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Henry folded the map and set it aside. "I'd like to try a bit of everything," he said with a crooked grin. "Though chasing the dream? That one's a long shot—depends on luck."
The waitress gave him a slow once-over, eyes flicking from head to toe before landing back on his face. Her lips curled into a sly smile.
"With a face like that, hon," she said, "you'd do real well up in the Valley."
San Fernando Valley. Known for a few tourist attractions—and about three hundred adult film production companies.
Henry chuckled. "Let's hope I don't hit rock bottom that fast."
He speared a strip of bacon with his fork, rolled it, and shoved it in whole. No cutting. No ceremony. Just hunger and meat. He gave a thumbs-up between chews. "Damn good bacon."
The waitress smirked, proud. "Take your time."
Henry took the more civilized route with the sausage, slicing it up instead of risking what could easily be misinterpreted as certain skills better suited for casting couches in Van Nuys.
Despite the banter, he meant what he said—the food was good. He'd picked the place by smell, after all, and his Kryptonian senses weren't wrong.
With his meal sorted and the map now committed to memory, Henry turned to the newspaper.
Front page: political drama up near the Arctic Circle. The Red Empire was starting to crack—at least according to the American press, which was practically drooling at the thought.
Henry knew better. This wasn't analysis—it was wishcasting. The U.S. media had a long tradition of talking big and hoping reality followed suit. But hey, sometimes enough yelling did bring down an empire.
The rest of the news? Mostly fluff about Christmas events, charity drives, celebrity statements—everything bland enough to numb your brain. He skimmed it until he hit the entertainment and sports sections.
NBA: The Bulls were on fire. Michael Jordan was starting his rampage. If Henry's memory served, '91 would mark the dawn of a dynasty. The '90s belonged to Black Jesus, and the rest of the league was about to get baptized in Ls.
MLB: Off-season. Nothing to see here.
NFL: Now that was America's real religion. Pre-season in August, full season in September, and the Super Bowl in February. But unlike basketball or baseball, football was very much a homegrown obsession. The rest of the world didn't care, and neither did Henry.
More interesting was the movie section. Christmas meant awards season. Gold statues, rigged campaigns, and self-congratulation in high definition.
Harvey Weinstein hadn't started bribing the entire Academy yet, so at least the scandals weren't daily headlines. That was still a few years off.
Right now, the talk of the town was Dances with Wolves. There was also Ghost, Pretty Woman, and Home Alone for lighter fare. The year had been packed with sequels too—The Godfather III, Back to the Future Part III, Gremlins 2, The Exorcist III, and a third installment of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, because why not?
But the real surprise? A film called Captain America.
Henry blinked at the synopsis. Apparently, this version of Cap never sacrificed himself in WWII. Instead, he fought a cartoonishly evil crime family that hated environmental laws and, for reasons unknown, had kidnapped the President.
It was basically a Hallmark special in spandex.
That said, in a world where Steve Rogers actually existed, it was bold of Hollywood to turn him into tabloid fan fiction. Sure, Cap didn't have any surviving family, but the guy was still technically military property—and the military didn't usually take kindly to people playing fast and loose with their icons.
Then again, this was the same military that had ridden the Top Gun hype train straight into a recruitment surge back in '86. They and Hollywood were in bed together, spooning with a budget.
Letting a movie Cap save the President? Yeah. Uncle Sam wasn't going to complain.
Oddly enough, the movie had gained traction. Maybe it was the nostalgia. Maybe it was respect. But a bunch of major names—Kevin Costner, Whoopi Goldberg, Scorsese, even Coppola—were publicly praising it. Though, Henry noted, most of their compliments were directed at Steve Rogers the hero, not the film itself.
Smart move. Never insult the symbol, even if the product was garbage.
Hell, the old WWII recruitment posters had already swapped out Uncle Sam's pointing finger for Cap's clean-cut jawline. The man was more myth than soldier now.
Henry flipped past the puff pieces and found the entertainment gossip—celebrity scandals, divorce rumors, probably 40% true at best.
Not a single preview for next year's films. Probably because the press was too busy slobbering over the upcoming Golden Globes and Oscars.
His steak arrived just as he hit the final page of the paper. A hefty slab, seared to perfection, with a side of golden fries. The toast was already gone.
He carved the meat like a savage, fork in one hand, newspaper in the other. No etiquette, no pretense. This wasn't fine dining—it was a diner. No one gave a damn.
By the time he swallowed the last bite of steak, the newspaper was folded and done.
He poured himself another cup of coffee and raised a hand to flag down the waitress.
"Hey, sweetheart," he called. "You got a Yellow Pages?"
She pointed toward the payphone near the door. "Underneath. Big fat book."
Henry got up, retrieved the directory, and brought it back to his seat. He flipped it open like it was a treasure map.
Because in 1990, if you wanted information, you didn't Google it. You either asked a bartender, paid some shady guy in an alley—or you cracked open the goddamn Yellow Pages.
Published by the phone company, funded by ads, this prehistoric search engine listed everything from mechanics to magicians. Even private numbers, organized by last name.
Twenty years from now, someone would sue the hell out of a company for "leaking personal data." But in this era? Totally normal.
Sure, it only updated once a year—but for now, it was the best tool Henry had.
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