American Democracy Forever: A Novel

By Richard A. Demers

American Democracy Forever tells the story of the second life of eighty-year-old Charlie Durand. In 2026, he is dying in a hospital bed. He grieves, not for himself, but for the destruction of American democracy in 2024 by a fascist dictator. He closes his eyes and drifts off, but not to the death he expects. Instead, he awakens in his childhood bedroom. His mind has returned to 1960, and his thirteen-year-old body is full of energy and vigor. All his memories are not only intact, they are enhanced. Charlie remembers the chaos of his last ten years. He decides he cannot let a dictator in his new lifeline destroy the great American experiment in democracy. But how is a kid, from an obscure family with no money, supposed to do that? This is a fictionalized commentary, a way to convey, in a hopefully entertaining way, observations about American society and what could have been done to prevent the advance of fascism in the United States, if only we could “do it all over again.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387545278

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2022-09-16-ADF-V2-cover

AMERICAN DEMOCRACY FOREVER

REVISITED

Richard A. Demers

Copyright

AMERICAN Democracy Forever

Copyright © 2024 Richard A. Demers

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-387-54527-8

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, places, and organizations mentioned herein are products of the author’s life experiences and imagination. They exist only in a parallel, fictional universe. It can be read on-line but it may not be copied, printed, or distributed in any way without the permission of the author. Copyright infringement is against the law.

Cover design by Adam Demers.

Dedication

THIS novel is dedicated to everyone who

understands that a liberal is someone who

supports policies that are socially progressive,

promotes individual rights and civil liberties,

loves both democracy and free enterprise,

and votes accordingly.

Preface

THIS version of the novel American Democracy Forever has the word REVISITED on its cover because it is a reexamination of the key ideas of the novel. The first chapter, about Life 1, has been rewritten to explain the origin of Forum Clubs. And the last chapters, about the 2020s, have been rewritten to bring them as up to date as possible (as of March 2024) to reflect the realities of American politics. The first version of the novel included alternative endings; this was redundant and dropped. Within the novel, certain characters are better developed and their importance clarified. Also better developed are the concepts of income taxation through a simple numerical formula, prison reform through electronic monitoring, and a Constitution Wiki for citizen changes to the US Constitution.

This is not a simple novel, with a well-defined plot and extensive character developments. Nor is it an essay that delves deeply into a single subject, or an exposé that brings to light a pattern of corruption. Nor is it an autobiography of the author, or the biographies of well-known people.

What is it then if it is neither beast nor fish nor fowl? The best answer is that it is a blend of genres. It is a fictionalized commentary, in alternate literary universes. It is a way to convey, in a hopefully entertaining way, observations about American society and what could have been done to prevent the advance of fascism in the United States, if only we could do it all over again. It is also a not too subtle suggestion of what we could do going forward in our own universe.

So, read it as the biography of a fictional character; read it as a series of essays; read it as an exposé; or read it as a prescription for what needs to be done to preserve American democracy. Get from it whatever you want. But please, no hate mail!

Life 1

November 2016

The Durand family was quietly eating pizza in the dining room of their home on Cayuga Island, several miles upriver from Niagara Falls. It was a modest, four-bedroom home on a large lot. In the backyard, there was a swimming pool, and by the Niagara river there was a two-story boat house below a combination Japanese style tea house and Karate dojo.

No one had much to say; they were all depressed. Despite all their work supporting Hillary Clinton’s election campaign, she had lost to Donald Trump, a slick-talking conman who had catered to people’s worst instincts. Russian hacking, Evangelical preaching, and Republican gerrymandering had helped him win the day in the Electoral College, even though Hillary had garnered three million more popular votes than Donald.

Lara Durand, the ever-positive materfamilias spoke up: Come on, people, this isn’t the end of the world. There’ll be another election in four years; the economy will turn around, and voters will have seen Donald as the incompetent, blowhard, poseur that he is. Lara was seventy years old but looked much younger. Her hair was cut short in a pixie style, it was still brown, although strands of white were appearing. She had worked as a high-school social worker. Her exposure to the problems of her students had convinced her that the government should do more to help people in need. She was an active member of the city’s Democratic party and had pulled the rest of her family into Democratic politics with her.

