You'll Like It Here (Everybody Does) (6 page)

“Will you look at that!” David cries suddenly.

My eyes follow David's, and there walking toward us on the sidewalk is this guy who looks for all the world like a young Elvis Presley. He's wearing a silky blue shirt and tight pants of the same material. He stops, takes his guitar out of its case, and then smiles and hums as he tunes up.

Officer Brent is nowhere in sight, and we leave the stoop, totally forgetting Mom's orders. When we come up close to Elvis, we can see a few coins already in his guitar case, which is lying open before him on the pavement.

I'm only vaguely aware of other people gathering around as Elvis starts picking and singing “Blue Suede Shoes.” I notice he is actually
wearing
blue suede shoes. Suddenly it seems like he's singing just to me, and his mellow voice and curled lip make me weak.

“It
is
Elvis,” David whispers to me.

It certainly is, and the up-close-and-personal Elvis is more gorgeous than any picture of him I've ever seen. I can dig how teens in the fifties lost their minds over him.

Other fans gather. Some people start clapping in time to the music. One young couple starts dancing. Elvis begins his famous hip rolls, which I have seen on old television shows a few times. I am so blown away that it takes me several minutes to realize that some of the people have started looking over their shoulders nervously. Then they begin to edge away from the scene, but I can tell they really want to stay.

My attention goes back to Elvis, and pretty soon I'm
breathlessly lost again in his magic spell. I have read that Elvis met Priscilla when she was only fourteen, and fell in love with her at first sight. Of course they didn't marry until she was twenty, but my point is this: suppose that on this Earth there is no Priscilla for him, but a Meggie instead?

That's when my sweet daydream is shattered by Officer Brent barging into the crowd waving a nightstick.

“Okay, break it up, folks!”

Elvis's audience vanishes just like that. Only David and I remain. Elvis, obviously frustrated, gives one last grating strum on his guitar, then places it inside the case and closes it up.

“What did I tell you I was going to do the next time I caught you performing in such a manner?” Officer Brent says to Elvis in a mean voice.

Elvis silently stretches forth both hands. The officer produces a pair of handcuffs, seemingly from nowhere, and snaps them into place around Elvis's wrists. My jaw drops. He's arresting Elvis Presley? A police cruiser pulls up to the curb, and Elvis is escorted toward it.

“You're a magnificent performer, Elvis!” The words burst suddenly from David. “Bravo!”

And he claps as hard as he can. I join him. Officer Brent scowls at us.

Elvis turns and gives us his famous cockeyed grin. “Thank you very much.”

A curly lock of black hair falls over his forehead as he climbs into the backseat of the police cruiser. Hastily David picks up the guitar in its case where it remains on
the sidewalk and places it at Elvis's feet in the car. Then Officer Brent closes the car door, and Elvis is hauled away.

Puzzled, I stand with David and Officer Brent, watching the patrol car drive away.

“Why was he arrested?” David asks, obviously irked.

“You saw him, and heard him!” Officer Brent growls. “And still you ask me that?” He stands sternly with hands on hips, glaring at David. “And furthermore,” he scolds, “I don't like your tone or your attitude, young man! You should not have clapped for him. I know you are from a savage place, and your ignorance is your excuse, but now you have been warned. Okay?”

When David speaks again, his face is red, but his tone is more polite. “But if you please, sir, that was Elvis.”

“Yeah, I think that's his name. Elvis Preston—or something like that.”

“What were the charges?” I speak up.

“Gross uniqueness, of
course
!” Officer Brent exclaims, as if I should know this. “And of the worst kind too!”

Gross uniqueness? Is he kidding?

“What do you suppose would happen if we let that go on and never tried to put a stop to it?” Officer Brent asks.

We cannot imagine.

“I'll tell you what! Next thing you know, others would have those revolting sideburns! And … and be scavenging silk clothes and blue shoes from God knows where. And they'd be singing catchy songs in the streets and wiggling in time to the music!”

The man is serious.

