(A/N: I believe a little backstory to this tale is in order. First off, this type of story is way out of my league. I do not usually write stories like this but a Fan Fiction reader came to me and wanted to know if I would do a story like this based on a Twilight Zone episode called Person Or Persons Unknown. They wanted the added racial swap and a couple - not just one person. The real reason I agreed to this was because this was so out of my norm that I wanted to see if I could really do it, and make it enjoyable. I leave that up to you to figure out. As stated in the synopsis, there is a bit of foul language, implied sexual abuse, and extreme offensive ethnic slurs. I implore you that if any of that sounds detestable, please, do not read. Beyond that, I hope you find the story a good, original read and that you feel it honors and belongs within the Twilight Zone fandom.)
(We all pretend that we know something about another. What it's like to slip into their shoes, work at their job, or raise their children. Then we take that perceived knowledge about them and share it with other people, perpetuating ignorance. Deborah and Daniel are two of these people with even less inhibitions than what most of us have. Last night they went out partying, and, last night, they went to bed, but this morning they woke up in not only a house that isn't their's anymore, but a skin that isn't theirs as well. They've just woken up in the Twilight Zone.)
Opening her eyes, Deborah Steele felt a little peculiar. This didn't feel like the normal hangover, dealing with one of those almost every Monday morning from a Sunday night of partying. No, this felt more like a, Oh my god, what the hell did I do last night hangover. (One she experienced twice a month.) She tried to remember as her brain was in a boxing match with her spinal cord. Her skin felt oily and her hair - oh god - her hair must have been a mess. It felt particularly frizzed with a kinked batch of follicles in her hand.
The only things she could remember was her, and her husband, dancing to Little Eva's newest hit, The Locomotion, her getting drunk enough to hit on the butler; a silent colored guy, and making out with Charlie Baxter; her husband's boss down at the bank.
Feeling around for Daniel Steele, her dancing partner from last night, she found him still under the covers. She pushed him harshly, saying with a crack of her voice, "Come on, Dan, get up." She cleared her throat several times, hearing a particularly different voice than the one she was use to. This one sounded more deep and defined rather than her squeaky, supple, soft-toned voice.
Sitting up on the edge of her Queen-sized mattress, she yawned and stood up. Her legs felt unusual, too. Not unbalanced like normal, but defined and muscular, like she had run six miles last night for some odd reason. She smiled to herself, hobbling towards the restroom.
Grabbing onto the edge of the doorframe she began her morning ritual. First-thing's-first, she thought, opening the mirror and popping a few pills. A presorted assortment of diet pills and pain reliever.
Closing the mirror back up she took a hold of her toothbrush and was going to squeeze out a squiggle line of toothpaste on the bristles had it not been for the amazing, gasping shock she got in the mirror. What stared back at her was not her reflection at all. Her blonde hair replaced by a coal black mane. Her milky white skin replaced by Hershey's chocolate flesh. Her petite, ruby red lips traded-in for ample, plump, brown pedals. Her sapphire crystal eyes gone, taken over by dark amber irises.
When she got her hand down from her mouth, successfully capturing the scream that nearly exited it, and finally moved out of her frozen terrified look, she patted every inch of her face, almost screaming again, "This can't be! This can't be. I'm not some Negro, some colored Barbie! I'm white, I'm Debbie Steele."
As she stared at her dark reflection, she reasoned with herself and God, "Must have been because I was hitting on that Negro butler. Okay, God, you've had your laugh, no more tar-baby gags, I swear. I can wake up now. Go ahead, wake-up Miss. Steele."
A deep, cool voice came from the side of her, "Hmmm, but you are awake, dear."
Turning her gaze she did scream at the colored man standing in front of her. His eyes closed, still half-asleep. Something told her that this was her husband, but that didn't keep her from being horrified at him having the same, drastic affliction. She began whimpering, "Oh God, no! No! Not you too, Dan!"
"What do you mean, 'Not me -'" Daniel's eyes were fully opened now and he growled at Deborah, "Who are you?!"
"I could ask you the same thing!"
"Where's my wife!"
"Daniel, I'm right here!"
He snickered. "The devil you say! My wife is white!"
"So is my husband! Look!" She nearly screamed, pointing to the mirror.
Nearly shoving her to the floor, Daniel whipped in front of the mirror and looked at himself. He staggered back in fright and looked at his "otherself" biting his knuckle, hard. He looked at a black man who reminded him of a young Joe Brown. Not as built, stockier, and without a championship belt around his waist. Looking back at Deborah, Daniel whimpered out, "What… how - how did this happen?"
She shook her head vigorously. "I don't know, Dan! I really don't know, Dan," she kept repeating his name over and over, trying to remind herself that this Negro man was really her husband.
"Alright, alright, it'll be all right," Dan said as he went to hug his wife but recoiled at her new visage and her at him as well.
"We need to find some help," Deborah said.
Daniel went back to gazing at his alien features in the mirror again, stroking his chin like a chipped, malformed piece of rock. He looked at his entire body like it was made out of molded bread.
Deborah then asked, "Do you know of anybody…"
"Call Dr. Claymore," Dan said, waving Deborah off like an annoying insect.
She was a bit hurt by this but that was thrown aside for a new hope.
Dr. Claymore had been their physician for years. Almost a decade. He had seen a lot with the two. From Dan's ass wrinkles and slight bruises and scraps from his "rages," to Deborah's left side-boob mole and color of her nausea from a real hangover.
Rushing over to her black rotor phone, she dialed his number. Her fingers shook in each slot, trying hard to get over the idea that this was her hand touching her phone, and not some devious Negro trying to steal it. She held the receiver close to her ear and waited.
