New Kind of Thread Idea: Your Vintage Life

[Swing Motorman]

I'd greatly appreciate some feedback on this idea, especially from the bartenders and longtime Loungers.

After reading various threads here before a long car ride, I thought of a sort of interactive story/history thread style that might really add to the Lounge. I'd been reading Lizzie's very interesting "Let's Kill Hitler" alternative histories, and the "How Would you Survive in the Golden Era" kind of thread. On the other hand, I'd been reading elsewhere about the rise in highly realistic survival simulator video games, and with a few hours to think, the two topics merged.

What I'm thinking is that any Lounger could start a "My Vintage Life" thread, where each post the original poster makes would be one day in their life in a time period of your choice. Others could comment to discuss the bits of history mentioned, offer suggestions or corrections to historic events, or make suggestions of random events the original poster would have to deal with in the next "day." You set the rules for your own thread/story, but my thought was the following:

- I get transported back to 1946 exactly as I am. My clothes and the contents of my pockets are all I have, and I appear in the very spot where I'm standing in the present. My futuristic money is useless and I must start from scratch.
- Without wasting too much time on detail, I need to find food, drink, and shelter and establish a stable life without appearing out of place. I wouldn't want to be taken for a Commie spy, or a Nazi spy if my story was set during the war!
- I have no indication of when I can return to the present, or if I ever will.
- Other Lounge members can suggest problems I'll run into, and I must include at least one in each "day."
- I'd limit myself to only so many words, or else no one will want to read my rambling! :eeek:
- I'd tag the title of each post with a little teaser line, like "In which Steven takes a job" Or "In which Steven survives an automobile crash"

I would have just gotten started, but, this story idea is really self-centric, and I don't want to impose. I'd encourage members with lots of everyday vintage life knowledge to try this out, too. It would be neat to be able to come on the Lounge and read a new chapter of one or more favorite stories of applied vintage living. If it's a popular idea, maybe we should create a separate room of the forum for this?

Again, just looking for any and all feedback. Thanks everyone! :yo:

 

[LizzieMaine]

I'd greatly appreciate some feedback on this idea, especially from the bartenders and longtime Loungers.

After reading various threads here before a long car ride, I thought of a sort of interactive story/history thread style that might really add to the Lounge. I'd been reading Lizzie's very interesting "Let's Kill Hitler" alternative histories, and the "How Would you Survive in the Golden Era" kind of thread. On the other hand, I'd been reading elsewhere about the rise in highly realistic survival simulator video games, and with a few hours to think, the two topics merged.

What I'm thinking is that any Lounger could start a "My Vintage Life" thread, where each post the original poster makes would be one day in their life in a time period of your choice. Others could comment to discuss the bits of history mentioned, offer suggestions or corrections to historic events, or make suggestions of random events the original poster would have to deal with in the next "day." You set the rules for your own thread/story, but my thought was the following:

- I get transported back to 1946 exactly as I am. My clothes and the contents of my pockets are all I have, and I appear in the very spot where I'm standing in the present. My futuristic money is useless and I must start from scratch.
- Without wasting too much time on detail, I need to find food, drink, and shelter and establish a stable life without appearing out of place. I wouldn't want to be taken for a Commie spy, or a Nazi spy if my story was set during the war!
- I have no indication of when I can return to the present, or if I ever will.
- Other Lounge members can suggest problems I'll run into, and I must include at least one in each "day."
- I'd limit myself to only so many words, or else no one will want to read my rambling! :eeek:
- I'd tag the title of each post with a little teaser line, like "In which Steven takes a job" Or "In which Steven survives an automobile crash"

I would have just gotten started, but, this story idea is really self-centric, and I don't want to impose. I'd encourage members with lots of everyday vintage life knowledge to try this out, too. It would be neat to be able to come on the Lounge and read a new chapter of one or more favorite stories of applied vintage living. If it's a popular idea, maybe we should create a separate room of the forum for this?

Again, just looking for any and all feedback. Thanks everyone! :yo:

OK -- here's a few obstacles for you.

