Something profound, life-changing and amazing happened to me Monday afternoon. It was a work day like any other, a lovely afternoon in June, and I was riding my bicycle from home back to work at the end of lunch, enjoying the sunshine and light breeze and feeling, as I often do, righteous.
But then it happened. I speedily transitioned from road to sidewalk because on Railroad Avenue, there is no room for cyclists and the motorists travel at high speeds. Sometime after I rode up on to the sidewalk, my front wheel fell out from under me. I remember looking down and thinking, “Oh shit!” and then….nothing.
Somehow I made it to work 35-45 minutes later. I was taken to the hospital where I learned that I suffered a moderate concussion and several abrasions in the crash. I’m recovering at home now, but there are 35-45 minutes that I can’t account for. It’s like a blanked-out part of my day, I literally have no idea what happened during that time, though I’ve been trying to recall it.
Then, this morning, an authentic Eureka! moment. It all became clear. Let me recount for you what happened to me during those 45 minutes.
Pasillo Nuevo
“Hey man, are you okay? Get up man, get up! Everything is going to be alright,” the heavily-accented voice told me. I looked up and was startled to see a bald Latino male with the words ‘Pasillo Nuevo’ tattooed above his right and left eyes. His clothes and demeanor said “Gangbanger” to me, but his spirit exuded kindness, generosity and brotherly love.
Warily I rose to my feet, shaking the cobwebs from my head and casting nervous glances left and right. I remembered crashing, but not in this place, and not in this time.
“Where am I? Who are you?” the words barely escaped my mouth as the man shushed me and offered me a cool glass of water.
“You took a hard hit amigo, but you are safe now. Come with me,” he said.
I looked back at my crumpled bicycle, my steel steed that had carried me thousands of miles throughout these parts. It lay broken on the sidewalk, twisted and melted as if it had just passed through a Salvador Dali painting. A heavy feeling hit my chest, I let out a gasp and choked back some tears.
Cautiously, I took the stranger’s hand, and looked ahead towards an unfamiliar landscape.
“Welcome to Newhall,” the gangbanger told me. “You are home now.”
Newhall? This must be some mistake, I thought. Before me was something resembling Old Town Newhall, only there was nothing old about it. Main Street was there, but the old raggedy auto shops had disappeared. The roads were still there, but there were no cars on them, only large groups of multi-ethnic people walking back and forth, going about their business. All around me there were unfamiliar buildings- a three story one here, a five story one there, with signs advertising “Urban Lofts,” “Art Studio,” and more. Coffee shops, diners, clothing stores, and thrift shops lined the boulevard, reminiscent of Main Street in Ventura, but with a distinct Newhall western/Victorian flavor. To my right, a modern two story library sat with scores of people drinking coffee, reading and chatting on the second floor patio, enjoying the warm Santa Clarita sun on a brilliant blue-skied day.
What the hell? What is this place?
The New Newhall
The gangbanger took my hand and we walked slowly down Main Street. Stopping at the Hart 2 Hart Coffee Shop, gangbanger said, “Come, have a seat and rest. I will get you something to eat.”
I sat down and let out a deep sigh, closing my eyes. This can’t be happening to me, I thought. I must be dead. Wake up Jeff, wake up!
Just then, I was startled to hear a long WHOOOOOSH! above and behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and was shocked to see an elevated Mag Lev Monorail system quietly slide to a stop at an above-ground platform just west of Old Town Newhall. Hundreds of commuters got off the train, and just as quietly as it had stopped, it sped off once again, heading north.
The gangbanger returned and politely handed me a glass of ice water, a hot black Newhall coffee, and a scrumptious lemon pound cake. Then he handed me something else.
“I’ve got to go help someone else,” he told me, “so until I return, you can read this.”
He handed me some sort of foldable, paper-like digital device. It was light in my hands, and almost felt disposable despite its obvious cost.
At the top of the device was, at last, something familiar. “THE SIGNAL : VIGILANCE FOREVER – SINCE 1919.” I looked down and startled, I blinked my eyes several times to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
Just below the masthead was the date: June 21, 2050.
