The jangling repetition of an alarm clock ripped Ethan out of a deep, dreamless sleep. Groaning, he reached across the expanse of the mattress and slapped the alarm off. He turned over, sinking back into the pillow, but something pricked his consciousness. That alarm clock never worked before.
Ethan slowly rolled onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling. Where was the signature patch of mildew? The tell-tale water stains from the leaky roof that had dripped on his first night? Instead, the ceiling was immaculate, the light fixture clean and new.
Ethan heard the first distinct sounds from outside: voices, clear and conversational, followed by the sputtering, ratcheting start of a lawnmower. The noise startled him. He sat up too fast. A wave of dizziness and disorientation washing over him.
Then the room snapped into focus. The walls were freshly painted, the hardwood floors gleaming, cleaned and polished to a rich luster. The furniture, which had been broken relics, was now new, dust-free, and perfectly arranged. Everything was in place. Nothing was lying on the floor.
Ethan stumbled over to the dresser and stared into the mirror. He was wearing pajamas. He definitely hadn’t packed pajamas in his meager luggage. He stared at his reflection. He hadn’t changed. But everything around him had.
Ethan bolted to the window and looked out. The view had been transformed. The houses weren’t dilapidated shells; they were in pristine shape. Freshly painted homes with manicured lawns. This wasn’t a ghost town. The trees were bursting with leaves, flowers bloomed in neat beds, and the distinct, sweet scent of lilacs drifted in the air.
Ethan heard the voices again, closer now. People were outside. Some relaxing on their porches, others walking along the sidewalk. Kids played tag on the grass or rode their bikes. Several cars were parked along the curb, and occasionally, one would drive by.
Ethan stood glued to the glass, his mouth gaping wide. What is going on?
People! The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. Without stopping to process the bizarre shift, Ethan tore down the stairs and burst out the front door, stopping dead on the porch. The sheer reality of the vibrant, breathing town left him utterly dumbfounded.
“Hey, Ethan! Those are some mighty fine PJs!” a man from the house next door called out, with a friendly, familiar grin on his face. “Don’t you think you should get dressed? You’ll be on the air soon.”
“Yes,” Ethan muttered, still dazed. “On the air.” The phrase meant nothing. He realized the man, and several other people, had stopped what they were doing and were simply staring. Kids pointed and giggled. People across the street paused their conversations to look and gesture.
Feeling a sudden, overwhelming blush, Ethan forced a tight smile, backed awkwardly through the door, and closed it quickly.
The inside of the house was a revelation. The living room and dining room glowed with perfect restoration. The old, dirty furniture looked new and clean. The floors were spotless. Fresh curtains hung on sparkling windows. The bookshelf near the fireplace was full of books, the coffee table topped with a neat stack of magazines.
The dining room looked like a museum exhibit. Corner hutches were filled with delicate dishes and glasses. The chandelier’s crystals shone brightly. A lace tablecloth adorned the six-chaired table, a candelabra sitting ready in the center. The two rooms, impeccable and welcoming, reminded him instantly of his grandfather’s house.
Still reeling, Ethan drifted into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. The linoleum floor was a crisp black and white checkerboard, slippery with a fresh coat of wax under his socks. The wood cabinets were a cheerful mint green, contrasting sharply with the white stove and refrigerator. The countertops were an eye-popping mint green and magenta checkerboard Formica pattern. There was a chrome bread box, a chrome electric coffee pot, a radio, and a chrome toaster. A chrome kitchen table with a bright red Formica top and matching vinyl chairs anchored the room.
He opened the refrigerator; it was fully stocked with food he liked. Drawers and cabinets held new cookware. The pantry was full.
Ethan sank onto one of the kitchen chairs, burying his face in his hands. “What is going on here?” he muttered.
Then a telephone rang.
“This is a dream. I need to wake up,” he repeated, walking toward the annoying ringing.
A large black rotary phone sat in an alcove off the dining room. Ethan stared at it, letting it ring several times before his nerve finally broke through the confusion. He picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
On the other end, a booming, impatient voice shouted, “Where are you? Your show starts in an hour! There are a few things we have to discuss. Get down here!”
“My show?” Ethan asked weakly.
The voice turned frantic. “I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, and I don’t care, but you better shake that reefer madness out of your head and get to the studio!”
Ethan slowly pieced together a word. “Studio?”
“Yeah, that brown brick building with those four letters on the front window—W-R-Y-L,” the voice roared, adding sarcastically, “Just off Main Street as you pass the Lunchbox Cafe. Now get your ass here, now!”
Ethan slowly hung up the phone. He sat on the couch, stunned. WRYL. Studio. Show.
A cold shower brought Ethan one step closer to reality. The bathroom was white subway tile with navy blue trim in a geometric pattern. All the bathroom fixtures were white. Ethan found a razor, shaving soap, tooth brush and tooth paste in the medicine cabinet. The morning started feeling better.
In the bedroom, Ethan searched for his clothes. They were gone. His cooler, suitcase, and backpack all vanished. Only his violin remained, tucked safely in its case. He pulled out some casual clothes from the closet and drawers – styles that felt decidedly vintage, but well-kept. Looking into the dresser mirror, he adjusted the collar. “Not bad looking,” he admitted to his reflection.
He ran downstairs and stepped outside, turning onto the sidewalk leading to Main Street. He nodded to a man polishing his sedan and exchanged a cordial “Good afternoon” with a woman holding a shopping basket.
As he walked past Anderson’s Hardware Store, Mr. Anderson rushed out, handing Ethan a can of deep forest green paint that Ethan ordered a few days ago.”The perfect color for your porch railing, Mr. Anderson said.
Crossing the street, he passed the Lunch Box Cafe. Pastor Dzef jogged out, presenting Ethan with a thick, cold chocolate malt. They chatted briefly, their familiarity unnerving, before Ethan continued toward his mysterious workplace.
He walked past the Royal Theater, its marquee lights flashing. He turned the corner, his destination a small brick building in the middle of the block. Painted on the front window were the letters W R Y L Studios.
Ethan walked up the short steps to the door and turned around. The town of Royal was alive, thriving, and bustling with activity. This was not a dream.
He turned back to the door, took a deep breath, reached out, turned the knob, and walked into the WRYL studios.
