There exists a small displaced band of hippies who have escaped the turn of time, and are still happily weed-smokingly living out their days in this small town. They are resolutely happy in their ignorance that it is no-longer 1968, and that there is no danger of the draft.
I encountered this little band of flower-children while working. Although I was there to fix the reception of their cable TV, I doubt that any of them even noticed that I was there. There were four of them, all sprawled on the faded couch, like dead flies stuck to the rim of a glass, no one moved at my approach. The air was thick with the sickly sweet scent of weed, and the TV was mostly snow, only the outlines of figures moved on the old RCA Floor Console. I had come to make the snow go away, and so that is what I did.
I repaired a bad connection, and this solved the problem. I worked silently because I couldn’t think of anything to say, and the stoned bodies on the sofa didn’t bother to interact with me in the least. I felt as though I had stepped into and then back out of a small time distortion. There had been nothing in the room to indicate that I was in any other decade than the 1960s, everything there would have been at home in that decade, nothing betrayed that this was indeed a new century, and the 60s a distant memory.
When I took my leave (Of the only person in the house who was lucid) I glanced back once toward the room, and shrugged at the oddity of what I had just seen.
Oh-well, only one more day in the life of a cable-guy.