Channel '63

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  “Naw,” said Clifford. “You’re pulling my leg. You’re in some other part of the building . . . aren’t you?”

  I took out Hubert’s tablet and held it up to the TV. “Ever seen one of these?” I asked Clifford, hitting the device’s video record button.

  “Sure I have. It’s a baseball card binder,” he said.

  I flipped the tablet around to let Clifford see its display, then hit the playback button.

  Sure I have. It’s a baseball card binder.

  “Golly!” said Clifford. “That’s pretty nifty. How did you do that?”

  I heard the echoes of 6-year-old Amy, asking for the secret to my grandfather’s vanishing coin trick. To Clifford, what I had shown him was no less magical. But this was a secret I didn’t dare give away. I had given Clifford a demonstration of future technology, and might have already altered history in doing so.

  I checked out the tablet—front to back, top to bottom, side to side. It hadn’t changed in the slightest. Video capturing Clifford was a risky move, but it was the only way I knew to show him that I was telling the truth.

  “What you’re saying is pretty hard to swallow,” said Clifford. “Now I want to ask you a question.”

  Here it comes, I thought. Now he’ll want to know all about the world of the future, that I promised I wouldn’t reveal to anyone.

  I put my Jiffy Fizz down on the coffee table. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  Whew! I was off the hook for now.

  “Blue,” I said, “like the blue streak in the back of my hair.” I turned my head to show him. “See?”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that. I can only see black and white in these monitors.” He held up the magazine showing the can of Jiffy Fizz Cola on the cover. “Personally, I’m partial to the color red.”

  “Yuck! Your dad could due with a lesson in Marketing. Those cans should be blue. You know? The deep blue ocean? The clear blue sky? Blue says, refreshment!”

  “Hm. That’s a very interesting point.”

  I grabbed my drink to take another sip. I brought it up to my lips, not giving it another thought, until I crossed my eyes and looked at the can.

  It was BLUE!

  Now I had really done it! I had abused the power of the Time Transducer with my big mouth, and it was too late to change it back.

  “I’ll pass your suggestion on to Dad,” said Clifford.

  “I think you already did,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  I immediately changed the subject. “So, tell me what it’s like to be a teenager in 1963?”

  “Uh, uh,” said Clifford. “You go first. What’s a typical day like for Amy of the future?”

  “Not much different from yours, I imagine. I go to school, take out the trash, and quarrel with my siblings.”

  “I don’t have any siblings—not so far, anyway.”

  “Be glad you’re an only child. Believe me, it makes life a lot simpler. Now, it’s your turn.”

  Clifford dove into his briefcase once again.

  “Since we’re trapped in this time tunnel,” he said, “suppose we go even further back in time.” He produced a photo album with the words Our Clifford on the front cover. A photo record of his whole life from day one was inside, thanks to his foresighted parents.

  He held the album up to the TV screen and opened it. “We’ll skip the early ones,” he said.

  “No, no!” I said. “I want to see your baby pictures.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. You’ll see my naked fanny.”

  “All baby pictures are that way.”

  “Really? Is yours?”

  I thought for a moment, but couldn’t recall how mine looked. There were plenty of photos of me growing up, but none of me as an infant, that I could remember.

  “Have it your way,” I said. “I’ll just search them online and see them anyway.”

  “What’s online mean?” he asked.

  “You were going to show me your pictures, remember?” I said, skirting his question.

  He thumbed ahead to a picture of a young Clifford, standing next to a man in a Buck Rogers-style spacesuit. The man wore a spherical, glass helmet on his head, with two little antennas sticking out the top.

  “That’s me at Disneyland when I was eight,” said Clifford. “I wanted my picture with Davy Crocket, but my folks thought he was too violent of a role model for me.”

  “I agree with them,” I said. “Seeing all that gunplay isn’t healthy for a developing brain.”

  Then he stopped at a photo of him seated at an old, upright piano. “My folks started me on piano lessons when I was nine. I still play. I write songs, too.”