Charlie Durand, the paterfamilias, joined in: True, but it won’t happen unless we organize and do a better job of getting out the Democratic messages. Charlie was also seventy years old, had gray hair that was becoming white. He was in as good a shape as a man of his years could expect to be. He’d been retired for ten years from his career as a computer programmer and had spent much of that time doing volunteer work for Democratic candidates. He never took elections for granted, but even so, Trump’s election was a shock.

Ray and Alex, their adult sons, looked at each other wondering what their parents were thinking. Both men were over six feet tall, well muscled, handsome, and intelligent. Working with Charlie and Lara on elections felt natural to them, having grown up in a home in which liberal politics were part of their daily fare. They were married to hard-working women with their own careers. Ray had two lovely, blond, blue-eyed daughters: Kate, age 6, and Sarah, age 4.

Charlie leaned forward in his chair: Let’s face it, Donald is going to continue spouting lies about blacks, gays, and immigrants taking over the country. It’s nothing but fear mongering that resonates with people who don’t think about anyone but themselves.

They resent paying taxes to support what Donald calls the enemies of the white race, Ray said.

Does anyone really believe the ‘trickle down’ pseudo-economics that Republicans have been spouting since Ronald Reagan was president? Lara demanded. As if the rich do anything other than bank their tax savings or spend it on fancy houses and yachts. Very little ever trickles down to the poor and middle class.

The conversation went dead as the family absorbed the enormity of the deception that had been perpetrated on the American people.

So, ever practical Alex said, what are we going to do now?

Well, Lara began, we can’t start out by calling people stupid boobs—poorly educated boobs maybe, but not stupid. They think they know what’s best for themselves and their families, even if they don’t, because they’ve been brainwashed by a steady diet of lies by Trump and Fox News.

Charlie raised a finger to indicate he was thinking; his family waited for him to speak. He reached for an issue of The Atlantic magazine from the buffet table behind him. Scanning its pages quickly, he found the map he was looking for. It was a map of the United States in which states that had voted Democratic were colored blue and those that had voted Republican were colored red. The populace, urban, coastal states were blue, but the less populace, rural and Southern states were red.

The problem with this map, and similar maps of the counties in each state, Charlie said, is that they don’t tell the whole story. Even if a state or a county is colored red, there are still a lot of blue-leaning people among them, as well as a lot of independents. We just have to find them, organize them, and get them to vote. We have to convince them that their vote matters. We can turn some of those states blue.

Okay, Dad, Alex said, How do you propose to do that? Advertise?

No, that wouldn’t work, not by itself, Lara interjected. Person to person contacts are what’s needed, and not just one-time speeches. It has to be through continuous personal interactions. We need to find people who are frustrated with the lack of progress by Republicans on issues that matter to them and make them into cohesive groups—clubs if you will—willing to tackle local problems from the bottom up.

Isn’t that what the political parties do? Ray said. They assemble people to vote for their candidates.

No, there’s an important difference, Lara said, shaking her head. They don’t actually bring people together in a permanent, organized way. At best, they hire people to coordinate volunteers to raise money and win an election for a specific candidate. And then, win or lose, the group disbands until the next election, except for die-hard party members. So, we won’t try to work directly with the Democratic party. Our clubs will be apolitical, with support for democracy, the rule of law, and devotion to the Constitution their primary agendas.

So, if they’re not explicitly Democratic, what are they? Alex asked.

They're action-oriented clubs, Lara replied, that have fun parties at their meetings, work on local issues, lobby politicians in support of liberal issues, and support mostly Democratic candidates in elections, Lara said, getting excited by the whole idea.

Where do we start? Ray asked.

