Teen fashion in the early ‘60s was totally bizarre. I searched through photos from old teen magazines from that part of the decade. What I found was a lot of teenage girls in plain cotton blouses and plaid skirts. It seemed like the youth of that time hadn’t yet found their own fashion identity. Regardless, I thought it might be fun to dress like the girls of Clifford’s time, if I was going to keep seeing him.
Miniskirts and Go-go Boots were not yet in vogue. “Mod” fashions wouldn’t take off until ‘64. So, I decided to stay with a more conservative look. I found a sleeveless scoop neck dress in a retro clothing boutique that was just perfect. As long as I was dressing the part, I thought I would do a little ‘60s-style primping, too. I put on mascara and blue eye shadow. I even went so far as to hot-curl a bouffant flip at the ends of my hair. Actually, it looked kinda cute. I was starting to like the ‘60s!
I was surprised to see other people dressed in ‘60s garb, in line for Used-to-Be TV—and not just kids. An older gentleman ahead of me donned a tailored, gabardine suit, with a hat Frank Sinatra might have worn. Maybe he had arranged a rendezvous with a rich widow in 1963. His heavy cologne definitely suggested a romantic encounter of some kind. I guess no one told him that smells don’t travel over television.
The lines were getting longer every day as the attraction gained popularity. I was late for my noontime appointment with Clifford, so I shoved past the others in line. I bypassed the pre-show presentation, pushed through a side door, finally arriving at my usual cottage. I turned the door knob to go inside, but it wouldn’t budge. The door was locked! I looked through the window, and immediately felt my blood pressure rise. Imagine my outrage to see another girl on the couch talking to Clifford!
A streak of jealousy roared up my spine, but there was no good reason for it. For one thing, they couldn’t be saying anything of any significance without the magic clicker. For another, why shouldn’t Clifford talk to someone else? I had no exclusive claim on him. If he found someone he liked better than me, well, it’s his life. I was proud of myself for taking such a grownup attitude toward the whole thing.
Still . . .
If that little bitch didn’t unlock the door in exactly one minute, I was going to break it down!
Fortunately, that wouldn’t be necessary. I watched as that little home wrecker got up off the couch and walked to the door. I played the innocent bystander as she passed me.
“Who was that?” I asked, showing interest in Clifford. “He’s sort of awesome-looking, don’t ya think?”
“Don’t waste your time, girl,” she said. “He’s a dweeb.”
Good! That was just what I wanted to hear.
I went inside, locked the door behind me, and raced over to the couch.
Ping! went the clicker.
Clifford wasn’t in his chair. I feared he had gotten tired of waiting for me, and gone home, but I waited dutifully in front of the TV until I knew for sure.
I crossed my legs, put one arm over the back of the couch, and flung my head back like a high-fashion model. My silky, flipped-up hair flowed down my back like a sexy woman in a hair care commercial. Wait till he gets a load of me, I thought. Now he’ll see how much classier I am over that other girl.
Five minutes passed, and still no Clifford. It was time to start worrying.
I stood up and paced the floor. Then I heard music coming from the TV speaker. The sound was tinny and scratchy. A piano was playing a catchy, little tune that I did not recognize.
Then Clifford leaned into frame, holding a portable tape recorder. It was the old-fashioned type with the spinning, half-dollar-sized reels—like the ones on the old Mission Impossible TV series.
I composed myself and sat down. “Is that you, playing?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Clifford, taking his seat. “I wrote it last night. It doesn’t sound too good, I know.”
“Sounds okay to me. It’s not digital, but what can you do?”
“Digital?”
“Ah . . . delightful, I meant to say. Your playing is delightful!”
The song ended, and Clifford shut off his machine.
We stared at each other in silence for a moment.
“How long have you been out there?” asked Clifford nervously.
“Why do you ask?” I said, knowing full well where his questioning was headed.
“Oh, just wondering.”
“Just wondering if I caught you with that other girl?” I asked, a little pissed off.
Clifford gulped. “You saw?”
“Yes, I saw! What were you two talking about?”
“Nothing. Why are you so upset? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m not upset!” I shouted. “I’m just—”
“You’re mad because you thought I might prefer someone else over you. Isn’t that it? Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”
I had always prided myself on being straightforward and honest, yet there I was, hiding behind some silly, adolescent pride. I was as jealous as I could be, and I should have told him so from the start.
