"It's trucks we drive, I say!"

The tool didn’t work. I eagerly went out this morning to try it, finding out in short order that the thin metal of the steel tube was no match for the stiff valve that needed turning. It bent my improvised tool like so much paper—twisting it this way and that. I’ll look at an alternative design, with some reinforced steel down at the end—or I may just go out and buy the goddamned thing. There is no rush on this, since the plumbing in the house needs to be completely redone.

One thing you would learn, as you took apart the bathroom walls, is that—in 1956—you could buy what is described as a “GIANT 21” TELEVISION” for around one hundred and seventeen dollars. An attractive payment plan could also be arranged, adding absolutely nothing to the cost of the tv set. I came by this information from the crumpled-up newspapers the last remodellers had thrown into the walls for a little insulation. I’m not quite sure what their thinking was, since it didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. But back to the giant twenty-one inch television: These days people give away televisions that are not only bigger, but cost about five times the 1956 price. They usually work just fine, but the remote control device is generally the culprit. The thing that—in 1956—would sound absurd, is today normal. Remote doesn’t work? Toss out the tv; it’s simply too much trouble to get it fixed.

If I could go back to 1956, I would run straight to an appliance store and create a commotion. Holding up my hand in a dramatic fashion, I would command all sales to halt.

“Listen, folks! If you can just hold off for fifty years, you’ll have televisions like you wouldn’t believe, and they’re ALL FREE! You don’t have to pay a dime! The only thing that doesn’t work is the remote control, and you don’t even know what that is—you’re comfortable with the idea of getting up to change the channel. It’s what people do!

"We want to watch tv right now," someone will say. "We don't want to wait fifty years!"
"Well, that’s your choice, but don’t come crying to me when you see a tv that’s a hundred times better than these little black and white jobs sitting out by the curb free for the taking! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Then I’ll add:

“Also, since I have your attention, here’s a heads-up on the current trend of the future: Most of us fifty years down the road drive TRUCKS!” Startled gasps all around.
“Yes, that’s right—T-R-U-C-K-S!”
“I know, I know,” I’ll say, “The truck is the first choice of the dirt-farmer, the melon-pickers, the migrants, transients, the stragglers from the Great Depression who never quite recovered from that fearsome economic blight.” I’ll wave my arms around a bit for dramatic effect, revival preacher-style. “I realize all that. But it’s what we drive, I tell you! We love ‘em!”

“You!” Indicating a man with a fabulous Cadillac all resplendent with tailfins, his wife in a head-scarf and movie-star sunglasses.
“Get with the program, man! Go out and buy a TRUCK!”

I’ll also add, if I haven’t been run out of town, that the cheap gas they enjoy isn’t going to last forever, so they’d better use as much of it as they can, while it still costs next to nothing.

Then some smart-aleck will ask:
“Hey, Mr. Man from the future—if your gas is so expensive, why do you mostly drive around in trucks? Don’t trucks use more gas?” Yes, others will nod in agreement, seeing the obvious contradiction from the rabble-rouser sent for god-only-knows what reason from the future. A significant murmur will rise from the crowd, outright derision at the idea that civilized people should convey themselves about the city and countryside in trucks, calling on grandma on a bright Sunday in a pickup.
“It’s unseemly,” one very proper woman in a smart outfit with a matching handbag will say.

Then, suddenly unsure of myself, I’ll mumble something, maybe audible, maybe not:
“Yes..I guess they do use more gas; I haven’t quite figured that one out myself. But it’s what we drive, I tell you! We can’t get enough of ‘em!”

Advertised there in the newspaper from 1956 was also a radio, a miniature affair that could be carried in a pocket or a purse. It looked pretty nice, and came with a headset for “private listening.” You could pay for this radio on an installment plan, giving over only fifty cents a week to own it—or two dollars per month. Not only that, but the installment plan supposedly added nothing to the cost of the little radio. I kind of wish I had one.