend, Wanda Jagr, must fight to save their lives and their futures. When the two friends meet the malignant professor, Stan Beazel, Fundy University becomes a campus of terror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 12, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469702582

Charles Elgee

Charles Elgee lives in Quispamsis, New Brunswick with his wife, Anne and daughter, Christina.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Damn, I miss that place, Greg Eagles thought as he read the Alumni Magazine at his kitchen table. In two weeks Fundy University in Sarum, New Brunswick would be holding a reunion. He looked out the window. Seventeen years, he said quietly.

It had been seventeen years since the good old days, the no responsibility days. The era of long hair, flared pants and tattered jean jackets. When it was easy to find an excuse and head down to the Social Club for a few beers, or more. Party every weekend without a concern for what was going on in the real world or for what the future held.

It was September, 1977 when a younger Greg Eagles entered the large skating area of the Fundy Forum to register for the first time in university classes. He was just one of many students two months out of high school, wandering around, dazed and confused, searching for the right table to register for a required course. He thought he must have looked a little nerd-like in his corduroy jacket and wire rimmed glasses.

It didn’t take long to feel at home, though; about three days. A priority was introducing the frosh to the numerous weekend pubs held in the residences, the Student Union Building, and, of course, the Social Club in the basement of the SUB. The Social Club was dimly lit and seated about two hundred people. The odours of beer and smoke permeated the place. The bar, the walls, and the furniture all smelled this way. The music here was the good old stuff; none of that rap crap. The ballads of ‘Supertramp’, The ‘Eagles’, ‘Led Zepplin’ and Bob Seger played all day and night.

He got to know all the regulars in time. There was Paul, the bartender, who had enroled in ‘73 and who, to the best of Greg’s knowledge, might be still slinging beer to a different generation. There were Ken, Chris, Andy, Bruce, Jim, and many others; so many others. So many friends. People who really knew him, not like the back-stabbing jerks he worked with now who would do nothing for anybody unless there was something in it for them.

Yes, the F.U.S.C. was the place. Greg even wrote essays there while others drank and listened to good old rock and roll. Indeed, he thought that he probably hadn’t entered the library more than a couple of dozen times during his five years at the school.

Drink until you puke, smoke the odd joint and party all night. It was a good life, and the bright red F U jacket he bought the following September eventually became a dull red jacket, worn in spots, revealing the brown cowhide underneath.

He placed the magazine on the table. All good things must come to an end, and it did for him in May of ‘82 when he walked up onto the stage in the same rink he registered in and received his diploma. He married Ramona a year later.

As he listened to his huge wife grunting and huffing in the sewing room, he thought about how he didn’t have near the number of friends he had in the seventies. He was looking forward to the reunion and seeing real people again.

Whatcha thinkin’ about?

Greg looked towards the kitchen doorway. Ramona was there, wearing the pant suit she had been repairing. It was a bright green Spandex outfit that made her look like a neon picnic ham. He looked at her, dismayed.

What? There a problem? she asked, glaring at him.

Well, he replied, don’t you think that’s a little bright for the reunion? I thought we might dress somewhat like we did back in university.

As soon as he said it, Greg realized his mistake. Ramona had gained over a hundred pounds since then. There wouldn’t be anything from that era that would fit her.

You trying to be funny? she asked. Take a look in the mirror, buddy-boy. You ain’t twenty anymore. I think I look pretty good. She turned sideways with her hands on her hips.

Greg didn’t reply but walked past his porcine wife and up the stairs. In the bedroom he began to dig through the closet. Ramona lumbered up the stairs after him and stood in the doorway.

As Greg tore open boxes of clothes, she asked, What the hell are you looking for?

He looked over his shoulder. I can’t find my old jacket, he said, tossing a pair of sneakers onto the bedroom floor.

That old red jacket? I got rid of it over a month ago. You didn’t want that old piece of crap anymore, did you?

Her eyes squinted as she huffed and pressed her big belly outward. Greg filled with rage.

You gave it away? Why? I didn’t say I didn’t want it anymore.

It was garbage, she snarled. Nobody in their right mind keeps garbage.

Greg stood there with his fists clenched at his sides.

Where did you take it? he demanded.

Ramona smiled and said, For me to know and you to find out. Then she puckered her lips at him.

Greg had had it. He had suffered too many years of her bullying. Walking quickly towards her, he shoved her, making her lose her balance. The house shook as her enormous butt hit the hall floor. He crouched over her, holding her arms.

Where the hell is it? he yelled.

Ramona smiled again and said, The South End Thrift Store. It’s probably been sold anyway.

Greg got off her and walked down the stairs. He grabbed his car keys and went out the door, slamming it behind him.