Suspicious looking character wandering around in weird clothes. Catches the eye of a beat cop who questions him -- finds he is not carrying a draft card, has only what appears to be counterfeit/fictitious money, and has no reasonable explanation for either. Cop hauls him before a night magistrate who gives him 30 dollars or 30 days for vagrancy, and alerts military authorities about a possible AWOL.

Does he do the time while keeping his mouth shut, does he tell the truth and get sent to a psychiatric ward, or does he make a break for it?

The first two choices will at least ensure he has food, a place to sleep, and time to think for the time being, the third choice means he starts out as a highly-suspicious fugitive. What's the best option, and how does he react to the decision? If he does make a break for it, where does he go?

 

[Nobert]

Oops, misread the directions. Retracting my post.

 

[Nobert]

Do overs:

In attempting to find gainful employment, you might have trouble explaining to an employment agency why your Social Security Number is so whoppingly high. If deciding to rely on pluck, you walk into the first place you find a "help wanted" sign, you might be asked, "You got any letters of recommendation?" If you attempt to outline your background, you may be greeted with, "Oh, a collitch boy, eh? Sorry, mac, you're a bit overqualified for this kind of work."

 

[CaramelSmoothie]

Just out of curiosity, why 1946?

Anyways, you would certainly mess up the family tree when you eventually marry and have kids, lol. You would probably have to portray yourself as an illegal immigrant fresh off the boat from some European country to account for your lack of public records here in the US. Of course you would have to hope that they wouldn't try to send you back to a non-existent foreign homeland. This would be the best way to get established.

 

[sheeplady]

I'm wondering if you could really do this successfully at all without being arrested or put in an asylum. You'd have to know exactly what happened pre- versus post- the years you are in. A few slips about medical treatment (could be as simple as basic meds), scientific advancement, future events, cultural phenomeon, etc. and your goose would be cooked. You'd have to be quite the historian with an eye for detail. And you'd have to know the lingo quite well.

 

[sheeplady]

Just out of curiosity, why 1946?

Anyways, you would certainly mess up the family tree when you eventually marry and have kids, lol. You would probably have to portray yourself as an illegal immigrant fresh off the boat from some European country to account for your lack of public records here in the US. Of course you would have to hope that they wouldn't try to send you back to a non-existent foreign homeland. This would be the best way to get established.

You might be able to get away with being from a far-off part of the united states that wasn't very connected to the area where you end up. For instance, saying you're from Alaska could explain the different language use (but command of the English language) and different ways of acting. Very few people in Penn would know someone from Alaska. It could also explain the clothes, etc.

 

[jamespowers]

Clothes are easy because nearly everyone used a clothes line back then. Go window shopping. Food is not too bad because most major cities back then had a soup kitchen---at least here they did . You might get a place to stay at the same source. After the war, you could fin a job fairly easily as things were looking up and people were hiring. You already know all the major companies and where they are going. Choose one.

 

[LizzieMaine]

It'd be much easier to do this prewar than to do it postwar -- do it before 1937, and the whole Social Security number situation would be simple: you could just sign up cold in December 1936 like all the rest of the population. Post-1937, if you didn't have an SSN, the best you could hope for on the work front is some kind of migrant fruit-picker or casual labor type of job, and I suspect most 21st Century folk wouldn't last very long in that type of work. You could get an SSN after 1937 by filling out a form at any post office, but you'd still need proof of identity, and an explanation for why you hadn't already gotten one. If you're young, that's one option -- kids didn't get SSNs assigned at birth, so it was common for people in their teens and early twenties to be signing up. Being female would also help -- nothing was thought strange about a woman at any age seeking an SSN for the first time. But a thirty year old or forty year old man of obvious American extraction who hadn't gotten a number by 1940 would raise questions.

During and immediately after the war, a whole lot of other issues enter into the picture: not only do you need an SSN to get a job, a man has to have either a draft card or a discharge certificate, and everyone, from babies to invalids, needs ration books -- which can't be obtained without proof of identity, either a birth certificate or a baptismal certificate, or letters from at least two people testifying to the circumstances of your birth.

