Channel '63

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  “Hey!” said the man. “What’s this all a—”

  “Cut!”

  The screen went black.

  “That’s all there is to it,” said the director. “And now, Theme Farm invites you to step into the amazing world of . . . Used-to-Be TV.”

  Dramatic music swelled as an automatic garage door opened onto a huge sound stage. There was the charming, suburban neighborhood the director had told us about. Movie lights simulated a time of day just after sunset. Sound effects of chirping crickets made it feel like I was really outdoors. Street lamps illuminated the four cottages, each with lush front lawns, bordered by neatly-trimmed hedges. The smell of fresh-cut grass brought back memories of the city park adventures of my youth.

  Only a handful of people were on the street, most of them coming out of the cottages. None were going in. I strolled up to the bay window of the first cottage, and cupped my eyes with my hands to see inside. It was vacant.

  I knocked on the front door, then slowly stepped inside. “Anybody home?” I called out, just to be courteous, then locked the door behind me. I was in a cozy living room, surrounded by early 1960s furniture. The soft light of a hanging swag lamp lit up a sunburst clock on a wall, covered in retro-pattern wallpaper.

  It was eerily quiet.

  A plaid couch in the middle of the room faced a vintage black and white TV. I sidestepped the coffee table and sat down on the couch. As the TV came on, the screen displayed an old-style TV test pattern, with the words Please Stand By. I adjusted the couch pillows to get comfortable, and waited to see what would happen next.

  The flickering pattern faded out. A black and white image popped up an instant later. I was watching the video signal from a camera outside a TV store, aimed down a city sidewalk. A sign off to one side read See yourself on TV! Passersby could see their faces on a TV in the store’s display window—a clever ruse to draw people inside. I watched with amazement as average folks, dressed in their ‘60s attire, paraded up and down the street. City busses and classic cars drove by in the background. But no street sounds were coming out of the TV. I checked to make sure the volume was turned up.

  A lady with a shopping bag stopped and looked into the camera. “Hello!” I said to her, waving my hand. But the woman just wiped her nose with a handkerchief and walked away. Evidently, she had seen herself in the store window TV, and not me.

  I moved on to the cottage next door. The TV came on and showed the view of a security camera at a used car lot. The camera was at a high angle, like it was mounted to the roof of the sales office. Customers milled about, kicking tires and slamming car doors.

  I definitely wasn’t going to meet anyone here.

  The TV in the next cottage only showed the words College Media Studies, superimposed over another test pattern. Just for the heck of it, I waited to see if something else would happen.

  Nothing did.

  No wonder there were no lines for this attraction. For sure, spying on a world fifty years in the past was fascinating, but not being able to interact with anyone made it hard to stay put.

  I tried the last cottage, hoping I would find someone to talk to. This time I saw the inside of a security office, most likely in a commercial building of some kind. The back wall was covered in white, acoustical tiles. A row of video monitors showed images from surveillance cameras around the premises: an empty parking lot, deserted hallways, an idle, factory assembly line. The only thing moving was the second hand on a large wall clock.

  In the center of the frame sat an empty office chair.

  A minute or two rolled by.

  “Hello?” I said faintly.

  Nothing.

  The sunburst clock in the cottage had read 12:20 when I first came in. Now it read 12:45—the same hour showing on the clock in 1963. Staring at the static screen all that time had exhausted my patience.

  I got up and started to leave, when I noticed a shadow move across the back wall of the security office. I rushed back to the couch.

  “Is there someone there?” I shouted.

  The shadow entered the frame again. It was the silhouette of a man.

  “Hey!” I cried. “Over here!”

  The man-shadow turned left and right, as if having heard a voice—my voice.

  “I’m right here,” I said. “Sit down in the chair so I can see you.”

  But the man just scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders. Then the shadow walked out of frame.

  I waited to see if the dark phantom would reappear, but after another ten minutes, it looked like that was all I was going to get.

