Peripheral Visions: Golden Age

Peripheral Visions: They coalesce in the soft blur of darkest shadows and take shape in the corner of your eye. But you won't see them coming... until it's too late.

Golden Age

"Tipo, six miles," Emmy read from the large green sign at the side of the road. "Population 324."

"Fly speck," Harris said. He glanced in the rear-view mirror at Trey's car, following behind. The car's windshield looked black in the midday sun, obscuring Trey and Adam within. The passenger-side front wheel was wobbling – not a huge amount, but Harris could see it. He shook his head. "That tire is just about to come right the fuck off," he muttered. "What do you think, Emmy? Will they have a service station in Tipo?"

"I mean, they gotta get their gasoline from somewhere," Emmy said.

"Speaking of..." Harris glanced at the fuel gauge. "It would be a good idea to fill up. This van's a guzzler, and there's a lot of desert between here and Yuma."

"That'll cost another hundred or so," Emmy groused. "Lucky Trey, his folks bought him an electric car."

"Yeah," snorted Harris. "Lucky. Assuming he can get that wheel fixed in yonder flyspeck, and assuming it has a charging station."

"Enough already," Emmy sighed. Harris and Trey had argued the point to death.

"I don't know why he thinks tiny towns in the California desert are gonna have charging stations," Harris said.

"Because it's 2028?" Tomas called from the back seat, where he and Annette sat on opposite ends of the couch-like seat. Their clasped hands rested on the seat between them.

"Aw, sweet," Emmy said. "You two hot back there?"

"Not in the way I wish," Tomas grumbled.

"Sorry, guys," Harris said. "This guzzler would be bone dry in no time if I turned up the AC."

The road was a shimmering dark ribbon cutting across the flat desert landscape. The tiny town of Tipo lay ahead, a patch of green trees and glinting glass. It looked like an oasis. Harris wondered if it might suddenly vanish, but it didn't; the town grew larger, and then they were rolling past a sign announcing they were entering the town limits. Green trees abruptly shaded them from overhead and houses passed by on both sides of the street.

Harris scanned ahead, looking for a service station. The houses began to give way to shops, all of them looking like something from a hundred years ago.

"What's going on here? Is it classic car week?" Emmy asked, looking from one side of the street to the other.

Harris lowered his eyes and saw what she meant. Plenty of cars were parked along the street, but none of them looked like 2028 models. For that matter, none of them looked more recent than the 1950s.

"Wonderful, we're in some exurb inhabited by retirees," Tomas said. "They're probably all Republicans, too."

"Don't let Trey hear you," Harris said.

"Don't let your girlfriend hear you say that, either," Annette teased. She and Tomas smiled at each other.

One of the classic cars drove past them, going the opposite way. The driver was clearly visible through the large windshield. He was blond and looked to be in his twenties. He looked, Harries thought, like a typical Californian... but then, so did Harris, and Harris was from Connecticut. He'd only come to UCLA because they had a good film program, but once he'd arrived in Los Angeles he'd effortlessly adapted to the city's look, its attitude, its manner of speech.

"He didn't look like a Republican fossil," Harris said, grinning at Annette in the rearview mirror. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Two more cars passed – massive, bulky, one a two-toned vehicle in teal blue and white with rear fenders shaped like fins and the other a wide, low, black box of a car. They, too, were driven by young people – a woman with a scarf tied around her hair and sunglasses perched above a red-lipsticked mouth in the teal-and-white car, and a dark-haired man wearing a dark suit in the black car. It struck Harris that there was another oddity: None of the cars had tinted windows. Harris glanced in his rear-view mirror and saw the cars turning off on small side streets.

Harris looked ahead once more. A store went by on the right – a flat, unattractive building set in what looked like an acre of blacktop. It seemed too large a parking lot, and too large a store for such a small town. A tall metal pole stood in the parking lot. Harris glanced up to see a metal box mounted at the top, painted to look like...

"What the hell is that?" he muttered.

Emmy craned her neck. "Looks like... a loaf of bread?"

"I think we might be back in Kansas, Toto," Annette said from the back seat.

Harris' eye caught on a sign – a large neon sign, he noted, amused – that read PLIMPTON GAS AND GARAGE.

"Maybe they can help us," he said, flipping his turn signal. Glancing in the mirror, he saw Trey had followed suit.

The two vehicles turned off the main street and came to rest, side by side, before the service station's massive, two-bay garage.

A man dressed in grease-stained grey coveralls and a matching cloth cap came out of the garage and squinted into the sun.

"Think he's hot in that outfit?" Emmy asked.

"Hey," Harris said, rolling his window down, but the man was already shouting something at him. "What?" he asked.

"I said," the man repeated, still shouting even though he was now quite close to Harris' window, "he can't be here." The man's face was a mask of fury, and his hand was a fist from which a pointing finger thrust as he gestured at Trey's car.

"Who?" Harris asked, confused.

And that was when the man let loose with a shocking racial slur.

***

"So, what do we do now?" Trey asked.

They were on the side of the road on the far side of town. It hadn't taken more than a few minutes to drive that far after they retreated from the service station, the angry man in the gray coveralls still shouting after them. As Harris feared, Plimpton's Gas and Garage was the only service station in town – at least, they hadn't seen any sign of another one.

Harris was trying to get his phone to work, but there was no reception.

Emmy, ever in high spirits, sat sideways in the van's passenger side seat, the door open. She spread a paper map over her legs. Gazing down at it, she traced their path from Los Angeles, then along I-10 to Palm Springs, and then...

"Okay, this map doesn't show anything," she said.

"Nothing between here and Yuma?"

"Nothing at all where we are. Not this town... what's it called? Topo?"

"Tipo."

"Not the town," Emmy said, "and not even the road we're on."

"And how did you hear about this road again?" Adam asked, standing midway between the van and Trey's car, which parked just ahead.

"This drunk girl at a party last Saturday night. We were talking about spring break and she was going to Cozumel..."

