The 80's Called

She was dreaming. She has to be. There is no way this can be real. Just a dream about a time her parents lived in. That's it! She saw them earlier and they were talking about their high school days. She sighs in relief.  Might as well lean into it. She will wake up soon enough.

Her eyes take in the high hair, the leg warmers, the puffy jackets, and blue eyeshadow. 

“Girl,” she makes it two syllables, “what in heaven are you wearing?” Everyone looks. Unfortunately, the jukebox fell between songs right that moment. 

She looks down, expecting to see her PJ’s. This is a dream, after all. She wasn't really in a bar in the 1980’s. Right?

Instead she finds her yoga pants and slightly long t-shirt. Not what she wore to bed. Don't panic. Dreams can be weird.

“Looks like strange work-out gear,” a man adds just as ‘Beat It ' starts to play, “This ain't no aerobics studio.”

“Leave her alone, Billy.” 

“Yeah, let her be comfortable.” 

Well, at least she is being defended. 

“Thank you.” she reaches in the slim pocket where her phone should be. It isn't there, of course. It is on her bedside on its charger. She is laying beside it in a deep sleep.

The dream is colorful. Does she usually dream in color? Her nose starts to pick up the odors around her. The smell of beer, cologne and perfume, peanuts from the bar. Weird. She can't remember ever having a dream being so sensory before. 

“What is your name, sweetheart?” A man comes up to her. His hair is long and curly. Permed, she realizes. 

“Bethany.”

“Weird name. I am Dave. Never seen you in here before. What's your sign?”

“Dave, let me save you some trouble,” she lifts her hand up. Thank goodness Patrick proposed last week and she wears a ring. It doesn't matter. None of this does. It is just a dream, right?

“Oh, sorry.” He moves away. A woman takes a seat beside her. She found herself sitting at the bar. 

“Dave is always on the hunt. David Lee Roth, he ain't. Hi, my name is Debby.”

“Debby, hello. I am Bethany.”

“Pretty name. Nice ring.” She takes her hand without asking, “your guy must be loaded.”

Dream or not, that feels intrusive. She takes her hand back, tucking it under her thigh. “Thank you. We are deeply in love. That's what matters.”

“Oh, for sure. Sorry to be so… we just don't get very many strangers here.”

She waves it off with her other hand. “It is alright.” Where is here? She longs to ask that. How do you work that into a normal conversation?

There should be some clues around. The name will be on something. But would that help? More to the point, does it matter? This is just a dream.

Debby suddenly grabs her hand, “Let's dance. I love this song.” Against her conscience will, she is dragged into the dance floor. What is the song? She knows some from this era, ones her parents play but she isn't sure about this one. It has a good beat.

I am dreaming, she reminds herself. This song might not even exist outside my dream. If I remember I will look it up on YouTube.

“What is YouTube and what type of dance is that?” Her companion asks.

“YouTube is a place online where all types of old music videos and current ones, as well as a bunch of other things, are gathered. You can watch them anytime, look up particular artists, songs,” she is half shouting to be heard over the pounding beat, “can watch on your phone.”

“Man, whatever stuff you are on Bethany, you need to share. Watch on your phone,” she rolls her eyes as she does some strange moves, “how can anyone watch on a phone? Now, MTV is where the music can be watched. “Don't you know the Safety Dance? Here let me show you.”

MTV used to have music, that's right. Now it is just reality shows, mostly about teen moms. Debby wouldn't believe her if she told her. Instead, she concentrates on learning the moves to this Safety Dance.

It keeps going on. Do dreams last this long?  They dance and her new friend buys her beer. It tastes like beer. All her senses are in sharp focus. The taste of the beer, the sound of the music, the colors of the neon and the people's hair and clothes, the feel of the bar under her hands. 

Time slips away and before she knows it, the bar is closing. 

“I need to call an Uber.” she drunkenly tells Debby.

“Who is Uber?,” a shrug. The strange girl has been talking strange all night, “Come on. The phone is back this way.” 

She leads her to the back of the bar. A pay phone sits between the bathrooms. Her bleary eyes take it in. 

She has seen them before, in books and magazines. Never had she seen one in person. She tilts her head and examines it. “Here's a quarter, call someone who cares!” She sings, slightly off key. 

“Good one.” Debby hands her a quarter. She sees the slit it goes into. After a few tries, she gets it in. The receiver has a dial tone. The round thing where the dial pad should be gives her a bit of trouble but, after a few times, she is able to dial her mom's cell number.

It rings queerly, with an echo that seems to go through time. An answer. “Mom, the 80’s are calling. Mom, please come get me!”  It all hits. This can't be a dream. “I’m scared.”

“Hello. Who is this! You better have a good reason for waking me up!” It isn't her mom's voice. It is her grandmother’s.

“Grandma. It is Bethany. I am at…” She looks to Debby who gives her the name of the bar, “Please come get me!”

“Harry, wake up! Janet is drunk at_ . Go get her.” Mumbling, “Young Lady, I swear your father is going to, Janet, are you listening?” Bethany has passed out.

Debby eases her down and takes the phone, “Ma’am. She passed out. Yes, I will get some help and get her out front.”

She is woken up by her grandpa. He is him but so much younger. “There you are. Where did you get that ridiculous outfit? And what possibly possessed you to drink yourself drunk?”

She just stares at him. 

He shakes his head. “When you sober up we will talk.” 

She closes her eyes. What is going through her head she can't handle right now. No way has she somehow ‘time traveled’ to the 1980’s. It is impossible! But, how else to explain it?

She recognizes the house they pull up in front of. Her grandparents live in the same house to this day, or her day? He walks her up the walkway and into the formal living room. They move across the hall to the room she stays at when she spends the night. The canopy bed is still the same. The room is arranged differently though.

“Sleep it off.” 

She falls into the bed. “I will,” she says out loud, “and will wake up in my time.” She adds in her head.

“Wake up Bethany. Please wake up.” 

It is hard to push through the darkness. Why is it so dark? Her mom's voice draws her up. She can only open her eyes a little. 

“Her hand moved!” Patrick says, “That is it, come back to us, my love.”

“Come on Bethany Anne.” She focuses on her dad's voice, reaching out to it. Her eyes open a bit more. 

“Oh Bethany! There you are!” 

She tries to talk but can't.”

“You have a tube down your throat. Don't try to talk. Patrick, get the nurse.” He obeys her dad. Her eyes must be communicating what her lips can't.

“You were in an accident. You have been in a coma.” her mom answers. 

“You have slowly been coming back to us the last few days.” Her dad adds.

A coma. Weird. Does everyone head back to the past when they are…

“Hello Bethany. So glad to finally meet you.” the nurse says, “the doctor is on the way and we will get that tube out.”

An hour later

“I was in the past, in the 80’s. Everything was so sharp. I called you to come get me, mom but Grandma answered. Grandpa came and got me. Thought I was you. The house was the same, I went through the formal living room, and slept on the canopy bed.” Her mom gasps, “Mom?”

“Bethany, that house was destroyed by the tornado that took your grandparents' lives when I was pregnant with you.” 

They stare at each other.

The end