Chapter 4

Driving along Interstate 40 in northern Arizona, Kate Sorensen watched Nostalgia City billboards flash by as she wondered what in the world she was doing. It was just curiosity, she told herself, that prompted her to fly out to Flagstaff, rent a car, and head toward Max’s metropolis.

The next billboard said she was approaching a Blast to the Past. A few miles later a sign heralded, The Living Time Machine. Clever? Almost. If Max’s PR was as mediocre as his advertising, no wonder he needed help. When she reached the exit for the small town of Polk, she pulled off the interstate and drove south. She passed through Polk, traveled several more miles, and was soon entering Nostalgia City’s massive parking lot. The lot wasn’t full, but rows of cars stretched on for acres. A dry, mid-April breeze whispered to her as she got out of her car. The air smelled fresh, like it did in Vegas before a million cars took to the streets every day. She heard a humming and the sound of voices. Turning around, she saw a tram waiting for her. She nestled herself into a molded bench seat, angling her legs to the side. As the tram started, a recorded voice said, “You’re about to step back in time. But before you do, remember where you’re parked. You’re in section T for teenybopper.”

Kate scanned the passengers. On the row behind her were two couples, perhaps in their late fifties. She could see few children on the tram. The demographics weren’t quite Sun City, but this was no Sesame Street crowd, either. Except for a few teens, everyone was a gen-Xer, like Kate, or older.

Kate’s Nordstrom blazer and camel skirt made her more formally dressed than the other visitors. Her blonde hair tied up tight and her makeup subdued, she sparkled under the desert sun. She did look dressy for a theme park, but what the heck, this was a job interview, even if it was with Max.

As the tram reached the park’s main entrance, the recorded voice resumed. “When you leave the tram you can either go directly to a ticket booth, or stop at one of the automated information stations.”

Kate stepped from the tram and saw a dozen oddly shaped kiosks. Some looked like jukeboxes. Others were in the shape of space capsules, stacks of huge phonograph records, old-style TV sets, and other bygone cultural icons. They were scattered across a broad concrete square like giant toys on a playroom floor. Kate chose a kiosk in the shape of a pudgy carhop on roller skates. The carhop’s food tray held the flat video screen. Kate pushed a button. A twangy guitar played a song she recognized but couldn’t name then a man’s voice began. “Are you ready for a trip back? Welcome to Archibald Maxwell’s Nostalgia City. Everything you see and hear is just as it was back then.”

So Max did flaunt his name here and there, just like the news reports she’d seen. Kate had to bend over to read the screen. “Notice there are several ways to enjoy your trip to the past. If you’d like to stay in one of our hotels, touch the green button. Once inside the park you can catch a taxi or shuttle bus. If you’d like to rent a car, touch the red button.”

Rental cars in an amusement park? That was a twist. Kate touched the screen and watched a video of an old car driving toward the camera. Was it a Pontiac?

“This beautiful 1972 Chevrolet, or one of a variety of other classic wheels, is available for your stay in Nostalgia City.”

As the announcer spoke, names of car models and typical rental rates crawled across the bottom of the screen. The prices! In Vegas, anyone could rent a new Italian sports car or a limo and driver for the same price as these automotive relics. But then lots of people liked old cars. Kate touched another button.

The screen filled with an aerial view of Nostalgia City, and the reason for the rental cars and taxis became obvious. The park covered several square miles. In the middle was the “city” portion of Nostalgia City, subtitled Centerville, a re-created town from 40 years ago. Arranged around it in a semicircle were other themed areas, all connected by roads that radiated out from Centerville like spokes on a wheel.

The areas included an amusement park called the Fun Zone, a cluster of hotels and restaurants, a golf course, and a small dude ranch. The entrance where she stood was at the end of another spoke. A remarkable accomplishment, Kate thought, in light of the resort’s checkered past. Owing to Max’s unfortunate decision to build a multi-billion dollar development just before the recession hit, construction stopped for at least two years. Max had the advantage later, however, of a cheap labor market during the most intensive building phase. Derided by the media at first because of the on-again, off-again nature of its construction, Nostalgia City became a sensation when it was finally finished.

Kate remembered the glowing TV news stories. One over-enthusiastic network reporter had worn wide bell-bottoms and a tie-dyed top to cover the grand opening. Kate had a good idea of who the park’s prime market was, judging by the ages and prosperous look of the tourists flocking in. Why, she wondered, did Max want PR help--especially hers?

To enter the park Kate had to go through a security check. It looked like the checkpoints at airports, except the uniformed personnel smiled more often. This kept weapons out of the park, without dampening visitors’ spirits. She looked past the gates and saw lines of taxicabs and small buses. All the vehicles looked old fashioned, yet new.

Their gleaming chrome, shiny paint, and other details said they must be recent models, but the styles were obviously decades old. Advertising signs, promoting park attractions, decorated the sides of the buses. One sign said, “Hustle your bones over to the Graveyard Grill. Try our Ghoulash.”

Kate grimaced at the puns. She decided to check out the Fun Zone amusement area and headed for a shuttle bus.

***

Two and a half hours later, after exploring part of the park and going on a few rides, Kate stood before an office building on a side street at the edge of Centerville. The bronze sign set into the stonework said only, “Maxwell Building.” Inside, Kate gave her name to a guard who directed her to a bank of elevators.

Kate found Max’s office on the top floor. The brightly colored, squared-off waiting-room furniture was obviously accurate for the period. The receptionist’s suit could have been from the 1960s or contemporary, but her hairstyle was something Kate remembered seeing in old movies and in one of her mother’s photo albums. Almost before Kate could give her name, Max came out a doorway to greet her.