"With all the rest of those idiots," Harris murmured to himself, thinking about the latest wave of COVID-21 and how his idea to join his family in Los Algodones had seemed the perfect way to avoid crowds as the new pandemic gained momentum, introduce Emmy to his parents, and have a chance to hang out with Trey and Adam, who had become his best friends over the course of freshman year. Annette and Tomas were last-minute additions; Annette was Emmy's bestie, and although their addition to the trip had meant Trey needed to bring his new electric car, Trey had positively relished the idea of taking it out for a good shakedown.

An idea that had turned out not to be so good after all, Harris thought.

Emmy had finished the story of the drunk girl. Harris had heard it before: Look for the little side road off I-10 just after Palm Springs. It was a shortcut. It would take them right to Yuma, and from there they could cross the border, drive ten miles, and be in Los Algodones.

It was a shortcut, all right – to Asshole City, Harris thought.

"What the fuck," Trey cried in aggravation. He had been lying on his back on the ground, trying to inspect the wobbly wheel. Now he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up. Adam joined him, squatting down to have a quick conference.

That was when the police car came gliding up, passing by the van and then Trey's car, then pulling in front of the disabled electric vehicle. Trey glanced at the police cruiser as it rolled to a stop. "Oh, here we go," he said.

Harris frowned. The cop car was another vintage model – like something in a rerun of Adam-12. Long and heavy, low to the ground, painted black on the front and read fenders but white on the hood, doors, and roof. There was a single red light on the top, too, and it was spinning its scarlet beacon. Harries wondered if the cop at the wheel would give a quick bleat of his siren.

He didn't; he simply parked and then emerged from the vehicle. A second cop got out from the passenger side. The two officers were dressed like the cops in "Adam-12," too, in black uniforms. The shirts had long sleeves; badges gleamed on their chests and on the black police hats perched on their heads. Even more conspicuous were the holstered guns they each kept a hand on as they approached Trey's car.

Adam rose slowly to his feet. Trey didn't bother getting up and sat on the ground, glaring at the cops.

"Help you folks?" the cop who had been driving asked. He was middle-aged, with graying hair showing under his black hat and a heavy belly under his black shirt. The cop's tone of voice made it plain he would rather do anything but.

"Good day, officer," Harris said, offering a smile. "As you can see, we've got some trouble with our car here..."

"Then you best get on down the road and get it fixed," the cop said, his voice still hard. His face, too.

"Yes sir, but – "

"You heard him," the second cop interjected, his hand grasping his holstered gun.

Harris shot an apologetic glance at Trey and then said: "My guy here, my domestic, just didn't know how to handle my new car. It's already been damaged. Driving it all the way home would just make things worse... in fact, I'm not sure the car is going to make it much further."

Trey looked shocked but didn't say anything. Adam looked like he might be about to, though. He locked eyes with Trey, who shook his head slightly.

Harris saw all of this play out in a moment. Good he thought. Trey trusts me. He's playing along. I hate doing this to him, but...

The cops seemed to be considering what Harris had said.

"Officers," Harris said, "my mom's waiting for me to get back. She and my dad are – "

Before Harris could compound his lie with some additional detail about is parents needing their domestics – a word that had gained popularity among wealthy people like Harris' family and their friends – the first cop interrupted. "Where are your folks?"

"They're in Los Algodones."

"The fuck are they doing in Mexico?" the second cop asked, his had now gripping the handle of his still-holstered weapon. "Smuggling?"

Harris didn't need to lie to answer him. "My dad's with Preston Petroleum. He's meeting with some officials from the Mexican government, setting up permits for oil exploration. They think there might be some deep deposits in the – "

"Your dad's in oil?" The first cop looked at Trey's car. "But you went and bought yourself an electric?"

The second cop shifted, looking uncomfortable.

"Well, yeah," Harris said, still smiling, playing dumb and friendly. "I mean, Dad's company also has a partnership with Alliance Autos to make electric cars. All the big carmakers are diversifying into electrics. This was a freebie. Dad gave it to me." Harris nodded at the van. "I mean, I love my van, but my allowance barely keeps her tanked up."

The first cop laughed. "You sound like my son. Always scheming how to get his pocket money to last a little bit longer."

"Mine just asks for more," the second cop said. His uneasiness from a moment ago seemed to have disappeared.

"Does it work?" Harris asked, brightening his grin as he turned his attention to the second cop.

The second cop removed his hand from his weapon. "Hell, no. I tell him if he wants more money he can go mow the neighbor's grass."

Everyone laughed – Harris, the cops, Emmy, Tomas and Annette, and even Adam and Trey.

The second cop looked at Annette. "She a maid?"

"I'm an au pere," Annette said, playing along. It was more or less true; she had a summer gig looking after the children of her parents' friends in England.

"A what?" The cops were still grinning, but Harris know that could change abruptly.

"She's a nanny. For my sister's kids," Harris lied.

"She shouldn't talk to strangers," the second cop said. "Or talk back to cops."

"Yes sir, she shouldn't," Harris said.

"But you think it's possible to train them people any better?" The first cop snorted. Then he looked at Harris. "Okay, son, here's what you do. Come on back to the service station. We'll go in with you and I'll explain the situation to ol' Ned. He'll help you out. But you might want to leave your... domestic..." He looked at Trey as he said the world with a sarcastic twist. "...here with the van."

"Wish I could, but this beast is thirsty," Harris said, laying a hand on the van's hood. "I'm gonna have to put at least a hundred dollars' worth in her. But I sure appreciate your help, officers. I don't think we'd have made it home otherwise."

"A hundred?" The second cop laughed. "No wonder you wanted that new car there."

The first cop seemed to be mulling Harris' argument for driving the van and his friends back to the service station. "Yeah, okay," he said, "but keep your domestics in the van and out of sight. Them others, too," he added, glancing at Tomas and Annette. Then he looked back at Harris. "You're in luck, son. Gas prices here are a hell of a lot more reasonable than they are... well, just about anyplace else."