Your best bet, then, would be to go to the sleazy part of town and find a master forger. You'd have to deal with dangerous people, and you'd better have some way of paying them for their work -- which brings you back to the question of where you'd get the money. If you were really gutsy or really stupid, you could try robbing a gas station, using the old finger-in-the-coat-pocket trick, but you'd have to deal with the liklihood of getting caught.

 

[Swing Motorman]

OK, I see part of the idea worked, that I dug up stuff I don't know. But I was wondering more about the idea, not so much the story details, which are just placeholders above.

Would any of you consider writing such an interactive story? Personally, Lizzie, I'd love to read such a thing from you, you're the best wealth of civilian lifestyle knowledge I've ever encountered. Everyone has their tastes, and this would be more fun if we build a community of writers, each putting their own interests into it (warning for my story: expect way more public transit content than you'd expect!)

I'm still hesitant to just post it here in the Observation Lounge. My own regular posts will keep it artificially bumped to the top... I'd like a less prestigious or more specific place to put it... :redface: Or should I just go ahead?

 

[LizzieMaine]

OK, I see part of the idea worked, that I dug up stuff I don't know. But I was wondering more about the idea, not so much the story details, which are just placeholders above.

Would any of you consider writing such an interactive story? Personally, Lizzie, I'd love to read such a thing from you, you're the best wealth of civilian lifestyle knowledge I've ever encountered. Everyone has their tastes, and this would be more fun if we build a community of writers, each putting their own interests into it (warning for my story: expect way more public transit content than you'd expect!)

I'm still hesitant to just post it here in the Observation Lounge. My own regular posts will keep it artificially bumped to the top... I'd like a less prestigious or more specific place to put it... :redface: Or should I just go ahead?

Just go ahead -- see what happens.

And I'll do something from the opposite direction. For example:

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

She opened her eyes slowly, jarred back to consciousness by the intense pain in her left shoulder. "Must've hit the steering wheel," she thought, trying to bring her vision back into focus. The engine had stalled out when the car hit -- whatever it hit -- but the headlights were still shining and the radio was still on, emitting a hash of noise and static. She reached over and switched off the ignition key, and pulled up the door handle.

The door didn't seem to be stuck, so she gave it a shove and put her foot on the running board. As she moved, a shot of pain knifed thru her shoulder, and she supported her left elbow with her right hand. Pushing the door the rest of the way open, she stepped off the running board, leaned against the fender, and looked around. The fog had lifted -- that sudden, milky fog that seemed to surround the bridge as she drove across -- and she could see the outline of what she had hit, some sort of low barricade in the road just after the end of the bridge, as though the road itself was closed off. "What the hell?" she muttered to herself. "That shouldn't..."

She trailed off at the sound of footsteps crunching toward her. Past the barricade, up the road a bit, she saw two headlights and what looked like some kind of blinkimg blue light. A shadowy figure loomed behind an approaching flashlight beam. "Hey," she shouted. "Over here. I think I'm hurt."

The flashlight shined in her eyes and she shielded her view, picking out the outline of a broad-brimmed hat. "State Police," said a female voice. "Can you move?"

"Yeah, It's just my shoulder," she replied. "Hit something in the road, some kind of roadblock or something. I didn't know they were doing work here, there weren't any ssigns on the other end of the bridge."

The trooper lowered the light, and revealed herself as a woman in her twenties, in a leather jacket and campaign hat, a puzzled expression twisting her features. "This bridge is closed, ma'am," she stated in a firm voice. "It's been closed for years. How did you get past the barricade at the other end?"

"What? What barricade?," retorted the accident victim. "I drive over this bridge every day on my way into town."

"That's not possible, ma'am," replied the trooper. "Can I see your license and registration?"

"Huh? In the car, it's in the car."

The trooper stepped to the car and flashed her light at the door handle. "This is quite a car, ma'am," she said. "Are you a collector?"

"What? What collector? Listen, I think I've got a broken shoulder, can you get me an ambulance or a splint or something? I think I'm gonna pass out if you don't..."

