Channel '63

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  “You clicked away before I could see what you were reading, didn’t you?”

  Hubert smiled smugly. “I’ll never tell.”

  The tram pulled up to the main gate, to the sound of lively music. As Hubert and I stepped out, we were immediately greeted by a walk-around character: Farmer Ward—a cartoon version of the old man who conceived the park. It had been built on farmland that once belonged to him. A red barn, a tall grain silo, and a yellow farmhouse still stand as reminders. An old windmill towers over the park’s central plaza, like a country version of the Eiffel Tower.

  “Howdy, folks,” said the cartoon farmer, wearing overalls and a straw hat on its human head. Having human heads on cartoon characters is a distinctive feature of Theme Farm, unlike other theme parks where characters are typically animals. That’s because the whole place is run by Fritterz.

  I guess I should explain that.

  Fritterz—short for “freaky critters”—are the half -animal/half-human creatures that built, and now run Theme Farm. They owe their existence to a group of scientists, who were experimenting with cloning farm animals. The questionable ethics behind these tests stirred up public controversy, and the program was soon banned on moral grounds. But laboratory testing continued in secret, and went on for years afterwards.

  Eventually, the illegal research proved too costly to maintain. The operation was about to be shut down, when by accident, some human DNA got into the cloning mix. The result was a freakish creature, that had never before walked this earth: a perfectly formed human with the head of a sheep!

  The cloning technique was perfected to the point where scientists could clone humans with the head of any animal they chose. These creatures behaved like normal human beings, while retaining the skills their animal instincts provided naturally. Over time, an entire army of Fritterz were mass-produced, with the objective of using them as slave labor in manufacturing.

  Federal agents later uncovered the acts of these mad scientists and arrested them. The Fritterz were released from captivity, and cast into a world completely foreign to them. They were eventually accepted into society, but not without experiencing the same prejudice felt by any other minority. Passage of the Fritter Rights Act, however, changed all that, granting Fritterz the same rights as humans. Now with the freedom to speak out, they longed to offer their unique perspective on the human world. They figured the best way to do that was through a theme park, where people could come to enjoy themselves and benefit from their insights at the same time.

  Now, how do I explain Theme Farm?

  Like other theme parks, Theme Farm has rides and attractions, with plenty of food, fun, and frivolity for the whole family. People flock to these parks because they are places where dreams come true—something that hardly ever happens in real life. But the dreams that Theme Farm offers don’t exist in a fantasy kingdom. The park’s goal is to promote universal ideals like Peace, Justice, Equality, and all the other sadly lacking human virtues. For sure, Theme Farm has dancing fairies and singing pirates, but each one serves a purpose: to deliver an alternative worldview.

  You would think this radical approach would turn people off, but the concepts are so outlandish and fun that they keep coming back for more! A perfect example is a thrill ride that addresses an important environmental issue:

  Flush Mountain. (You may get wet.)

  Climb aboard a lilly pad vessel for a fairyland voyage, across a peaceful lake. Suddenly, the calm waters begin to swirl. Your boat spins as the water drops out beneath you. You plunge down a watery vortex, and find yourself speeding down a polluted river. A 50-foot drop over a yellow waterfall, and you settle onto a toxic lake. You try your best not to gag from the stench. Finally, you’re sucked up into a giant vacuum cleaner, and emerge back into the serene setting where at all started.

  “I don’t want to miss the fireworks,” said Hubert.

  “When does it start,” I asked.

  He referred to his tablet. “A quarter to noon.”

  Theme Farm is also technologically more advanced than other parks. Fireworks in the middle of the day is a specialty. One whole section of the park had been built under an enormous, clear dome. Inside, any climate can be simulated from a spring rain to a violent thunder storm. The dome is actually made up of thousands of LCD panels that can be darkened to turn day into night. No more waiting for sundown to see a spectacular fireworks display.

