Channel '63 Read online

  The Age of Amy: Channel '63

  By Bruce Edwards

  To

  The Edwards Brothers

  The greatest ‘60s rock band you never heard of.

  www.TheEdwardsBrothers.com

  CONTENTS

  Title

  1. Emancipation

  2. Animal Attractions

  3. Used-to-Be TV

  4. Clifford

  5. Pro Bono

  6. Clicker

  7. Uncensored

  8. Endangered

  9. Like Music

  10. Mom

  11. Telling Hubert

  12. Time Lapse

  13. Two Amys

  14. Dad

  15. The Hospital

  16. Saving Kennedy

  17. The Letter

  18. The Ruling

  19. Channel '89

  About the Author

  Credits

  The Songs

  Book #2

  Book #1

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Emancipation

  "I quit!” I shouted, my shrill voice echoing through the courtroom. “I resign from this family!”

  “Please take your seat, Amy,” said Judge Higgins. “Your theatrics have been noted, but you are in Family Court, not an episode of Law & Order.”

  Judge Higgins shuffled a pile of legal documents on his tall desk, then set aside the papers that prompted this gathering in the first place: Petition for Declaration of Emancipation of a Minor. In our state the law permits minor children with parental issues to leave home and live with someone else. I was the minor in this case. I had petitioned the court to let me live on my own, to be liberated from playing the dutiful daughter, to be released from the grip of my pathetic parents. In simpler terms: I wanted a divorce from my family.

  I had filed the papers all by myself, with no help from anyone. For sure, it was a bold move, especially for a 16-year-old.

  My mom and dad sat at a long table normally reserved for high-powered attorneys. I sat at the same table, a few empty chairs down from them. After all, they were the bad guys, not me.

  “As to why I called you all here,” said the judge, “I want to see if we can resolve this issue before proceeding further with this case.”

  My dad raised his hand and rose to his feet. “What’s the point?” he said. “We are all in agreement in this matter.”

  “Absolutely,” added my mother. “Amy wants to move out, and I for one don’t plan to stand in her way.”

  “I understand that,” said Judge Higgins, “but before I can issue a ruling, the laws of this state and the Department of Social Services mandate that the court shall first attempt to mitigate the situation, in accordance with Family Code Regulations.”

  Legal mumbo jumbo! The “situation” was clear. I no longer wanted to share my life with my parents, and they made no bones about not wanting me around.

  It was all perfectly legal. Separations between parent and child were graciously granted in cases involving abandonment, neglect, and maltreatment. Thoughtlessness and disrespect topped my list of grievances. As far as I was concerned it was an open-and-shut case. I wasn’t even asking for financial support, although my folks could have easily afforded it.

  None of this would have happened when I was younger. My first fifteen years had been pretty normal—even above average, I would say. My dad was a struggling writer, and Mom, a devoted mother and homemaker. Along with my elder brother and sister, we were the all-American, lower-middle-class family. We lived in a modest city apartment, and survived on Dad’s meager earnings from whatever part-time work he could dig up.

  With little to spend on entertainment, we made do with simple pleasures. Family outings rarely went beyond the city park around the corner. In winter I built slushy snowmen and crossed frozen ponds in secondhand skates. Summer ice cream cones were limited to single scoops. Watching the other kids devour fudge sundaes always left me feeling a little inferior, but a piggyback ride home on my dad’s shoulders never failed to bring back a smile.

  By all rights I should have felt cheated for having to suffer through a deprived childhood, but we were a close family then, and I loved every minute of it!

  I gazed out the courtroom window while the judge rattled off more legal gibberish. He had to raise his voice at one point, over the rumbling of a tractor rolling past the cow pasture across the street.

  That’s right—a cow pasture! The city I loved was now a distant memory. Dad had found success in a string of best-selling novels he had authored. To escape his instant celebrity, he uprooted us to Shankstonville—a small farming community smack dab in the middle of America’s heartland. It was a move I did not want to make, but what choice did I have?

  Along with Dad’s financial rewards came the trappings of wealth. All the things we had done without in years past were suddenly at our fingertips. Dad bought a huge, opulent house behind tall, iron gates. An avalanche of material possessions rolled through our front door, and the more consumer goods flowed in, the more family values rushed out. My parents became possessed by their ultra-sized, big-screen TV. My brother and sister—and onetime playmates—stayed locked up in their rooms, lured into a cyber realm from where they would never return.

  Everyone was content to hide from the world in that monstrous palace, but not me! I was the outgoing type, and craved involvement. I dyed a neon-blue streak in my hair as a form of protest. Lame, I know, but then I hadn’t had much experience in rebellion.

  I wanted out of that house, so I decided to take legal action to gain my independence. The only complication was where I was going to live next. My grandparents had passed away by then, and I had no other living relatives to take me in. But that didn’t deter me. What I really wanted was to live by myself, but being under age, there was no way the judge was going to allow it. The only other option was that I be placed in foster care. Ugh!