She flinched as the pain flared up again, and grunted under her breath as she sank to the car's running board. The trooper reached in thru the open window and took out the driver's purse, a worn, brown leather bag, and extracted a small billfold. By the beam of the flashlight, the trooper riffled thru its contents, and her look of bafflement spread into one of disbelief. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask if you have any other identification."

"What...what..it's all in there, look. Driver's license, social security card, library card, Red Cross card, Civilian Defense card, sugar ration book. Everything I got." She looked up, gritting her teeth. "Listen, you've got to help me -- do you have a radio or something in the car, or is there a house near here with a phone, anything?"

The trooper said a few quick words into something clipped to the epaulet of her jacket, a little box about the size of a pack of cigarettes. Consumed by the ache in her shoulder, the driver couldn't make out what she said, and the trooper stepped further away as she continued speaking. All the driver could hear was the pitch of her voice, which seemed to be rising in agitation as she spoke. Finally, the trooper stepped back toward the car.

"Listen, ma'am," she began, "I've called for help. There's an ambulance on the way, but I really need to know who you are -- your name, address, date of birth. Can you remember those things?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said, and winced out the requested information.

The trooper looked at a document from the billfold. "Could you repeat your birthdate, ma'am? I need your correct birthdate."

"April 13th," she grunted. "Just like it says on the license. April 13th, 1913."

"Ma'am, I need your actual date of birth."

"I gave it to you, dammit! April 13th, nineteen hundred and thirteen!"

"That's not possible, ma'am," replied the trooper, in an even voice. "I need your actual date of birth."

"I GAVE IT TO YOU! WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY!?"

She began sobbing from the flaring pain in her shoulder as the trooper stepped to the rear of the car and began speaking into that thing on her coat. Something about "white female, about thirty years old, with no current identification, driving a 1937 Plymouth sedan with 1942 license plates, claims to be born a hundred years ago..."

She hunched over on the running board, her head sinking into her lap. "What do you want me to say?" she whimpered. "What do you want me to say??"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

So what happens next?

 

[LizzieMaine]

Second installment

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

She didn't recognize the room, but she felt grateful, at least, for the sleep. Her left arm was immobilized in some kind of sling, and the pain seemed to have faded. She could still sense it, throbbing under the surface, but it no longer slashed thru her upper body every time she drew a breath.

It seemed to be early morning. A shaft of light shined thru the lone window in the room, but the grating over the glass cast an intricate checkerboard shadow on the opposite wall. The room itself was small and featureless -- plain white walls, plain white floor, a small sink set into one corner, a toilet and what looked like a shower stall visible thru a half-opened door to its left. The bed itself was equally featureless -- a hard mattress, a sheet, a green blanket woven of some kind of coarse cottony material. A small stand to her right held a cup and some kind of plastic pitcher on a tray, a lone green-cushioned side chair was pushed into the corner just beyond it, and along the wall opposite the bed she noticed a small, light-colored wooden desk with nothing on it.

The air in the room smelled of antiseptic. "Hospital," she murmured to herself. "Hospital. I'm in the hospital. Broken shoulder. Car accident. I had a car accident."

She looked around for a button. "There's always a button in the hospital," she whispered. "Always a button. Get the nurse." She fumbled with her good arm, but no button presented itself, no button seemed within her reach. "HEY!" she yelled, the exclamation tearing at her dry throat. "HEY!"

The summons produced a near-immediate response. The door opened and a plump middle-aged woman in a colorful pull-over shirt and shapeless pants walked in. "Listen, get me a nurse, would you?" requested the patient. "I need to see the nurse. Or the doctor. Or the nurse. Or somebody."

"I'm the nurse," replied the woman with an indulgent smile.

"No," insisted the patient, "I mean the nurse. You know, the real nurse."

"That's me," the woman said with a nod. "The doctor will be along in a minute, he wanted to see you as soon as you woke up."

The patient slumped back against her pillow, defeated. What kind of screwy hospital has nurses who go around in their pajamas?

A thin, lanky man stepped thru the door and whispered to the nurse, who nodded and slid out of the room. He smiled, and pulled the side chair close to the bed. "Good to see you're awake," he said. "I'm Dr. Gordon, and I just wanted to check in and talk with you a bit. Seems there's still some information we don't have, you know, for our records..."

