Excerpt: Doo Wop Confessions

“What time do you get off tonight?” my sister Joyce asked, without preamble.
“Not soon enough.”
“What time?”
“Five. Why?”
“We have to go down to talk to the TV people tonight. They want to meet all of us. The studio is in Brighton; I figured we’d take two cars. Jim’s meeting us there.”
I was utterly baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“The TV show. I talked about it Sunday at Mum and Dad’s.”
“I wasn’t there Sunday! I had to work.”
“Oh, I thought you were.”
“What TV show? What’s this all about?”
Joyce gave an annoyed sigh. “PBS is making one of those documentaries about people from the present living like they did in the old days. I signed us up because I thought it would be fun. I never in a million years dreamed they’d actually call me back! It’s going to be you, me, the girls, Steph, Jim, and Jacky.”
“That’s a lot of people,” I said. “Look, Joy, I gotta go. It’s really busy here. Can I call you back later?”
“I’ll pick you up at quarter past six. We have to be there at seven. Be ready.”
“Sure,” I said, knowing it was pointless to argue. Joyce doesn’t ask if you can do something; she tells you to do it. The reason we let her get away with it is that she’s a great organizer. She always knows just who she can count on to do this, that, and the other thing, so she takes it for granted that they’ll want to do it, and just tells them to do it. To some people it might come off as rude, but it’s just how she is.
“You’re gonna love it. It sounds like a blast,” she said, and hung up.

*****

The woman in charge of the project is Juliette Bauer. She introduced us to her team of researchers and historians before revealing to us the precise nature of the project.
“Our latest project,” she said, while most of us listened and my niece Sarabeth doodled on the table top, “is a historical recreation of 1959. Looking over the family history that Joyce provided, I believe I have the perfect scenario for all of you.”
My eyes went wide. The one decade I love more than the Twenties is the Fifties. Poodle skirts, cars with tail fins, sock hops and drive-ins. Plus, my parents both lived through the decade--they were teenagers at the time--and they have nothing but good memories of the time. This was going to be a lot of fun.
Juliette passed around blue folders; we each took one and passed them on, like in school. “We’ve determined,” she said, “that the best living situation for the two families, plus Iris--“ I didn’t like the way she said that, like I was an afterthought--“is to renovate the double-decker at 156 River Street in Somerville.”
It took me a minute to recognize the address. “Grandma and Grandpa’s old place?”
“According to the material I have, they actually lived in the house from 1953 to 1964. That fits in perfectly with our time line. Our teams are, as we speak, working to restore the house to its former glory.”
“I thought they knocked it down,” said Stephanie. She had Jacky in her lap.
“The house was scheduled to be demolished next spring, but we were able to purchase it from the city for the duration. It should be ready by March at the latest. The project will run through April, May, and June.”

*****

April is getting closer and closer. April 1st is the day we officially move into the place, cameras and all. According to the paperwork I have, they’ll be everywhere but the bathroom and the main bedrooms. Which means there might be one in my room. Yikes! I’ll have to get changed in the bathroom, I guess.
Joyce will have her own room, the girls will share, and I get a broom cupboard. But the good news is, I get my own writing space! There’s a pantry off the kitchen which looks like it would make a decent writing den.
I don’t get to bring my laptop, though. No computers in 1959. Also no cell phones, no iPods, no hair dryers (Sarabeth is going to freak!), and no microwave popcorn.
I get a typewriter. A manual typewriter. There’s a guy who’s supposed to come out the first week, to show me how to change the paper and the ribbons and clean it and stuff. He worked for the Globe in the sixties and seventies, and I can’t wait to talk to him. He must have a lot of fascinating stories to tell.

*****

I have seen my show wardrobe, and I love it!
My two dresses for work are very modest: skirt coming just below the knee, neckline low enough for me to breathe, but high enough to conceal the cleavage. The dressy gown is the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like it should be on top of a wedding cake or something. Long filmy sleeves, a lacy overskirt and layers of taffeta underneath, three-quarter-length sleeves . . . and a hat to match.
Not crazy about the shoes, though. They all have those pointy toes that kill your feet. My mother, to this day, will not wear shoes with heels or closed toes. That’s because she spent her youth in these toe-crackers. I insisted on a pair of Keds for my walk to work.
The purses are tiny! You’d never fit my gigantic wallet or cell phone in that little clutch! I suppose that’s the point, really; I’m not supposed to have any more than a few dollars and a card or two. And maybe a compact and a lipstick.

*****

The guy from the Globe was here. He set up the manual typewriter on the dining room table, and showed me how to load the paper and change the ribbon.
“Unless you’re writing a book,” he said, “you shouldn’t need more than three ribbons in three months. Be very careful with this machine, it’s an antique. They don’t make them like this anymore.”
“Did you use one of these when you wrote for the paper?” I asked him, thinking that at least I could get a story or two out of him.
“Me? No. I wasn’t a writer. I cleaned the place. I set up twenty-five of these machines every day: kept them oiled, made sure they had fresh carbon paper and correction fluid, fixed them when the keys stuck. Did I show you that yet?”
“Yes, thanks,” I said, dejected. So much for cool stories. “At least I don’t have to worry about it freezing on me in the middle of a page.”
“You weren’t there in the Blizzard of ’78,” he said.
“Actually, I was. I was born in the middle of the blizzard. My dad had to walk all the way to the hospital, because the roads were closed.”
He gave me a sour look. “You weren’t stuck for two days in a big room with twenty people who didn’t even have a change of underwear. It was hell, believe me.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think I’ve got it now.”
“You’ve got my number, in case you need me to come out and fix the thing?”
Oh, yes, I did. I had his card in a safe place, just in case. “Yes, thank you.” I meant it this time. If that monstrosity breaks down, I don’t know a thing about it.