The Woman Who Typed the Future
Lit Up — May’s Prompt: Nostalgia
You have two experiences waiting for you here: 1- a good story (hopefully) and 2- an e-tour of the 1960s. My recommendation: read the story first then return for the tour. Enjoy.
Levittown, New York, December 18, 1962. 12:37 am.
“You told me to call you if Mom was freaking out.” Twelve-year old Joy kept twisting Dr. Davarist’s scotch-taped card in her hand.
“How is she freaking out?” The doctor switched on the plug-in speaker box next to the phone, rubbed his face, and gazed at the Timex desk clock.
“Uh. . .well, I think you need to come over. Fast. And bring that thing you’ve been working on.”
“Butch still sleeping?”
“He’s zonked.”
“Okay, Joy. I’ll be over. Do you mind making some coffee?”
“Same stuff as before?”
“That’ll be fine, honey. See you shortly.”
Joy thought about getting her flake brother to watch Mom as she made the coffee, but going into his grungy bedroom made her eyes water. He was such a skuzz.
She tossed some Maxwell House and water into the percolator and set it to boil, then quietly hustled upstairs.
Mom’s still freaking out.
Joy checked on Butch. She could hear his titanic snores blasting through the doorframe.
She shuffled through the latest Teen magazine and thought Don Grady was the hottest boy in America.
A car pulled into the driveway. Cool. It was Dr. D. She thought he looked just like Richard Chamberlain, Dr. Kildare on TV.
“Coffee’s on, doc.”
“Thanks, Joy. Let’s go see June.” Davarist pulled a hand-truck laden with equipment.
Her mom’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. The doctor slowly opened it and they tip-toed in.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Dr. Davarist stared at the bed. Joy’s mother hovered about three feet above the mattress. Her elbows were perpendicular to the bed, arms raised up, fingers typing into the air.
“Keep an eye on her, Joy. I’m going to get set up.”
“Okay Dr. K, I mean Dr. D.”
Davarist quietly rolled in the hand-truck. He assembled an ’S’ shape configuration of aluminum tubes around June, careful not to short-circuit whatever was controlling her. Dr. D then snapped brackets on top. He slid an experimental keyboard into the brackets and just under her typing fingers. The scent of Avon’s Charisma bath oil distracted him. He loved that fragrance on her.
Next, he connected three wires to the side of the frame and attached them to a fat square terminal which he plugged into the wall.
“Is your brother’s door — ”
“ — Closed, doc. Totally.”
Dr. Davarist showed his perfect Ipana smile. “You’ve got spunk, kid.”
He closed the bedroom door. Now the final adjustments. . .
Like a surgeon, he manipulated the keyboard so it would receive the touch of June’s fingers. There needed to be enough pressure to register a signal on the terminal.
He switched on the big box and watched three small yellow dots blink in the middle of the green screen.
Joy and the doctor sat on the carpet near the door, staring at the dots.
“It’s not working?” asked Joy.
“Can’t tell yet. Those dots mean the terminal program’s loading. Shouldn’t take too long.”
Just then a ’T’ popped into the middle of the screen, slowly followed by
…H…I…S….I…S….A….T…E…S…T. . . .
T. . .Y. . .P. . .E. . . S. . . O. . .M. . .E. . .T. . .H. . .I. . .N. . .G. . . . . . . . . .>
S. . .O. . .M. . .E. . .T. . .H. . .I. . .N. . .G. . . . . . .>
T. . .H. . .I. . .S. . . . .I. . .S. . . .A. . . . . . T…E…S…T. . . .
T. . .Y. . .P. . .E. . . S. . .O. . .M. . .E. . .T. . .H. . .I. . .N. . .G. . . . . . . . . .>
S. . .O. . .M. . .E. . .T. . .H. . .I. . .N. . .G. . . . . . .>
R. . .E. . .C. . .E. . .I. . .V. . .E. . .D. . . . . .
M. . . M. . .X. . .C. . .V. . .I. . .I. . .I. . . .S. . . .T. . . .W. . . .>
“Far out, Dr. D. It’s working! What’s MMX. . .”
