The Age of Amy

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  "Like it?" asked the sheep, still playing the cordial host. We nodded our heads, our mouths too busy munching the sumptuous treat to answer. "Tell you what. Since y’all are newcomers, this one’s on the house." He stepped over to an old-style cash register at the end of the counter and pressed a key.

  Ka-ching!

  "No, no!" said Devin, stepping in front of the register. "I never accept favors." He reached for the wallet in his back pocket. "Treat the others if you like, but I insist on paying for mine."

  As Devin opened his wallet, the old photo of his uncle fell onto the counter. The sheep snatched it up. "What’s this?"

  "Nothing," said Devin, reaching out to reclaim his property.

  The sheep pulled it back while studying the photo carefully. "Hey!" said the sheep. "I know the man in this picture!"

  Devin reached for the photo again, but this time the sheep grabbed hold of Devin’s wrist and pinned it to the counter, then rolled it over to reveal his Rolex. "That’s a darned expensive watch you got there, son," said the sheep. "Only seen one other like it. Must have set you back a pretty penny. Right . . . George?"

  "George?" said Devin, surprised. "Oh, you must have me confused with my uncle. We share a close resemblance."

  "Don’t give me that, George. I’d know you anywhere."

  Devin finally wrestled the photo back. A stunned look crossed his face as he stared at it. He stood frozen as a popsicle as the photo slipped through his fingers onto the counter. I craned my neck to get a look at it. The photo looked the same as it did before, only now Uncle George had a weasel head like Devin!

  "Don’t you remember, George?" said the sheep. "You used to come in here every Saturday when you were a kid." He dragged Devin behind the counter where dozens of old Polaroids were thumbtacked to the wall. He pointed to one showing a small boy eating pie at the counter. The boy had a weasel head on him, too!

  "Ya know," said the sheep, returning to the cash register, "you used to be quite an asset to this community. You were the most respected man in town—before you and your money destroyed it!"

  The sheep hit a register key.

  Ka-ching!

  The lights in the diner suddenly went out, all except for the wall signs. The glowing yellow, red, and blue neon lit up Devin’s face like a carnival midway.

  Lydia and I dove under a nearby table.

  Just then, a raspy voice called out from the back of the room. "You ruined my life!" said the voice. I peered out from under the tablecloth. Out from a booth stepped a thin man with dark, sunken eyes. He wore a ragged suit and held a tattered, old briefcase. His coat was torn and wrinkled, and hung over his bony frame like it was five sizes too big for him.

  The ghostly figure raised his arm slowly and pointed his skeletal finger at Devin. "You sold me those worthless stocks," he said. "I lost every cent I had while your legal goons got you off scott free. You made living unbearable for me." Clumps of fresh dirt fell from his shoulders as he took a step toward Devin.

  Though somewhat shaken, Devin clearly resented the man’s accusation. "Tough luck, pal," said Devin. "You gambled and you lost."

  Ka-ching!

  A second voice called out, "We went homeless because of you!" A woman wearing a thin veil over her face crept out from a dark corner of the room. Her body was frail and her hair matted. Two malnourished children with dirty faces clung to her torn dress. Though the veil concealed the woman’s identity, it couldn’t hide the burning hatred in her eyes.

  "I was your devoted secretary for twenty years," said the woman. "I endured years of harassment so I could keep my job. You rewarded me by laying me off and foreclosing my home." She took the pitiful children by the hand and inched toward Devin.

  Devin was unmoved by her story. "You should have read the fine print on your mortgage," he said.

  The jukebox suddenly lit up. "How High The Moon" began playing again, loudly.

  Ka-ching!

  A pale, old man wearing a bloody hospital gown rose up from behind the counter. He looked haggard and sick. Dark bruises covered his face, and his arms were riddled with wounds. He shuffled ever so slowly in Devin’s direction.

  "You cut off my pension and my health care," said the man. "I was too old and too sick to look for work. I was denied medical treatment and died from a curable illness."

