Parrot

I wake up Saturday morning with sunlight filtering through the thin curtains of Room 8. The three crisp hundred-dollar bills from last night are on the nightstand beside me. More money than I've seen since arriving in 1978.

And I have a date with Dee today.

I drag myself out of bed and stand in front of the cracked bathroom mirror. My reflection stares back at me. Cheap t-shirt with a faded logo, worn jeans, and simple sneakers I got from a discount bin. The outfit of a man scraping by.

"Enough looking like a bum," I tell my reflection. "Today I dress like a man with money."

After a quick shower, I head out. The bus takes me to Lincoln Road, where the fancy stores are. I've been window shopping here during my walks, but never had the cash to go inside. Today is different.

I push through the glass doors of Harison's Department Store, immediately hit by the blast of air conditioning. A salesman in a neat suit glances up from arranging a display.

"Can I help you find something, sir?" His eyes flick over my clothes, not quite hiding his assessment.

"Just browsing," I say, moving toward the men's section.

The price tags make me stop in my tracks. A stylish three-piece suit: $65. Quality dress shirts: $12 each. Leather shoes that would last years: $18. Silk ties: $8.

"Fuck me," I whisper under my breath. "With $300 I can dress like a movie mobster."

In 2025, that wouldn't buy me a decent pair of shoes. Here, I could outfit myself like a king.

The salesman materializes beside me. "Looking for something special, young man?"

"Yeah. Want to look like a successful businessman."

He smiles, professionally warm. "Then you need something with character. Bold is fashionable right now. Follow me."

He leads me through racks of clothing, stopping at a display that makes me blink twice.

"This just arrived yesterday," he says, pulling out a bright pink suit. Not subtle pink. Not salmon. Flamingo pink. The kind of pink that walks into a room five minutes before you do.

"This is the latest fashion," he assures me. "Jonathan Travolta would approve."

I stare at it, trying to imagine myself wearing something so... loud. In 2025, men's fashion had gotten boring. Blues, grays, blacks. Nothing that stood out.

"In 1978 people not afraid to wear colorful," I say, more to convince myself than him.

Twenty minutes later, I'm at the register with the pink suit ($65), a crisp white shirt ($12), and white leather shoes ($18). The total comes to $103 with tax.

"Excellent choice, sir," the salesman says as he bags my purchases. "You'll make quite the impression."

Walking out with my new clothes, I pass a car dealership next door. The gleaming vehicles catch my eye, and I stop "just to look."

A row of brand new models sits in the lot, price tags displayed prominently on windshields. 1978 Pontiak Trans Am: $5,200. Chevroled Corvette: $9,300. Fort Mustang: $4,800.

I stand there, mesmerized by a red Corvette, imagining myself pulling up to meet Dee, stepping out in my pink suit like some disco kingpin.

"Beautiful machines, aren't they?" A salesman appears beside me, smelling opportunity.

"Yeah, they are."

"Any particular model interest you?"

I nod toward the Corvette. "That one's nice."

"Excellent taste. Want to sit inside? No obligation."

I hesitate, then shake my head. "Not today. Just looking."

"Well, when you're ready. Beautiful cars like these are serious purchases that require serious work."

As he walks away, I do some quick math. At $300 per job with Miguel... I could afford that Corvette in a month or two. The thought is damn tempting.

I find a small café near the dealership and order coffee. Sitting at a corner table, I empty my pockets to count my finances.

Spent on clothes: $103

Remaining: $200 from the cigar job + $50 salary from the store = $250

I separate the money into two stacks. $150 in regular bills. $100 in small bills I've already exchanged at the convenience store, lots of bills for quick rewinds if needed.

One hundred dollars equals one hundred seconds of rewind time. That's enough for any emergency on a date.

Back at the motel, I shower again and stand in front of the mirror at 6:00 PM. The pink suit fits perfectly. With the white shirt and shoes, I look like Al Pacino crossed with a parrot. But there's something undeniably eye-catching about it. I slick my hair back with some cheap gel.

"Time to make an impression," I tell my reflection.

Final check before leaving:

$150 in wallet

$100 in small bills in pocket

Gun hidden under the mattress (definitely not taking that on a date)

I walk down Ocean Drive toward our meeting spot, conscious of the stares I'm attracting. Some people whistle approvingly, their eyes tracking my progress as I walk by in my pink glory. Others shake their heads in disbelief, muttering something about young people.

Most people just look, their gazes lingering a beat too long, and that's exactly the point. In this suit, I'm somebody worth noticing, not just another faceless immigrant trying to blend in. The fabric feels nice against my skin, a constant reminder that I'm moving up in this world, one pink step at a time.

The evening air is warm against my face as I stroll along the palm-lined street. Music drifts from bars and restaurants. Cars cruise by, their radios playing disco and rock. It's a perfect Miami evening.

I wonder what Dee will think of my transformation. Will she be impressed by this bold choice, or will she laugh in my face? More importantly, what will she think if she ever asks where I got the money for this suit?

The ocean breeze ruffles my hair as I approach our meeting spot. My heart beats a little faster, not from nerves but anticipation.

Time to find out if a guy from the future can impress a girl from the past.