***

"He wasn't kidding," Emmy said, looking at the sign displaying the price for gas. She fanned herself with the folded-up paper map. "Twenty-seven cents a gallon? I mean... what the fuck? Where even are we?"

"The town of Racism, USA," Tomas muttered from the back of the van.

Emmy had driven the van back to the service station and parked next to the pumps. Adam was in the passenger seat. Tomas and Trey sat in the back seat, more or less out of sight. Annette was in Trey's electric car, which Harris had driven back into town. Harris and the cops were talking with Ned, the man who had chased them away earlier. Ned spared a glance at the van, and then gave a gesture to one of his workers – also clad in gray, though his was a neater-looking uniform, with pressed trousers, a smart jacket, and no oil or grease stains. Even his cap looked nicer than the grimy one Ned wore.

The attendant strode up to the driver's side window. "Fill 'er up for you, ma'am?" he asked.

"Yes, please," Emmy said.

"Check the oil?" the attendant asked. "Check the water? Tires?"

"Better do it all," Emmy said, giving him a flirtatious smile.

The attendant blushed. "Yes, ma'am, right away..." He glanced for a second past Emmy and into the van's interior before turning away and getting to work. He must have seen Trey and Tomas, but he didn't say anything.

Emmy sighed. "I guess Harris had the right idea," she said. "Playing cute and stupid seems to work on these people."

Trey scoffed. "That's not it. What you're seeing is white privilege in action."

"That, too," Emmy said.

***

The car in the care of the mechanics, they had driven the van a few blocks and parked just outside one of the town's two cafes, thinking about getting a late lunch.

Trey, Tomas, and Annette had refused to stay in the van, but when the waitresses and manager at the café gave them panicked looks through the window they had agreed to wait on the sidewalk. Adam stood by Trey while Harris and Emmy went into the café to order some sandwiches and sodas.

Adam peeked into the café window and whistled. "Man, oh man," he said. "The place is a real diner. I mean, classic Americana."

"What, black and white floor? Jukebox?" Trey asked.

"All of that," Adam said.

Tomas shook his head. "This is one crazy town. I haven't seen a single car that doesn't look about one generation past a Model T. And the way these people are dressed... Jesus Christ, how do they not die of heat stroke?"

That was another piece of the puzzle: Everyone they'd seen so far – from the mechanics and attendants at the service station, to the cops in their classic black uniforms, to passersby on the sidewalk – looked like extras in a period drama. Men wore old-fashioned suits, gray and brown and black, all of their jackets and trousers looking like they might be made from wool, and with matching hats on their heads. Women wore long woolen skirts that ranged from peach to plum to lemon-yellow to black, along with matching jackets over white blouses, all of it finished with their own elegant-looking hats.

And they were all white, which was something the others might not have noticed except that Trey and Annette pointed it out.

"We're in the village of the costume porn," Annette said.

"Where you going?" Trey asked Adam, who had suddenly started across the street.

Adam looked back, tilted his head at a news stand across the way, and kept on walking. He stopped at the stand, which looked like little more than a shabby wooden lean-to.

"What the fuck is he doing?" Trey wondered, squinting at the news stand. Adam seemed to be conversing with a man in a white shirt and some kind of long apron. Meantime, how long could it possibly take the others to get a few goddamn sandwiches?

Suddenly, Adam was back. He had a newspaper.

"That's what you wanted?" Trey asked.

"I wanted some gum," Adam said.

"You get any? Can I have a piece?" Annette asked.

Adam handed her the package of gun. It was another anachronism, shaped like a rectangular tube.

"How the hell do you..." Annette fell silent, trying to work out how to open the package.

"Want to see something even weirder?" Adam held the paper out to Trey. "Check it."

Trey scanned the paper. " 'The Timo Courier.' It's a newspaper. So what?"

"Look at it closer."

Trey scrutinized the paper. "Looks cheap," he said.

"Check the headlines. Check the date."

"President Harris dies of pneumonia," Trey muttered. "Who the hell is that? He's the president of Canada or Australia or something?"

"No idea, but if you read the article, it's like they're talking about the president of the United States."

"She's not sick," Trey said.

"And she's not a he. But look at the date."

"April 4. Yeah, that's today."

"The year, sweetie."

Trey looked back down at the paper. "Wait. 1952?" He looked up. "So it's a reproduction. It's a souvenir. It's not real."

"Right, but all the other newspapers had the same date," Adam said "And all the magazines are for April, 1952, as well."

"So they have a broad selection to choose from." Trey handed the paper back to Adam. "Maybe that's why those guys at the garage were such pricks. They're playing a part."

"Playing pretty seriously," Adam said. "When I asked him about it, the news stand guy got pretty pissed off. I thought he was gonna chase me away, but then I bought the paper and the gum. He calmed down once I spent a little money."

"Yeah, and this gum is awful," Annette spoke up. "So you think this is some kind of a theme village? Don't some little towns do this kind of nostalgia thing to draw tourists?"

"Not that I ever heard of," Tomas said.

Harris and Emmy emerged from the café and rejoined the others on the sidewalk. Harris carried a large paper bag. "They acted like they never heard of ordering to go," he said. "And they didn't have drinks cups, so no soda."

"What?" Tomas asked.

"That store's just a block or two away," Emmy said. "We can get something to drink in there."

***

The patrons of the store had the same reaction to the little group that everyone else seemed to have. A mother quickly herded her children away as they crossed the parking lot. A man in a brown suit and hat yelled something ugly at them, but didn't deviate from his course. He jumped into a large car with a bulbous body, started it, and drive off with an angry roar of the motor. From out of nowhere, a man with the bearing and demeanor of a manager – white shirt, black horn-rimmed eyeglasses, balding – stormed up, hurling obscenities and telling the "colored" members of the group to get away from his store before he called the cops.

Even big, blond, friendly Harris couldn't calm the manager down. "Sir, all we want are some sodas..."