Charlie looked around at his family: Every one of us knows a lot of people who’ve said they were Democrats and supported Hillary or who said they were Independents and voted for Hillary. Let’s invite them to a party, one with food and drinks and a great local band.

But where? Lara asked. Our home can only handle about ten guests at a time, and there’s definitely no room for a band and dancing.

You do have a beautiful back yard that would be great for a picnic, Alex said, but who is going to pay for the beer, barbecue, and band?

Don’t worry about that, Charlie said. I’ll foot the bill to get started, and we’ll ask for contributions. Anyone serious enough to stick with us will be happy to chip in. Ray and Alex immediately volunteered to share the expenses with Charlie and Lara.

What are we going to call these party-loving groups? Ray asked. They have to have a name, don’t they?

Everyone looked to Lara for an answer: Hmm, she said. How about ‘Forum Clubs?’ she asked. That makes them sound like debating clubs, the way the ancient Roman Forum was.

Yes, I like that, Charlie affirmed. We’ll call them ‘Forum Clubs.’

Alex leaned forward in his seat, a thoughtful look on his face: Do I get this right, that you intend to create not just one Forum Club, but thousands of them, all over the country?

Lara and Charlie looked at each other and simultaneously turned to face Alex: That’s right, maybe even tens of thousands, Charlie said. In every city, town, and rural hamlet where there are people with liberal, progressive ideas who would be interested in joining.

Okay, Alex said, but if there are thousands of these clubs, how do they relate to each other? I don’t see discrete Forum Clubs lasting very long—even with lots of parties—unless they are organized in some structure—maybe a hierarchy similar to the country’s political structure, with a formal call-tree to link them.

Men! Lara said. Why does everything have to be hierarchical? It must be something in the male genome.

Yes dear. Charlie said with a grin. What would you propose?

Something more organic—dare I say feminine—more a network of independent clubs, she said.

Alex sat quietly thinking and then his eyes opened widely as an idea occurred to him: Let’s include a committee in the bylaws of each Forum Club, he said, that is responsible for creating and maintaining communications with other Forum Clubs on the basis of mutual interests. That way, a network of clubs would be organically formed, like the neurons in a human brain.

Ray jumped into the discussion: This sounds like the Committees of Correspondence in the years before the American Revolution. It worked then; why not now?

Alex, whose doctorate was in neurobiology looked at his mother: I like the idea of Forum Clubs being self-organizing via their CoCs. We can take that idea a bit further. We want clubs to spread across the country, but that can’t be done one club at a time. We need to make club reproduction a prime objective, a function of the clubs themselves. And we want them to replicate themselves as Forum Clubs—not as anything else—according to a fixed set of bylaws.

There’s a similar model that applies here, Ray said, the way new religions spread, with evangelism being a prime objective according to a fixed ideology.

Lara could see everyone nodding their head in agreement.

Good ideas, family, Charlie said. Now, let’s get the first Forum Club started.

November 2020

During the four years prior to the 2020 presidential elections, Charlie, Lara, Ray, and Alex were relentless in their efforts to get new Forum Clubs started throughout New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Ohio. Despite all that effort, the Forum Clubs were still thin on the ground, numbering less than a thousand clubs. It had taken time, energy, and money to get them operating as Lara envisioned in their bylaws. As they had hoped, people were having fun at their weekly club meetings. There were numerous successes on local issues and in the elections of local Democratic candidates. However, Donald Trump had once again cheated his way to yet another election. This time he had lost the popular vote by more than eight million votes but had again triumphed by manipulating the Electoral College. Now, the country faced four more years of misrule.

Worst of all was Donald’s mishandling of the COVID-19 pandemic in which hundreds of people were dying every day. His initial statements, when the virus had invaded only a few east and west coast cities, were: It’s just like the flu, like what we get every year—it won’t be that big a problem. And then there were his promotions of quack remedies. He even advocated injecting bleach to kill the virus. This was really all about his own fears of panic damaging the economy and his chances for reelection in 2024. If it weren’t for research efforts started much earlier in the Obama administration on new types of vaccines, the death toll would have exceeded the million people who died.

