Channel '63

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  “Sorry folks,” she said to the waiting crowd, “We are currently experiencing technical difficulties, and the ride will be down for some time. Please try back later.”

  Then Sally and I drove off alone.

  We passed through a tall gate into the ride’s backstage area, where I got a rare glimpse at the behind-the-scenes operations. I saw the long hoses from air compressors that gave life to the robotic characters. Dozens of sound effect speakers were hidden among the jungle foliage. The best part was seeing the huge air cannons that launched women’s undergarments at stranded travelers.

  Sally looked over at me. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there, Amy?” she said.

  “How did you guess?”

  “I noticed you twisting your hair with your finger during the ride. You used to do the same thing in class when something was bothering you.”

  Sally turned a corner, and we were behind the tract house. The rigid animatronic figures, looking eerily human, were turned off.

  “Here’s your stop,” said Sally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “End of the line. Everybody out.”

  I looked at her, baffled, but stepped off the jeep like she asked.

  “Now what?” I said.

  “Only Theme Farm would know,” she answered, then drove away.

  I stood there alone in the spooky quietness. There were no jungle sound effects, and no rushing water noise from the stream, that was now a dry riverbed.

  Then I heard a voice. “Kinda creepy out here, isn’t it?”

  It seemed to come in the direction of the mechanical housewife, but she wasn’t moving.

  Then I heard the voice again. “I’m talking to you, Amy!”

  Someone was standing behind me.

  I jumped as I spun around. “Man!” I said, “Don’t sneak up on people like that.” I was speaking to a woman, who looked awfully familiar.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Amy?” said the intruder from out of nowhere.

  Suddenly, I realized that I did know her. She was my grandmother, as a young woman! I recognized her from an old photo I had of her when she was in her 20s. She worked as a model back then. The picture was clipped from a Ford dealership catalog. It showed her happily waving while riding in the back seat of a Lincoln Continental convertible.

  “Grandma?” I said. “Is that you?”

  She smiled. “How did you like the ride?”

  “Never mind that!” I said. “How can you be here?”

  “You mean, because I’m dead? If I remember correctly, you were about 3 years old when I kicked the bucket.”

  “Then you can’t be who you say you are. You’re a robot, like these other fake human figures around here.”

  “So sure of everything, aren’t you? Just like your mother.”

  I reached out to poke her face with my finger to see if it was made of rubber, but she held up her hand and stopped me.

  “See that character over there?” she said, pointing to the frazzled woman in the kitchen. “That was me in the early ‘60s, just after I married your grandfather. I was barely 18 when I took the plunge.”

  “You were married that young?” I said.

  “I didn’t want to, but single women living alone was considered daring in those days, and I wanted my independence more that anything in the world—just like you do.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Grandmothers know everything. I know about Clifford, Hubert, Sally, even Zeb the Abra-ca-zebra. But mostly, I know what’s in your heart.”

  I was too young to have known Grandma before she died, and I had no memory of her. Whoever, or whatever I was talking to was no more real than those human-looking machines around me. But real or fake, I was moved by her presence, nonetheless.

  “How’s your mother?” asked Grandma.

  “She hates me!” I said. “That’s why I want to move out. She would sooner see me dead than spend one more day with me in that house.”

  “Oh, that can’t be true. I brought her up better than that.”

  “Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. Let’s just say there’s no love lost between us. I don’t connect with her anymore.”

  “That’s not possible. There’s an inseparable bond that exists between all mothers and daughters. Deny it all you want, but it’s there, and will be for as long as you live. You’re problem is that you only see her as a mother, instead of a human being with feelings. And by the way, she doesn’t want you to move out. No mother, no matter the circumstances, wants to see her young leave the nest.”

  “But I want to leave the nest.”

  “I know it gets pretty cramped in there as we get older. There never seems to be room enough to do all that we want. But the key is to make room. You’d be surprised how roomy the nest can be when you share it. Patience, Amy. The time will come for you to be on your own, but not now.”

  “But you did it in the ‘60s.”

  “Good lord, child! The ‘60s went extinct long ago. You’re living in the past. Try living in the here-and-now for a change.”

  Real or not, this was one grandmother who told it like it is—and it was definitely what I needed to hear. I was grateful for that.

  I stepped forward and put my arms around her, but they passed right through her body. Then she started to fade away like a vanishing wisp of smoke in the wind.

  “You forgot, didn’t you?” said Grandma.

  “Forgot what?”

  She was almost invisible now, as her voice trailed off.

  “Embrace today, for you cannot touch the past.”

  Chapter 9

  Like Music

  Teen fashion in the early ‘60s was totally bizarre. I searched through photos from old teen magazines from that part of the decade. What I found was a lot of teenage girls in plain cotton blouses and plaid skirts. It seemed like the youth of that time hadn’t yet found their own fashion identity. Regardless, I thought it might be fun to dress like the girls of Clifford’s time, if I was going to keep seeing him.