“And there's no telling what that might lead to,” Officer Brent goes on. “Other dark and dangerous things, I'm sure. It's a terrible influence on children like you. Just terrible! Now mind your mom and go back to the stoop.”

Officer Brent abruptly turns from us and continues walking his beat. David and I plod back to perch on the steps and wait for Mom and Gramps. A long silence ensues, until at last David turns to me and says, “Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.”

“We saw Elvis Presley!” David and I shout as Mom and Gramps come out of the employment agency. We're practically jumping up and down with excitement, but they're not one bit impressed.

Mom takes the time to fold up a piece of paper and tuck it into a back pocket of her jeans before saying, “It's almost lunchtime, and I know you must be hungry.”

“Yes, we should find a place to eat,” Gramps agrees.

Mom and Gramps start walking toward the busier part of the city, leaving us to trail behind. Sometimes they just don't listen.

“Mom! Gramps! We're not kidding!” I cry. “We
really
saw Elvis Presley in person!”

That does the trick. Both Gramps and Mom stop and stare at me.

“He wasn't an impersonator?” Mom says.

“No!” we say.

“I don't think so,” David adds.

“He looked like the real thing to me,” I say. “And his name was Elvis.”

“And he was young,” David says. “About twenty or so.”

Mom is frowning, and Gramps rubs the top of his balding head, muttering.

“Keep it under your hats for now,” Mom says. “We want to hear all about it over lunch.”

Just down the street we find a sandwich shop called—what else? The Sandwich Shop. The menu is simple: hot dogs, hamburgers, BLTs, spaghetti, colas, and chocolate and vanilla ice cream, but no pizza. So David and I order hamburgers. Mom and Gramps have BLTs. We all have colas. Fast food is a rare treat, as Mom usually doesn't approve. But today is certainly a different kind of day for all of us, and Mom says not a word.

“Did you find employment?” David asks.

“First you must tell us about Elvis,” Gramps says.

So, between the two of us, we recount the tale of Elvis Presley's street show, and what followed, pausing only when the waitress comes to bring our food. She, like Amanda Harp, seems overjoyed with her job and can't do enough for us.

“That's truly a bizarre story,” Mom says when we have finished. “Did he actually say ‘gross uniqueness' without smiling?”

“He was serious,” I say.

She and Gramps give each other a look.

“Maybe we're being taken in by one of those hidden-camera TV shows,” Mom says.

“So, did you find a job?” I ask.

“Yes, factory jobs,” Gramps says. “Both of us.”

“Factory jobs?” David and I speak at the same time.

“What kind of factory?” I ask.

“Clothing. We'll be notified when to report for learning the sewing machines.”

“You're going to make clothes?” I've always loved fashion. It's something Kitty and I had in common. When we were together, we never failed to notice and comment on what people were wearing.

“It appears to be so,” Gramps responds. “Apparently Fashion City derives its name from the clothing factory, which is the chief industry here.”

“Well, I certainly hope you'll make trendier clothes in that factory than I've seen so far in this place!” I say. “Except for Elvis, everybody's wardrobe has been bor-or-ing. No bright colors. They have no sense of style whatsoever.”

I don't mind when Mom, Gramps, and David chuckle at me, because it's good to hear them laugh.

“I think we'll have little choice in the matter,” Mom says. “We'll sew what we're given to sew.”

“But you're teachers!” David exclaims.

“Yeah, don't they need teachers?” I ask.

“It seems the Fathers have all the teaching jobs sewn up tight,” Gramps says. “No pun intended.”

“There are no schools as we know them,” Mom says. “They teach with computers and television sets. We're to
take you and Meggie to the education center tomorrow for placement tests. After that you'll receive instructions via TV. The televisions are already in the apartments.”

My eyes meet David's, and I can see my own disappointment reflected there. We have both always enjoyed school. How will we meet other kids?

“Who are these Fathers?” I finally ask.

“Good question,” Gramps says. “I'm afraid to ask. I think it must be something everybody on the planet is expected to know.”

“And what planet are we on anyway?” David directs his question to Mom, the astronomy professor. “You should know.”