Lara Durand was among the deceased. She had attended a Forum Club meeting in Rochester, where she had contracted what she thought was a cold. By the time she returned to her home in Niagara Falls, she was having trouble breathing, and Charlie insisted that she go to the hospital. The nurses immediately took her to a treatment room, and from there to an Intensive Care Unit where she was put on a ventilator. Charlie waited in the hospital overnight hoping to hear that she was breathing on her own again, only to be told in the morning that his wife had passed away during the night. No, he would not be able to see her as her body was too infectious. Her ashes would be delivered to him in a few days.

Charlie was stunned. He had lost his wife, the love of his life, his best friend. For days he walked around his home unable to think, unable to cry, unable to come to terms with his loss. Ray and Alex, who were grieving the loss of their mother, were unable to help him. Their wives stepped in and made sure their men had food to eat and clean clothes to wear. Kate and Sarah couldn’t stop crying, their grandmother had meant so much to them.

Gradually, Charlie’s feelings of loss turned to anger. He didn’t know who, if anyone, was to blame for COVID-19, itself, but he knew precisely who was to blame for its unchecked spread in the United States. It was that evil narcissist Donald Trump. His mind generated scenario after scenario about assassinating him, but knew it wasn’t in him to kill someone, even someone like Trump. But he did have to put an end to Trump’s grab for power, and the best way he knew was to dedicate the rest of his life to Lara’s memory by finishing their work with the Forum Clubs.

November, 2024

All of their efforts to create and support thousands of Forum Clubs had helped to increase the popular vote against Trump by more than ten million. But the billionaire backers of Trump had outspent them on advertising, flooding the airways and the internet with lies, disinformation, and conspiracy theories. There had never been enough money to support the Forum Clubs as they needed to be. Charlie concluded they should have started the Forum Club movement decades earlier than they had, but that was water over the dam.

American democracy was dead, killed not just by a power grab by Donald Trump and the Republican party, but by inherent problems with the U. S. Constitution. The first was the Electoral College, an 18th Century expedient that enabled a president to be elected against the will of the people. But this was not the only problem; another was the clause that allowed the houses of Congress to create whatever rules of conduct they deemed necessary. This led to arcane rules that caused Congress to hamstring itself, in particular the Senate’s filibuster rule that gave minority parties too much control.

During his first two terms, President Trump had been chipping away at any restraints on his power. Now, he went full bore and rewrote the U. S. Constitution to make himself President for Life, with his sycophantic daughter, Ivanka, as his heir to the presidency. He made himself a king in everything but name. It was just a matter of time before he would do, as Napoleon Bonaparte had done in 1804, and place a jeweled crown on his own head as the Emperor of the United States of America. He drastically reduced the power of Congress, awarding himself the all-important power of the purse. He relegated the Supreme Court to an advisory role, making himself the final arbiter of the laws of the land. And he made the states fully subject to himself, thereby eliminating any notion of the United States as a federation of the states. The greatest fears of the Founding Fathers of the United States had been realized; their signature ideas of a separation of powers within the federal government and a balance of powers between the federal and state governments had been thoroughly subverted. The people were betrayed.

June 25, 2026

Charlie Durand’s heart struggled to maintain a slow, steady beat; he knew his end was near; his thoughts turned to whatever awaited him: Will I see a bright light? Will I see a fiery pit? No, it will be like falling asleep. I’ll just slip away, and that will be the end of old Charlie. His mind then drifted to what had been worrying him for the last ten years of his life: What will become of the United States now that Donald Trump is President-for-Life?

For most of his life, Charlie had been proud to be an American, but all that changed in 2016 with the election of Donald Trump to the presidency. He still found it hard to believe that a man as loathsome as Donald could rise to that high office. It pained him to think of all the ways in which he was so ill-suited to the presidency: all the hate, chaos, and divisiveness he had spread through endless lies; and all the damage he had done to the country. It especially pained him to think of his wife’s suffering and death from COVID-19, when she was isolated in the hospital’s ICU, and he was not allowed to comfort her.