“I’m sorry, Cliff,” I said. “I shouldn’t be intruding on your life like this. It’s just that when you find yourself attracted to someone, you’re not so quick to give him up.”
“I’m sorry, too, Amy,” said Clifford. “I shouldn’t have beat around the bush about having spoken to that girl. I was afraid that if you knew, you’d never speak to me again, and I couldn’t live with that.”
I felt like a schoolgirl on her first date, speaking candidly with a boy for the first time. We were finally confessing our true feelings for each other.
It was my turn to say something, but I was too flustered to speak.
Clifford finally broke the ice. “You look nice today, Amy,” he said.
“You, too,” I said.
Clifford was wearing a tweed sports jacket over a turtleneck sweater, with pleated dress slacks—like he had stripped a mannequin naked in the men’s department at Macy’s. His hair was neatly combed, though still showing a trace of that greasy hair goo. Obviously, he was trying to make as good of an impression on me, as I was on him.
But it didn’t feel right. There was something phony about our appearance.
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “I shouldn’t have put on this outfit for you. It’s not me. Not me at all!”
“I’m guilty of the same thing,” said Clifford. “I overdressed to make you think I’m someone I’m not.”
Another moment of silence.
Clifford stared at the ground, deep in thought. “There’s lyrics to that song, you know.”
“There is?” I said. “How do they go? Did you record it? What’s the song called?”
“It’s called ‘Your Love, Like Music.’” Then Clifford drew an incredibly long breath. “I wrote it . . . for you!”
I almost fell off the couch! A song? For me?
“You want to hear it?” asked Clifford.
“More than anything!”
I got chills of anticipation as he fast-forwarded the tape.
He hit the Play button, and after a lively piano introduction, Clifford’s voice on the tape sang this lovely melody:
I hear your voice
Singing in my ear
Never will I hear
A sweeter sound.
I hear a song
When you call my name
Since the day you came
Around.
Your love, like music
Like sweet melodies
Dancing on the keys
Of my piano.
Your love, like music
Let the music play
Forever you will stay
In my heart.
I felt like Juliet being serenaded by Romeo. The song was simple and sweet, and the romantic lyrics went straight to my heart.
Clifford hit the Stop button. “That’s enough.”
“No, please!” I begged him. “Play the rest of it.”
Clifford’s shyness had been like a dark cloud that followed him everywhere, always blocking the sunlight on a perfect day. But all that was about to change. He sat up tall, with a self-confidence I hadn’t seen in him till now. He smiled at me and nodded, and the transformation was complete. The timid boy with the yo-yo was gone forever.
I heard the click of the Play button.
I see your face
And suddenly I hear
A big band loud and clear
In the park.
I feel the beat
Won’t you come with me
Dancing in the street
After dark.
Your love, like music
Like sweet melodies
Dancing on the keys
Of my piano.
Your love, like music,
Let the music play
Forever you will stay
Forever you will stay
Forever . . . in my heart.
Clifford snapped off the recorder. He was clearly as moved as I was.
I instinctively reached my hand out to him. Then I was suddenly overwhelmed by a terrible feeling: That devastating moment the magic zebra had warned me about had arrived. There would be no embracing, no touching of any kind. Clifford had given me a beautiful gift few will ever receive, and I couldn’t even shake his hand to thank him. I so desperately wanted to caress his cheek. I would even have overlooked the grease in his hair to run my fingers through it.
Clifford, too, was hopelessly trying to reach out to me beyond time and space.
I pulled my hand back and covered my mouth to hide my sorrow. “What are we gonna do?”
“I wish I knew, Amy,” sighed Clifford.
“I feel so close to you right now, yet so far away at the same time. It’s a long way to Dorian.”
“Not really. The physical space between us isn’t far at all. It’s kinda funny, actually. You’re fifty years in the future, and yet it’s like you’re sitting right here next to me.”
“I don’t want to talk any more about it. It’s too painful.”
Clifford smiled gently. “Don’t be sad, Amy. When you get home tonight, go outside and look up at the moon. It hasn’t changed in a million years. I’ll be looking at that same moon, and my face will look down on yours. I’ll be winking at you through the twinkling stars. The heavens are timeless, and it is there we will find togetherness.”
Clifford certainly had a way with words. His inspired speech had soothed my grief-stricken heart. He may have been a dweeb, like that brash young woman said, but he had the healing powers of a poet.
“Same time tomorrow?” I said.
“I’ll be waiting.”