The man pointed at a squat red box that sat near the store's entrance. "You want sodas, you can get them there. And then get offa my parking lot. And you others, you better get out of here right damn now."

"Let's meet back at that park we passed," Harris said to the others.

Tomas and Trey quickly retreated, along with Adam and Annette.

Harris and Emmy approached the store. "Maybe Annette is right about this being a resort town with a theme," Emmy said, looking at the store's large plate glass windows. Crudely printed posters advertised sale prices.

"Peaches in a can for twelve cents. Great," Harris said.

Emmy looked at the red box, which was emblazoned with a Coca-Cola logo. "He said the soda pop's in here?"

"I guess." Harris frowned down at the box and then reached down and pulled the top open. Bottles were nested beneath a swirling cloud of cool air. "Six cents per bottle," Harris said, reading the instructions. "Insert nickel here, penny here." He sighed. "Who the hell carries pennies anymore?"

"I have some," Emmy said, opening her purse. "And a few nickels, too."

"I have nickels," Harris said. He dug a small handful of coins from his pocket. "You'd think even a resort town with a wild west theme would charge modern day prices, if not more."

***

The park was large and green, littered with benches and trees, but still very much part of the town around it. Streets busy with cars bordered the park on all four sides. A large fountain showered water into the air in the center of the green.

"Way to waste water," Trey said, eyeing the fountain.

"Think we can eat our sandwiches here?" Adam said. He was carrying the large paper bag from the café.

"Let's wait for the others," Trey said. "Meantime..." He strode toward a pair of benches beneath the shade of a tree. Tomas and Adam followed him.

When Harris and Emmy showed up they each carried three bottles. They looked awkward – and exasperated. Trey accepted a cool bottle from Emmy and tried to twist the cap off. "What the fuck," he gasped, as the cap's metal ridges bit into the tender flesh of his hand. He held the bottle in front of him. "Of course," he said. "Period appropriate. Gonna need a bottle opener."

"Here." Adam produced a Swiss Army knife, unfolded a bottle opener blade, and, setting his own soda down, took the bottle from Trey and opened it. He repeated the service for each of the others before picking up his own bottle and prying off its cap.

"Told you that would come in handy," Trey grinned.

Adam toasted Trey with his soda bottle. To the others he explained, "He gave it to me for our six-month anniversary."

"Seven-month anniversary, actually, Trey shrugged.

Everyone laughed and drank. For a moment, things seemed better. It was a lovely day, despite the heat; the sky was a flawless blue, the park was immaculate and green, and even the strange town seemed to possess a promising mystique. For a while, eating their sandwiches and talking about what there was to do in Los Algodones – with Tomas saying that the best option would be to venture on, via a long train ride, to Copper Canyon in Chihuahua and Annetta arguing that a drive to La Paz was a better idea – the six of them enjoyed a happy respite from the day's ugly moments and the equally ugly atmosphere of resentment and hostility that the country had steeped in for years, but which was even worse now, given that it was an election year.

Then, done with their sandwiches and sodas, they became quiet.

Adam broke the silence. "I think that's a library," he said, gazing across the street.

"What, you want to go find some more out-of-date newspapers?" Trey asked him.

"Something like that." Adam got to his feet. "Be right back," he said, and strode briskly away.

"He's like a kid at an amusement park," Trey said, watching Adam go. "Thinks this is all some kind of tourist thing. But who comes to a town way out in the middle of nowhere just to get called the N-word by a crazy mechanic? Speaking of which – when did you say they'd have the car fixed? Four o'clock?"

Harris laughed. "No. Not hardly, Said he didn't know what kind of part the car needed and it might take him three or four days."

"What? Why didn't you tell me that?"

"I thought I did."

"He did," Annette put in. "But you were talking at the same time."

"And I don't suppose they have a way to charge the car," Trey said.

"That's what you were talking about," Annette said. "But Harris didn't hear you."

"Imagine that," Emmy said drily. "Both of them yapping and not bothering to listen."

"Okay," Harris said. "To clarify: The mechanic said it would take three or four days to get the part, assuming he could find a part. He said he was going to have to phone out for it."

" 'Phone out?' What does that mean?"

"I don't know. Call San Diego, maybe."

"They don't have internet here?"

"I don't get any signal on my phone. Nothing."

"Yeah, but if they have phones, they have got to have internet, right?"

"You'd think. I dunno. Anyway, he said to come back at about four, and he might have a better idea of when the repairs would be done. But I don't think they have a way of charging the car," Harris said. "What's the range on a single charge?"

"About 450 miles," Trey said.

"It was about a hundred miles to Palm Springs, and we drove... like, sixty or seventy miles to get here on that back road. And Yuma is, like, a hundred seventy miles from Palm Springs? Then we cross the border and it's ten miles to Los Algodones. We might make it." Harris gave Trey a sidelong look. "But you're sure they have charging stations in Los Algodones?"

Trey laughed. "Man, if that's all we're gonna have to worry about once we get outta here..."

Adam was walking back toward the park, looking perturbed. "Guys, this is fuckin' nuts." If Adam had been enjoying himself earlier, now he was completely serious.

"Yeah? You okay?" Trey asked, reaching for Adam's hand and then thinking better of it.

"I asked the librarian what the most recent book they had might be. She told me The Old Man and the Sea. Then she recommended The Stars Like Dust, by Isaac Asimov, and said they were expecting to get The Currents of Space as soon as it comes out."

"Yeah? So?"

"The Old Man and the Sea?" Adam said. "That's by, like, Walt Whitman."

"Ernest Hemingway, you goon," Harris corrected him.

"Whatever. And 'new' books by Isaac Asimov?"

Harris shook his head at that name. The others, too, looked at Adam blankly, except for Annette. "He was a sci-fi writer," she said. "Died in, like, the '90s – I don't remember exactly when. But I've read all his books. The Currents of Space was published in 1952."

"Huh?" Tomas asked.

"And The Stars Like Dust came out in '51,"Annette added.