  “You do?” I said, intrigued. “Can I hear one?”

  Clifford’s shyness quickly re-surfaced. “Well, maybe someday.”

  The remaining photos included him clowning in the stands at a high school football game, and playing Curly in a local production of Oklahoma!

  His most up-to-date photo was of him dancing on the American Bandstand TV show. One showed him actually shaking hands with Dick Clark, the show’s iconic host. My first impression of Clifford may have been wrong. The boy I pegged as an introverted dweeb, was more outgoing than I thought.

  “I first went out to Hollywood with my music class,” explained Clifford. “I’ve been there one other time since. It’s cool. I’d love to take you there.”

  I was so taken with Clifford’s enthusiasm that I forgot about the one thing we couldn’t do. No matter how engaging, or intimate our conversation, we could never meet in person.

  “Oh, sorry,” moaned Clifford, realizing what he had said.

  There was a long silence.

  “Well, Amy,” said Clifford, his head bowed. “I guess I should get going. I’m meeting my parents for lunch at The International House of Fondue.”

  “Same time tomorrow?” I said.

  Clifford looked up at me, smiling. “You mean it?”

  “Of course, dummy. You’re not going to get rid of me that easy.”

  With all the constraints that time-twisting contraption wedged between us, I was still having the time of my life. Clifford was more than just a face on a TV screen. With all the personal problems I was having to deal with, he was the light in my hour of darkness.

  “One more thing before you leave,” I said. “Bring your face closer.” Clifford leaned in. I aimed my tablet at him, then positioned myself next to the TV set. I smiled and snapped a picture.

  “What was all that?” asked Clifford.

  “It’s a selfie, for my own album.”

  “It’s a what?”

  “A story for another day. Bye!”

  I stopped by the Magic Shop on my way out of Theme Farm. Zeb had given me an awesome gift, and I wanted to thank him for it.

  As I walked into the shop, a different Fritter was standing behind the counter, this one with the head of an Angora rabbit.

  “I’m looking for Zeb,” I told the furry salesclerk.

  “Who did you say?” he asked.

  “Zeb. The Great Abra-ca-zebra.”

  “No one here by that name.”

  “But I saw him here.”

  A fox-headed man stepped up behind the rabbit. “Can I help you, young lady?” he said. “I’m the manager.”

  “Yes. Don’t you even know who works in your own store?”

  “I know everybody who works here.”

  “Then where’s Zeb, the zebra? He stood right where you’re standing just yesterday.”

  “No one named Zeb, and no zebras, have ever worked here. And whomever you think you saw, it must have been somewhere else. We’ve been closed all week for remodeling. Just opened back up this morning.”

  “That’s impossible! He gave me this.” I pulled the magic clicker out of my bag.

  “Oh, we sell those,” said the fox. He reached under the counter and pulled out a clicker exactly
like mine. He handed it to me, and when I pushed the button I got an electric shock so intense that I dropped the devilish thing to the floor.

  The fox and the rabbit shared a good laugh at my expense.

  “That’s one of our best-selling gags,” said the fox, between chuckles.

  I picked up the evil novelty and threw it back at them. “You think this is funny, playing a joke on a complete stranger?”

  “If anyone’s playing a joke,” said the fox, “I’d say it was your zebra friend. He sold you a defective product.” The fox reached out to take my clicker. “Here, I’ll get you a new one.”

  I held my precious device close to my chest. “Not on your life!” I said, then ran out of the shop as fast as I could.

  Chapter 8

  Endangered

  The name of the ride was Searchin’ Safari. Join a mind-bending expedition in search of the absurdities in human behavior.

  Like many of the rides at Theme Farm, this one was designed to be easily reconfigured, to keep up with topical issues. Your journey might take you in a totally different direction on any given day. You might go on a futile hunt for an honest politician one day, then explore the joys of living below the poverty line the next. On this particular morning, we would be traveling through time for an up-close look at an extinct species: The American Housewife of the 1960s.