“Those are what’s called Roman numerals. It’s a date. 2098.
“Unreal. The message is from the future?”
“Ah. . .Joy, we don’t know that yet.”
“Don’t know what yet? And why are we whispering?” Butch snuck into the room wearing a tattered Mighty Mouse t-shirt and tighty-whiteys. “And what’s that big screen thing? And why is Mom hovering over the bed?”
Joy turned around and whispered harshly. “Shut your trap, numb-nuts, you’re gonna wake her.”
Butch bit his fist and growled. “Kiss off, Joyless.”
“Guys, not while your mother’s hovering.”
Dr. Davarist noticed June stopped typing. Her hands just hung over the keyboard, flexing lightly.
Butch moved closer and pointed to the screen. “What’s STW?”
Davarist looked. “STW. Didn’t see those before. No idea whatsoever.”
“Save The World,” said Joy.
Dr. D looked surprised. “How do you know that, Joy?”
“Saw it on Walter Cronkite last night. Some peacenik was holding a sign with that on it.”
June started typing again.
H. . .E. . .L. . .L. . .O. . . . .J. . .U. . .N. . .E.. . . .
B. . .A. . .S. . .K. . .E. . .R. . .V. . .I. . .L. . .E. . .
C.. .R. . .I. . .T. . .I. . .C. . .A. . .L. . . . .E . . .M. . .E . . .R . . .G . . .E . . .N. . .C . . .Y
T. . .O. . .N. . .I. . .G. . .H. . .T. . . . .C. . .O. . .N. . .F. . .I. . .R. . .M. . .?>
June paused. Joy, Butch, and Dr. D were on pins and needles. After about ten seconds she typed:
C. . .O. . .N. . .F. . .I. . .R. . .M. . .E. . .D>
“This is freak-o-sonic. It’s The Outer Limits in Mom’s bedroom,” whispered Butch.
“SSSSHHHHH, Skuzz,” said Joy.
“You got your spit-shit all over my face.”
“Good for your zits.”
Dr. Davarist quickly raised his palm at the kids. June’s typing continued.
S. . .O. . .M. . .E. . . .O. . .N. . .E. . . . .G. . .O. . . . .T. . .O
S. . .T. . .A. . .R. . .B. . .U. . .C. . .K. . .L. . .E. . . . .A. . .N. . .D
B. . .R. . .A. . .N. . .D. . .Y. . .W. . .I. . .N. . .E. . . . .S. . .I. . .G. . .N
D. . .O. . .W. . .N. . . . . .C. . .O. . .N. . .F. . .I. . .R. . .M. . .?>
“Oh my God. . .I know where that is. Alicia Winchester lives on Brandywine.”
“You mean Alicia Big-chester. She’s hot,” smirked Butch.
“This is crazy. I wonder if someone just hypnotized your mother,” said Davarist.
“Hey, Dr. D, Mom’s hovering. Explain that!” said Butch.
Joy started pacing. “Dr. Davarist, we got to go over there.”
A . . . C. . .C. . .I. . .D. . .E. . .N. . .T. . . . .I. . .N. . . . .T. . .W. . .E. . .N. . .T. . .Y
M. . .I. . .N. . .U. . .T. . .E. . .S. . . .C. . .O. . .N. . .F. . .I. . .R. . .M. . .?>
June’s hands stopped. This time her fingers were in spasm.
“Come on, Mommy, please confirm. Please,” whispered Joy.
C. . .O. . .N. . .F. . .I. . .R. . .M. . .E. . .D>
Butch held his hand palm up. “Hey doc, give me the keys to your Conti. I’ll go over there and see what’s what.”
“Yeah, right, Steve McQueen,” snarked Joy.
“I think we should all go,” said Dr. Davarist, standing stiffly.
“I got shotgun,” said Butch.
Joy looked at her mother. “What about Mom?”
“Everything’s up in the air until we find out what’s really going on. Time for a leap of faith. June should be fine as she is.” The doctor quickly, carefully disassembled the aluminum structure and unplugged the display.