  There are so many other fantastic adventures to explore that it’s hard to name them all. Some of my favorites are:

  Puppet’s Court: Puppets “pull the strings” to expose human injustice.

  Corporate Cleaners: Where Wall Street investors are “hung out to dry.”

  Spin Doctor Mugs: After a good spinning, you can’t tell the truth from the lies.

  “Suppose we grab a bite before we get started,” said Hubert.

  It’s always a good idea to go on Theme Farm rides on a full stomach—and with good reason. At other theme parks, you sit in a small vehicle, and are pulled along a metal track for a 3-minute excursion. But at Theme Farm, you may not come out of a ride for hours. Sometimes it’s planned, sometimes it isn’t. It all hinges on whether or not you’ve grasped the whole point of the ride. Sometimes a rider is having such a good time that he simply doesn’t want to get off. When this happens, pagers are provided to alert friends and family when you finally exit the ride. In extreme cases, guests have been instructed to come back the next day to pick up their loved ones. It’s very convenient.

  “What are your taste buds hungry for?” asked Hubert.

  It was still the breakfast hour, so Hubert and I chose the Illegal Alien: a Mexican-themed restaurant.

  We climbed a tall ladder over a rusted, metal wall (It’s part of the charm of the place), and went inside. Taking our seats at a sun-baked picnic table, we looked over the menu selection, while mariachis in dirty blue jeans played “Guantanamera.”

  “May I take your orders?” said a voice. We didn’t see anyone. Then we looked over the edge of the table and found a short server with a Chihuahua head.

  “Are you ready to order Señor? Señorita?” he asked, in broken English.

  “I’ll have the Green Card Eggs and Ham,” I said, ”with Day-Laborer fries.”

  “How do you want your eggs?”

  “Over-the-wall easy.”

  “I’ll have the Boarder Patrol Omelet,” said Hubert, “with a glass of Migrant Worker orange juice, please.”

  The bug-eyed waiter tipped his sombrero, then scurried off to the kitchen.

  Waiting for our breakfast to be served gave Hubert and I a chance to talk.

  “So, how’s the lawsuit going?” asked Hubert.

  “It’s not a lawsuit,” I said. “I’m exercising my right to be emancipated from my parents. Lincoln emancipated the slaves. Why shouldn’t I have the same privilege?”

  “If I had my way, you could move in with my family, but my narrow-minded folks won’t hear of it.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll figure something out. I’ve just got to get away from my family.”

  “Running away is a more accurate statement, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Whatever. All I know is that if I don’t bust out of that prison they call a home, I’m gonna scream.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re thinking of this thing like it’s some kind of an escape, but it’s not that at all. I have a theory.” (Hubert has theories on everything.) “You’re not running, so much as searching. You’re on a quest to find the perfect family.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Doesn’t everybody deserve one?”

  “Wake up, girl! That’s a statistical impossibility. There’s no such thing. You should spend less time looking for a place to run away to, and more time finding out where you belong.”

  Hubert picked up a salt shaker and placed it in front of me. “See this?” he said. “Some huge corporate entity extracted this salt from the sea, packaged it, distributed it, an
d now here it is on our table. But the salt be-e-elongs in the ocean.”

  I put the pepper shaker alongside the salt. “At least it has company,” I said. “And anyway, they’re on the table because they be-e-elong in my stomach.”

  “And you belong with the parents who raised you. You’re problem is that you’re looking for a salt-and-pepper solution to a complex problem. We are born into this world under circumstances we have no control over. We cannot choose where, when, or to whom we will make our grand entrance.”

  “How philosophical. I just want to get out while I still have my sanity.”

  “Too late for that. You’re already crazy. You’ve got a good thing going, and you don’t even know it.”

  “Not as good as the Cleavers.”

  “Who are they?”

  “You know, the family on those Leave It to Beaver reruns.”

  “They’re a fake TV family of the early ‘60s—an idealized version of life that never existed. The real ‘60s were nothing like that. And if you don’t believe me, I know a place you can go to see for yourself.”

