Not in 1952 Anymore

Hollywood Blvd. looks different than I remember. There are stars on the ground with names of people I don’t recognize, except for a few from my time. I read the one I am standing on, Pitbull. I wonder what this dog has done to be on a star. So much has changed.

I look around, everyone is staring at these rectangles in their hands that irradiate. They all seem so enamored by them. One person was nearly run over by a vehicle because he refused to look up. No one stops to say hello, no one makes eye contact or asks how you are doing. They just pass you by, and heaven forbid you smile at them and tell them to have a lovely day. They look at you like you are a martian who just landed from outer space speaking in an alien tongue. When did humanity become so robotic?

I agreed to be cryogenically frozen because I hoped for progress and change, yet, here I stand in the middle of a foreign Hollywood Blvd where all basic decency ceases to exist. Fifty plus years have passed and in some ways, the world seems to have regressed.

I was even told the President is an orange man who likes to grab women’s private areas, and children are being kept in cages. Quite frankly, I’m not sure how to feel about 2019 or about the future in general.

I walk dejected, wondering if I made the right decision when a man bumps into me and yells, “watch it!” I’m taken aback, but before I can apologize, two rather diverse looking women come to my aid.

“You watch it,” says the tall, beautiful African American woman. She is dressed in pants that stop well before her knees and a rather revealing blouse. I blush.

“Yeah, you bumped into her you jerk. Apologize,” interjects the hypnotizing, brown-eyed Spanish-looking woman dressed in a skin-tight dress that accentuates her hour-glass figure. There are names for women who dressed like this in my time, but I am too ashamed to utter the words.

The man scoffs and mutters, “damn feminists,” under his breath as he walks away.

“You okay?” asks the brown-eyed beauty. “Yes, I am fine. Thank you,” I respond in awe of the manner they spoke to a man. “I’m Madison,” says the African American woman, “and this is Rachelle.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, “my name is Anne.”

“Nice to meet you, Anne. You look a little lost. Are you headed to a costume party somewhere or a character on the strip?” asks Madison. I furl my eyebrows until I realize they are pointing out my apparel. I did not get the opportunity to modernize my wardrobe and am still wearing my polka-dotted dress and black heels. I smile awkwardly.

“No actually, I was, um,” I pause in an attempt to form the words that explain my situation. “I am not from this time,” I say. The looks on their faces tell me that was not the right way to phrase it. “I apologize, I meant to say, I was cryogenically frozen in 1952 and just woke up in 2019.” Their faces begin to ease. “Oh, Dr. Greenberg’s experiment,” Madison says excitedly, "I was reading about that in my biology class at Standford. I’m shocked you made it without injury. You’ll have to tell us more about it.”

“Madison here is a huge nerd. She’s studying to be a biochemist,” teases Rachelle. Madison hits Rachelle in the arm with her elbow in a joking manner and says, “Says the soon to be Harvard graduate in psychotherapy.”

My eyes widen in awe. “You are able to go to college?” I ask. Their eyebrows furl in curiosity but quickly soften in understanding. “Women can do all sorts of things these days, including going to college,” says Madison.

“Oh?” I say, “I always wanted to study science but back then it was a rarity for women to attend college. My mother forced me to marry right after high school,” I say.

They raise their brows, “Married? where’s your husband?” Rachelle asks rather abruptly. Madison elbows her again and gives her a “you cannot just ask that” look.

“It is quite alright.” I say, “Yes, I was married. He died in an accident, just before I turned 35. Although I didn’t love him, with him and my parents gone, I felt there was nothing for me in 1952, which is why I agreed to be frozen. If I could not study science, I thought I could be a part of it.”

"Well," says Madison, "It's still not too late. Here, why don't you come with us, and we'll show you the ropes."

"Ropes?" I question.

"She means we'll help you get settled and teach you everything you need to know," Rachelle says.

"But first," Madison says pulling out her rectangular object, "let's take a selfie to commemorate this moment, shall we?"

"What is that object, and what is a selfie?" I ask. They giggle and ask me to smile as a flash goes off and captures our images. I look at it mesmerizingly. "Is this a modern camera then?" I ask.

"It's a camera, a phone, and a computer all in one," Madison says.

I blink profusely as my brain tries to adjust to this newfound information and technology.

Rachelle swings her hand over my shoulder and around my neck. "You have much to learn young Padawan."

"What is a Padawan?" I ask.

They laugh. "Just come on. First stop, shopping," Madison says.

Shopping. Finally, something I understand.

As we walk towards the shops, I wonder if perhaps I have misjudged 2019 and that there is more good than bad. If women can become scientists, I cannot wait to discover what else we can do.

Suddenly the future is not looking so dim.