  Again, Devin was unfazed. "You should have taken your vitamins."

  The music got louder as even more apparitions appeared:

  Ka-ching!

  "My family went hungry while you dined with senators."

  Ka-ching!

  "I froze in the street while you guzzled wine in your mansion."

  Ka-ching!

  "I begged for pennies while you squandered your millions."

  Ka-ching!

  Ka-ching!

  Ka-ching!

  Sweat formed on Devin’s brow. He tried to run, but couldn’t move his feet, as if his shoes had been nailed to the floor. "Wait!" he cried. "You’ve got it all wrong. That wasn’t me." He reached into his pockets and tossed all his money onto the floor in front of him. "Take it! It’s yours!" But the restless souls continued to move closer to him.

  The ghoulish group formed a circle around Devin, then raised their arms up over their heads and wailed like banshees. Their voices were incredibly loud and shrill. Light bulbs exploded. Electricity sparked from the neon signs and arced across the room like lightning.

  The short-circuited signs plunged the diner into darkness. At the same time, the cries, the screaming, and the loud music stopped.

  After a moment of eerie silence, the overhead florescent lights flickered back on. The hideous figures that had surrounded Devin, had fanned out into a straight line along the counter.

  Devin was nowhere in sight.

  Lydia, who had covered her eyes throughout the whole episode, tugged at my sleeve. "Is it safe to leave now?" she whispered. But before I could answer, the sound of applause began to fill the room. The clapping got louder, building to a thunderous ovation. At the other end of the room stood a crowd of people, clapping wildly. They cheered and whistled as if they had just seen the greatest Broadway show ever.

  Then I realized that I had seen those people before. They were the angry protesters from the cornfield, now friendly toward each other. They had put aside their differences and united to witness a scheming weasel get his comeuppance.

  The cast of the freakish play all joined hands and bowed to their euphoric audience.

  The sheep stepped forward to take his own bows, then approached the table where Lydia and I were hiding. The applause died down as he bent over and lifted the corner of the tablecloth. He glared at us, then swapped his restaurant server hat for his drill sergeant hat.

  "Encore, anyone?"

  Chapter 8

  Going Up

  After Jake’s smokescreen vanishing act and Devin’s haunted Halloween party, I wasn’t too eager to see what Sergeant Sheep had in mind for me. I shot out from under the table. "Follow me!" I told Lydia.

  I outflanked the diner’s rowdy guests, sprinted through the front door, and ran around to the side of the building. I didn’t see Lydia anywhere. In all the commotion, I had completely lost track of her, and for the first time since all the craziness started, I was worried about her. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I missed having Lydia around.

  What a time to go soft! At any moment, the sheep and his gang would pour out of the diner to come after me. I was as hyper as a jack rabbit as I fixed my eyes on the front door. But then, all the lights in diner went off, including the welcome sign out front. No one came outside, not even the sheep.

  There wasn’t a sound to be heard, save one: a squeaking noise across the street. The revolving door to the entrance of Zillman’s Department Store was slowly rotating. Maybe that was where Lydia had taken refuge.

  I slunk over to the multi-story building and squatted down behind the store’s grimy glass door. "Zillman’s" was spelled out in large, brass letters
, inlaid to the glittery sidewalk under me. I nudged the door forward, and crept slowly into the store.

  The inside was like a dark cathedral from an old horror film. Tall, cylindrical columns rose up from the floor like giant redwood trees. Magnificent chandeliers hung from a beautiful ornate ceiling. Acres of store shelves sat empty, stocked with nothing but spider webs and dust bunnies.

  Aisle after aisle of display cases were covered with white sheets, like rows of linen-draped coffins. It was like being in a huge mausoleum with cash registers. I imagined ghost-shoppers from the 50s, jammed onto escalators, combing the store for specials on hula-hoops and silk stockings.