"And I'll bet The Old Man and Sea came out in '52 also," Harris said. "What were you saying this being some kind of tourist town with a gimmick? I gotta say, they've really seen to the details. The clothes, the cars, the Coke machine. That thing must have been an antique."

"Or maybe we went through a wormhole?" Emmy said, looking from one of her friends to the next.

"You mean, what if we really are in 1952?" Tomas asked.

"That cop knew an electric car when he saw one," Harrison pointed out.

"So then, maybe it is all a put on. Something for tourists. Nostalgia is big these days..."

Harris recalled his earlier thought. "But everything's so cheap.They might make everything look vintage, but it doesn't make sense to charge old-time prices."

"Losing money is no way to run a business – or a town," Trey agreed.

"That guy at the news stand didn't like me, but he had no problem taking my money," Adam said. "And I gave him one of those new five-dollar notes. He griped about having to make so much change..." Adam reached into his pocket and produced several bills and a handful of coins. "Four one-dollar notes," he said, scrutinizing the bills one by one. "All from before 1950. And the coins..." He sifted through the small change in his hand. "Weird looking nickels. And what's with this penny?" He held up a silver coin. "It's not copper."

"Must be a steel penny," Amanda said. "They made those for a couple of years during World War II in order to save copper for the war effort."

Adam stuck the money back in his pocket. Trey shook his head. "What the hell is going on around here?" he muttered.

"Okay," Emmy said. "Let's try an experiment." She got up and started walking toward the edge of the park. The others watched, unsure what she meant to do until she stopped a boy – a tow-headed kid about ten years old – and asked him, "Excuse me, honey, but can you tell me what's the day and the year today?"

The kid stopped and stared at here. He looked like a miniature businessman with a suit jacket and tie. In apparent concession to the heat, he wore short trousers – though they were neatly pressed and had a formality of their own. He carried a cloth backpack that Harris, watching from the bench, decided must be full of schoolbooks.

Then Harris smiled. Books? Surely he had a laptop or a Slate, like any normal student.

"Can you tell me the day and the year?" Emmy repeated sweetly.

The boy looked like he was trying to decide if he should run away. Then he said, "It's April 4th, ma'am."

"Are you sure?" Emmy asked him gently.

The boy smiled. "It's my best friend Toby's birthday. As soon as I get home from school, I'm gonna change into my play clothes and then I'm going to his party!"

"Well, happy birthday to Toby," Emmy said. "Are you taking him a present?"

"Oh, yeah. A fire truck. It's this big!" The boy held his hands out. "My mom says if I'm good maybe I'll get one for Christmas."

"Wow, that's so cool," Annette said, and the boy nodded. "But can you tell me the year?"

"The year?" The boy looked perplexed. "You don't know the year?"

"Well, I'm just not good with numbers, you see, and I get numbers mixed up all the time. So I know it's not ninety-one fifty, but it's nineteen-fifty. Or is it?"

The boy laughed. "No, it's not! It's 1952. Just like it was last year, and the year before that."

"What?"

"It's always 1952," the boy said, and started to walk away.

"Excuse me? Miss?" voice suddenly intruded. "Why are you talking to that boy?" A woman was approaching – ankle-length skirt of a peach hue with matching jacket, lightweight, wide-brimmed hat with a sprig of flowers.

"Excuse me?" Emmy said.

"It's not proper to talk to someone else's children," the woman chided her.

"Yeah? Is it proper to lie to them about things like what year it is?"

"I beg your pardon!" the woman said angrily.

"I don't know if you people here make your money running some kind of nostalgia park or something, but it's pretty damn rotten to tell children big, atrocious lies like that," Emmy said. "You know? Someday he's gonna grow up and he's gonna have to get by the world. You think it won't be a shock to him when he finds out what the year really is? And how people really live?"

"We are good Christian people, and we live a good Christian life, thank you all the same," the woman snapped back tartly. "We don't allow divisive talk like that in our town. And we don't allow strangers who upset things!"

"Now we're sounding just like 2028," Trey muttered to Adam as they watched from the sidelines.

"And I'll tell you something else," the woman added, her fury growing and her voice rising to a scream. "We don't need to be harassed by the likes of you – you hippies!"

"Hippies?"" Emmy laughed. "Lady, I'm an old-fashioned Orange County Republican, red to the core."

"You're a red?" the woman practically shrieked. Her eye fell on Annette. "Of course you are. Running around with a Korean. Communist filth!"

"What?" Emmy gasped, shocked.

"I'm Vietnamese, bitch," Annette called out.

"And I'll be calling the police when I get home," the woman snarled back at her. "They'll take care of you." The woman turned her gaze toward Harris, then subjected Trey and Tomas to a contemptuous glare. "All of you!"

The woman marched off. Emmy walked back to the park bench, shaking her head. "What the actual fuck?" she said, her face red with anger. "These people are sick. And what's this 'I'm calling the police when I get home' noise? She doesn't have a phone in her purse?"

"What, you want her to call the cops?" Tomas stood up. "I'm not so eager. Maybe we should just go back to the van and take a nap or something."

"What we should do," Harris said, "is go back to the service station. It's almost four o'clock. Who knows? They might have some good news."

"I hope so," Annette said. "Because otherwise, where do we sleep? In the van?"

"Not in one of their nice, clean, white-people-only hotels, that's for sure," Trey said.

The cop car pulled up at that moment, and this time the cop behind the wheel did announce himself with a short blast of the siren. The cops emerged from the car much as they had the last time, with hard faces and hands on their holstered weapons. "Seems like you and your friends here have been causing a ruckus all over town," the first cop said sternly, looking at Harris. "Your servants, huh? You take them everywhere with you, do you? Even where good, decent folks shop for their food?"

"We – "

"Their food!"" the cop screamed, his face twisting with rage.

Trey spoke up. "Officer, that's enough. Let's stop with this whole playing dress-up thing. It's not the 1950s. And all we want is to get our car fixed and get the hell out of here."