I dropped the cup of coffee, the hot black liquid and shards of glass exploding on the floor as startled patrons glanced my way. I apologized profusely, then glanced back at the newspaper’s headlines:
MIGHTY SANTA CLARA RIVER BECOMES WHITE WATER RAFTING CAPITAL OF THE WEST
FREE HEALTH CARE FOR ALL AS SIXTH HOSPITAL OPENS IN SCV
ECONOMISTS : SANTA CLARITA ECONOMY STRONGEST AND MOST VIBRANT IN STATE
BICYCLING OVERTAKES CARS AS PRIMARY TRANSPORTATION FOR SCVers
SIERRA CLUB : SCV A NATIONAL MODEL FOR CLEAN, SUSTAINABLE GROWTH
NEWHALL 4th OF JULY PARADE BETTER THAN TOURNAMENT OF ROSES PARADE, SAYS PARADE PANEL
HART HIGH SCHOOL NAMED BEST SCHOOL IN AMERICA, INDIANS WIN STATE CHAMPIONSHIP IN EVERY SPORT
VALENCIA HIGH SCHOOL TO BE MOTHBALLED, TURNED INTO JAIL
SCV NAMED MOST DIVERSE, PEACEFUL COMMUNITY IN NATION
COLLEGE OF THE CANYONS NAMED HARVARD OF THE WEST
LITERACY RATES RISING IN CANYON COUNTRY EXPERTS SAY
My jaw dropped as I hungrily read each headline, all of them proclaiming the supremacy and brilliance of Santa Clarita. The Signal was bursting at the seams, it seemed, with story upon story of the greatness of the SCV, with dozens of expert reporters chronicling the majesty of my town in beautiful, flowing, literary prose.
Mr. Gangbanger returned with a coy look on his face. “What do you think amigo?” he asked me.
“I..I…I…” I stuttered, unsure of myself, of this time and place, of my gangbanger friend, of my mind, even. “I’m astonished!” I cried out. “Everything I want the SCV to be has come true in this magical time and place!”
He laughed and said, “Come. I have more to show you.”
We left the coffee shop and enjoyed a brisk walk to the elevated Monorail platform. I glanced at a map of the high-tech, zero-emissions rapid transit system and saw that it extended to all points of the SCV and beyond. A person could hop on the train in Acton and take it all the way to Ventura in less than 30 minutes. From Castaic to the Newhall Pass and down to Los Angeles, commuters were whisked silently along at 250mph. The system map showed that the Newhall Pass and I-5 had been restored to parkland; the Cross Valley Connector, now submerged under the mighty Santa Clara river, had been converted to a Marina. An advertisement on the system map invited guests to a rebuilt and revitalized Saugus Speedway, where hydrogen fueled, zero-emission cars raced crazy 8s. “SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY! COME ENJOY EXPLOSIVE ACTION ONLY AT THE SAUGUS SPEEDWAY!” the digital video ad shouted.
The Train Ride
We hopped on a northbound train and as we sped over Valencia, familiarity returned. The suburban houses built in the 1960s remained, but parts of the streets and cul-de-sacs had been converted to community farming patches. Children and families milled about, playing in the open spaces and harvesting food for their dinner table later that night. Some of them looked up and waved at me as we flew by.
Gangbanger had to practically peel me away from the window of the train as we slowed to a stop in an alien place. “DOWNTOWN SANTA CLARITA,” the computerized voice said, interrupting the KSCV NPR-affiliated radio station, and Gangbanger pulled me out of my seat as we shuffled off to the door.
Downtown Santa Clarita
As we exited the train, I gasped. Before me stood large steel and glass skyscrapers, 15-40 stories tall, with wind generators and solar panels built into the structures in an elegant and efficient way. Thousands of white collar workers scurried between the buildings on what was once Valencia Blvd but was now Valencia Bikeway. Westfield Town Center mall still remained, but it had been renamed “MUSEUM OF THE AMERICAN SUBURB.” A brochure in the train station said it was the only museum on the west coast to offer an intimate and realistic look at late 20th and early 21st century suburban life. Appropriately enough, there were thousands of antique cars parked in the parking lot.
By now this was all starting to feel too good to be true. Perfect even. My skin was bleeding on my arm because I had pinched myself so many times, but I never woke up.
Sensing my confusion, Gangbanger told me all the answers would be found at our next destination: Santa Clarita City Hall.
City Hall
I looked forward to seeing the familiar bricked office building that was home to our City government. But soon I learned that that old building had been torn down, and a new monument to responsible local government had been erected in its place.
Right there on Valencia Bikeway was a striking 10 story City Hall building, constructed out of marble with Roman-esque pillars, a large and inviting entryway and multiple statues and fountains out front. Rivaling LA City Hall in design, an American flag flew proudly overhead a new City Seal (minus the road, and with more symbols of people.)
Gangbanger and I strolled into the verandah and took our time looking at and reading the descriptions underneath portraits of the City of Santa Clarita Founders and other important local historical figures. They were all here from Tiburcio Vasquez to William S. Hart to Henry Clay Needham to John Boston to Buck McKeon to Mike Antonovich.