  Miniskirts and Go-go Boots were not yet in vogue. “Mod” fashions wouldn’t take off until ‘64. So, I decided to stay with a more conservative look. I found a sleeveless scoop neck dress in a retro clothing boutique that was just perfect. As long as I was dressing the part, I thought I would do a little ‘60s-style primping, too. I put on mascara and blue eye shadow. I even went so far as to hot-curl a bouffant flip at the ends of my hair. Actually, it looked kinda cute. I was starting to like the ‘60s!

  I was surprised to see other people dressed in ‘60s garb, in line for Used-to-Be TV—and not just kids. An older gentleman ahead of me donned a tailored, gabardine suit, with a hat Frank Sinatra might have worn. Maybe he had arranged a rendezvous with a rich widow in 1963. His heavy cologne definitely suggested a romantic encounter of some kind. I guess no one told him that smells don’t travel over television.

  The lines were getting longer every day as the attraction gained popularity. I was late for my noontime appointment with Clifford, so I shoved past the others in line. I bypassed the pre-show presentation, pushed through a side door, finally arriving at my usual cottage. I turned the door knob to go inside, but it wouldn’t budge. The door was locked! I looked through the window, and immediately felt my blood pressure rise. Imagine my outrage to see another girl on the couch talking to Clifford!

  A streak of jealousy roared up my spine, but there was no good reason for it. For one thing, they couldn’t be saying anything of any significance without the magic clicker. For another, why shouldn’t Clifford talk to someone else? I had no exclusive claim on him. If he found someone he liked better than me, well, it’s his life. I was proud of myself for taking such a grownup attitude toward the whole thing.

  Still . . .

  If that little bitch didn’t unlock the door in exactly one minute, I was going to break it down!

  Fortunately, that wouldn’t be necessary. I watched as that little home wrecker got up off the couch and
walked to the door. I played the innocent bystander as she passed me.

  “Who was that?” I asked, showing interest in Clifford. “He’s sort of awesome-looking, don’t ya think?”

  “Don’t waste your time, girl,” she said. “He’s a dweeb.”

  Good! That was just what I wanted to hear.

  I went inside, locked the door behind me, and raced over to the couch.

  Ping! went the clicker.

  Clifford wasn’t in his chair. I feared he had gotten tired of waiting for me, and gone home, but I waited dutifully in front of the TV until I knew for sure.

  I crossed my legs, put one arm over the back of the couch, and flung my head back like a high-fashion model. My silky, flipped-up hair flowed down my back like a sexy woman in a hair care commercial. Wait till he gets a load of me, I thought. Now he’ll see how much classier I am over that other girl.

  Five minutes passed, and still no Clifford. It was time to start worrying.

  I stood up and paced the floor. Then I heard music coming from the TV speaker. The sound was tinny and scratchy. A piano was playing a catchy, little tune that I did not recognize.

  Then Clifford leaned into frame, holding a portable tape recorder. It was the old-fashioned type with the spinning, half-dollar-sized reels—like the ones on the old Mission Impossible TV series.

  I composed myself and sat down. “Is that you, playing?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Clifford, taking his seat. “I wrote it last night. It doesn’t sound too good, I know.”

  “Sounds okay to me. It’s not digital, but what can you do?”

  “Digital?”

  “Ah . . . delightful, I meant to say. Your playing is delightful!”

  The song ended, and Clifford shut off his machine.

  We stared at each other in silence for a moment.

  “How long have you been out there?” asked Clifford nervously.

  “Why do you ask?” I said, knowing full well where his questioning was headed.

  “Oh, just wondering.”

  “Just wondering if I caught you with that other girl?” I asked, a little pissed off.

  Clifford gulped. “You saw?”

  “Yes, I saw! What were you two talking about?”

  “Nothing. Why are you so upset? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I’m not upset!” I shouted. “I’m just—”

  “You’re mad because you thought I might prefer someone else over you. Isn’t that it? Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”

  I had always prided myself on being straightforward and honest, yet there I was, hiding behind some silly, adolescent pride. I was as jealous as I could be, and I should have told him so from the start.

  “I’m sorry, Cliff,” I said. “I shouldn’t be intruding on your life like this. It’s just that when you find yourself attracted to someone, you’re not so quick to give him up.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Amy,” said Clifford. “I shouldn’t have beat around the bush about having spoken to that girl. I was afraid that if you knew, you’d never speak to me again, and I couldn’t live with that.”

  I felt like a schoolgirl on her first date, speaking candidly with a boy for the first time. We were finally confessing our true feelings for each other.

  It was my turn to say something, but I was too flustered to speak.

  Clifford finally broke the ice. “You look nice today, Amy,” he said.

  “You, too,” I said.

  Clifford was wearing a tweed sports jacket over a turtleneck sweater, with pleated dress slacks—like he had stripped a mannequin naked in the men’s department at Macy’s. His hair was neatly combed, though still showing a trace of that greasy hair goo. Obviously, he was trying to make as good of an impression on me, as I was on him.