He knew he should stop thinking about Donald Trump. Getting upset put too much stress on his heart, but he couldn’t stop. What, oh what, will become of America, the shining city on the hill?

His sons, Ray and Alex, entered the room with their wives and his beloved granddaughters, Kate and Sarah. They came to either side of his hospital bed and took his hands. Alex took a tissue and wiped the corners of Charlie’s eyes: What’s troubling you, Dad?

I was thinking of your mom, the way she died, that she would have been saved if Hillary had been elected instead of Donald.

Ray leaned in closer: Don’t think of Mom’s death, Dad. Remember the fifty-two wonderful years you had together and the family that loves you.

I get so angry when I think about Trump, how he destroyed American democracy, he said in his whisper of a voice. I am so sorry to be leaving you now that the United States is a dictatorship.

Rest easy, Dad, Ray said, It’s up to us now to recreate the democracy we love. He hoped Charlie’s death would be peaceful.

You did your best to fight against Trump, Dad. I’m proud of you. I love you. We all love you, Alex said.

Charlie could see tears forming in their eyes as his eyes closed, and he slowly drifted off into what he still hoped was just sleep. He was in for a surprise.

Life 2

Summer, 1960

June 26, 1960

Charlie awoke slowly, his mind in a fog, the sleep-induced numbness in his arms and legs gradually dissipating. He heard the clanging of pans on a stove. He noticed the smell of bacon cooking. Sunlight streamed into the room through the casement windows next to the bed. It was a room he knew well, but it wasn’t the hospital room in which he had fallen asleep. It was his childhood bedroom in a small ranch-style house in the La Salle neighborhood of Niagara Falls, New York.

Wow, what a vivid dream, he thought.

His eyes continued to scan the room’s furnishings. He saw pale-yellow walls, plaid curtains on the windows, and a matching plaid bedspread hung over the maple footboard of the bed. A gruesome crucifix hung on the wall above the headboard. On one side of the room, there was a maple dresser with three large drawers below two half-size drawers; a sheet of glass protected its top. Next to the bed there was a brown, steel student desk and a matching chair.

A large map of the world was taped to the wall at the foot of the bed with the USSR dominating northern Eurasia. Next to the map was a bookcase containing Robinson Crusoe, The Swiss Family Robinson, Scaramouche, and Captain Blood, along with Rocket Ship Galileo, and Time for the Stars. There was also a stack of Boy’s Life magazines and a Boy Scout’s Handbook.

Charlie was confused: Am I still in a hospital room in Minneapolis dying from congestive heart failure? Or am I young again, healthy, and full of energy? But if I’m still old, why does everything seem so fresh, so real? What happened to me?

He lifted the bed sheet and peered at the body beneath it. It was long, skinny, and firm. Where are all my wrinkles and flab? He looked at his right shoulder, that Mayo Clinic surgeons had repaired decades ago. Where’s my J-shaped scar? He pinched his left arm to see if he would awaken from a dream. Ouch, that hurt! Maybe I’m not dreaming, but what happened to me? And why?

Get up, Charlie. It’s time for breakfast, he heard through the closed bedroom door. That sounds like Mom, he thought, dear Mom who died twenty-six years ago. If this isn’t a dream, will I see her again?

Charlie arose and looked in the mirror hung above the dresser. It was like looking at a color photo of himself as a young teen. My hair is so black and full, he thought, not all white and thin. He shook his head, not believing what he was seeing; the young guy in the mirror did the same. It must be real! he thought. I’m young again! Great, but how can this be?

Charlie was wearing pajamas, not a hospital gown. He looked in the closet and chose a white T-shirt, slacks, socks, and sneakers—what guys of his apparent age wore while hanging around the neighborhood with friends.