  Wow! Did I just have a close encounter with someone in 1963? The very idea had my head spinning. I couldn’t just leave it at that. Maybe if I came back the same time tomorrow, I thought, the man would return as well. It was worth a try, and with a little luck, I might just experience a real face-to-face encounter.

  Chapter 4

  Clifford

  Day or night, rain or shine, if you need something in a hurry—whether it be band-aids and coffee, or diapers and beer—you will usually find it at the 24-hour Jiffy-Q. It was easy to find, with its flashing OPEN sign, and the lottery jackpot numbers brightly displayed in the window. I needed a few supplies before setting off again for Used-to-be TV, and my second attempt to contact the mystery man from the past.

  As I entered the all-hours market, I immediately headed for the food section. It might take hours for my shadowy friend to appear, so I figured I had better stock up for the long haul, just in case.

  “Good morning, Amy,” said Yuuki Yokimoto, the gray-haired store manager. Yuuki was the last man you would expect to see behind the counter of a convenience store. To the locals he was considered either the town genius, or the village idiot, depending on who you talked to. He had a Ph.D in Sociology, and had been awarded the highest honors in his field. His paper, The Social Interactions of Primates, was required reading for all students entering the Social Sciences. But accolades don’t pay the bills, and there were no openings for intellectuals in a town like Shankstonville.

  “Can I help you find anything?” asked Mr. Yokimoto.

  “Just munchies today, Yuuki,” I said. I picked up some fresh fruit from the health foods section, a box of chewy fiber bars, and some string cheese.

  Plump hotdogs turned on a hot-roller grill, by the self-serve beverage counter.

  “How fresh are these dogs?” I asked Yuuki.

  “Very fresh,” he said. “Just put them on yesterday.”

  Then came the snack rack. Jiffy Chips, Jiffy Snaps, Jiffy Noodles, Jiffy Jelly, and dozens of other Jiffy brand treats filled the shelves. The Jiffy-Q chain of convenience stores featured food products made by its parent company Jiffy Snax Industries.

  I passed on the high-fructose goodies, but not on the sugary drink in the refrigerated case next to them. Jiffy Fizz Cola was my only compromise to an otherwise healthy selection. With its signature red can, the drink was especially popular in Shankstonville, since the company had chosen our town to manufacture its most famous product.

  “That’s it,” I said to Yuuki, placing my stash on the counter.

  “Free fortune cookies with every purchase today,” said Yuuki.

  He opened a jar filled with the oriental treats. I cracked one open, popped the cookie in my mouth, and read the fortune inside: Endurance and persistence will be rewarded. I opened another cookie: To foretell the future, you must visit the past.

  “I seem to have picked fortunes written just for me,” I said.

  “This must be your lucky day,” said Yuuki.

  “With all my good luck, maybe I should buy a lotto ticket.”

  “Sorry, Amy. Gotta be eighteen. Anyway, the jackpot’s only up to six million. Hardly worth the two-dollar investment.”

  I handed Yuuki the exact change as he bagged up my purchase. “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Yes. Why does someone with your intelligence stay around a cow town like this?”

  He breath
ed in deeply. “I love the smell of manure in the morning.”

  I had to ask!

  No food or drink allowed read the sign above the entrance to Used-to-Be TV. One thing nice about being a female is that no one considers carrying a large bag over your shoulder unusual. It’s just normal. I carried such a bag into the cottage I had visited the day before. It not only held my snacks, but also a yellow notepad, a pen, and Hubert’s spare tablet computer that he was kind enough to lend me. It was his backup in case the batteries in his other tablet died—a major dilemma in Hubert’s world.

  It was 12 noon exactly as I sat down on the couch. The TV came on as it should, and sure enough, there was the same scene in 1963!

  Hubert’s tablet found the Theme Farm Wi-Fi signal and connected to it. I could now search the Web, watch videos, and be entertained while waiting for something to happen on the TV. But I didn’t have to wait long, as the sound of a door opening came through the TV speaker.