City workers shuffled by quickly, seemingly talking to themselves (I would later learn of blue communication chips implanted directly in people’s teeth) until at last we arrived at an elevator.
The elevator operator’s face lit up when he saw me and he said, “Welcome back Mr. City Councilman. To your office I presume?”
I glanced over nervously at ganbanger with a quizzical look on my face. “I’m a City Council man?”
Gangbanger simply smiled and told the elevator attendant that yes, that’s where we were going. Dutifully and with precision, the attendant called the elevator, and at last, gangbanger and I were being whisked to my office at the top of City Hall.
The Office
“Hello Mr. Wilson, welcome back,” an attractive secretary said to me and gangbanger. “Can I get you anything?”
Insecure, I looked at gangbanger and told her no, I just wanted to see my office. We walked down the hall and approached two gigantic, dark oak doors surrounded by marble with the words “COUNCILMEMBER JEFF WILSON” etched in stone above. Gangbanger jumped out in front of me and pushed both doors open simultaneously, flooding the hallway with light from the office’s floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking all of Santa Clarita.
“Welcome to your office, Mr. City Couniclman,” gangbanger grinned.
Holy shit. All this is mine? I thought.
Excited, I entered the capacious office suite. I hurried over to the gigantic oak desk (built just for me out of the Old Glory Oak Tree in Pico Canyon gangbanger told me), then to the window, where I gazed down upon the SCV. Feeling like a titan, like a master of my domain, I breathed deeply and smiled.
I could get used to this, I thought.
But then Gangbanger told me to walk around the room once more. And so I did.
On the wood-paneled walls hung multiple award plaques: one from the Chamber of Commerce. Another from the extinct SCV Auto Dealers Association. Another from the SCV Realtors Association. Why the hell had these groups given me awards? I wondered.
And then I saw them. A dozen or so framed old fashioned newspaper headlines hanging from the walls. They read:
PRESIDENT PALIN ENDORSES JEFF WILSON FOR CITY COUNCIL
COUNCILMAN WILSON FRONT RUNNER FOR TEA PARTY GUBERNATORIAL TICKET
CONSERVATIVE POLITICOS ‘R US PAC NAMES JEFF WILSON MAN OF THE YEAR
LIMBAUGH FILL-IN HOST JEFF WILSON SURPRISES, DELIGHTS CONSERVATIVES
COUNCILMAN JEFF WILSON WINS 2049 BUCK MCKEON FREE MARKETER OF AMERICA AWARD
Utterly stupified, I recoiled and fell backwards, heart pounding, my hands rising to cover my mouth, my head shaking violently back and forth.
“no…no…NO….NOOOOOOOOOOO!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, my world spinning now as images of President Palin with her arm around me and busts of Ronald Reagan filled my vision.
I collapsed on to a plush Grizzly bear rug, sobbing, pounding my fist onto the floor and moaning like a child.
The Choice
Gangbanger woke me up and sat me in a leather-bound chair. He offered me tissues and water, but nothing would stop my emotional breakdown.
Finally, he slapped me hard across the face. That got my attention.
“Jeff,” he said. “You have been brought here, to this place, and to this time, for an important choice. You alone can make this choice.”
“In your former life, you were a lowly progressive blogger, always going on and on about bicycles and sustainability in a very conservative, auto-centric town. ”
“But I caused you to crash on your bike today to offer you a chance to change all that.”
With red eyes and a sniffle, I looked up at him, longing for answers.
“You lived in Santa Clarita in 2010. But as you can see, you are now in Santa Clarita in 2050, a very different place. In some sense, SCV 2050 is all you ever hoped it would be. It is your personal utopia,” he said.
“But, as I can see by your reaction amigo, it is not entirely perfect.”
I nodded my head.
“So I offer you this choice. You can go back to Santa Clarita 2010 and continue to be a progressive blogger in a very conservative place, or you can stay here in Santa Clarita 2050 and be a very conservative politician in a progressive place.”
“Think about it,” he told me. He left my office.
I gazed out on Santa Clarita 2050. I looked lovingly at all the people bicycling and walking about, I saw the sailboats sailing down the Mighty Santa Clara on their way to Ventura, I pondered my attractive secretary and all the power within my office. And I thought back to my former self: my shabby clothes, my dingy high density dwelling, the thousands of commenters telling me how wrong I am everyday on that old silly blog. Oh what a dilemma!
But I made my choice. I called Gangbanger back in the room and informed him of my decision.
Epilogue
And so I awoke, there on the sidewalk in Newhall in 2010, nursing a concussion and multiple abrasions and pondering driving a car to work next week.
The End.
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