The second cop had his gun out of the holster now.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Harris shouted, stepping forward. "Whoa!"

The second cop swung the gun toward Harris.

"Put it down, Murphy," the first cop said.

"This big motherfucker's about to charge me," the second cop said nervously.

"No, he's not," the first cop said.

"No, I'm not," Harris said. "And neither is he," Harris added, tilting his head toward Trey. "No one is gonna charge at anyone. Let's all calm down."

"Yeah?" the first cop said disdainfully. "Let's calm down? What for? What the hell are you and your friends doing here? Why did you come here? Who told you about us? You come here to laugh at us? Huh?"

"Officer, we just need to get our car fixed. We didn't want to stop here. We didn't even know this town was here."

"And you drove down the road that brought you here... because why?"

"Because it was there," Harrison said. "We wanted a scenic route. And we thought it might be a shortcut."

"Well, it ain't!"" the second cop shouted at him. "It's where we live! It's our home! Trespassers not welcome!"

"But how are we trespassing? Is this private property? The road? The whole town?"

"Yes. Private property. The whole town, the road, and hundreds and hundreds of miles in all directions," a new voice declared.

The police officers saluted the newcomer, the second cop quickly holstering his weapon. "Sir!" the first cop said.

The newcomer was dressed in a white suit – all white: Hat, jacket, shirt, trousers. The only black accents were his hat band, necktie, cufflinks, and shoes.

"Who is this? Colonel Sanders?" Tomas asked.

But the newcomer, despite his attire didn't look like Col. Sanders at all. He was youthful; a crown of black hair was visible under his hat. And he was trim – tall and trim.

"My name is Seneschal Trimble," the newcomer said. "I'm the mayor of this town. Also, it's owner, and its sole proprietor."

"Proprietor?" Trey asked. "So this is a resort?"

"No, at all," the mayor said. "It's a more of a... a promised land."

"And you own it? All of it?" Harris asked.

"That, I do."

"So what's with the 1950s thing? It might make sense for tourists, but... these people actually live as if...?

"Now you're catching on," the mayor said. He drew a deep breath, then nodded at the cops. "I think you and your friends better come back to my office."

"I'd rather not," Trey said nervously.

"It's not an invitation," the mayor said. "It's what you're gonna do."

***

"I'm a trillionaire," the mayor told them, standing behind the grand wooden desk. "The world's first. I have the smarts and the money to do as I please. And that includes keeping myself, and my wealth, and my town, a secret."

"And you... what, you subsidize these people so that they only have to pay twenty-seven cents a gallon for gas? Or a loaf of bread for sixteen cents? Coca-Cola for a nickel and a penny?" Harris wasn't a bit intimidated by the mayor, his grand desk, or his sun-flooded office with its dark wood paneling, its crowded bookshelves, and its scatterings of chairs and couches. Neither he nor Emmy seemed concerned about having just been basically kidnapped by the mayor and his two goon cops.

Everyone else was scared shitless.

The six college students sat in three of the four chairs, and on an impressively large, upholstered sofa. Only Harris stood. He had taken up a position on the other side of the mayor's desk.

"It's not cheap to live in the past," the mayor said. "But yes, I make it happen. Yes, I cover the difference in cost."

"And the people here are... do they live here voluntarily?"

"Oh, yes. Of course they do! Anyone would. Anyone I might care to invite. Like... you," the mayor said, looking intently at Harris. "Or you," he added, looking at Emmy. Then he looked at Adam. "Maybe not you," he said. "Because, unless I'm mistaken, you and... this African American gentleman... you're a gay couple?"

"Yes, we are," Adam said. "You have a problem with that?"

"Me? Not at all. But the townsfolk do."

"No. Ya don't say? The residents of Racist Town are also homophobes?" Trey snorted.

The mayor answered him with a smile. "They live here because I offer them something they can't get anywhere else. Not anymore."

"What? Life in a better time? A golden age?" Annette asked.

"That's exactly it," the mayor said.

"Really?" Annette laughed. "That's what this is? You're rich enough to live in a fantasy?"

"No," the mayor said, and his look grew somber. "Not a fantasy. A reality that once was. A truly wonderful time. 1952 was a time of prosperity. America's power was waxing, and democracy was strong. But the thing people forget when they speak so wistfully about the 1950s... its morality, its social order, its material prosperity... is that all of those things, all of them, depend on people having meaningful work and getting paid a decent living wage to do that work. Without the financial part of the equation, all the rest of it falls apart. The social fabric disintegrates. The fools who turned America into a land of a few princes and many, many paupers can't see that, and don't want to."

"So, you're a socialist trillionaire?" Trey asked. "How does that work?"

"Very simply. I have the money to do what I want, and this is what I want to do."

"Yeah?" Trey challenged him. "The '50s were better, were they? And racism? Hysteria about commies around every corner? All that bullshit?"

"It's ugly. Yes," the mayor nodded. "But that's how people are: They are tribal, and along with that they are racists. Even the ones who say they're not – they feel better around people like themselves."

"Like themselves? Based on skin color? How shallow can you be?" Annette demanded.

"I won't disagree," the mayor said, looking at her sadly. "It is shallow, and it's stupid. But it's also human nature. We prefer and trust our own kind. But 'our own kind' is a narrow subset. Let a community grow large enough, and people will find ever more trivial differences to justify othering, scapegoating, and hostility. Suddenly, morality hinges on religion. Or hair color. Or handedness. And, of course, sexuality," he added, his gaze coming to rest on Trey and Adam. "People only bond deeply to those in their immediate community. That puts limits on how large a town like this can be. I mean to keep the town small, keep social bonds strong. That means a high degree of homogeneity, and a low population. No more than six hundred... six hundred chosen and called. We're up to four hundred and some now."

"Not what your sign said," Trey told him.

"No, the sign is a little out of date. But that just shows you how fast we're growing. You know why? Because no one I've asked to join us has said no. Not one person. Not yet. And I really don't think anyone ever will."