  “In light of there being no kin to take custody of Amy,” said the judge, “and with no one else willing to assume guardianship, the court will have to rule based on what is best for the child.”

  “The best thing for her,” said my dad, “is to give her what she wants. Let her face the world on her own terms, and learn how hard it really is. Struggling to earn an income would be a good lesson in humility. Let her feel the frustration of being short on rent each month.”

  “And what about having enough to eat?” said my mom. “Maybe experiencing hunger pains will make her appreciate what it takes to keep food on the table.”

  I stood up and faced the judge. “I never said living alone would be easy,” I said. “But if you think that’s not ‘what’s best for the child,’ think again! Place me in foster care, if that’s what you’re planning to do, but be prepared to have another runaway teen on your hands.”

  A faint buzzing sound came from the bench. A housefly was circling the judge’s head. It zoomed in front of his face like a military drone on a bombing mission. The judge waved a legal pad at the fly, but it persisted in tormenting him. Finally, the fly buzzed over to a window and rested on the glass. Beyond it lay his freedom; to carouse with others of his own kind; to share a trash can lunch with his fellow pests. All someone needed to do was open the window and he would be free. I was looking for that same opening for myself, but like the fly, I was in a court of law, where justice isn’t always guaranteed.

  “I think I had better speak privately with the petitioner in my chambers,” said Judge Higgins. “Come with me, Amy.”

  The only other time I could remember hearing the word “chamber” was in the Chamber of Horrors at a wax museum. I didn’t really expect to see medieval torture devices on the walls of a dank dungeon, but I crept cautiously through the chamber door just the same. The room was a
dark, windowless box, lined with bookshelves full of law books. It was musty and smelled like old shoes, probably because the courthouse was one of the oldest buildings in town.

  The judge flipped on the ceiling light, then removed his black robe. Underneath he had on a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.

  “Are we keeping you from something?” I asked him.

  “It gets hot under that thing,” he said, “especially in summertime, and I like to be comfortable while I’m working.” He opened a small refrigerator in the corner. “Want some cold lemonade?”

  “I would rather know what you wanted to see me about,” I said.

  “Mind if I have one?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He cracked open his bottle and sat down at a desk in the middle of the room. Then he reached under the table and came up with an armful of legal folders.

  “See these?” he said, plopping the papers onto the desktop. “Teenage runaways. Right now they’re in a juvenile detention facility. They all thought they could make it as street kids. Every one of them has been assaulted and abused. When Juvenile Justice gets done with them, many will go to group homes. The lucky ones will be welcomed back with their families. Amy, once emancipation is granted, your folks are under no legal obligation to take you back. The state will regard you as an adult, and you'll be treated as such under the law. If things don’t work out for you, you’ll be on your own.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “That’s what these kids thought, and they all became homeless. Do you have any idea what that’s like? It means eating out of dumpsters, begging for handouts, being ridiculed, or worse!”

  The judge’s speech was starting to get to me, but I wasn’t about to show it.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Reconsider,” said the judge. “Talk to your parents. Work something out.”

  “Negotiate. Is that what you’re asking me to do? Well, I’m not interested.”

  ”Just because you’re in court doesn’t mean you can’t call this whole thing off. It’s a simple process to throw out your case, and I’d be happy to do it for you.”

  “Don’t you get it? My family is screwed up!”

  “A little dysfunctional, maybe, but that can be corrected.”

  “Look, Judge, I appreciate your concern, but if I wasn’t absolutely sure about this, I wouldn’t have filed the papers.”

  The judge sighed. “Alright, Amy. We’ll move ahead with your case, but I’m going to require that you consult with an attorney.” He jotted down an address and phone number on a note pad. “Robert Phillips specializes in Family Law.”

  “Who’s gonna pay for that?”

  “It will be done pro bono.”

  “Pro what?”

  “That means it’s free. Attorneys sometimes forgo fees to represent those who can’t afford one. Bob was a well-respected family law attorney, and taught at several prestigious law schools before he retired. Helping families in crisis is his calling. I’ll set you up an appointment with him.”

  Only the squeaky hinges of our front door made any sound. No one spoke a word as my parents and I crossed the threshold into our farmland mansion. The quiet wouldn’t last long, however, as Mom and Dad planted themselves in front of their giant-screen TV. It was time for the afternoon block of talk shows. Then came their favorite reality program, The Itch Factor, where contestants are dusted with itching powder, then dropped in the middle of Time Square, butt-naked. Anyone caught scratching gets the boot.

  As the TV volume ratcheted up, I climbed the mahogany staircase to my room. Down the hallway I heard the doors to my brother and sister’s bedrooms slam shut. They had shown no interest one way or the other in my legal pursuits, preferring to hunker down in their rooms with their hi-tech devices, where what little brains they had left would be sucked out of them.

  Passing my sister’s room, I heard the distinct sound of gossip over her smartphone. When she wasn’t spreading ugly rumors with her vocal chords, she was typing them out on social media sites.

