“Bring Us Home, Sweet Mary”
So get on board and we’re on our way
Time gets nearer the more we delay
Sweet Mary please, bring us home
It’s a long way to Dorian
Such a long way to go, so
Sweet Mary please, bring us home
An alarm sounded from Hubert’s tablet, alerting him that a Theme Farm show was about to begin.
“Fireworks in ten minutes,” he said. “Anyone coming with me?”
“You go ahead,” I said. “How about we meet up at the Illegal Alien for lunch afterward?”
“Sí, sí, Señorita Amy.”
Then off he went.
Clifford and I casually explored the park on our own with no set agenda.
I unfolded a Theme Farm guide map. “Here’s a ride an attorney would like,” I said. I read Clifford the description. “Puppets Court: Frog puppet prosecutes corrupt U.S. congressman accused of accepting kickbacks.”
“I’ve seen it,” said Clifford. “The congressman walks free, and gets reelected for a fourth term. That’s puppet justice for you.”
Then we passed an attraction we both knew all too well: Used-to-Be TV. A banner hung above the newly refurbished entrance that read: Channel ‘89 Now Open!
I pretended not to notice it, staring down at my guide map. I was in no hurry to relive that experience, given the emotional toll it took on me the last time.
But Clifford had other plans.
“Let’s go in,” he said.
“Do I have to?” I asked. “I feel kinda creepy about that place.”
“For old times’ sake.”
“Oh . . . alright.”
The ‘60s, ranch-style house had been transformed into a household of the 1980s. The interior now matched the year that guests would be looking in on: 1989. Each room of the house offered a glimpse at ‘80s pop culture. Cabbage Patch Kids lay on the beds in the children’s room, with an unsolved Rubik’s Cube on the dresser. Vinyl record albums by The Bangles, Blondie, and George Michael leaned up against a huge ghetto blaster in the teen’s room. The family room featured the ultimate in ‘80s entertainment: a full-sized Pac-Man arcade console.
As before, the automatic garage door opened onto the neighborhood street with the perpetual sunset. We strolled down the block, checking out the updated cottages.
“There’s an empty one,” said Clifford, pointing to the very cottage he and I used when he was a ‘60s teenager.
We went inside and sat down on a green, velveteen couch. The TV came on—now in “living color.” On the screen was the inside of a huge TV studio in 1989. Muslin backdrops leaned against the walls. Various props were stacked on shelves. The only person in the room was a cleaning woman mopping the floor at the back of the studio.
“Call that girl over,” said Clifford.
“You think I should?” I said.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?” I called out toward the screen.
“You called me?” said the woman, her distant voice echoing through the open space.
“Come here, would you please?”
The woman jammed her mop into a bucket, and walked toward us. She was younger than I thought—about my age, actually, and pretty as a peach.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Smith,” she said to Clifford. “Back again?”
“Mr. Smith?” I said to Clifford with suspicion in my voice. “What are you up to?”
Clifford held up his hand to hush me up, then said to the girl on the screen: “I have someone here who wants to meet you.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked Clifford. “I didn’t ask to meet—”
“Sure you did,” he said, winking at me. Then he pointed to the screen and grinned. “I’d like you to meet . . . Mary.”
I had heard that name spoken in court. Clifford had named his daughter Mary—who turned out to be my . . .
“Mary?” I said staring at Clifford with my mouth hanging open.
“Yes,” he replied, his smile broader now.
“Mary?” I said again.
Clifford grabbed my head and rotated it to face the TV screen.
Her hair. Her eyes. All of her facial features were just like my own.
Ohmigod!
She was my mother!
“Say something to Mary,” said Clifford.
Mary tilted her head and scratched her nose, patiently waiting for me to speak.
But what could I say? There was my real mother in 1989, the same age as me. For sure, she didn’t know me from Adam. Knowing that my birth would mean the end of her life was profoundly disturbing. I couldn’t decide if meeting her was a gift or a curse.
“It’s okay,” said Clifford. “Trust me.”
My heart raced as I started to speak. “N-nice to meet you, Mary,” I said. “I’m (bleep).”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mary. “I didn’t catch that.”
I tugged at Clifford’s sleeve with tears in my eyes. “Why are you doing this?” I said. “Can’t you see this is killing me?”
Then Clifford pulled a small object from his pocket. In his hand was the magic clicker, all scratched and dented.
“Hubert fished it out of the lake the day after you threw it in there,” he said. “He took the thing apart and was somehow able to fix it. Genius, that kid.”
Then Clifford stood up and handed me the device.
“I think I’ll leave you two alone,” he said. “But remember: one wrong word and you might suddenly disappear.”
I held the clicker up over my head, like I had found the Holy Grail, just as the door closed behind me.
“What were you two saying?” asked Mary.
“Nothing important,” I said.
I took a long look at Mary, as my smile chased away the last tear.
“Hello Mary,” I said, then aimed the clicker at the screen.
Click!
“My name’s Amy.”
About the Author
Bruce Edwards was born in Marin County, California and raised on a tasty diet of jazz and Disney animation. He majored in Architecture in college, but switched to Music to join the burgeoning San Francisco music scene. As a composer and musician, he wrote rock tunes and radio jingles, and toured as a pop music artist between studio gigs. He tinkered with early computer animation which led to a career as a feature film character animator. His more unique vocational detours included a stint as a puppeteer and performing magic at Disneyland. As a writer, he wrote screenplays during his Hollywood years before finding an audience for his young-adult fiction. Mr. Edwards currently lives in Orange County, California.
The Age of Amy: Channel '63
Lambert Hill
P.O. Box 1478
Brea, CA 92822-1478
www.LambertHill.com
The Age of Amy: Channel ‘63
Copyright © 2014 by Bruce Edwards
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permissions: Lambert Hill, P.O. Box 1478, Brea, CA 92822. [email protected].
ISBN: 9780983760443 (print)
ISBN: 9780983760450 (ebook)
Song excerpts
Words and music by Bruce Edwards
Published by Lambert Hill (ASCAP)
Your Love, Like Music - © 2014
You Make Me Smile - © 1973
By The Time You Get This Letter - © 1973
As Long As You Come Back To Me - © 1973
What I’ll Do For You - © 2014
The Jail Song - © 2014
&n
bsp; Compassion - © 2014
Goodbye, Sweet Melody - © 2014
Bring Us Home, Sweet Mary - © 1972
Printed in the United States of America
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YOU KNOW THE SONGS
NOW HEAR THE MUSIC!
“Your Love, Like Music” and the other songs in this book were actually written some 40 years ago, and were the key inspiration for The Age of Amy: Channel ‘63.
Hear the re-recordings of theses vintage tunes, composed and performed by author Bruce Edwards.
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www.AgeOfAmy.com/Songs
The Age of Amy: The Thumper Amendment
Award-winning BOOK #2 in the series
"Welcome to the world of meanness.”
Amy joins a presidential campaign in this fantasy-adventure through the bizarre world of American politics.
“Readers will appreciate Amy's sharp wit and the overall comedy of political theater”
— Booklist
The Age of Amy: Bonehead Bootcamp
Award-winning BOOK #1 in the series
"To be perfectly honest, I don't think I belong here,” said Amy.
Amy is unjustly sent to a boot camp for troubled teens where she discovers a frightening fantasy world.
“The Age of Amy: Bonehead Bootcamp is truly a book about finding one's real self. I highly recommend this book.”
— AllBooksReview.com
Channel '63 Page 14