  Hubert displayed a Theme Farm guide map on his tablet. He tapped the screen and zoomed into an attraction. “Here it is,” he said. “Used-to-Be TV.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A new attraction. It’s where you go into a room and sit down in front of a TV. You turn it on, but instead of watching a broadcast channel, you watch history as it’s happening.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. How can you watch something as it happens when it already happened?

  “Apparently, those genius Fritterz found a way to capture live video signals from the past, and display them on TVs in the present. You can even talk to people in real time, like talking to a neighbor over a fence, except that you’re here and he’s in another century.”

  “That’s pretty cool, but what makes you think I’d be interested?”

  “They’re now displaying a signal from 1963!”

  That was all I needed to hear. Used-to-Be TV would be my next Theme Farm stop. The idea of looking in on the ‘60s intrigued me. Imagine talking to someone in the time of Beaver, Opie, and Fred Flintstone.

  Just then our canine server brought out our meals. He lifted Hubert’s plate high over his head. “Dee plate is hot, Señor,” he said, as he carefully slid it onto the table. My plate was nearly twice the size of the little dog waiter, but he scooted it over to me like a pro.

  “Enjoy, Señorita,” he said, then bowed to us and left.

  “Dig in,” I said to Hubert. But instead of picking up his fork, he unscrewed the top of the salt shaker and began filling his water glass with salt.

  “What are you doing now, Mr. Wizard?” I asked.

  “Sending this salt back home—down the drain and into the ocean where it belongs.”

  “That’s the screwiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “I agree. The chances of it making it that far are a million-to-one—about the same odds you have in finding what you’re looking for.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement, Hubert.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We ate our breakfasts.

  Chapter 3

  Used-to-Be TV

  The outside of the attraction resembled a roomy, ranch-style house—the ultimate dream home for the mid-century family. Planter boxes with yellow daisies hung below every window. A basketball hoop was mounted above an aluminum garage door. You could almost hear the sound of a dribbling basketball, and the laughter of Billy and Biff enjoying a little one-on-one.

  Rusty wagon wheels leaned against a wrought iron mail box, with Used-to-Be TV stenciled on the side of it. Being a new Theme Farm attraction, I expected to see huge crowds clamoring to get inside, but there was hardly anyone in line. All the better for me. I was anxious to get to the heart of the attraction: chatting with a fellow curiosity seeker in 1963!

  I ambled up the red brick walkway to the front door—and the magical world beyond it.

  Once inside, I followed the other visitors through an exact re-creation of a typical, suburban household of that era. The living room decor included a flagstone fireplace, a Mediterranean-style coffee table, and comfy chairs with crocheted, doily arm covers. Maple end tables sat on either side of a green sofa. On one table stood a lamp in the shape of a genie bottle, with the biggest lamp shade I’ve ever seen. On the other was a circular, tobacco pipe rack—the exclusive property of the man-of-the-house.

  Family photos in brass frames sat on top of a spinet piano. Sheet music was propped up on a music stand above the keys, with titles like “Puff, the Magic Dragon,” “Blue Velvet,” and “Chim Chim Cher-ee.”

  A console TV in the corner ran news footage that underscored the optimism of the times: John Glenn orbiting the Earth in his Friendship 7 spacecraft; President Kennedy playing touch football on the White House lawn; smiling people lined up to join the Peace Corps.

  All the while, easy-listening music of that decade played softly in the background. Bossa nova melodies with lush string arrangements made me yearn for that stress-free lifestyle. Oddly, the music would periodically be interrupted by the voice of a TV show director, calling out shots to his cameramen:

  “Standby. Ready camera two. Take two!”

  The tour continued past a wood-paneled rumpus room, with a pool table and Tiki bar. A transistor radio in a teenager’s bedroom played pop tunes of the day, like “Fingertips” by Stevie Wonder and “Surfin’ USA” by the Beach Boys.