  At the entrance was a huge, bronze statue of a suburban housewife, of a half-century ago. Standing proudly in a kitchen apron, she held a frying pan tightly in a rubber-gloved fist, while balancing a screaming toddler on her hip. Her determined expression showed the resolve of a soldier ready to march into battle.

  Back then, housewives were perceived as the very symbol of contentment. They seemed to have it all, but actually had very few freedoms. Before the decade was out, mothers, daughters, and wives would organize to form the Women’s Liberation Movement, and protest by burning bras and marching on Washington for equal rights.

  And I thought only teenagers rebelled!

  Behind the statue was the point of departure for an excursion into the wilds of 1960s America. Theme park guests boarded a rugged landrover, like the ones you see in National Geographic on the plains of the Serengeti, but with seating for a dozen passengers.

  I took a sip of my Jiffy Fizz Cola and got in line.

  A group of brave adventurers were just returning from the perilous journey, and the jungle jeep was ready to take on another load of passengers. Behind the wheel was a petite, lady Fritter, whose slender shoulders supported the long neck of a giraffe.

  “All aboard!” she said into a microphone. “The next jungle adventure departs in three minutes.”

  Her name was Miss Sally Bronson, but everyone called her Long Tall Sally. She had been my History teacher in school before taking on work as a Theme Farm ride operator.

  After earning their American citizenship, Fritterz were tolerated by most humans, but a deep-rooted “fritterphobia” continued to linger just below the surface. Taking the teaching job was a risky move for Sally. Unfortunately, the endless harassment and rude pranks from students and teachers forced her to quit. Too bad. She was my favorite teacher.

  “Room for one more?” I asked Sally.

  “Amy!” she said excitedly. “I haven’t seen you in ages. What brings you out to Theme Farm?”

  “Answers,” I said. “I want to learn all there is to know about the 1960s.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place, and this is the perfect ride to get you started. Get in.”

  I took a seat right behind Sally and buckled my seatbelt.

  “You’ll have to leave that behind,” she said, pointing to the beverage in my hand.

  I started to toss it into a trash bin, then looked at the blue can and decided to conduct a little test.

  “Did you know that Jiffy Fizz cans used to be red?” I said to Sally, studying her reaction.

  “Where have you been,” she said, laughing. “They’ve always been blue.”

  With her jungle jeep now full of novice explorers, Sally picked up her mic and turned to her passengers. “Everybody ready? Here we go.”

  The vehicle’s powerful engine raced as Sally slammed it into gear. The jeep lurched forward, and we were on our way.

  The ride began by trudging down a bumpy, muddy road that cut through a dark jungle. My skin moistened from the thick, muggy air. The sounds of wild birds and the grunts of ferocious animals were heard all around us.

  “Please keep your seatbelts fastened,” Sally advised her passengers. “I may have to make sudden turns to avoid the rare species of frogs that inhabit the jungle floor. They are easily angered, and I’m not good at dealing with Toad Rage.”

  The group chuckled and groaned at the same time.

  “The creatures we will be encountering today are either already extinct, or high on the endangered humans list,” explained Sally. “You may be shocked at what you see. Many will be in awe. But all of you will be touched by their uncanny ability to survive in the wild. Most haven’t been seen since the early ‘60s, so keep a watchful eye out.”

  The jeep slowed. We could just make out the sound of someone humming in a field of tall grass.

  “Sh!” said Sally, her finger to her lips. “Get out your cameras. You are about to witness one of your distant relatives going about her daily routine.”

  A clearing came into view that revealed a young woman. The animatronic figure was standing at an ironing board, surrounded by clotheslines, sagging from the weight of scores of shirts, pants, and bed sheets. She cheerfully hummed as she ironed, as the workload ahead of her gently swayed in the breeze.