Two rings until she got an answer.
A strong, formal, white man's voice answered the phone. "Dr. Claymore."
She sighed, relieved he was in. "Dr. Claymore, this is Debbie, it's really bad."
A pregnant, deafening pause hung in the air. The phone buzzed strongly with white noise.
"I'm sorry, are you a patient of mine?"
"Yes," Deborah screamed into the receiver. "This is Deborah Steele! Doctor, something terrible has happened!"
"I only see constant patients of mine. If you would like to make an appointment, then…"
"God damn it, doc, this is Deborah Steele! You've seen me and my husband for years! You gave him his physical just 3 months ago!"
"And what is your husband's name?"
"Daniel Steele! Doctor, what sort of sick game is this?!"
"I could ask you the same question. Let me get your files."
Deborah held on the line like a kid waiting for the radio to pop off with a contestant winner, substitute giddiness with fear. She held the black piece of plastic tightly to her ear. Both hands firmly tightened around the handle as she waited anxiously.
After a long, tense, scary minute, Dr. Claymore came on. "Miss, I don't have you or your husband on file."
Her heart sunk like the Hindenburg. A beating, flaming disaster. She sunk onto her bed, nearly dropping the phone. With great effort, Deborah put the phone back to her ear and calmly, but shakily, said, "Look here, you quack, I remember Daniel going in for a check-up. Even if you don't have our files anymore, surely, you must remember - us?! The check-up three months ago, the case of dry-heaving I had a year ago from Stan's party, the cut knuckles you stitched up the night Dan punched the table. I remember! It was twenty-nine stitches! Twenty-nine," She repeated like a final amen to a prayer that she thought would jog the doctor's memory.
"Ma'am, calm down," Claymore said in an unfriendly, threatening tone. "There is no need to shout."
"There's plenty of reason to shout! I'm Deborah Steele, damn it! Doesn't that mean anything to anyone in this tinsel-town anymore!"
"Ma'am, I'm hanging up, I suggest you seek mental help." With that, the line went dead and the only thing Miss Steele could hear now was the constant, irritating, hellish noise of the dial tone.
Aghast, she plunked the receiver back on the cradle slowly, now feeling that there was much more that had changed than just her skin tone when she had woken up this morning. Before, a feeling of self-terror had overcome her. Now, what took its place, was a shadowing feeling of foreboding. It felt like the whole world had changed colors, not just her.
Daniel had finally exited the bathroom, brushing his teeth, (Trying to get a feeling of normalcy back, Deborah thought.) and asked her, "So, what did he say?"
She sneered with a guff of disbelieve, "He said he didn't have us on file."
"What?!" Daniel nearly yelled, a glob of toothpaste shooting from his mouth.
Deborah could only shrug. "It's what he said."
Nearly throwing his toothbrush back into the bathroom, looking like an enraged rabid rottweiler, Daniel grabbed the whole phone up from the small dresser it lay on, and dialed the doctor back.
He picked up the same way. Two dial tones and then, "Doctor Claymore."
"What is this?! I don't think this is very funny!"
"Excuse me," The doctor asked back, his voice brazen, strong, and totally confused.
"You are not, of that I can assure you! What is this nonsense you told my wife, 'not having our files?'"
A long deep pause.
"Sir, if you call this number again, I'm going to call the police." His tone stern and unflinching.
"Sir?' Doc, you know me."
"Good day, sir!" A heavy click followed and a long dial tone succeeded that.
For a drawn-out second, Deborah thought Daniel was going to do the same, let the phone slip from his fingertips and hang it up, aghast. She had been married to him for so long, and knew of his temper, she should have known better.
He sprang to life with a loud yell of, "God damn it!" and chucked the whole phone through the bedroom window. The heavy, black, plastic brick smashed through the glass, careening into a flower bed with tons of broken glass and plaster. The window itself was left a shambles with bits of jagged glass sticking out of the corners. The before-noon air breezed into the house through the smashed window.
Deborah shrieked in terror and tried to calm Daniel down afterwards but he just pushed her away, snarling to himself. Still in his sleepwear, he marched straight for the living room with her quickly behind. She had her hands up in defensive, little fists, asking, "Where are you going? Daniel, baby, what are you doing? I don't think there's anyone who can help us." Deborah held her nightgown close to her bodice and tried to keep up with her outraged husband.
Ignoring her, he stomped outside and began waving at the first neighbor he saw who was startled by the crash. He waved over at him, "Hey, Ernie!"
Ernie was their neighbor caddy-cornered across the street to their right. He had come out in his bathrobe with an unplugged hairdryer. He was a short, chubby man with pale white skin and apple green eyes. His hair was a wet, short-bristled mop on top and small, circular-framed glasses. His pointy mouth was agape and he seemed to be flabbergasted at what he heard and saw.
At first sight of seeing Daniel wave at him, he tripped over himself to get back inside, slamming the front door to his house. He was already calling the police but little did he (or Daniel) know that the neighbor straight across from the residence was already on the phone with law enforcement.
Daniel just grunted with confusion. "We need help!" Daniel screamed as loud as he could.
Exiting out of their two story home came Deborah. She, at first, was stricken blind by the California sunshine. The first thing she did notice was that her skin didn't feel quite as hot as it usually did. Her white skin would burn in the sun for too long but this new skin seemed to hold up much better to the blistering rays. It was almost like she had on the ultimate sun screen.
When her eyes finally adjusted, she could make out her neighborhood. The fenced in trees, the nice homes, the beautiful lawns. The protected feeling she got from being in a gated community in Hollywood. She didn't know it yet but this would be the last time, in a long time, she would ever see or feel this way again.