Screw you! she hollered out the window.

His head throbbed as he drove to the Salvation Army depot. Gripping the steering wheel like a vice with one hand, he flicked on the car stereo and the Moody Blues drifted through the speakers.

Nineteen seventy-eight, he said, grinning. He had always made a game of remembering the year a particular song was on the Top Forty. This made him feel a bit better. He even let himself think that, maybe, just maybe, the jacket wasn’t sold yet.

He drove his Cutlass into the lot that fronted the store, got out and looked at the building. Something was wrong. It took a few seconds before he realized what it was. As he stood with his arms folded, he saw that the picture window was gone. It had been replaced with a brick wall in which were set two very small windows.

Now why did they do that? he asked himself.

The windows were barred with wrought iron and the door was solid steel with a small peephole of a window at eye level. Greg would not have thought it a store at all if not for the small wooden sign on the center of the door that read,

THRIFT STORE

OPEN 12 NOON to 2 A.M.

Two in the morning? he thought.

He couldn’t fathom why a second-hand clothing store would stay open so late. No matter, he walked up to the door and pulled it open.

The first thing to strike him was the darkness of the interior. Very little light filtered through the dirty windows, and the ceiling lights were mostly burned out, except for a few dim, flickering fluorescents. The place smelled musty too, and he could see dust floating in the meagre lighting. It was as if he was the first person to come through the door in years.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw hanging rows of suits, jackets, shirts, blouses, and dresses that ran the length of the floor. Bewilderment overtook him as he scanned the racks upon racks and tables upon tables of clothing. Literally thousands of shoes, boots, sneakers, purses, pants, handbags and socks seemed to stretch before him for eternity into the depths of the store where it was so dark he couldn’t see the back wall.

Finally able to see well enough, he walked over to a very untidy and dusty counter. On it were various items of clothing, ledger books, a cracked coffee mug filled with worn pens and pencils, an ancient cash register and a bell. Covering all of these things was about a quarter of an inch of dust. The counter top, what he could see of it, appeared as though nothing had moved across it for at least a decade. Behind the counter was a door that Greg assumed led to an office. He hit the bell with his palm. It made a shrill ringing sound and a small cloud of dust plumed over the counter, slowly settling as he waited for someone to come.

It was deathly quiet in the vast warehouse of hand-me-downs. He was beginning to think no one was there but himself when he heard a noise in the back recesses of the room. He turned in the direction of the sound. At what seemed like a hundred yards away, a thin man came into view, walking towards him. He was hunched over and walked slowly, but, strangely enough, covered the distance between them in seconds. Greg was astonished that the man was within ten feet of him in the blink of an eye. He thought it possible that his perceptions were out of whack, maybe due to stress.

The clerk was indeed thin and hunched. His head was bald except for a fringe of thin blonde hair that encircled his scalp and ran down past his shoulders. He had a long crooked nose, bright blue eyes and narrow lips that formed into a clown-like smile. His clothing was no less outstanding. Greg thought that he must get his clothing from this netherworld of a thrift shop in which he worked. His pants were faded and patched bell-bottom jeans and he wore a silken shirt and a nineteenth century frock coat. He looked like a character from a Dickens novel yet at the same time so familiar, so very familiar.

This strange man walked behind the counter and bent over, reappearing with a feather duster. Dust swirled in the air as he swept the counter top. Greg thought it likely that by the end of the day all the dust would have settled back where it came from. What the place needed was a vacuum cleaner.

The clerk put the duster back and leaned on the counter with his elbows. Can I help you? he asked, still smiling. His voice was light and smooth, almost feminine.

I hope so, Greg replied. My wife dropped off some clothes here about a month ago and she mistakenly gave you an old jacket of mine. It’s red leather with F-U on the back. Do you think there’s a chance it’s still here?

The clerk put his hand to his chin and straightened, looking into the air over Greg’s shoulder. Frowning, he looked back at his customer and said, I don’t remember it, but I also don’t remember selling it, so you may be in luck. Name? His narrow smile returned.

Uh, Eagles. It’d be Ramona Eagles, Greg said.

That’s it! Greg thought as the character bent down behind the counter again. Riff Raff. He looks like Riff Raff in the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

‘Riff Raff’ came up with a large leather-bound binder and plopped it on the counter, raising another cloud of dust, this time from the book itself. As he flipped it open, Greg caught a glimpse of a strange picture embossed on the cover. He was quite sure it depicted a naked woman bound to a post.

Let’s see, Riff Raff said, as he found a page and ran a long white finger down the list of names.