  “What a break,” whispered Sally. “This unusual behavior is rarely seen today. Notice how happy this specimen is. Being a domesticated breed, housewives gladly accepted the drudgery of housework.”

  The jeep picked up speed, and we were soon on a flat plain that stretched for miles. On a grassy knoll, under a shade tree, a group of women sat in a circle on folding chairs. One dominant female stood in the center of them.

  “Here’s a typical example of social interaction within the species,” said Sally. “Often referred to as parties, these gatherings were really nothing more than sales presentations.” The lead woman snapped a lid onto a plastic bowl, while her giddy guests applauded with delight. “With the tight, grocery budgets imposed on housewives by their mates, preserving unfinished meals was a necessity. With this storage innovation, leftovers would stay fresh for days.”

  We next traveled over a desert landscape. Off to one side, in a deep trench, men in pith helmets were digging at the dry earth.

  “Here,” said Sally, “an anthropological dig is underway. This excavation has uncovered rare, mid-century kitchen artifacts. Notice the labor-saving devices, like easy-clean ovens, motorized vegetable slicers, and faucets that dispensed dish soap right out of the tap.”

  Sally further remarked that replicas of these items could be purchased in the gift shop at the end of the ride.

  Just ahead was a single-family tract house, like the thousands that were built during that decade. We slowed down as Sally described the scene:

  “It was once thought that ‘60s housewives hibernated, since they were rarely seen outside of their above-ground dens. We now know that she was doing anything but sleeping, as demonstrated by this family unit in their natural habitat.”

  The jeep crept past the living room window. Inside, a man rested comfortably in an easy chair. His slippered feet were propped up on a padded foot stool, as he puffed smoke rings from a tobacco pipe.

  “Notice the dominance of the male,” said Sally. “Having fathered several offspring, it was natural to assign the rearing of the children to the female.”

  Passing by another window, a boy and girl were lying on the floor watching Beany and Cecil cartoons on a black and white TV.

  The kitchen then came into view, where a woman stood over a hot stove. Steam from boiling pots and pans filled the small space, as she wipe
d the sweat from her brow.

  “It was once thought that females were happy with this arrangement,” said Sally, “but research has proven otherwise. They actually detested it. But change was in the wind, and women of the ‘60s would soon raise their voices in protest.”

  The jeep came to a halt as we encountered a rushing river in our path. The water didn’t appear too deep that our sturdy vehicle couldn’t easily cross it, so we ventured onward. But halfway across, the engine suddenly stalled.

  “Uh oh!” said Sally. “This couldn’t happen in a worse place.”

  I heard a faint, distant murmuring in the dense brush behind us. It got increasingly louder as Sally tried to get the engine going again.

  Suddenly, an object flew over our heads. It was a golf club.

  “Get down!,” shouted Sally. “We’re in Liberation Country.”

  The murmuring turned to angry chanting, like a primitive jungle tribe on the hunt. More projectiles came at us: tennis rackets, poker chips, racetrack programs.

  Sally tried repeatedly to get the jeep started, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. Flaming bras and girdles flew overhead like Molotov cocktails. The message of the chanting became clearer:

  “Rights for women!”

  “Rights for women!”

  Finally, the engine started. Sally grinded the gears. “Hang on!”

  A moment later, we were safely on the outer bank. The threatening voices stopped. We all let out a collective sigh of relief, just as a bowling ball landed in the river next to us, creating a wave of water that soaked everyone in the jeep.

  My fellow passengers and I arrived back at Base Camp—laughing, while showing off our damp clothes to each other.

  As I unbuckled my seatbelt, Sally placed her hand on my shoulder. “Wait here, Amy,” she said. Then she announced to the others: “Thank you for joining me today. For those of you who got wet, I would offer you a towel, but I have a dry sense of humor.”

  Half-laughing and half-moaning, the passengers disembarked.

  I stayed in the jeep as Sally pulled up to the next group of passengers, but she wouldn’t allow them to board.