Channel '63

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  A broad smile crossed Clifford’s face. “Well . . . sure! Yeah!”

  “See you then,” I said.

  Clifford picked up his yo-yo, waved to me, then walked off.

  A graphic popped up onto the screen: Thanks for visiting Used-to-Be TV. I walked out of the cottage into the make-believe neighborhood, then exited the attraction.

  I shaded my eyes from the bright sunlight. I was outdoors, and surrounded by the sights, sounds, and smells of my own time. I felt like I had just awaken from a dream. Did I? The fact was that I had talked to a flickering image, no more real than the lines on a TV tube. I touched the bark of a nearby tree, and felt the summer breeze on my face. This was a reality I could feel. I had to wonder: did I really meet someone in 1963, or was this all some incredible illusion fabricated by Theme Farm?

  Chapter 5

  Pro Bono

  Wallace, Evans, and Phillips, Attorneys at Law read the name on the office building directory. The shiny elevator doors parted, and I stepped inside. The smell of cafe mocha filled the roomy elevator car. After sharing my ride with men holding briefcases, and women with painted fingernails, I got off on the 16th floor. Down a long corridor was suite 1632: my destination.

  I turned the brass door knob and entered the law office where Judge Higgins had sent me. The walls were covered with beveled wood paneling that seemed to glow under the amber lighting. Leather arm chairs lined the perimeter. In the center of the room were two back-to-back Chesterfield sofas, with buttons so deep you could get lost in them. It was stately and elegant—and agonizingly quiet. I didn’t feel comfortable there. While the rich decor gave the room a warm feeling, there was a staleness in the air.

  A large painting of Abraham Lincoln hung above the reception desk. The eyes of our 16th president seemed to follow me as I walked up to the receptionist.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said to the young lady.

  She was gazing at herself in a hand mirror. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, chewing gum and examining the reflection of the tattoo on her neck.

  “Yes,” I said, “with Mr. Phillips.”

  A nose ring gripped her left nostril—not a very professional look for a place of business.

  “Take a seat, and we’ll call you,” she said, never once looking up at me.

  A number of men and women sat quietly in the plush waiting area. No one smiled. No one made eye-contact with me. I sat down among them and thumbed through a magazine. The tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the corner only accentuated the brutal silence. Was I in a law office, or a funeral parlor?

  Behind the reception desk were three glass doors, exquisitely etched, in hardwood frames. A man in a stylish business suit came out of the first door, and greeted the woman sitting next to me. She began to weep the instant the man offered his hand to her. “I’m so sorry,” he said solemnly, then escorted the grief-stricken woman, her head buried in her hands, to his office.

  He was Mr. Wallace.

  Out through the second door walked a rather portly gentleman, who approached the man sitting on the other side of me. The stout attorney stood over his client with a stern expression, his lips concealed under a bushy mustache.

  Suddenly, a big-toothed grin appeared. “We’ve won!” he said to the man. They both laughed and slapped each other on the back as they retreated to his office.

  He was Mr. Evans.

  Then the last door opened. “Amy Dawson?” called out an elderly, white-haired man, in a cream-colored suit.

  I raised my hand. “That’s me.”

  The man waved me toward him. “Come this way, please,” he said.

  He stood in the office doorway, gazing at a legal document he held in his hand. As I squeezed past him, expecting a “How are you,” or a “Nice to meet you,” he just stared at the paper like I wasn’t even there.

  He was Robert Phillips—my attorney.

  “Please sit down,” said the wiry gentleman. He motioned toward a large oak desk with two chairs in front of it, each stacked high with papers.

  “Here?” I asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Mr. Phillips. He tucked his paper under his arm and lifted a pile of documents from one chair. Stumbling across the cluttered office, he searched for somewhere else to put them, but every horizontal space was already taken. He kicked over a wastebasket before finally placing them on his desk, already littered with other documents.

  The bumbling attorney sat down behind his desk, put on a pair of reading glasses, and resumed studying his paper. I craned my neck to see what he was reading, and recognized it as the petition I had filed with the court.

  A long silence followed.

  Glancing around his office, I saw framed parchment certificates on the walls, alongside diplomas from distinguished colleges and universities.

  “Must have cost you a fortune in tuition,” I said.

  “Beg your pardon?” said the self-absorbed attorney, his paper never leaving his sight.

  I sighed. “They said you were retired.”

  “I am.”

  “Then why are you still with this law firm?”

  His lips moved as he continued reading his document. I guess his mouth was too busy to give me an answer.

  A photo in a tabletop frame sat on the corner of his desk. I turned it around to get a look at it. The picture showed a much younger Mr. Phillips and an attractive young girl, with Mount Rushmore in the background.

  My nosiness finally got me noticed.

  “Please don’t touch that,“ said the peeved attorney, peering at me over the top of his glasses.

  “Who is the girl with you in this picture?”

  “None of your business. And if you don’t mind, keep your hands to yourself. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I rotated the photo back into place.

  What a grouch!

  Finally, Mr. Robert Phillips—university graduate and former law professor—decided I was worthy of his attention. He set down the document, then leaned back in his squeaky, executive chair.