She squinted at him. He wore a white coat, at least, but underneath it he seemed to be wearing some kind of flannel shirt, like a factory hand might wear, with a bunchy-looking knitted tie the color of rusty metal around his neck, shapeless grey pants and the most peculiar-looking shoes she'd ever seen on a grown man's feet, almost pneumatic looking, shaped like Mickey Mouse's shoes, and colored a deep, dark ultramarine blue. His hair looked like he hadn't combed it, sticking up in little points all over the top of his head. And the final touch, the most ludicrous touch, was a small, clipped beard and moustache that gave him an air of Ming The Merciless.

"You're...you're the doctor?" she whispered. "Really?"

"Really," he smiled, making a notation on his clipboard with a long, thin transparent pen. "So -- questions for you."

"I already told that policewoman when I was born," she snapped. "I'll tell you the same thing. April 13th, 1913."

"Well, we'll talk about that later," Dr. Gordon replied as he scrawled further. "Tell me a little bit about yourself."

"What's to tell," she said. "You got my name and address, you got everything in my pocketbook there. I'm married, my husband works at the Fireproof Garage downtown, I work at the First National, we got a little girl four years old, Margaret Anne, she stays with my mother when I'm at work."

"The First National? Is that a bank?"

"No, no, the First National. The grocery store, downtown next to the movie theatre. I'm the bookkeeper there."

"Next to the movie theatre? You mean the bank?"

"No, the movie theatre, the Tivoli. The First National is right next to that, and the Fireproof Garage is along the other side of it. Makes it real easy for us to have lunch together."

"You and your husband."

"Yeah, we go over to Kresge's sometimes, get lunch there. On payday we might go to Newberts, or the Paramount Grill, but usually to Kresge's." She raised herself on her good arm, frustrated with the pointlessness of the conversation. "Listen, I need to talk to my husband, or call him or something. Is there a phone I can use? Or can you or that nurse or somebody call him? He ought to be at work now, the Fireproof Garage, phone number's 889."

The doctor's pen waggled again over his clipboard. "889...?"

"Just 889. His name's Ernie. And my mother, call her too -- she don't have a phone, but you can call Mrs. Kelly next door and she'll run the message. Number there is 652-J. Jeezuz, they're gonna be worried sick. And then can somebody call the store, tell them where I am and that I won't be in? I can't afford to lose this job, not now. And my car, where's the car?

"The police have taken care of the car," replied Dr. Gordon. "Don't worry about the car."

"Listen, doctor," she broke in. "What is this place? I've been in the hospital before, and this doesn't look like the hospital I know. That nurse don't look like any kind of a nurse I ever saw before, dressed up like that. And you, pardon my French, don't look like any doctor I ever saw. What *is* this place? Listen, can you get me to a phone? I can call my husband myself."

Dr. Gordon looked at her for a long moment, evaluating her words. He made another notation on his clipboard, and then reached into his shirt pocket. "I have a phone right here. You can use it to call your husband."

He handed her a small, rectangular object with a flat glass front. She turned it over in her hands. It didn't seem to have much weight, much substance to it, but when she touched the glass panel it suddenly lit up. She dropped it on the bed, startled. "What the hell is this thing?" she demanded. "Listen, get me a phone or a lawyer or something. I need to get out of here."

"Everything's going to be fine," replied the doctor in the sort of soothing voice one might use in addressing a frightened dog. "Everything's going to be fine.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

[Stanley Doble]

How long do you think a cop would last if he arrested every slightly odd looking stranger who had committed no crime, except for seeming a little confused? He would get dressed down by his sergeant until he developed some common sense.

If you wore modern clothes in the past you would more likely be dismissed as a jazz musician, Beatnik, Socialist, or some unclassified screwball. You might be surprised what eccentricities of dress were tolerated in the old days.