Ah, here we go. Ramona Eagles. She brought in, uh, dresses, women’s slacks.. .here, jacket, leather. Wasn’t sold far’s I can see. There’d be a red circle around it if it was.

He closed the binder, looked at Greg, and said, I think you’re in luck. Of course there is a small fee, seeing as you’re taking it back. At least I assume that’s what you’re doing.

Yes, yes. I’ve got no problem with the fee. I’d just be happy to have it back, Greg said, relieved.

Riff Raff’s smile seemed to increase just a bit.

Come, he said. Let’s go have a peek.

Having said that, the clerk glided out from behind the counter like a phantom and headed down one of the long aisles. Greg followed, finding he had to walk quickly to keep up.

He felt the air getting warmer and stuffier as they headed back into the darkness. Riff Raff stopped at a ladder that was attached to the back wall. The wall itself was constructed of horizontal wooden beams. The ladder was made of wood as well, rising straight up thirty feet to the ceiling. Half way up was a small door which appeared to Greg to be no more than four feet high and about two feet wide.

The clerk climbed the ladder with Greg following, very carefully. When he reached the door, he gave it a push and revealed a room illuminated by a yellowish light. He grabbed the doorjamb with his right hand and swung over, hoisting himself in.

Greg stopped with his head level to the base of the doorway.

On his hands and knees, Riff Raff peeked out, smiling weirdly, and said, Coming?

Greg reached over and grabbed the door casing. He then let go of the ladder, clutching the bottom of the doorway with his other hand. With an effort, he managed to pull himself up and crawl in. He thought it would be an interesting feat going back.

If he had found the main room hot and stuffy, it was like a cool breeze compared to this place. The temperature in this old room had to be close to one hundred and ten degrees. Greg broke out in a heavy sweat as he observed his surroundings. What he thought was a small room turned out to be a large room, about a third the size of the main warehouse but with the same thirty-foot ceiling. The clothes in here were not hung on hangers or racks but stacked here and there in sloppy piles. Most were threadbare and moth-eaten. He thought that if his jacket had been stored here his worries of it having been sold were needless.

Riff Raff began to toss garments off the piles, searching while Greg watched, his shirt soaked with perspiration.

Ah, ha! the clerk exclaimed as he held up the worn jacket. I think this is yours.

Greg took the jacket as Riff Raff handed it to him. He knew it was his.

Put it on, the clerk said gleefully. He was wringing his hands together and staring at Greg with a huge grin.

I think I’ll wait until I get outside. Greg replied. It’s a little too hot in here.

Riff Raff’s smile faltered. He slowly dropped his arms to his sides and glared.

Put it on, he demanded, this time with anger in his voice.

Greg had had enough. It was getting way too creepy and he wanted to go. But turning to the doorway, he froze, and his heart began to race. The door was closed.

Behind him, the clerk said, Put it on, Mister Eagles. Put it on and you can go. That will be your fee.

Greg turned around to face him. Okay, he said, I’ll put it on.

He put on the heavy jacket, which now seemed to weigh fifty pounds. His sweat was dripping onto the rough wooden floor.

Riff Raff’s smile returned. He said, Yes, that’s it. Back to the good old days, eh, Greg? Back to the days of chasing girls and drinking like a fool. No bills, no pressures, just fun.

He stepped closer and Greg stepped back.

Just remember, Greg, he said, we tend to remember the good and not the bad. If you have forgotten your mistakes, you might repeat them.

Who are you? Greg asked. And how do you know me?

The strange man stepped to within inches of Greg’s face. Staring into his eyes, he said, I am the caretaker of memories. The keeper of dreams. Every event in your life, whether you remember it or not, is stored in this warehouse of dead memories. I think you will find that the only good thing about the good old days is that they’re gone.

CHAPTER 2

With the combination of the heat, the weight of the jacket and lack of oxygen, Greg fell backwards, then all went black.

A gentle breeze brushed his face as he came to. He opened his eyes and saw young men and women walking about on a lovely, sunny day. He was in a familiar parking lot seated in his car.

How the hell did I get here? he gasped.

He knew where he was. He was behind a building he knew well. The Student Union Building at Fundy University. But it was strange somehow.

He watched as an AMC Javelin drove into a space in front of him. It was in very good shape. Two young girls, likely in their late teens, dressed in flared hip-huggers and dull polyester shirts got out. A horn sounded and the girls turned, waving to a couple of guys in a huge Dodge Charger. Like the Javelin, it was in almost mint condition.

Greg looked from the parking lot to the interior of his car. It was dark blue with vinyl seats. The radio had no cassette player. And the smell was an old-car smell. This wasn’t his light grey, two year old Cutlass, but it was his car;