Lisa's Lair

This story was inspired by the song… What if time really did warp and you were caught up in it?

Hope you enjoy Carl’s tale!


Time Warp – By Lisa Kessler

No way a hat was going to cover this gorgeous head of hair. Carl slid the comb through his greased hair, reshaping his ducktail. He grinned at himself in the mirror. This was art. Perfect. Setting the comb aside, he snagged his black leather jacket from the coat hook.

He shot a wink at his reflection. Sally wouldn’t be able to resist him. He’d be playing backseat bingo by the end of the night for sure.

The teapot whistled on the stove when he rounded the corner. “Mom, your water’s boiling.”

He flipped the burner off and scanned the counter for the car keys. His Mom’s cookbook was still open to the “How to skin a chicken” page. His stomach grumbled. He rubbed his abdomen and shook his head. No time for chicken.

He’d grab a malt with Sally.

“Mom?” Where was she? With no sign of the car keys, he headed back down the hallway to his parents’ bedroom. He knocked on the door. “Mom?”

When no one answered, he opened the door and frowned. His parent’s bed was still unmade, and his mother’s curlers steamed unattended. Even with his jacket on, a chill shot down his spine. Where were they?

His parents were gone.

Carl’s brow furrowed as he searched empty room after empty room. It was like an episode of that creepy new show, Twilight Zone. Everything was left behind like they were plucked from the house in the middle of preparing dinner.

His Dad’s boss was supposed to be coming over. That’s how he got the car for the night. They’d wanted him out of the house while they entertained. They wouldn’t have just left.

But they were gone now.

Carl plopped down on the sofa, trying to keep himself from raking his hand back through his hair. He didn’t want to have to grease it again. Where could they have gone?

His mom had been busy in the kitchen earlier when he was on his way to take a shower. The power flickered on and off a few times while he was washing his hair. Maybe they went to the power company?

That might be why he couldn’t find the keys.

Clinging to logic, Carl went to check the garage. His Dad’s cherry 1957 Chevy was inside with the key hanging from the door. He hesitated for a moment and glanced back over his shoulder. Something still didn’t feel quite right, but the temptation the hopped up ride was too powerful.

He opened the garage door and slid behind the wheel. Once he was out of the driveway, he goosed it and the Chevy growled to life, tires screeching behind him. He clicked on the radio and rolled down the window.

Then he stopped the car. His heart was raced.

This was his street.

But he didn’t recognize a single house.

And the cars parked along the curb were out of this world. He’d never seen anything like them, not even on television. Carl’s fingers trembled as he reached over to turn off the radio. It was only then that he realized it was playing static.

Where was the deejay spinning the records? Slowly he turned the dial. Station after station came and went.

He didn’t know a single song.

Carl turned off the radio. He had no idea what was happening, but he could figure it out later. He was supposed to meet Sally at the malt shop on Main Street in ten minutes.

When he pulled into the parking lot, a cool bead of sweat slid down his back. Not only was the malt shop building a different color, but the name was changed, and through the open front door he couldn’t miss the crowd of people dancing inside.

He ground his teeth as he turned off the engine and got out of the car. This didn’t look right at all.

“Nice wheels, Fonzie.”

Carl watched the leather-clad man with spiked blonde hair pass by, pumping his fist in the air while he vanished through the door into the mass of writhing bodies. Carl let out a sigh of relief. Who was “Fonzie” anyway?

He slid the keys into his pocket and made his way to the door. A beefy hand caught his arm before he could go inside. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Carl found himself in the clutches of a six-foot six-inch man in a shirt with the sleeves cut off. The man’s eyes were hidden behind some sort of mirrored glasses. Maybe he had slipped into the Twilight Zone show and aliens had taken over planet earth.

He yanked his arm free and straightened his jacket. “I’m meeting my girl inside.”

“Only if your name is on the list.” The big man held up a clipboard.

“Name’s Carl Holt.”

The man ran his finger down his clipboard and shook his head. “Not on my list.”

Carl flipped the collar up on his jacket and narrowed his eyes. “Look you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’ Daddy-O. I don’t need to be on any list to meet my girl and have a malt. This is public property.”

The big man tipped his head back and started to laugh. “Daddy-O? This isn’t Halloween or the 50’s, dickhead. Now get lost before I throw your ass out.”

Carl’s brow furrowed. “Are you nuts, shuckster? It’s 1959.”

“1959?” The big man let his glasses slide down his nose enough for Carl to see his dark eyes. “It’s 1989, dweeb. Hear them inside lettin’ out a Rebel Yell and slamdancing? This ain’t no sockhop.”

“Slam… What?”

The big guy grunted and shook his head. “I don’t have time for your crazy ass shit. Get lost!”

Carl frowned, but he didn’t argue. 1989? Thirty years gone? Impossible.

He got behind the wheel of his Dad’s Chevy and gripped the wheel with white knuckles as he cruised by the strange cars in the parking lot.

He didn’t need to get lost… He already was.



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