Within a few minutes, Davarist had his Lincoln Continental backed out the small driveway and heading for Starbuckle and Brandywine. Butch was in the front passenger seat with his head out the window.
“Where to, Joy?” asked the doctor.
“Okay, okay. Left on Snapdragon, then right on Bullfinch.”
“Left Snapdragon, right Bullfinch. Check.”
Butch dialed in WABC, Cousin Brucie. Sam Cooke was singing ’Twistin’ The Night Away’.
“Okay, now right on Bitterroot, another right on Clydesdale.”
“Right Bitterroot, right Clydesdale. Check, check.”
Davarist peeked at his Omega Ranchero then increased speed.
“Pedal to the metal, doc. This is outta sight.” Butch’s hair was flying in the night wind.
The car sped by a large garbage truck idling on the far side of Bitterroot.
“They don’t pick up garbage this time of night,” said Joy.
“Maybe a special trash pickup,” offered Dr. D.
“Not in Levittown. Nothing’s special here,” yelled Butch.
They continued down Clydesdale to Honeyblade, Smithberg, Chattersea, Bethanne, and finally a quick left to Starbuckle.
“Hurry, hurry. Three more blocks to Brandywine,” said Joy.
Butch was looking down Starbuckle. “I can see it. I can see it. A sign-post is lying in the grass halfway down the block.”
Dr. Davarist slammed on the brakes and the Conti slid to a halt straddling the street twenty yards from the intersection with Brandywine. Davarist and Butch ran to the street sign.
Joy raced to the intersection. The street sign there was ‘Adelaide’. “Hey doc, someone put the wrong street sign here. We need to switch it.”
Davarist and Butch cradled the heavy Brandywine sign-pole and waddled over.
Joy shook the Adelaide post. It was loose.
She could see a convoy of dark sedans in the far distance heading to the intersection.
The three of them wiggled the Adelaide sign-post until they could remove it from it’s jury-rigged base. The convoy was coming closer.
Then, the giant garbage truck emerged two blocks back on Starbuckle. The engine rev’d and the massive truck accelerated.
Davarist watched the oncoming truck. “Oh shit. I understand. I understand now. Let’s get the Brandywine pole up. Hurry, hurry.”
The line of sedans was now two blocks away speeding west to east. The garbage truck was one block back rumbling south to north.
“Hold the pole. Just hold it,” yelled Dr. D.
Just like the U.S. Marines raising the flagpole on Iwo Jima, Davarist, Joy, and Bruce raised the Brandywine sign and held tight.
When the convoy of sedans reached the intersection the lead car slowed slightly then made a quick left turn. The convoy followed, taillights dimming into the darkness.
And the speeding garbage truck smashed broadside into the doctor’s brand new 1962 Lincoln Continental, punting the entire vehicle diagonally across the street into a set of model homes for a new Levittown addition. Like a giant wrecking ball, the car smashed dead center and destroyed all three models. A perfect strike.
The garbage truck blasted through the intersection, tipped on just the driver-side wheels. The beast lost its battle with inertia and gravity, finally flipping upside-down and sliding way down the street. Billows of smoke started pouring out of the engine and then flames started to rise.
The convoy was gone.
“Outta sight. Somebody give me some skin.” Butch had his palm out but Joy and the doctor were looking down the street, illuminated by the glow of the fire.
All Joy could do was hug Dr. Davarist.
It was already light when a Levittown police car brought the rescuers home, all wrapped in heavy blue blankets. Dr. Davarist called Joy’s mom from Alicia Winchester’s home. He fibbed, telling June he picked up her daughter after a impromptu sleepover. June told Dr. D she had the most wonderful dreams and overslept. “And what’s with all the high tech equipment in my bedroom. And where’s Butch?”
Heading through the open garage, the doctor picked up today’s news, neatly curled in red, white, and blue rubber bands. After hugs and kisses, and a better alibi, Davarist opened up the paper. The headline read:
AMERICAN DICTATOR TOPPLED. COUP A ROUSING SUCCESS.
DEMOCRACY RESTORED. THE WORLD SAVED.
The date of the morning edition was December 18, 2098.