  The sound of machine gun fire and bomb blasts leaked out under my brother’s door. The consummate gamer, he spent all of his free time splattering virtual blood across his video screen.

  At the end of the hallway, and a few more steps up, was my bedroom. It had once been the attic, but was converted into livable space to allow me the greatest distance from that annoying downstairs TV. Unlike the rest of my family, I was a voracious reader. Some people can read while listening to music through earbuds. I needed absolute silence.

  I stepped over a welcome mat that I had rescued from our former city residence. It read Enter at your own risk! Back then it was meant as a joke. Our home was always open to visitors. Now it had quite a different meaning: Stay out!

  I plopped down on my bed and turned on my bedroom TV. My day in court had left my mind in a fog, and I needed a diversion. I switched around the channels, past abusive judges, gushing talk show guests, and rude psychotherapists. Then I happened upon a channel that played nothing but reruns of old TV programs.

  The Andy Griffith Show was on.

  Having long been fascinated with the culture of the 1960s, I never tired of the antics of Andy, Opie, and Barney. The episode was one I had seen many times before. Little Opie learns the meaning of death and renewal, when he releases the orphaned sparrows he had raised, into the wild. The emotional ending always chokes me up.

  Then an episode of Leave It to Beaver came on.

  As usual, the Cleaver household was spotless. The beds were made and the furniture was dusted.

  “Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!” said the slow-witted Beaver as he bounded down the stairs. His brother, Wally, followed behind him in his school varsity sweater. Dad relaxed on the couch with the morning paper, while Mom made lunch box sandwiches, in a dress and pearl necklace. It was amazing! I wasn’t just watching a black and white show from a time well before my birth, I was eavesdropping on the simple, unhurried era of the early ‘60s.

  Was life really like that back then? Possibly. It was a time of cheap housing, 20-cent-per-gallon gasoline, and full employment with a guaranteed pension. Families enjoyed home-cooked meals, courtesy of wives and mothers who rarely left the kitchen.

  The show ended with the proverbial dinner table scene. There were the Cleavers, sitting with perfect posture, their feast tenderly prepared by Beaver’s mom.

  I muted the volume to escape the dreadful dialog. Beaver might have been bragging about his earnings from mowing lawns that day. Wally could have been sharing his latest misadventures with bigmouth Eddie Haskell.

  Then I noticed something I wasn’t expecting. It was a trite scene, for sure. All the family shows back then had them. But while the Cleavers ate and conversed . . . they smiled! They looked at each other. I moved closer to the screen, finally realizing why the scene had so captured my imagination. These weren’t just fictional characters providing comic relief to millions of Americans.

  They were a family.

  Chapter 2

  Animal Attractions

  "The dawn of a new day brought more questions than answers:

  What if I am forced to live with foster parents?

  What if I hate them?

  What if I end up on the streets?

  What if I die and nobody cares?

  What if I run away with the circus?

  What if I get trampled by elephants?

  C’mon Amy, I said to myself, now you’re getting stupid! You’ve always been good at figuring things out. Why are you having such a problem now?

  I needed a place to think. More importantly, I needed to talk to someone my own age, who understood how I felt. The school year hadn’t started yet, and I still had plenty of free time on my hands. So, I decided to spend the morning with my good friend Hubert, and take a break from my troubles for a while.

  Like me, Hubert was once a city-dweller. We shared most of the same classes at school, the same love for reading, and listened to the same s
tyle of music (Jazz and Blues). The main difference between us was that he was smarter than me—an A-student, in fact. It was rare not to find his nose buried in a textbook, devouring its pages through his thick, pop bottle glasses. I, on the other hand, was into political activism and fighting for social change—things Hubert didn’t feel deserved his attention. We were like two passengers on a ship at sea. I was at the helm steering the ship, while he was in the engine room seeing how it worked.

  It was our differences that ruled out any chance of us ever becoming romantically involved. But Hubert was the kindest and most considerate boy I ever met—and the only person I knew with a drivers license.

  When it comes to escaping reality, there’s no better place to go than to Theme Farm, a theme park just outside of Shankstonville. Hubert and I both had annual passes that got us into the park, anytime we wanted. It was our favorite hangout.

  “Sit well back in your seats, and keep your hands and arms inside at all times,” said the loudspeaker voice on the parking lot tram. It was only a short ride to Theme Farm’s main entrance, but long enough for Hubert to consume half-a-chapter of a book on Molecular Orbital Theory. He was reading from his tablet computer, that you rarely saw him without.

  Unlike my peers, I shunned those electronic gadgets that enslaved my generation.

  “Put that thing down!” I told Hubert. “We’re here to reflect and relax, not to be distracted by some time-wasting gizmo.”

  “Pooh-pooh,” said Hubert. “For your information, I’m reading the Theme Farm show schedule for today.”

  I grabbed his tablet and spun it around toward me. Today at Theme Farm read the heading of the park’s timetable.