"Excuse me, miss. I don't mean to intrude. I couldn't help noticing you look upset. Is everything all right?"
Startled, Patricia Allen looked up with teary eyes and smeared mascara. It took her a while to figure out the situation. A thin short pale adult man in a gray suit stood nearby, and his smile seemed sincere and friendly.
Pat was off the school grounds; she was in the park across the street. This guy didn't seem like a teacher but he also seemed nice enough.
As she wiped her face, Pat sniffled. "It's nothing," she said in a tearful voice.
"It doesn't sound like nothing."
She wiped away more tears with the back of her hand.
"A mean girl at school," she mumbled.
"Ah, yes. Debbie Taylor."
Pat's eyes widened then she frowned.
"How did you know that? Who are you anyway?"
"I am Mr. Smith. Jonathan Smith."
"A fake name," she retorted.
The man grinned as he shrugged. "What's in a name? 'A rose by any other name,' etcetera, etcetera." After he waved his hands, he folded them over his chest. "My name doesn't really matter. The point is I can help you with your Debbie problem."
Pat made a face. "Help me how?"
The man drew in a quick breath. "I am…a travel agent, of sorts. I can help you become someone else. I can help you take a vacation from yourself."
Imagine a camera pans up to a starry sky. Also imagine the voice of Rod Serling.
"Pat Allen is being offered a chance to 'get away from it all.' A chance to get away from herself and her problems. A chance to walk in the shoes of another. Such an experience could prove to be educational. It's the kind of education that could only be obtained in 'The Twilight Zone.'"
Imagine the music sting that ends the theme from "The Twilight Zone." As gentle tinkling classical music plays, we dissolve into a scene of Pat standing next to Mr. Smith.
Pat noticed the man was holding a folded-up wooden table. Did he have it before?
Pat was startled when a computer monitor and a desk suddenly appeared in front of the funny little man. He tapped a keyboard and consulted the over-sized old-fashioned monitor.
Pat looked around to see how others were reacting. There was no reaction. All the people in the area were frozen in place. A jogger was in mid-stride; a woman walking her dog was in mid-step while her leaping dog, with a sloppy long pink tongue hanging out, seemed to smile as he hung in mid-air.
Pat made a gasping noise that sounded more like a hiccup. After a while, Pat finally managed to get some words out.
"What is this?" she sputtered.
"As I told you, I am a travel agent. And I see that we have an opening. You can become Debbie Taylor, and she can become you." When Smith smiled, it was a Grinch-like smile, spreading from ear to ear. "That should be very informative and educational for both of you."
"You're creeping me out here, dude."
"I don't mean to."
To Pat, Smith had a voice like Mr. Burns, only with a less sinister quality. He looked like Dr. Smith from "Lost In Space." Pat watched a lot of old TV shows on YouTube.
Once again, Pat looked around for the frozen people but they were blocked from view. Four white walls had gone up around her; it was just her, Smith and the computer monitor.
The funny little man spoke. "I can send you on a trip so you become Debbie Taylor. Would you like that?"
"I'll believe it when I see it."
"Of course."
"When would we do this?"
"When you wish."
"How would it happen?"
"Wishing makes it so." Smith's smile was only slightly Grinch-like now, but he was tenting his fingers the way Mr. Burns would.
Nervously, Pat pursed her lips.
"So," Smith said. "To reiterate: I have an opening so you can become Debbie Taylor. Would you like to go on that trip?"
Wrinkling up her nose as she frowned, Pat looked around.
"What kind of trick is this?"
Mr. Smith looked perfectly serious, almost somber in fact.
"It is no trick," he said in a very serious voice, a voice which seemed to combine Mr. Burns and Dr. Smith. "All you have to do is say the word."
More nose-wrinkling.
"Why do people say that? 'Say the word,'" she said in a deep mocking voice as she tilted her head this way and that. "What word? What's the word I'm supposed to say?"
Smith had a slightly pained look on his face like there was a sigh trying to escape.
"All you have to do is say 'I agree.'"
"Okay. I agree."
Suddenly, Pat was Debbie Taylor. And she was outside the four white walls. She was, in fact, at the main entrance of the school.
As she used her new body to move, Pat spun around a little, mainly because she was taller, partly because she was wearing high heels.
How did this work anyway? Was she operating Debbie like some kind of puppet or what was the deal? There wasn't much time to think about it.
As she walked across the grounds of the school, navigating clumsily in the high heels, some of the students stared at her, others glared. There were students who greeted her but it was like most of the greetings were laced with sarcasm. It was like the girls were being snotty and the guys were all sexually harassing her.
About the time she got used to the high heels (why did Debbie wear them?), Pat encountered herself. That is, her body, obviously inhabited by Debbie. Pat could tell because of the way she/Debbie was complaining loudly.
Debbie-as-her had good reason to be unhappy. It looked like she was getting hassled by a bunch of Freaks; some even blew cigarette smoke in her face.
"Will you leave me alone?" Debbie-as-Pat screamed. "I'm having enough trouble figuring out what's going on! I don't need you Freaks bothering me!"
Deciding she didn't want a confrontation, Pat ducked around a corner. That was when someone grabbed her arm, or rather Debbie's arm.
"Let's go to the mall," the someone said. More like insisted.
It was Pat's other enemy, Rochelle, and Rachel and Robin were with her. All part of Debbie's gang. As Pat went with them, she decided to say as little as possible.