  “Well, Amy,” he said, ”why are you here?”

  “Can’t you read?” I said. “It’s all in that paper you’ve been gawking at for the last half-hour.”

  “I want you to tell me about it in your own words.”

  “I’m divorcing my parents. Okay?” I held up my petition. “It’s all spelled out right here.”

  “This document only tells me of your intentions. It doesn’t tell me why.”

  “Excuse me . . . Bob. I don’t wish to sound rude, but are you an attorney or a shrink? Judge Higgins said you could get all this legal crap settled. Are you going to help me or not?”

  “You seem a little upset.”

  My fingers clenched into fists. “That’s it! I’m leaving!” I got up from my chair and stormed toward the office door.

  Then out of the blue, Bob asked, “Are you happy?”

  I turned back around and narrowed my eyes at him. “What did you say?”

  “I asked if you were happy.”

  I marched back to his desk and pointed at my own angry face. “Do I look happy to you?”

  Bob leaned forward in his chair, then dug a file folder out from under the clutter of his disheveled desk. “Okay,” he said. “That’s all I wanted to know.” He opened the folder, revealing the documents inside. “Sign these papers, and you can go. I’ll messenger them back to Judge Higgins and you’ll have no trouble settling your case.”

  The papers were prepared with red-arrow stickers by the dotted lines that awaited my signature. Bob handed me a pen.

  Finally, some action!

  I grabbed the pen and started to sign the first page, but as I pressed the pen to the paper, I froze. The finality of the situation hit me with full force. This was it! My signature would mean that separating from my family was as good as done.

  My hand started to shake. I slowly raised my head up to look at Bob. “I have a confession to make,” I said meekly.

  “Yes?�
��

  “I’m . . . I’m afraid.”

  “It’s a scary thing, dissolving a family,” said Bob. “All the things you went through together; the ups, the downs; the triumphs and the failures; the laughter and the tears—all wiped away with the stroke of a pen.”

  I hung my head. A teardrop blotted the very paper that was meant to bring me happiness.

  “Please, help me,” I said, like a little lost lamb crying for its mother. “I don’t know what I should do.”

  Mr. Phillips slowly withdrew the pen from my fingers.

  “I think you’d better sit down, Amy,” he said.

  I slumped back into my chair as Bob placed a box of tissues within my reach.

  “You’re a gutsy young lady,” he said. “It takes a lot of courage to do what you’re doing, and I commend you for it. But a commitment like this can’t be made in good conscience until you understand the risks.”

  “I’ll risk everything if I have to,” I said. “There’s got to be another family out there who I can relate to.”

  “Okay. Suppose you find such a family. Let’s assume they’re the nicest, most caring group of people on the planet. You have everything you need, and you’re as happy as you can be. But having left your own family, in itself, can be problematic.”

  ”What problem? You’ve just described the perfect solution.”

  “Not quite. Emancipation carries a stigma. Your friends at school find out what you’ve done, and they stop talking to you. The other kids make rude remarks behind your back. You can try to keep it in the background, but with social media the way it is, there’s not much chance of that happening.”

  My sister would gladly lead the charge on that front. One text message to her band of gossipmongers and I’d be toast.

  “And what about when it’s time to enter the workforce?” continued Bob. “When employers discover your family history, you’ll be labeled as unstable, reckless, and unreliable.

  Bob picked up the phone on his desk and punched in a number, then said into the receiver, “Will you come in here for a moment, please?”

  The office door opened, and in came the receptionist, smacking her gum-laden jaws. She crossed her arms and tilted her head to one side as if to say, “Why are you bothering me?”

  “You wanted to see me, boss?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Bob. “Will you set up an account for Amy? You’ll need to create the usual data files, enter her contact information, and all that.”

  She turned and left the room without so much as a “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, tell me, Amy,” said Bob, “what are your impressions of her?”

  “That’s easy,” I said. “Self-centered, uneducated, and lazy.”

  “You left out suffering from depression and low self-esteem. It so happens that young lady has a degree in Economics. She does all of our billing and database management, and handles our bookkeeping, too. Her people skills need some work, obviously, but she’s a good worker. She was passed over by every employer in town because she lived in a foster home. The facts of her disadvantaged past will always be an obstacle for her.”

  I wanted to crawl under a rock. My assessment of that girl was way off. And after hearing about the horrendous abuse she had suffered at home, my situation suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

  “Leaving your family can also create problems in personal relationships,” said Bob. “Finding a boyfriend won’t be easy. Your tarnished reputation will be his, too. And if you’re already in a relationship, you’d better tell him what you’re up to.”

  I wasn’t prepared to bring up my strange encounter with Clifford. We were far from being in a relationship, but lying to him about my family problems wouldn’t be easy for me.

  “Actually,” I said, “I do know someone who might treat me differently if he knew about this. He’s not a boy friend, but he’s someone I care about. You can’t really maintain a relationship with someone who lives in 1963.”

  Bob gave me a funny look. “I don’t think I follow you.”