  Then came the housewife’s domain: the kitchen. The round eyes of a wall-mounted Kit-cat clock followed me as I entered. The down-home scent of biscuits in the oven, and bacon in a frying pan filled the air. I couldn’t help taking a deep whiff of that mouth-watering aroma. On a breakfast table sat a portable black and white TV, with metal rabbit ears sprouting out the top. It played classic TV commercials. One showed a husband scolding his wife for making bad-tasting coffee. Another featured virile cowboys on horseback, promoting the manliness of smoking cigarettes.

  The director’s voice was heard again:

  “Push in on camera three. Cue talent.”

  Finally, I was ushered into an oversized garage. Hula hoops, croquet sets, and shuffle board pucks were mounted to the walls. Rows of theater seats faced a large, plate-glass window, with video monitors on each side. Behind the glass was a TV studio control booth. Engineers stared at a wall of black and white TV screens, while seated at a broadcast control console.

  The TV crew were all animatronic, human figures.

  The director’s voice could still be heard calling out instructions.

  “Fade in graphics.”

  A title card faded up onto the audience monitors: Welcome to Used-to-Be TV.

  I found a seat, which wasn’t hard to do, considering the small group that had come in with me. As the lights dimmed, our robotic director, wearing an intercom headset, swiveled around in his chair to face us.

  “Welcome, couch potatoes,” he said. “As you can see, I’m in the middle of directing a TV show. The lights are on and the cameras are in focus. The only thing missing is the action—and that’s where you come in!”

  “Roll film.”

  The monitors showed a brief presentation to prepare us for what we were about to experience:

  You enter a giant movie set of a suburban residential street, typical of the early 1960s. There you will find four quaint, little cottages. Select one and go inside. Sit down on the couch, and a TV in front of you will come on automatically. The pictures you see will be from video cameras in various locations. One might be in a TV studio. Another might be a surveillance camera. The people, places, and things you see may look a bit out of date, but you’re not watching a videotape. The images are live from 1963! At the same time, cameras in your room will be transmitting your image to those same locations in the past. All you have to do is watch and relax. Talk to people you see, if you like. They will be able to hear and see you.

  “Cut to booth.”


  “It’s an experience you will not soon forget,” said the director. “Savor the fashions of that bygone era. Marvel at the discoveries of fifty years ago. Make friends. But there is one limitation you need to be aware of. Here is someone to tell you about it.”

  “Roll tape.”

  The monitors switched to a cartoon. An animated character hopped onto the screen. It was a vacuum tube, like the ones that used to power old-time radios, but with a cartoon face, arms, and hands.

  “Hello, time-travelers,” said the bubbly character, in a high-pitched voice. “I’m Vaccy, the vacuum tube.”

  The scene cut to the inside of a Used-to-Be TV cottage, as Vaccy bounced on to the couch.

  “While we all want you to have a good time,” he said, “there’s always a risk that revealing too much about the present might change things in the past. So, whenever you’re about to say something that might alter history, you’ll hear this:”

  A short burst of a bleeping tone sounded.

  “Let me show you how it works.”

  A city street scene appeared on the cottage TV. A man in the background had just purchased a hot dog from a street vendor. Happy New Year 1963 was painted on the side of the vendor’s cart.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Vaccy, addressing the screen.

  The man was about to take the first bite of his lunch, when he turned toward the animated character. He came closer.

  “You talkin’ to me?” he said, his face now filling the screen.

  “Yes,” said Vaccy, “and I have something to tell you. I am speaking to you from the year (bleep), and (bleep) is the first (bleep) president of the United States.”

  “What’s that ya say?” said the confused man.

  “People in our time talk on (bleep) phones, and surf the inter(bleep).”

  Vaccy then turned to the audience. “See folks? No harm, no foul.” He turned back to our man-in-the-street. “So long, average person from the past.”