You would also be surprised how many jobs you could get with no ID. Casual day labor, and even skilled labor. Being Canadian, I know many of my fellow Canadians traveling in the US were offered jobs when someone found out they were a carpenter, electrician or plumber. When they pointed out that they did not have a green card they were told "don't worry about it". I have friends who worked in the US and were paid under the table for months and were never stopped by the police or asked for ID. This was as recently as the 1990s. Or you could just pretend you are an illegal Mexican lol.

Your funny clothes probably wouldn't draw a second glance. They would not be as outre as a zoot suit

or a Boy Scout hiking outfit, both of which might draw attention but wouldn't get you arrested.

 

[sheeplady]

How long do you think a cop would last if he arrested every slightly odd looking stranger who had committed no crime, except for seeming a little confused? He would get dressed down by his sergeant until he developed some common sense.

Your post got me to thinking. Given the fact that there are so few psych beds that they can't even take a person who is a threat to themselves or others, I doubt they would hold anyone who simply failed to pass a psych test in today's world. (Look at the recent case in Virginia where a politician tried desperately to find his son who he believed would kill himself a bed but was denied, his son later stabbed him and shot himself: http://www.cnn.com/2013/11/19/politics/virginia-politician-attack/. If a state politician can't find a bed for his son who is trying to commit suicide, chances are there aren't going to be any beds for someone who is considered delusional.)

If someone by some miracle did get held in a hospital psych ward, they'd be released in a few days. After all, they regularly release homeless people with severe scizophrenia- they simply medicate them enough that they are somewhat rational and then they are turned out- occasionally there is an attempt to get a bed in a shelter if a social workers has the time and resources but that is about it. A homeless person who believes they were born in another time, dressed in funny clothes, etc. is tame compared to that.

There's plenty of people on the street who are severely more mentally ill than thinking they have been transported in time.

 

[LizzieMaine]

If someone by some miracle did get held in a hospital psych ward, they'd be released in a few days. After all, they regularly release homeless people with severe scizophrenia- they simply medicate them enough that they are somewhat rational and then they are turned out- occasionally there is an attempt to get a bed in a shelter if a social workers has the time and resources but that is about it. A homeless person who believes they were born in another time, dressed in funny clothes, etc. is tame compared to that.

There's plenty of people on the street who are severely more mentally ill than thinking they have been transported in time.

Around here, if they diagnose you as psychotic and admit you to a unit, they usually keep you there at least 30 days, after which time you're evaluated and either released or held for another month, and so on until you're no threat to yourself or others. The Probate Court actually gets involved with this in cases of involuntary admission. If there's no beds locally, they'll shuttle you all over the state if necessary until they find a place to put you. I've had a sister and a very close friend in such circumstances, and I'm basing my scenario on how their situations played out. Granted, they weren't time displaced, but the system didn't seem too attentive to the specifics of their circumstances -- the idea was to bed them down and get them medicated and then see what happened.

 

[LizzieMaine]

How long do you think a cop would last if he arrested every slightly odd looking stranger who had committed no crime, except for seeming a little confused? He would get dressed down by his sergeant until he developed some common sense.

In the US, police were particularly attentive during much of 1946 looking for AWOL servicemen -- these were the days of the Wanna Go Home riots overseas, and a lot of the discontent had spread to troops stateside who felt they ought to have been discharged. There were concerns about them jumping camp, and police were paying particular attention to lone men who couldn't show a draft card or a discharge certificate when challenged. Depending on the town where you were, police could be very attentive to this, or not care much, but it was a definite risk for the unidentified drifter.

 

[Stanley Doble]

Today's official paranoia has no parallel in the past, outside of war time. It still surprises me how the US has meekly surrendered the Bill of Rights and Constitution. At other times in your history there were riots in the streets over issues that today would pass unnoticed.

The US of today does not compare to the US of the past. It might surprise a lot of people to learn that there was a time you could travel anywhere in the US without having to show any kind of ID or official papers, and even travel outside the country and come back without a passport.