He hesitated at the door to his bedroom, uncertain of what he would find on the other side. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he opened the door. Ahead of him was a short hall, with a bathroom and another small bedroom on the right—his sister Mandy’s. On the left was a door to a much larger bedroom with fancier furniture—his parent’s. Immediately to his left was an arched opening to the living room. He slowly walked through it, past Mom’s piano, past the couch, and past the TV cabinet.

He stopped under the arch between the living room and the dinette, astonished at what he was seeing. Mom was standing at the kitchen stove making a crepe in a cast-iron skillet coated in bacon grease; it smelled wonderful. Dad and Mandy were seated at the dinette table eating crepes doused with maple syrup. Mom and Dad appeared to be in their forties and Mandy was preteen.

Dad looked up and saw Charlie staring at them: Seen a ghost? he asked.

If he only knew! Charlie thought. Do they see any differences in me? he wondered.

He gave his mother a quick, good-morning hug across her shoulders and took his place next to Dad. He reached for the front page of the Niagara Falls Gazette and looked first at the paper’s masthead—Saturday, June 25, 1960. He really wasn’t dreaming; he had come back in time sixty-six years and was thirteen years old again! He was dumbfounded; his jaw hung down in disbelief.

Wake up, Charlie, Dad said, as he took the final bite of his crepe. Did you forget we’re painting the garage today. Those don’t look like painting clothes. There’s still a lot of wear in them. Go change after breakfast.

Okay. I forgot about painting the garage, Charlie replied, trying to cover for not knowing.

Well don’t linger over breakfast and the newspaper, Dad said, taking a last sip of coffee. I want to get the whole job done this morning. He left the table and headed down the basement stairs to get the paint, brushes, and drop-cloths they’d be using.

Charlie needed time to think, but that’s one good thing about painting clapboards. It is so simple and mechanical; one’s mind can be miles away. By the time he got outside, Dad had spread a plastic drop-cloth on the driveway and had begun painting the garage door. Charlie’s first task was painting one side of the garage, for which no drop-cloth was necessary since a few paint dribbles on the grass wouldn’t matter.

By one o’clock, the job was done. Charlie was sitting at the picnic table outside the back door of the house with Mom and Dad. They were eating fried bologna sandwiches that Mom had prepared, with tall glasses of cold milk.

Good steady work this morning, Dad said to Charlie before taking a bite of his sandwich. We’ll start on the house next Saturday.

Charlie groaned; painting cedar shakes, with all their deep, vertical grooves, was much more difficult and time-consuming than painting clapboards.

You’re on your own for the rest of the day, Dad continued. It’s a good thing you mowed the lawn yesterday.

Charlie was relieved. During the hours spent painting the garage, his mind had been in a tizzy. Memories of his last life kept coming to the fore, in conflict with his current physical reality, as his hand methodically applied blue-gray paint to clapboards. There were memories from his long marriage with Lara, his IBM career, his adventures with his sons and granddaughters, his travels around the world, his final illness, and his last moments in the hospital. He needed time to sort out who he was now; he needed time to situate his mind in this new, but strangely old, reality. Perhaps, an hour doing Karate katas followed by Yoga poses would help to stabilize his mind.

Dad spent the afternoon roaming the lawn searching for weeds, mostly dandelions, that he dug out with his handy garden knife—the allure of this activity, Charlie did not understand.

Where did you learn those Karate moves? Dad asked.

From books, Charlie dissembled. Books plus years of dojo sessions with a Korean sensei, he thought, but that was in another lifetime.

What To Do Now?

Lying in bed that night, Charlie slowly came to believe that he really had been a feeble old man on his last legs but was again young and healthy. He had somehow mentally looped back in time into his thirteen-year-old body. He knew what was going to happen. He knew the history of the United States through the World Wars, the Korean war, the Viet Nam war, the Cold War with the Soviet Union, and the wars in Kosovo, Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria. He knew the names of all the presidents from 1930 through 2026. He knew with great certainty that John F. Kennedy would be elected in November, that he would challenge us to put a man on the moon, that he would be assassinated in Dallas, Texas in November of 1963, that Lyndon Baines Johnson would succeed him, that we would land a man on the moon in July of 1969, and so forth, well into the 21st century. Charlie had absolutely no doubts about any of these facts. He had already lived through these events in what he began to think of as his first life—Life 1—which would mean his current life was Life 2.

