Hey, Macarena

In my street, there is a portal. People have been talking about it since I was young. Several people have disappeared into it, never to return. We can only speculate about what it does and where it takes them. Sometimes morbid curiosity is stronger than good sense. For decades, I resisted the temptation to go there. I was quite comfortable in my future facing life. I’ve always been keen on my tech, and I can’t seem to breathe without lifting a device. I’m a full-fledged future lover. But there was always that tug of the unknown, like a naughty child that pulls on your sleeve, urging you to do something you know isn’t allowed. I had a friend that vanished a decade ago. People say he went into the portal, but no one knows for sure. Missing persons reports don’t carry the same weight they used to. Too many people have disappeared of their own free will, and that portal sits there, ever-present and forever inspiring wonder and a sense of danger in the citizens of my town.

I was having a bad day; not in the eventful way; in the uneventful way. It felt like everything was stagnant. I wasn’t achieving what I wanted to. I’d just broken up with my girlfriend of three months. For this present age, that was a very long-term relationship to have. It was heart-wrenching to end it. I had moved out of her house and into a tin can. That’s what they call the compartments we stay in while we are in transit, waiting for the next longer-term home to appear. It wasn’t an enjoyable environment. It had a distinctive metallic smell, and it was so claustrophobic I couldn’t do a full turn inside without knocking my head or bumping a limb. In summary, I was fed up with everything. I went for a long stroll, to stretch out the previous night’s stiffness. I hadn’t planned on going to the portal, but my legs just seemed to carry me there. It was like it was calling me, with its promise of something different.

Whenever I stepped in, nothing happened, and for a moment, I thought we’d all been hoodwinked. For years, we’d believed in the power of that static vehicle, and it seemed that it was all make- believe. But then, it began to shudder, and I was thrown through a new doorway: spat out onto the dirty ground. I looked around me at the polka dot street, peppered with similarly spat out chewing gum. I got to my feet and started walking, even though I was disorientated and had no idea where I was going. I passed several people on the streets, wearing long, flowery dresses like the Laura Ashley ones I’d seen in old photos, dungarees, denim and bomber jackets. It felt like the light was somehow faded, even though I was in a recognisable town. Maybe it was just that everything felt less distinct and sharp because of the misty weather. There wasn’t a phone in sight. I was carrying mine, but I put it into my pocket, sheepishly. I suddenly felt like it might draw attention to me, and I didn’t want that. My clothing looked wrong too. I was getting some funny looks from passers-by.

I knew I was still in my hometown, but it looked like images I’d only ever seen in historical archives. Every shop I passed was unrecognisable to me. My favourite coffee dispenser was gone. Burger King was the most vibrant business on the street. It looked new and pristine. The last time I’d seen it, it had been vacated, the sign dangling precariously from the point to which it was once affixed. It was on its way out then: just a once popular remnant of the past.

I heard a song pumping out of speakers onto the pavements: “Saturday night and I like the way you move...” I heard a lady singing along and then shouting that she wanted to buy the tape. She looked like she was hearing it for one of the first times, like it hadn’t just become one of those relics of the past that exists within the realms of your awareness but that rarely creeps to the surface, making itself heard. All the shoppers were hiving around Woolworths, carrying plastic bags that looked filmy. You could see the contents, not that it worried anyone. People were buying modestly. I saw some signs with prices on them that were inordinately low.

“Alright?” a guy said, handing me a hand drawn poster. “Are you coming to the disco tonight?”

I looked at the flyer he’d given me. It advertised a - by the looks of it - thrown-together event, held in the town hall. I looked at him with mysticism. I couldn’t help it. His look was so retro. His way of talking was different too. I’d walked for a long time without hearing words thrown around that we used to an obsessive degree. There was no "super" anything. There was no excitement over the basic things. The guy didn’t smile unless the conversation caused it to happen. He didn’t ask for my socials. He didn’t ask for anything but my company. I thought of my family and friends back home, and I wished I could run it all by them, to see what they made of my adventure, to explain to me the purpose of it all.

I ended up going along to the disco that night. There were flashing lights, a DJ with a boom box, people drinking what looked like punch and eating crisps called Fives and sweets called 10p mixes. I felt nostalgic for an era I’d never visited before. I knew the year: 1995. It was on the banner at the dance. It was still jarring, working out that I was present in a year I’d never seen and that none of my parents, grandparents or even great grandparents had ever witnessed. I’d heard stories about it, but it was something foreign then - something unreal.

“Do you want to dance with us? We’re going to do the Macarena,” said a guy with a fringe that bobbed as he spoke, momentarily distracting me from his invitation.

“Ok,” I said, tentatively, unsure of exactly what I was agreeing to.

The DJ yelled “Macarena!” into the microphone and the dance commenced. Everyone was dancing in sequence, coordinated in their every move, and I was just standing there, doing my own sort of chicken dance. That would come later, of course, and then, I started to feel a little more at home. I knew I wasn’t going back to my millennium, and I didn’t have my phone charger with me, but I was charged with the energy of the Macarena. Once I got the moves down, it felt better than any of my dances with technology ever had.