 

[Stanley Doble]

Can you tell me how many men were arrested for not showing a draft card, and what happened to them? I find it hard to believe that this was considered a serious crime after VJ day.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Third Installment
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

She'd lost track of the days, and couldn't be sure about it, but it felt like she'd been in the stark little hospital room for a week now, maybe a little less, maybe a little more. She'd tried counting the sunrises and the sunsets, but those pills they were giving her fogged her mind just enough that she kept losing track. A week, maybe more, maybe less. Who knew?

Her shoulder didn't hurt as much, at least. Maybe it was the pills, maybe it was just healing on its own, she didn't know. When that nurse in the pajamas came to give her a sponge bath she'd noticed the bruise, in clashing shades of purple, blue, brown, and yellow, spreading out from the middle of her collarbone. That must've been where she hit, that must've been the point of impact, when it happened.

When what happened? What was she doing here, anyway? Her memory kept fading in and out, like a cloud of breath on a windowpane, appearing and disappearing so quickly that she couldn't really be sure of anything. Something about fog, something about running the car into -- something.

Something.

She'd asked for a radio, anything to break the monotony. "Amos 'n' Andy." "Sho', sho'." "Mmm, mmm, ain't dat sump'in." Sump'in to pass the time. "Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons." Mr. Keen, he could help. She was a lost person. Lost, lost person, and she didn't know where she was, how she'd gotten there, how she was going to get home.

But they didn't bring her a radio. No radio. No newspaper. Nothing to do but sleep and eat the bland, tasteless food they brought three times a day. A dish of gummy oatmeal. A toasted cheese sandwich, burned along the edges and cold in the middle. Some sort of rubbery, stringy chicken slice covered in a watery greenish sauce. Meat loaf that was far more loaf than meat. Even the tea was weak and flavorless.

And then there was Dr. Gordon, that insufferable, always-calm, always-reassuring Dr. Gordon with his ridiculous beard and his prickly haircut and his vivid blue clown shoes. Always sitting by her bedside, always asking her the same pointless questions and scrawling away on his clipboard with that skinny pencil-pen thing.

As if on cue, the doctor himself walked in. "Good morning," he offered, in his smooth, oleomargarine voice. "How are we today."

"Go to hell," she hissed, from within the pill-induced fog. "Where's my husband? Where's my little girl? Where's my mother? Why won't you let them see me?"

"I thought we might talk a little more, if you were up to it," he replied without acknowledging her questions. He pulled up the side chair, its legs keening against the hard tile floor, and handed her her pocketbook. "I thought we could talk about some of the things you have in here, maybe help me to understand a few things."

She clutched the leather bag to her chest. The strap was missing, unsnapped from the loops that held it to the back of the bag, and when she opened the flap and emptied the contents onto the bedcover, she noticed that her nail file and her penknife were missing as well. She shot an accusing glare at Gordon, who offered no reaction whatsoever.

"I thought we might start with your wallet," he proposed, picking it up from the jumble of articles on the blanket. "Motor Vehicle Operator's License, Fee $2. Must be carried on person while operating. Expires December 31st of the year in which issued. Date of issue, Jan. 4, 1942," he read, and continued on with her name, address, sex, height, weight, hair and eye color. "Date of birth, April 13, 1913." He held the thin slip of paper in his right hand. "It looks real."

"It *is* real," she growled. "I told you so when they brought me in here."

"You could make something like this in Photoshop," he countered. "You could make it very convincing. Did you do that?"

She blinked thru the fog. "I don't know anything about a photo shop," she sighed. "I send my pictures out to -- um -- Bicknell's."

"You have some money in here," he continued. "Let's see -- three dollar bills, Silver Certificates, series 1935A. A fifty cent piece, dated 1939. A quarter, dated 1934. Another quarter, dated -- um -- 1907. Four dimes, dated, um, I think 1911, 1924, 1938, and 1941. Two nickels -- 1937 and I can't read the date on this other one. And six pennies. Dates are 1912, 1926, 1935, 1935 again, 1940 -- that one's Canadian -- and a bright shiny one dated 1942. Four dollars and fifty-six cents. Oh, and one -- ah -- three cent postage stamp. 'Win The War.' "

She glared at him, and the doctor carefully returned the money to the billfold, dropping the coins one by one into the change pouch so she could see that they were all there. He nodded slightly, and extracted a small, rectangular card. "Social Security Act," he read, continuing with the number, stamped in large red digits across the middle of the card, above her typed-in name. "Date of Issue: December 18, 1936." He held the card between his thumb and forefinger and flourished it in the air. "Is this real? How did you get it?"