  But it didn’t feel right. There was something phony about our appearance.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said. “I shouldn’t have put on this outfit for you. It’s not me. Not me at all!”

  “I’m guilty of the same thing,” said Clifford. “I overdressed to make you think I’m someone I’m not.”

  Another moment of silence.

  Clifford stared at the ground, deep in thought. “There’s lyrics to that song, you know.”

  “There is?” I said. “How do they go? Did you record it? What’s the song called?”

  “It’s called ‘Your Love, Like Music.’” Then Clifford drew an incredibly long breath. “I wrote it . . . for you!”

  I almost fell off the couch! A song? For me?

  “You want to hear it?” asked Clifford.

  “More than anything!”

  I got chills of anticipation as he fast-forwarded the tape.

  He hit the Play button, and after a lively piano introduction, Clifford’s voice on the tape sang this lovely melody:

  I hear your voice

  Singing in my ear

  Never will I hear

  A sweeter sound.

  I hear a song

  When you call my name

  Since the day you came

  Around.

  Your love, like music

  Like sweet melodies

  Dancing on the keys

  Of my piano.

  Your love, like music

  Let the music play

  Forever you will stay

  In my heart.

  I felt like Juliet being serenaded by Romeo. The song was simple and sweet, and the romantic lyrics went straight to my heart.

  Clifford hit the Stop button. “That’s enough.”

  “No, please!” I begged him. “Play the rest of it.”

  Clifford’s shyness had been like a dark cloud that followed him everywhere, always blocking the sunlight on a perfect day. But all that was about to change. He sat up tall, with a self-confidence I hadn’t seen in him till now. He smiled at me and nodded, and the transformation was complete. The timid boy with the yo-yo was gone forever.

  I heard the click of the Play button.

  I see your face

  And suddenly I hear

  A big band loud and clear

  In the park.

  I feel the beat

  Won’t you come with me

  Dancing in the street

  After dark.

  Your love, like music

  Like sweet melodies

  Dancing on the keys

  Of my piano.

  Your love, like music,

  Let the music play

  Forever you will stay

  Forever you will stay

  Forever . . . in my heart.

  Clifford snapped off the recorder. He was clearly as moved as I was.

  I instinctively reached my hand out to him. Then I was suddenly overwhelmed by a terrible feeling: That devastating moment the magic zebra had warned me about had arrived. There would be no embracing, no touching of any kind. Clifford had given me a beautiful gift few will ever receive, and I couldn’t even shake his hand to thank him. I so desperately wanted to caress his cheek. I would even have overlooked the grease in his hair to run my fingers through it.

  Clifford, too, was hopelessly trying to reach out to me beyond time and space.

  I pulled my hand back and covered my mouth to hide my sorrow. “What are we gonna do?”

  “I wish I knew, Amy,” sighed Clifford.

  “I feel so close to you right now, yet so far away at the same time. It’s a long way to Dorian.”

  “Not really. The physical space between us isn’t far at all. It’s kinda funny, actually. You’re fifty years in the future, and yet it’s like you’re sitting right here next to me.”

  “I don’t want to talk any more about it. It’s too painful.”

  Clifford smiled gently. “Don’t be sad, Amy. When you get home tonight, go outside and look up at the moon. It hasn’t changed in a million years. I’ll be looking at that same moon, and my face will look down on yours. I’ll be winking at you through the twinkling stars. The heavens are timeless, and it is th
ere we will find togetherness.”

  Clifford certainly had a way with words. His inspired speech had soothed my grief-stricken heart. He may have been a dweeb, like that brash young woman said, but he had the healing powers of a poet.

  “Same time tomorrow?” I said.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter 10

  Mom

  The night was calm, and everyone in the house was asleep. No noise. No distractions. The perfect conditions for reading. My book of choice for that evening was titled 1963: The Year in Perspective. If I was going to know Clifford’s world better, I needed to get familiar with the times he was living in.

  I already knew most of the historical events that took place, like the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights March on Washington. But it was the less significant things—the styles, the trends, the culture—that I most wanted to learn about.

  Surfing was becoming a favorite teen pastime. The Beach Boys were “Surfin’ USA” on FM car radios—a new innovation introduced that year. Families gathered around their TVs for an evening of Bonanza, The Dick Van Dyke Show, and Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color. For more exhilarating entertainment, Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds had audiences cowering behind their seats at the local cinema. Radio stations had just started playing records by a little-known, British rock band called The Beatles.

  It was a happy and prosperous time to be alive. Smiley faces were everywhere. But the dark times ahead were foreshadowed when the year closed with the assassination of President Kennedy.

  The book slip through my fingers as I started to nod off. After a long, sustained yawn, I bookmarked my place with the old photo of my 20-something grandmother, smiling in the back seat of a luxury car.

  I must have been smiling in my sleep. I dreamed that I was watching the Ed Sullivan TV show in 1963. The night’s lineup included Jim Henson’s Muppets, comedy duo Allen & Rossi, Topo Gigio the Italian mouse, and singing sensation Clifford Anderson.