Spare Time | Novella

The Assignment

New York City, New York

1869

Mr. Oliver Rockwell was sitting in his family's drawing-room, carefully assessing the peculiar gentleman who sat across from him. The man, Mr. Jones, was wearing ill-fitting breeches that Oliver reckoned were stitched by a drunk seamstress. Not to mention that his top hat hadn't been fashionable for some twenty years.

"You see," the man said, "you and I are the same, Mr. Rockwell."

Oliver frowned, glancing down at his own neatly pressed attire. His double-breasted waistcoat didn't have a single stitch out of place, and its brassy buttons were shining beneath the small ray of sun that had slipped through the curtains. Looking back up, Oliver noticed that the gentleman was removing his top hat, and Oliver's eyes nearly popped out of his head. What the devil had this man done to his hair? His head was shaved entirely save for a strip of unruly black locks upon the top.

"Sir, I assure you that we are not the same," Oliver replied evenly as he reached for his teacup on the table in front of him. "We might both have the ability to travel through time, but we are not the same. Only one of us knows how to dress for tea at the Rockwell House."

Mr. Jones chuckled. "Dressing for the occasion wasn't really my biggest concern. I'll only be in 1869 for a few hours."

"And what was your biggest concern, then?"

"I was told I had to come here to give you your first assignment, Oliver," Mr. Jones replied, tossing some of the teacakes into his mouth and washing them down with a swig of earl grey. This man was drinking tea like he was at the pub drowning in his favorite ale. How uncouth.

Oliver paused with his own teacup on the way to his mouth. "Assignment?"

"Yes, assignment," the ill-mannered man continued. "You didn't think you had inherited the time-traveling trait just to use it for fun, did you?"

"Well, I really had no idea what to use it for," Oliver replied, placing the teacup back on its saucer. "I was told it skips generations, and dear old Gramps is already in his grave."

"But someone came by to explain your gift to you, didn't they?" Mr. Jones asked, confused.

"Oh, they did. Some elderly gentleman by the name of Jennings popped by one afternoon and unloaded his whole spiel on me. I rather figured he was off his rocker. Naturally, I didn't listen to a word of it." Oliver paused to take a bite of a teacake before continuing.

"And then a few weeks later I was in the middle of an arduous encounter with one Ms. Elizabeth Green, and suddenly I've left the comfort of my chambers to be surrounded by dancing women in absurdly short, tasseled gowns. I was told they were called...slappers? No, flappers. Ah, yes, that's it."

Oliver leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs absentmindedly. "Mind you, I was still without my shirt. Rather uncomfortable first experience that was," he finished.

Mr. Jones laughed. "Gotcha," he said. "Well, occasionally, a guy like me will show up and give you an assignment to complete. A mission."

"A mission?" Oliver repeated, warily. "You should know I'm not the type of man meant for combat, Mr. Jones."

The other man began shaking his head, but Oliver continued to explain. "I don't think I know how to shoot a gun. Honestly, Mr. Jones. Father tried to teach me once, but I'm afraid I don't recall even the first--"

No," Mr. Jones said, interrupting with a chuckle. "Not that type of mission, Mr. Rockwell."

"Then what?" Oliver asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Here." Mr. Jones handed him a folded piece of parchment that was flimsy and incredibly... white. Oliver studied it for a moment before glancing back at the gentleman. "That should give you all the details of the assignment," Mr. Jones continued to say. "This bag should contain all the clothes and other belongings that you should need for it."

"Oh dear me," Oliver murmured, glancing at the bag and the folded parchment in his hands. "I've inherited madness."

Mr. Jones stood then. "Well, good luck, Mr. Rockwell."

Oliver jumped up, too. "Is that all? You're just going to leave now?"

But the man was already making his way toward the door. He barely looked back to say, "You have everything that you need, Oliver!"

"I daresay, I disagree!" Oliver called after Mr. Jones, but it was too late. The door was already slamming closed behind him, and Oliver wasn't about to run into the streets of New York to shout at the strange man.

Not having another option, Oliver sat back down. He opened the letter, supposing that he should learn more about this mission of his before anything else.

"Dear Mr. Rockwell," it read.

Scowling at the strange block text, Oliver muttered, "This font is ridiculous." Sighing, his eyes scanned the parchment quickly. When he reached the bottom of the page, Oliver flung his head back against the cushions.

"How annoying," he grumbled to himself. "If the future uses terms like boyfriend to describe romantic relations—relations that are literally the opposite of the word friend—I'm not sure I'm interested in going there. It sounds wildly confusing."

Oliver leaned forward again. Grabbing for the bag at his feet, he experimented with the little tab in the middle of it. Pulling at it, he watched in fascination as the tab released the two sides of the bag, creating an opening in its wake.

Oliver wasn't sure if the contents of the bag could really be considered clothes, but he knew from his previous adventures in time that clothing was an oddly relative term.

Consider: flappers.

Shaking his head, Oliver pulled out a jacket that was made entirely of black leather and was donned with little silver embellishments that jingled as he shook it out.

Oliver thought it looked like something that belonged on a horse instead of a man.

Forcing himself to shed his favorite waistcoat, Oliver slid the leather jacket on instead. He strolled to the foyer of his home, standing before the mirror that hung on the wall there.

Wrinkling his nose at his reflection, he murmured, "I don't think 1951 is going to suit me."

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