“I think Gramps was right—the Carriage has brought us to a parallel universe,” Mom says very quietly. “I believe this Earth started out exactly like the one we left behind. But somewhere along the way, they took slightly different turns, which naturally would lead to more different turns. It's impossible to say what all the differences are.”

“The butterfly effect,” Gramps says.

“The what?” I ask.

“The butterfly effect is best described in a short story by Ray Bradbury about a man who goes into the past and kills a butterfly. As a result, history is changed.”

“So you're saying,” David interjects, “that even one small deviation on this planet from the other Earth's evolution would have affected many other things?”

“That's correct,” Mom says. “The changes would have snowballed and morphed into more changes.”

“How do you know it's Earth?” I ask.

Gramps laughs. “Because the man at the employment agency asked us, ‘Where on earth did you people come from?' ”

“It must be the 1950s on this Earth,” I say. “How else could Elvis be so young?”

“That's right,” David agrees. “That would also explain why everything seems old-fashioned. Do you think we've gone back in time?”

“No,” Gramps says. “The Carriage is not programmed to do that. Unless …”

“Unless what?” David prods.

“Unless we hit a time warp somewhere on the way here, but I think if that had happened, we would have felt some kind of turbulence.”

“Besides, people here use computers,” Mom reminds us.

“That's true,” Gramps says. “But let's not ask anybody what year it is. A question like that is sure to turn heads.”

After eating lunch, we go to the bus stop and study the map.

“Here's Sector B,” Mom says as she points to a spot outside the main business district of the city. “In the residential area. And the bus we need runs every half hour.”

Mom buys bus tokens with some of the coupons Amanda Harp gave us. Once en route, David and I watch the city roll by our window. At Fashion City Park, which is at the fringe of the business district, we can see families enjoying the warm day, with children on the playground equipment, picnics spread on the wooden tables, a footrace under way near the entrance.

After the park come blocks and blocks of housing
projects, in which all the buildings are very much alike. They are made from some dark brown material, maybe wood, many stories high, and showing wear and tear.

Each apartment has its own tiny balcony, which gives us hints of what kind of people live inside. Bicycles are stored on some of them. Others are littered with toys or exercise equipment, small grills, lots of potted plants, chairs. The buildings cast shadows over the paved parking lots and sidewalks below. There are few trees.

“Except for the park, I haven't seen a playground, or even a yard,” I whisper to David, “and definitely no gardens.”

“No sports arenas or baseball fields, not even a vacant lot,” he whispers back.

A wave of homesickness washes over me. I wonder what will be said about us when school starts again in the little town we left behind. There probably will be no end to the gossip about us, about the Carriage, about our vanishing into a cloud of vapor. We'll be forgotten as the people we are, and remembered only as “the aliens.” Kitty Singer will find a new best friend, and the old Fischer place will be sold to the highest bidder—that is, if they can find someone who is not too freaked out to live where “the aliens” lived. Our garden, our screened porch, our big old breezy kitchen, all could fall into the hands of some family who will never appreciate them like we did.

The bus lurches to a stop and the driver calls out, “Sector B!”

We get off the bus and go to look at our new home.

The superintendent of Building 9, with keys in hand, is ready to show us to our apartment. He received a call from Amanda Harp telling him to expect us.

“You can call me Tom,” he says as we ride the elevator up to the sixth floor. “And I already know your names.”

When we don't respond, he goes on to say, “Amanda Harp has told everybody about you. She's got a big mouth, that one. In the housing authority we like to say there are three methods of communication—telephone, television, and tell Amanda.”

We laugh politely.

Tom is tall and lanky, all angles and bones. And he has the longest nose and the deepest-set eyes I've ever seen. I can't help staring at him. Mom nudges me to remind me that I'm being rude.

Tom, on the other hand, doesn't mind at all being
rude. He wraps his long arms around his body and leans against the wall, watching us. On the sixth floor we follow him down a hallway to number 603, where he unlocks the door, then hands four keys to Mom.