"Signed up for it, what do you think I did? Filled in a card and it came in the mail. I was working as cashier at -- um -- theatre then, all had to do it. Mr. Roosevelt says -- uh -- to take care of us when we get old."

"We checked the number," said Gordon, lowering the card. "And here's the thing. The number is real -- it was issued in this name, just like you say. But -- here's the thing. There's no death record connected with this number -- so the person to whom it's issued is still alive, as far as we can find out. But there doesn't seem to be any record of her anywhere -- we've checked around, and no hundred-year-old woman using this number is living anywhere in the United States. Can you explain that?"

"Not a hundred years old," she insisted, squeezing the empty pocketbook. "Turned -- um -- thirty in April."

Gordon inclined his head again, and returned the card to the wallet. Next, he extracted a small red-bordered card bearing a blue circle with a white triangle and the small red letters "CD," under the inscription "Henry County Office Of Civilian Defense." He read the name typed on the card and the phrase below it. "Block Warden. What's that?"

"Air raid warden," she slurred, her words feeling thicker as the pills bore down on her. "Walk around at night checking the blackout. In charge of my block. Do my bit. Ernie's in -- in AWS, watches for planes, I go around and look at -- um -- blackout."

A small photograph was pasted to the back of the card, above a fingerprint. Gordon scrutinized it. "Looks like you," he observed. "Is this real?"

"No, I made it up as -- as -- joke," she groaned. "Listen, wanna talk to Ernie. Need to."

The doctor let the card drop, and returned it to the wallet. He next withdrew a small photograph, trimmed to size to fit in one of the billfold's celluloid windows. It showed the woman sitting on a doorstep, her back to a rough, chipped porch post. A slight, underfed-looking man sat next to her, with dark, sunken eyes, jug-handle ears, and a receding hairline. He was dressed in dark work clothes, with rolled sleeves and a circular insignia bearing the word "TYDOL" above his breast pocket. Between them sat a child, a toddler in a short formless dress, white socks and ankle-high leather shoes. A limp ribbon flopped over the right side of her head, and she squinted into the camera with a crooked smile.

Gordon handed her the photo. "Is this your family? Can you tell me about them?"

"Thass -- thass Ernie there," she breathed, feeling the weight of the drugs. "Las' summer, las' summer. He been sick again, jus' started back to work."

"Your husband?"

"Yeah, sick, had tub--tuber--tub'rc'losis when he's a kid, almos' die. Gets sick a lot, can't work some--sometimes. OK now, but we--- we-- worry lot."

"Is this your daughter?"

"Mag--Maggie. She fo--four now. Good girl, good girl. Han'ful. Ma watch over her when I -- I'm work. Hard for her -- ma gettin' old, she help, do what she can..."

Dr. Gordon wrote several lines on his clipboard. "You should sleep now," he said, rising from the chair. "We'll talk more later."

The fog was closing down on her now, and her vision blurred, but she could still make out his lean, angular frame silhouetted against the shadow of the window grating. "Pic -- pi'cher," she slurred, unable to form words. "Gi-gimme pi'cher."

Gordon placed the photograph in her right hand, and she clutched it to her chest. Her head sagged to the right, and she said nothing further. He took a long look at the patient, exhaled a short breath, turned, and slipped quietly out of the room.

 

[F. J.]

Amendment IV.

[...] Today's official paranoia has no parallel in the past, outside of war time. It still surprises me how the US has meekly surrendered the Bill of Rights and Constitution.
[...] It might surprise a lot of people to learn that there was a time you could travel anywhere in the US without having to show any kind of ID or official papers, and even travel outside the country and come back without showing a passport.

Hmmm, sounds familiar . . .



Fourth Article of Amendment,
Constitution for the United States of America:—

“The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”