As he surveyed his Life 1 memories Charlie realized that he still knew everything he had previously learned and in greater detail than he believed possible. He could now speak passable French, having learned the language in his 60’s after retiring. The same was true of the mathematics and science he’d learned in high school and college, the computer skills he’d acquired during his career, and the philosophy and history he had learned through a lifetime of reading. He even had memories of things he’d been barely aware of in areas he’d had no interest, such as politics, sports, and economics. They must have been subliminal memories, he concluded, from the gestalt of American culture.

Great, but what good will all that knowledge do me? he thought. Everyone will still see me as a thirteen-year-old boy, but now I won’t be a shy teen, afraid to stand up for himself, afraid to express opinions, afraid to step into new social situations, and still unsure about girls. It had taken an entire lifetime to get past those fears. He was now self-confident most of the time, but some fears lingered on, especially a fear of failure; he felt so alone.

So, what should I do in Life 2? Charlie wondered. Do I want to do Life 1 all over again? Should I follow the same paths, for my education, career, and family? I did pretty well in Life 1, but shouldn’t I try to do even better in Life 2?

Charlie knew he had personal deficits to overcome. For one thing, he was a scrawny kid with barely enough muscles to stand up and feed himself. An intensive program of body building through weightlifting, running, karate, and yoga was in order. He hated to admit to himself, being someone who had always been biased against team sports, but high-school sports would teach him how to work better with others toward a common goal. Not football—that sport is inherently too dangerous, though no one in 1960 realized that repetitive concussions could lead to brain damage. What about basketball? That was President Obama’s sport. Lots of player interactions and coordination are needed for teams to be successful. The problem was that he had none of the necessary skills, having been a bookworm since infancy. Acquiring basketball skills would be difficult. He wanted to be able to go out for the Junior Varsity basketball team and not look like a complete moron. Maybe, the city’s summer youth program would have something or someone who could teach him the basics. He didn’t have to become a star player, only a competent bench warmer who could be called in when the stars got tired.

Charlie was sure he could be a better student in college, more focused on academics. At that point in Life 1, he had been pretty confused about who he was and what he wanted, and it was reflected in his grades. And couldn’t he go further than a BA degree and aim for a doctorate and the career opportunities it provides? But then, several notable people, such as Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, had done well without a college degree. Was success a matter of education and degrees, or was it a matter of being intelligent, innovative, and opportunistic?

He was sure he could go further and faster in his old career. After college, he had joined IBM as a Junior Programmer, and he had retired twenty-five years later as a Senior Programmer, having climbed the six rungs of IBM’s programming career ladder. And while he’d been the chief architect of a major software project, he knew he really hadn’t done a good job as a team leader or in marketing the project. He’d been too focused on technical issues and not enough on people and company politics. This was a fault he’d have to be wary of.

Charlie knew he had done well family wise. He’d married Lara, a beautiful, loving woman who’d had her own successful career while raising their two sons. However, he’d spent too much time on business travel, his mind too focused on work projects, and had missed much of his sons’ formative teenage years. He later saw the excellent job his eldest son, Raymond, did with his daughters. If he were to have another family, Charlie decided he would want to be a better father, like Raymond.

All this self-assessment passed through his mind in a flash. He had turned the same thoughts over and over in his mind during his Life 1 retirement years, but by then it was too late to do anything about them. If only I could do it over, had been his recurring thought. But now, he had a second chance and he had to ask himself: Do I really want to relive the same life, with the same education and the same career? Having a loving family, yes, that’s worthwhile, but will it be with the same woman and the same children? And do I really want to once again be a wage-slave toiling for a mega-corporation?