Trey laughed. "Then you got another think coming, man. Racist religious bullshit and conformity make great social glue... for fearful people, for narrow-minded people. Not for people with real character."

"Oh? Is that what you think of your friends Harris and Emmy?" The mayor smiled at Harris again. "Because I do want to invite you to stay."

"Us?" Harris asked.

"The two of you."

"Why?" Trey cut in. "Because they're nice and white? They're pretty?"

"Yes, and also they are from good families," the mayor said. "Oh, we have internet here. Of course we do. We did a little research on you – all of you."

"So much for 1952," Trey said.

"I'm a technology venture capitalist," the mayor said. "I need to keep in the game, need to keep making money. A trillion dollars will buy you a lot... a whole lot... but running a town like this? Along with the associated infrastructure – the wells and waterworks, the power plant, the printing presses and mining operations and everything else that you need to create an insular little world? That's expensive. I have commercial interests that span almost every aspect of civilized life, and I can create what this town needs using my own factories and corporations, but even at in-house costs the price is considerable. Plus, it costs plenty to keep the right political gears in the outside world well oiled."

"But why?" Harris asked. "Is this a survivalist thing?"

"I guess we'll find out," the mayor said. "If we had to, I think we could become self-sufficient. But our best defense is how remote we are, and how no one in the outside world knows about us."

Harris, thinking back to Emmy's story of the drunk girl at the party, wasn't so sure about that.

"Guarding that secret is another reason for inviting you, Harris, and you, Emmy, to stay here," the mayor said. "Join us. Be part of this lovely community."

"And the rest of us?" Tomas asked, an edge to his voice.

"You'll leave. Right away."

"Wish I could, but my car's in the shop, man," Trey said.

"Repairs to your car have been expedited," the mayor said. "It's ready now. And it's fully charged. But before you go, I'll have to ask you to sign some NDAs." The mayor gestured at the manila folders on his desk. "Very strict NDAs, which very severe legal and economic consequences if you break them."

"Think you can bully us into silence about your little cult out here in the desert?" Trey asked sharply.

"No, but I do think I can buy you." The mayor produced a small sheaf of papers. "These are checks. Cashier's checks, in fact. Quaint, but still usable. Your banks will accept them, despite the huge sums they're made out for."

"And if we refuse?" Trey asked.

"Then you don't leave," the mayor said. "You stay here. You become... part of the landscape." The mayor smiled a nasty smile, and the two cops smiled with him.

"No surprise to see who's in and who's out. Who lives free... or at least subsidized... and who dies unless they do what they're told," Tomas sneered. "White privilege in its purest form."

"Yes. I'm sorry, but that's what the 1950s were," the mayor said. "That's what people mean when they cry out for a return to those simpler times. They think about law and order and... and whiteness."

"Yeah," Trey scoffed. "It's so fuckin' hard to be white now days."

"Yer god damned right it is," the older cop growled.

"Officer," the mayor said without looking in his direction.

"Yes, Mr. Mayor," the cop said.

"In fact, you've summarized it right there," the mayor told Trey. "What do you think white people mean when they whine that it's hard for them? Exactly that! It used to be easy for them, and they want that back again."

"You know who it's been hard for?" Trey asked angrily, his voice rising. "People like my granddad! And my dad, too. He's rich now, but when he was young – "

"Cry me a fuckin' river," the younger cop said.

"Don't make me have to correct either one of you one more time," the mayor said. The younger cop instantly fell silent, looking at the floor, his face going pale. To Trey, the mayor said, "Everyone knows how hard it's been for people who aren't white, or aren't straight, or aren't Protestant. But they don't care about that. They see their own lives getting harder, they see their own position in society slipping. That's what they care about. If they feel they are strutting high, it's only because their feet are on your backs. That's where they get their feeling of superiority... or of supremacy."

"And you're okay with all that," Trey asked tightly.

"The point isn't whether it's right or just or fair. The point is we keep peace in our community – and not just that, but we keep people happy." The mayor looked at Harris again. "And you'd be happy, as well. You and Emmy."

"They would never..." Trey began.

"Yes," Harris said.

"What?" Trey said, aghast.

"What?" Tomas echoed.

"Yes," Emmy said, looking at the ground as if ashamed to say it.

"Emmy," Annette said.

"Yes," Emmy said again.

"What? Why?" Trey cried out.

Harris looked at him with apologetic eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "But the mayor is right. I mean, look at the world. Look at our country. Look at the hatred and rage, all over nothing. Look at the way the politicians turn us on each other and then sit back laughing. Look at how the fat cats take everything, getting fatter all the time, not even leaving scraps for all the rest to fight over."

"Fat cats like your dad the oil company executive," Trey said.

"Or your dad, the financial sector guy," Harris shot back. "Look, I don't want my dad's money. I just want a life I can call my own. That means I work for it... but it also means I get rewarded for it. What I get for my time and effort is worth the effort I put in."

"The dignity of work," Emmy said. "Just like he said."

Trey spun on her. "Oh yeah? And how many 1950s housewives had a career?"

Emmy shrugged. "Maybe it's enough to raise happy children."

"Children who'll be lied to every day of their lives?" Annette asked her. "Like that boy in the park?"

"Like children aren't lied to already?" Emmy snapped back at her. "About history... about God... about the simple fact that sometimes people are a different gender inside their own awareness than other people see by looking at their bodies? Or how about the fact that men fall in love with men, and women fall in love with women? Have you looked at the laws they've passed in the last six or eight years? All of them designed to make it a crime to tell the fucking truth!"

"They're gonna tell all those lies here, too," Annette challenged. "And what are you gonna do if any of your own kids are gay?"

Emmy shrugged. "I don't know. All I can say is... I'm too young to feel so exhausted."

"Exhausted?" Trey shouted at her. "You're exhausted? You?"

Tomas, too, was shaking his head and scoffing.

"If only you knew," Annette said. "If you only had the slightest idea."