  “Well, you see, there’s this attraction at a theme park that lets you talk to people in the past, through this crazy TV set. It’s hard to explain. Anyway, that’s where I met him.”

  “I think I know the attraction you mean. At Theme Farm, right? It’s called Used-to-Be TV.”

  “Then you know that trying to build a relationship with someone is nearly impossible. All that bleeping!”

  “What if I told you I know a workaround for that?”

  I brightened. “You have . . . I mean . . . you do?”

  He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a business card, that looked like it had gone a few rounds with a washing machine. It read:

  The Great Abra-ca-zebra

  Magic for all ages

  Parties, Banquets, Special Events

  “He’s a Fritter,” said Bob. “Half-zebra. He was a client of mine. He was sued for setting a house on fire while doing a flaming, dove pan trick at a birthday party. He now works at the Theme Farm Magic Shop. Go there and show him this. He’s got more than just party tricks up his sleeve.”

  “You mean . . ?”

  “He’ll make your conversations bleepless.”

  What a break! I could have kissed old Bob, but I was afraid it might be in breach of the attorney-client code.

  Bob stood up and shook my hand.

  “About your case,” he said, “this is a big step you’re taking. Think about what I’ve said, and we’ll meet again. Okay?”

  “Sure thing, Bob,” I said. “By the way, do you mind if I don’t call you Mr. Phillips? It sounds so formal.”

  “Bob is fine . . . Miss Dawson.”

  I started for the door, then turned back to Bob.

  “You know,” I said, “changing my mind about going ahead with this won’t change how my parents feel about me.”

  “You don’t have to worry about them,” said Bob. ”They’re having second thoughts, too.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I met with them yesterday, and they feel terrible about the whole thing. They’re as much on the fence as you are.”

  I wish I could have believed him. Reconciling with my folks was not an option. After what they said about me in court, I knew there was no going back.

  I walked up to the receptionist as I returned to the waiting area. She was entering my name into her computer, all the while chomping on her gum.

  “Got anymore?” I asked.

  “Anymore what?” she said.

  “Gum.”

  She looked at me strangely. “Sure, kid,” she said, then handed me a stick from her purse.

  I stared at the pierced and tattooed young woman. She still had a snippy edge to her, but I was able to look beyond that now. It just shows how wrong it is to judge people, before you see what’s behind the war paint.

  “What are you looking at,” she grumbled to me.

  I just smiled. “Thanks for the gum,” I said, then saluted Abe Lincoln on my way out.

  Chapter 6

  Clicker

  When I was a little girl, my grandfather showed me a magic trick. It went like this:

  He placed a coin in his hand, then closed his fingers around it. When he opened his hand for me to retrieve it, the coin was gone!

  “Where did it go?” I asked, a perfectly reasonable question for a 6-year-old.

  He reached behind my ear with his other hand and, low and behold, there was the coin!

  Amazing! I was so impressed. I laughed, and asked the customary followup question: “How did you do that?”

  Granddad showed me how the trick was done. He had palmed the coin in one hand, while pretending to place it in the other. The hand that I thought held the coin was empty the whole time. The naïve girl that I was, it never occurred to me that he would tell me one thing, then do another.

  It was a simple magician’s trick that had fooled little ones like me for centuries. Granddad was only trying to entertain me, but I saw i
t as a betrayal of my trust. A lie. Most kids would have marveled at his cleverness, but not me. I was weird that way.

  A shame, too. I so wanted to believe in magic. I was at that age when fairy tales came true; when true-love’s kiss awakened the sleeping beauty inside us all.

  And so I walked in to the Theme Farm Magic Shop with a head full of disbelief.

  It was a small store, with rings for linking, silks for vanishing, and hats for pulling rabbits out of. It was kind of dark and gloomy inside, almost medieval in style, which might have explained why there were no shoppers.

  Behind a tall counter stood a magician, or so I assumed—he wore a turban. I knew he was the Fritter I was looking for. His turban sat atop a zebra head.

  The striped magician stared at me as I approached the counter. His piercing, dark eyes followed my every step.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said politely. “I wonder if you can tell me—”

  “Silence!” he suddenly blurted out. “Speak no more, for I know why you have come. You seek the wisdom of the ancient mystics.”

  “Not really,” I said. “I was sent here to—”

  “To learn the forbidden secrets of the Wizards of Tantagria.”

  Then he raised his black cape above his head like Dracula. A strobe light flashed. Thunder rolled out of a hidden subwoofer. What drama!

  “Do you want to hear what I have to say,” I said, “or are you going to keep interrupting me?”

  A long, white cane popped out into the air. The zebra grabbed hold of it in a grand flourish.

  “Come hither, ye seeker of knowledge, and I shall grant thee audience.” Then he tapped me on the shoulder with the cane, like King Arthur knighting Sir Lancelot.

  I applauded him.

  “You can put your tricks away now, Blackstone,” I said. “I just want to ask you a question.”

  The comical zebra collapsed his cane back into a palm-sized roll, then looked at me, puzzled. “Aren’t you amazed?”

  “Most entertaining,” I said, “but those old tricks don’t do anything for me.”