More basic still: Is there some overriding task I’m supposed to accomplish during this second chance at life? If there is, what is it? And who has laid this burden on me? Surely, my return to 1960 isn’t an accident. No, it must be the deliberate act of an unknown agency. But who? And why me?

The only thing Charlie could think to do was to reach into his old-man memories and consider the lives of people he had greatly admired and see if there was something that he could emulate. What about Barack Obama, the last great president in Life 1, a man who had been an outstanding example of intelligence, grace, humility, and humanity. Charlie doubted whether he could copy his rise as a lawyer and community organizer to the presidency. What about Bill Gates, who devoted his great Microsoft fortune to eliminating diseases that were worldwide scourges? And what about Elon Musk, a brilliant entrepreneur who had been the driving force behind self-driving electric cars, and had gotten America back into space?

And yet, none of the people Charlie admired had done anything to prevent the rise of the fascist Republicans and the anointment of Donald Trump as President-for-Life.

Is that the reason I looped back to 1960? he asked himself. Is it to prevent the fascist coup d’état of 2024? Am I supposed to do something about the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 and 2021 that killed over one-million people in the USA? But what can I do about either Trump or the pandemic? If this is my task, do I have to become more than the sum of the people I admired? Do I have to become the world’s richest man, the world’s greatest organizer, the world’s greatest orator, the world’s greatest entrepreneur, and the world’s greatest humanist. Do I have all that in me?

His thoughts continued: I’ll have to reform American culture in radical ways to eliminate the hateful memes of racism, inequality, excessive individualism, and greed. I’ll have to expunge Bible-thumping ignorance and replace it with reverence for education and science. Too much! Much too much! Can I really do all that? Can I really become all that?

He was overwhelmed by self-doubt: Where should I start? I’m only thirteen years old; I don’t even have a high school education; and I have only 50 bucks in a piggy bank. What should I tell Mom and Dad about being a time traveler with a history and goals they will be hard-pressed to understand and accept? They will soon notice some changes in me, in my behavior, and in my personality. I need their support during my teen years; so, I need to make them understand who and what I’ve become, and what I must do.

Revealing His Secret

A week passed, and then a second, before Charlie felt confident enough to tell his parents what had happened to him. He reflected on the kind of people they were, whether they would be able to accept his truth of a second lifetime. He wrestled with how it would conflict with their traditional Catholic piety.

Charlie’s dad’s name was Alfred, Al, Durand. He was a second-generation American of French-Canadian ancestry. He was five-ten tall, weighed around one-eighty, had light brown hair, and green eyes. He was the first one in his family to graduate from college—with a law degree from Suffolk University in Boston. He had fought in World War II and returned to the only job he could find in his hometown of Lawrence, Massachusetts—as a weaver in a textile mill. He now worked as a US Immigration and Naturalization Inspector at the Rainbow Bridge border crossing in Niagara Falls. This job finally made use of his education, and he had become an experienced interrogator. Above all, he was a Catholic family man.

Charlie’s mom’s name was Marie Durand, née Marie Page. She was also a second-generation American of French-Canadian ancestry. She was five-eight tall, slender, and had black, shoulder-length hair, and brown eyes. As a girl, she had trained to be a pianist, but the Great Depression and the War came along and derailed those dreams—as they did the dreams of so many people. As was common in that era, she did not work outside the home. Her love for music, especially the piano, was her enduring legacy to her children.

Eventually, Charlie found a way to tell them his secret that wouldn’t shock them too much. He would tell them after dinner when they were still seated at the table. That night, for dinner, Mom served pork chops, mashed potatoes, and canned green beans, followed by a cherry pie from Loblaws Supermarket. She was a good cook, though her cuisine was usually plain and un-adventuresome. Conversation at the dinner table was pleasant. Dad asked Charlie about the courses he would be taking in his freshman year at Bishop Duffy high school. This was a problem because the new Charlie hadn’t been thinking about his high-school courses.

We’re going to have fun studying Latin together, Dad said.

Charlie mentally