It’s a new year, but seeing 2014 roll around on the dial scared the bejeebers out of me! After all, 2014 is 30 years after Orwell’s nightmarish 1984, and it’s a crazy era even he couldn’t have conjured up! Who needs that kind of new year? Not me! In fact, I want to forget 2014 and welcome back some old years instead.
I could pretend it’s 1957. Eisenhower is president again, the economy is rolling, and company-paid health care and a full retirement are the norms of the working world. On my lunch hour, I could go to the town square and watch all the ladies walk by in their crisp dresses and white gloves, while I tip my hat to each of them as I read the latest adventures of Superman from the comic book I’d buy at the drugstore. And I could test drive a brand new ‘57 Chevy. Everyone wanted one of those cars; with a little imagination, we’d get a second chance to own one.
Or, I could pretend it’s 1967, as the "Summer of Love" is about to start. I could grow my hair out, skip a few baths, and listen to all these new bands like The Byrds, Jefferson Airplane, and Janis Joplin, the ferocious singer who prefers a Mercedes Benz to her friends’ Porsches. I wonder if she’d like my new ‘57 Chevy? Maybe she’d write a song about it. If not, I bet Mama Cass would!
I might pretend it’s 1974 so I could snicker at the leisure suits on the mannequins. Leisure suits always scared me more than any of Orwell’s fiction. Richard Nixon used to scare me, too, but he had the decency to resign in 1974 after he was caught spying. I can’t say that about our current leaders. They believe spying to be a constitutional right, performed for our "protection."
I’d pretend and pretend just so I wouldn’t have to admit it’s really 2014. I’d take anything over a world where government sucks at your soul, and dishonesty is a calling card for success. Yes, give me 1957 or 1967 or even 1974 if you must. I could drive my new ‘57 Chevy. I could write tunes with Mama Cass. I could even buy a leisure suit if it meant stopping the calendar. You can go on to 2014 without me. I’m not that brave.
David McCoy, a notorious storyteller and proud Yellow Jacket, lives in Covington. He can be reached at email@example.com.