"Yes," Harris said. "I'm sorry, but yes. It's exhausting. I'm not saying you don't feel that way, too..."

"More than you," Tomas said. "More than you will ever know."

"Okay," Harris said. "Okay. I can't, I won't argue. But what if I can just walk away? I'm sorry if that's not an option for you, but if it is for me... I don't want to do all that anymore."

"All what?" Trey asked.

"Having to watch every syllable I say or post online. Every look, every response. Who am I gonna offend? On the left, on the right, in the middle... because of sex or religion or history or outlook or any of the other things we used to tolerate in each other, but we just don't any longer?"

"Man, who ever made you feel that way?" Trey challenged him.

"The whole world, Trey. I'm too white, I'm not white enough, I'm a race traitor, I'm a cuck, I'm... I'll tell you what I am: I'm over it. I don't want to do it any more... I don't want to have to do it anymore. I want out."

"Me too," Emmy nodded.

"Talk about white fragility," Tomas said with contempt.

"Yeah," Trey scoffed in agreement. "Guys who look like me get murdered for walking up the sidewalk and you're worried about your social media posts."

"I'm sorry," Harris said. "I know it's just more of the same, and it's poisoning everything. But how can I change it? I can't. If there's some way not to have to go through that..." He looked at the mayor. "Yes," he said. "Yes. Please. Yes."

"If I may... look, kid, I get it," the second cop said. "That's why I'm here, too. That, and..." He glanced at Trey, then at Tomas. "We just wanted a safe place to raise our kids."

"Well, that about says it all," Trey said, looking at the second cop. "As if I'm a threat to your precious kids. You worry much about the real threats? Pollution? Fuckin' polio? The planet burning up? The fact we're not gonna have any drinking water in about six years? You think you can hide from all that?" Trey looked at the mayor. "You can hunker down here in 1952, but truth is truth and this isn't the past."

"It is as far as they're concerned," the mayor said. "It is because I told them it is."

"Still the same old game," Trey said. "I'm a Republican, but this is what drives me nuts and makes me want to go libertarian. The guys on our side, they all bought into the idea you can just choose your own reality, walk around in a waking dream, deny the facts, and somehow the dream will transform into the reality. Well, it's not gonna happen. The future is here, and the future is not kind to the foolish or the deluded. And it's gonna find you, Mr. Mayor. It's gonna find all of you."

"Reality is what people make it," the mayor said, his affable demeanor wearing thin for a moment. "2028 is as full of lies and delusions as any other time. In this town, it's 1952 because I say it is. That's what people here believe, because they believe me. Not the calendar. Not the world beyond. They believe in me. You talk about a future and a world that's dying? Well, it is dying, and there's no taking that back. So now it's become a question of quality of life. Why begrudge us the chance to be happy?"

Trey was looking at Harris again. Harris wasn't looking back at Trey. "Harry," Trey said. "What are we supposed to tell your folks?"

"Nothing," the mayor said. "You tell nobody anything about this place, ever. As for their families, I suspect when I extend an offer to them to join us here, they'll only be too happy. As for the rest of you, this is a secret you'll carry to your graves. But the question is: Will you go to your graves tonight? Will you be the college kids who went on spring break and disappeared? Or will you be the lucky ones who... for instance... created an app that you sold to a venture capitalist for more money than you can ever spend? An app and a venture capitalist you can't talk about because of the NDA you signed?"

The mayor pointed down at his desk, where several manila folders lay splayed open – folders laden with thick legal documents.

"Time to choose. But understand this," the mayor said. "I could only create this oasis because I have such reach and influence in the wider world. Betray my confidence, and you will never find a place to hide from the consequences. So keep quiet, enjoy the money I'm giving you, and let the world be the world."

Trey looked like he was either going to spit or tell the mayor to go to hell. Then he shook his head and walked over to the desk. The mayor offered him a pen, then flipped open a manila folder and pointed to a document. Trey, still shaking his head, signed. The mayor handed him a check.

"It's just that easy to sell your soul," Trey said. He walked toward the door; he didn't wait for the others, who had lined up quietly to sign in their turn. Then Trey paused, turned back, and said, "So, Harry. This is really what you want? You're gonna surrender to his fantasy? To his lies?"

Harris still wouldn't look at Trey. "Just go," he said.

Trey shook his head, turned his back, and left.

***

The sleek electric car arrowed along the straight black ribbon of road that cut across the barren land. Tipo fell far behind.

"You sure you don't want to go to Los Algodones?" Adam, sitting in the front passenger's seat, asked.

Trey, behind the wheel of his car, shook his head. "The sooner we get back to L.A., the better I'll feel," he said.

"Me too," Annette said from the back, where she and Tomas sat, their hands clasped between them.

Trey met her eyes in the rear-view mirror. "Orange County Republicans, right? Red to the core." He smiled. "Whatever that means these days."

Annette chuckled. "Whatever any of it ever meant." After a moment she added, "He made a good argument back there. The mayor, I mean. But there's just too much he didn't take into account."

"Like what?" Trey asked.

"Well, the most important point of all is this," Annette said. "Everyone's happy? Everyone's well paid? Everyone's walking around feeling proud and justified? So – who does the grunt work? Once the contemptible class is gone and only the elites remain... how do the elites know they're special?"

Trey met her eyes in the rear view mirror. "You mean...?"

"I mean, who's gonna end up being trampled down to become the new underclass? How long is it gonna take? And how do you think they're gonna respond to it?"

Trey laughed at that. "I think our friends might find out the hard way that the golden age never really existed. Not in the past, anyway. If there's ever gonna be a golden age, a time when people evolve beyond their selfish, stupid animal nature, it's still to come."

The electric car, filled with laughter, streaked across the night and toward the future.

Next week we take a long look deep into the bottomless pit situated in some men women of office where ordinary people have hearts. Instead of compassion, these creatures have ambition; instead of integrity, they have schemes for who to sell out and for what price. But even here, lurking in ink-black shadows, there may yet be a glimmer of "Conscience."