  “Hello!” I shouted. But no one appeared on the screen. I sat perfectly still, desperately hoping for a reply, watching and listening.

  Then a far off voice said, “Is someone there?”

  “Yes!” I shouted back. “Over here!”

  A man’s face slowly leaned into the corner of the frame.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, gazing at me with wonder in his eyes.

  “Come closer,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”

  A middle-aged gentleman moved to the center of the frame. “What is this?” he said.

  “Don’t be alarmed, sir. You’re going to find this hard to believe, but I’m talking to you from (bleep). I’m at a theme park attraction called (bleep).”

  “I can’t understand what you are saying,” said the man.

  I quickly took out the pen and yellow pad from my bag, and wrote down what I was trying to say in big letters. I held it up to the screen for the man to read, but the screen went blank. The live feed came back as soon as I took it down. (Those Fritterz don’t miss a trick!)

  “Who are you?” asked the man.

  “My name’s Amy. I’m talking to you from . . . er . . . a long ways away. What’s your name?”

  The bewildered man eased into the office chair. “My name is Earl. Earl Anderson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Anderson. What’s that room you’re in?”

  “This is the security office in the building where I work. I’m employed by the (bleep) company.”

  “Are you the security officer?”

  “No. We don’t have one. In all the years I’ve been here there hasn’t been a single security breach. We have this equipment here to keep our insurance company off our back.”

  Just then another off-camera voice chimed in. “Who are you talking to?”

  Earl looked off camera. “Come in here, honey,” he said.

  A woman entered the frame and stared at me for a moment, then turned to Earl. “I told you not to fool with this video equipment,” she said. “What program is this?”

  “It’s not a program,” said Earl. “This is Amy.” He put his arm around the woman. “Amy, this is my wife, Sarah.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said.

  Sarah put her face up to the screen, looking left and right. “Is this girl somewhere else in the building?”

  “This is going to sound ridiculous, honey,” said Earl, “but I think she’s in the future.”

  Despite the skepticism in his own voice, Earl had figured out—however unlikely—what was happening.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Sarah. “You’ve picked up a broadcast of the Twilight Zone, that’s all.”

  The woman reached her hand toward the screen. “Don’t turn it off!” cried Earl, brushing her hand away. “I want to talk to her.”

  Sarah pulled up another chair and sat quietly beside her husband.

  “Tell me about yourself, Amy,” said Earl.

  “Well, I’m 16 years old. I go to (bleep) high school, and I enjoy jazz and reading.”

  Sarah playfully slapped Earl on the knee and laughed.

  “You’re so right, Earl,” she said. “This isn’t the Twilight Zone, it’s Candid Camera.” She pointed at me. “But you sure don’t look like Alan Funt.”

  “Just a minute,” said Earl. Then he called off camera again. “Cliff! Come in here. I want you to meet someone.”

  Into the frame walked a tall boy about my age, flicking a yo-yo from his wrist.

  “What’s this, Pop?” asked the boy, with eyes wide.

  “Amy,” Earl said to me, “this is our son, Clifford. He’s 17.” He shoved the boy closer to the screen. “Say hello to Amy, son.”

  The frightened boy put his arms up in front of his face, as if fending off a swarm of attacking mosquitoes.

  What a trip! There was a teenager like me, living in an age of high-top sneakers and Roy Rogers lunch boxes. The boy didn’t appear to share my enthusiasm, however, as he quickly moved behind his parents without saying a word.

  “He’s a little shy,” said Earl apologetically. “Let me tell you about myself, then.”

  Between the censored words, I got a sense of their location. The name of the town was bleeped out, but it apparently wasn’t far from where I lived. Earl occupied some high position in his company.

  He rattled off more information that the attraction would not allow me to hear, but by then I wasn’t listening anyway. My attention was fixed on Clifford. Behind his slicked-down hair and buttoned-down collar, he was an attractive-looking boy. His timidness was kind of refreshing. I liked that he wasn’t putting on some phony front to impress me, or displaying some kind of fake masculinity, like most boys do. There was a sweetness about him. He had that vulnerability that made me want to reach out to him—like an abandoned kitten that you want to hold and cuddle.