  Light from the street streamed in through cracks in the boarded-up windows. I stepped into the light to cross the sales floor when a shadow suddenly passed over me. I ducked behind a checkout stand and peered over the counter top. Outside, Sergeant Sheep had squeegeed a circle in the revolving door with his hand. He looked inside, his nose pressed flat against the glass.

  I sat on the floor with my back against the counter and sighed. When was this cat-and-mouse game going to end? Only time would tell. Until then, this was one mouse in need of a hole to escape into.

  Apparently satisfied that the store was empty, the sheep turned and faced the street. Just then, a bell rang.

  Ding!

  A sliver of golden light streaked down the aisle next to me, then parted like curtains in a darkened theater. I traced it back to an elevator right behind me. Swing music poured out its open doors and reverberated through the humongous store.

  A young man with a charming smile stood just inside. "Elevator Operator" was embroidered above the breast pocket of his purple uniform. Gold braids clung to the shoulders of his brass-buttoned blazer. A striped bow tie encircled his stiff collar like an unopened Christmas present. If this guy was a ghost, he certainly was a snappy dresser.

  "Going up, miss?" asked the man.

  Fearing the sheep might turn back at any second, I hopped into the elevator car and crouched down in the corner.

  "Welcome to Zillman’s," said the polite elevator operator, tipping his pillbox hat. "What floor would you like?"

  "Any floor!" I snapped. "Close the doors. Hurry!"

  "Very good, miss."

  The man grabbed a brass lever with his white-gloved hand and the doors slid shut. Then he pressed the button to the second floor. The elevator lunged upward.

  Unlike the deplorable condition of the store, the classy elevator was like new. The metallic art deco doors were polished to a soft sheen. Over the wood-paneled walls, a poster promoted the store cafeteria’s mid-week special: roast beef, smothered in mushroom gravy.

  I grabbed hold of the railing and pulled myself up, just as the elevator eased to a stop.

  Ding!

  The man threw his shoulders back, then said, in his best radio announcer’s voice,

  "Second floor—Apparel:

  Baby clothes, tank tops,

  Panty hose, flip flops.

  T-shirts, tube socks,

  Miniskirts, house frocks.

  Pink pajamas, comfy slippers,

  Flippers, zippers, toenail clippers.

  Bathing caps, wet suits,

  Jockstraps, work boots."

  The elevator doors opened, revealing a shopper’s paradise from a bygone era. Clothes racks were crammed with poodle skirts and polka dot dresses. Saddle shoes and penny loafers lined the shelves in the shoe department. Mannequins modeled the latest fashions; sultry maidens with blood-red lipstick wore cross-your-heart bras; rugged outdoorsmen showed off their plaid hunting jackets. Only one key element was missing from this retail wonderland: shoppers!

  Exploring that retro world would have been totally amazing, and I would have done it except for one problem: what if the elevator operator left without me? I decided I had better stay put.

  The man cleared his throat and glared down at me, bewildered. Then he closed the doors and hit the button to the next floor.

  Ding!

  "Third floor—Housewares:

  Electric toasters, door stops,

  Turkey roasters, floor mops.

  Towel racks, soap bars,

  Candle wax, cookie jars.

  Salt shakers, throw rugs,

  Coffee makers, beer mugs.

  Egg beaters, bed sheets,

  Space heaters, toilet seats."

  The doors parted, and the elevator was immediately filled with the scent of Ivory Soap and fresh linen. The floor was stocked to the hilt with everything the happy homemaker could ever want; from pink toilet seat covers to cat-faced clocks with pendulum tails.

  An immaculate kitchen displayed all the latest appliances: countertop stoves, electric dishwashers, frost-free refrigerators; all useful and easy to operate. (Imagine, a world without computer viruses, internet spam, or cyber hacking.) It was an Ozzie and Harriet world of purity and innocence—well, maybe not so innocent. An exploding atomic bomb was depicted on a child’s lunch box.

