The Year 1978

The door to your house/flat/apartment/abode has come unstuck in time. The next time you walk through it, you find yourself in the same place, but a different time entirely. Where are you, and what happens next?

I accidentally push the door as I try to get my keys out and it opens right away. I check the number on the door: X-555. Yes, this is definitely my unit. That’s weird, I thought, I always lock the front door. Scared and cautious, I step in the door slowly, pulling my bag up my shoulder, my keys ready to strike someone to allow me a quick escape. A beaded ivory and clear door curtain separates the foyer from the living room. The wall is painted a soft yellow, with a huge Jackson 5 poster on the wall facing the entrance. A huge cutout from the Charlie’s Angel is on the door of the coat closet. I must be the in the wrong apartment; I don’t think this is my place. Near the front door stands an old fashioned coat rack with a couple long umbrellas, a dark green raincoat dripping on an newspaper and a pair of matching rain boots. Intrigued, I bend down to check the date on the paper: it says May 6, 1978. I can NOT believe this!

Slowly, I separate some of the beads, trying to be as quiet as possible as I make my way into the house. The shower is running in the bathroom: someone is there. A man’s voice is singing loudly. And badly. Staying Alive, Staying Alive! He is singing the Bee Gees. The carpet on the floor is hideous: dark beige and covered with numerous area rugs with multicolored round circles in earth tone shades on a dark brown background. Who picked that? I prefer the hardwood floor. It must feel good if you walk bare feet in it though. The sofa is made of microfiber with the same pattern on the throw rug. Looking up to see the balcony, the curtains matches the sofa. Did they have a sale or something? On the sofa table, there are a couple magazines. Peggy Dillard is gracing the cover of Vogue. 1978. Oh yeah! 

An older, tall television stands in the living room. It is hard to tell if it is color or black and white. A weird looking equipment with the lid up and a needle sticking down stands next to TV. It must be a record player since there are many flat discs with different artists next to it. I shuffle quickly through a few: The Temptations, The Bee Gees, The Carpenters, The Isley Brothers, The Ohio Players. Nice collection. A huge Martin Luther King and his excerpt from his famous speech “I had a dream” featured on the wall above the TV. On the opposite wall, there is a huge John F. Kennedy portrait between a Jimi Hendricks poster and a Malcom X painting. Very interesting choices. Below them are a couple bookcases and a couple desks. Books and more books everywhere. Whoever lives here must be a student.

I step into the kitchen when I hear the rattling of a pot. Something is cooking in there. The stove is bright yellow, the cookware is bright red. The carpet on the floor is a lighter shade of brown. The microwave is gone. A bunch of apples are in a basket on the counter. The fridge is the same yellow as the stove. Inside, there are milk cartons, soda cans, beer bottles. Before I can open a drawer, I hear the rattling of the boiling pot again. It’s spaghetti and it looks cooked. I turn off the stove. I notice the dinner table, all set for a dinner for two. Salad is already prepared in a bowl with wine bottle and a couple glasses on the table. Dinner is ready for someone. For two, I guess.

I venture into the bedroom. The carpet in the room is dark red. The furniture is all black. The bed, the dresser, the night stands and the mirror, all with matching elaborate designs. Such attention to details. I can see his shoes by the door in the room. High platforms. I see his pants thrown on the bed and his shirt. Bell Bottoms Jeans. Red shirt. The legs were wet so he must have been the one who used the raincoat. In the closets, I can see many different 70s style outfits and shoes. His and hers. The girl loves bags.

Passing by the mirror, I take a look at myself: my hair was in a huge afro, yellow shirt with a green cotton vest, bell bottoms beige pants, high platform with a beautiful, multicolored -yellow, brown and green, beaded light brown satchel matching my pants over my shoulder. In my ears, a huge set of loop earrings with a heart dangling from each one. Wow, I look great! A couple pictures on the dresser catch my attention. It was a beautiful couple who look in love. A white man and a black woman. I look like the black woman. In one picture, they are walking across a field while holding hands. In another, they are hanging out by a pool, both laughing. In another one, they are horseback riding. The engraving reads “Trisha and John. Love Always and Forever” at the bottom of another picture where they sit facing each other. Trisha? Is that my name?  Am I married to him? I was about to glance at my hands when I heard him call out “Trisha! Trisha!” Startled, I answered hesitantly “Yes?!?”

“Baby, you’re home! I made dinner for us. I will be out in a minute!” he calls out. If he is the man in the picture, I have good taste. Forget that: I have GREAT taste. I would not mind living here. Quickly, I head back to the living room and close the door. He must have left it opened for me. Hello life in 1978!

The End.

Written by Nadeen Chrystal Davis. Property of Nadeen Chrystal Davis.

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12 Responses to The Year 1978

  1. Pingback: [My First Published Short Story] May 6 Weekly Writing Challenge: Through the Door | Nadeen's Reading Corner

  2. baka8 says:

    Nadeen, nadeen, poor, poor nadeen. I read your “The Year 1978,” and enjoyed it immensely. In fact, it gave me fodder for some of my own b.s. and yes, mine is b.s. in comparison. well, i’ll have to see where Ali Baba and the 7 Thieves have made it off to, they are always such a demonic bunch.

  3. baka8 says:

    Creative writing hot potato challenge! Russian Rulette! A Duel!

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