  When my attention returned to Earl, he and his wife were both standing.

  “C’mon, Sarah,” said Earl. “I think we’ll leave these two alone to talk.” Clifford’s face went blank, as his yo-yo twirled at the end of its string.

  Earl patted his son on the back. “Talk to the girl,” he said, then walked out of frame.

  “Be nice to this young lady,” said Sarah.

  “Okay,” replied Clifford.

  Then his mom kissed him on the cheek. I watched curiously. What most people would regard as a common, everyday show of affection, seemed extraordinary to me. I was so full of disdain for my own parents, that the sight of tenderness between parent and child was almost overwhelming. I put my hands to my face and felt my cheeks redden. My god, I thought to myself, there it is: the family I always wanted!

  Sarah smiled at her son and tousled his unkempt hair, before the hand of Earl reached in and pulled her away.

  Clifford sat down, holding his yo-yo in his lap.

  “Hello, Amy,” he said, as he wound the string of his toy.

  “So, Cliff,” I said, “what do you do for fun?”

  “Oh, lots of things. I like comic books. Batman, The Flash. Don’t go much for Archie and that stuff. The ads in the back are kinda boss, though. I just ordered a pair of x-ray glasses.”

  Clifford’s speech and mannerisms enchanted me, even though he was coming off like—in the words of his generation—a drip! I wouldn’t be surprised if he blew a chewing gum bubble next. Still, the longer he spoke, the more fascinated I became.

  “I like to go to the movies,” he went on. “I saw The Nutty Professor last week. Jerry Lewis is keen-o! And I saw Beach Party just yesterday. Have you seen it?”

  “I know it well,” I said, being a fan of ‘60s cult movies.

  Clifford’s face lit up. “Annette Funicello. She’s so choice!”

  “I agree. Too bad she came down with (bleep), isn't it?”

  “What?” Clifford dropped his yo-yo to the floor. “Something’s happened to Annette?”

  The attraction wouldn’t let me answer him, and maybe it was just as well. Hearing about Annette’s unfortunate affliction would have
shattered his world. What right did I have to do that? The harsh realities of his decade would be upon him soon enough. There would be a hellish war, student protests, and street riots that would rob the innocence of his whole generation. He should enjoy the wonderful life he was blessed with while he could. He was Peter Pan, and I didn’t want to see him grow up.

  I wanted to know Clifford better. I wanted to be a part of his family, as if that was even possible. But how could we communicate when we get bleeped every time we say anything meaningful?

  “Ya know,” said Clifford, twiddling his thumbs, “you’re kinda cute.”

  “You’re kinda ‘choice’ yourself,” I said.

  Clifford looked away, embarrassed, but smiling.

  “I don’t know many girls,” he said. “The ones at school all go for the football hero types. There are a few who like to stuff love letters in my locker, but they’re just messin’ with me. I don’t even know who they are.”

  “You’re lucky,” I said. “I’d love to have a secret admirer. I turn off boys because I’m too honest. I could tell them what they want to hear, but I don’t like playing games when it comes to relationships.”

  Then Clifford looked at me with a warmth in his eyes I had never experienced before. There was a sincerity in his gaze that leaped off the screen and into my heart.

  I should have looked away the moment our eyes met.

  But I didn’t.

  I should have turned off the TV right then.

  But I didn’t do that, either.

  I was heading for trouble and I knew it, but the closeness I felt for Clifford was impossible to ignore. I wanted to believe that he was just across the street, and not fifty years in the past; that he was watching me through a window, and all I had to do was open it and invite him into my life.

  Earl’s voice suddenly called out, “We’re going now, Cliff.”

  Clifford looked down, sadly. “Well, I guess I gotta cut out.”

  “Same time tomorrow?” I said, without hesitation.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can you come back? I have so much to tell you about (bleep).”