  Again, I didn’t budge. I could see that my helpful tour guide was getting impatient with me. He grabbed hold of the brass lever, and a moment later,

  Ding!

  "Fourth floor—Hardware:

  Workbenches, flower beds,

  Socket wrenches, shower heads.

  Gas grills, hard hats,

  Power drills, thermostats.

  Rubber tires, water pails,

  Pairs of pliers, finish nails.

  Garden hoses, sun visors,

  Needle noses, fertilizers."

  I struggled not to give in to my impulse to go shopping. For all I knew, going in there meant walking into an elaborate mousetrap.

  The elevator man was now clearly irritated. "We could do this all night, miss," he said. "Why don’t you just tell me what you want?"

  I turned my nose up at him. "I don’t want anything," I said.

  "Don’t be silly. Everybody wants something."

  I thought for a moment. "Happiness!" I said. "That’s what I want. That’s not asking for too much, is it?"

  "Well, why didn’t you say so?" said the man, straightening his bow tie. "That’s our most popular item."

  The doors closed and we were whisked away to the next floor.

  Ding!

  "Fifth floor—Wealth:

  Dollars, Pounds, Euros, Yen,

  Happy days are here again."

  The song "We’re In The Money" began playing as the doors opened onto a miser’s dream. The floor was filled with mounds of silver and gold coins ten feet high. Money was literally growing on trees. Stock certificates floated down from above like a winter’s day on Wall Street.

  Coming from a fairly well-to-do family, I wasn’t very impressed. "‘Money won’t buy you happiness,’" I said. "Ever heard that one?"

  "‘There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty,’" he responded. "I’ve heard that one."

  "This ain’t gonna do it. I’ve seen what the almighty dollar does to people. Haven’t you got something a little less hoity-toity?"

  Ding!

  "Sixth floor—Leisure:

  Tranquility, peace, and relaxation,

  No frets, no debts, no obligation."

  Ocean waves lapped onto a sandy, white beach, under a golden sun. Palm trees swayed to the rhythm of a strummed ukulele. A gentle breeze carried the delectable scent of shrimp cocktail and seared swordfish.

  It was a relaxing, tropical setting, and yet, the view wasn’t all coconuts and hula skirts. Drunken, old men with bloated bellies swung in hammocks, like beached whales on holiday. Middle-aged women with sauce-stained lips devoured barbecue ribs, like pigs at a feeding trough.

  "Who are these people?" I asked.

  "The Idle Class," said the elevator man. "This is usually their next stop after visiting the floor below us."

  "Sure you don’t mean the Lame Class? Look at the them. The Earth could be colliding with Mars and they couldn’t care less."

  "But, they’re so happy."

  "And so ir
responsible. If I were them, I’d spend less time slurping Mai Tais through bamboo straws and doing more to help the Struggling Class."

  "So, you’d be happier if people were more like you. Is that what you’re saying?"

  "Exactly."

  Ding!

  "Seventh floor—Equality:

  No sides to choose, no one to blame,

  Beliefs and views, are all the same."

  A school bell rang. It sounded just like the one that rang each day at my school. When the elevator doors opened and the ringing stopped, I was back at Shankstonville High—at least it looked that way. Where Zillman’s seventh floor should have been was an exact replica of my first-period English classroom!

  It had been reproduced with incredible accuracy: the school flag in the corner; the football field outside the window; the smell of sulfur from the science lab next door. No detail had been overlooked. Even the rain-damaged ceiling tile above my desk was there.

  But who was that seated at my desk? Who else, I thought, would be there except . . . me! I was looking at an exact copy of myself the way I looked normally. Not only had the room been perfectly reproduced, I had been copied with equal precision, right down to the neon-blue streak in my hair.

  Seated two rows over at Lydia’s desk was another "me." Still another sat at Andy’s desk. In fact, "Amys" were seated behind every desk in the room. They all chatted amongst themselves, unconcerned that an elevator had just invaded their classroom.