Once at the mall, Pat walked around with her shoulders hunched up. But when a guy at a hot dog stand smiled and waved in a way that seemed nice, Pat smiled and waved back.
Rochelle practically slapped her hand.
"What are you doing?" she hissed.
Pat imagined that she, using Debbie's face, looked very annoyed. Which was how Debbie normally looked.
"I'm being nice," Pat said in Debbie's trumpeting voice. "You should try it some time."
"We aren't nice to 'them,'" Rochelle insisted.
"Who? Guys at hot dog stands?"
"All of them."
"All guys at hot dog stands?"
"No. 'Them,'" Rochelle emphasized roughly.
"'Them.' Who's 'them?' "Them' who?"
"You know. Losers. Freaks."
Pat put a hand on her hip or rather Debbie's hip. "I've known some Freaks who are very nice people. So what if they smoke? Can't they still be nice?"
"No!" Rochelle retorted.
Pat put a hand on Debbie's other hip. "Is there some reason we can't be nice to people and help them feel good about themselves?"
"Ugh! Why would we do that?"
Rochelle's sneer was incredibly unattractive. So Pat-as-Debbie got sarcastic.
"You know, if you were a little nicer, you might actually be beautiful."
Briefly, Rochelle's eyes widened. She then put her hands on her hips.
"I am hot no matter what."
"Us, too," Rachel said while Robin nodded. Unlike Rochelle, Rachel did not speak with great confidence; instead, it was like she was sucking up to Rochelle, agreeing with whatever she said. And Robin acted like a mere extension of Rachel. Pat had always disliked that about the two of them.
From her waist, Rochelle thrust out a scarf to Pat/Debbie. "Here. Put this in your purse."
"No!" Pat retorted loudly in Debbie's shrill voice. She threw up her hands like the scarf was contagious. "I'm not doing that! What is this? You guys don't have enough good things in life, you have to steal, too?"
"Listen to Little Miss Preacher!" Rochelle draped herself with the scarf. "I think I've earned this."
Now Pat used Debbie's face to sneer. "Earned it? You get handed everything in life. Apparently it doesn't do much for your character. Never has. So now you have to take what others have, too?"
A big burly Black security guard approached. Though he looked formidable, he also had sad brown eyes above his neatly trimmed beard.
"Is there a problem here?"
He had such a high-pitched voice, like Mike Tyson, that Rochelle snorted up a laugh. Rachel and Robin simply tittered.
Pat decided that Rochelle needed to learn a lesson.
"She wanted me to help her steal a scarf," Pat explained, batting Debbie's eyes.
Rochelle's eyes widened, and her mouth popped open.
"Since when did you become Little Miss Morality and Little Miss Honesty?"
"Since now," Pat said flatly.
Robin looked flabbergasted while Rachel stared.
"Debbie, what happened?" Robin said. "You used to be cool."
"Well, I'm not cool any more. Not that way."
"Maybe we should have a talk," the security guard said. He motioned for them to follow.
"Thanks a lot, Debbie!" Rochelle shouted.
As Pat walked to the security office with the group, she shook her head. Poor Debbie. Having to be around people like this.
After a long meeting with the security guard, and a lot of yelling from Rochelle, Pat just wanted to go home.
She realized, however, she couldn't go to her own home; that would surprise or even frighten her mom. Instead, she would have to go to Debbie's home. It would be a chance to see all the stuff Debbie shoplifted. Plus, a chance to see how Debbie lived.
Pat had been to Debbie's house for a fifth grade birthday party, back during a time when even snobs like Debbie had to invite everyone in class to a party. It was easy to find the house, and Pat made the long walk to the massive front door. Once there, Pat discovered that Debbie did not carry that many keys so it was easy to find the one for the house. When she was safely inside, Pat looked around. Except for being dark and empty, with a lot of fuzzy white furniture, the house was much like she remembered.
Pat went up to Debbie's room; she knew where it was because she had been shooed out of it once. Once she arrived in the most sacred zone, she threw open the closet door. There were lots of nice clothes, of course, but there was something else: paintings.
As Pat flipped through them, she saw they were painted in bright colors. As she got to the last of the paintings, she held up one then another. One was of a baby looking off to the side. Another was of a puppy looking back. The baby looked curious while the puppy looked sad.
Wow. Who knew Debbie had a sensitive side?
"So, Debbie," Pat muttered. "You're an 'ar-teest.'"
"Who are you talking to, dear?"
Pat jumped. Debbie's mother entered the room just then, adjusting an earring as she did. Because Debbie's mom had a perennially angry look along with heavy mascara that made her eyes look severe, Pat had always been a little terrified of her.
"I was just mumbling to myself," Pat said hastily.
The look became more severe. "Well, don't do that." Debbie's mom addressed her in a regal tone.
"Yes, Mrs. Taylor. Uh, Mom."
Mrs. Taylor glared, and Pat tried not to wilt.
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"No, ma'am. Mom."
When Mrs. Taylor sulked for a moment, she looked like the Evil Queen in "Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs."
"What are you planning to do tonight, dear?"
Pat grinned. "I thought maybe I'd do a little painting."
"You're not doing that," Mrs. Taylor said flatly. "Painting is not going to get you a job where you will do something very practical and be very busy all the time. And you need that. That is how you make money, dear. That is how you succeed."
Whee, Pat thought.
"You must be practical, my dear daughter."
The words of "The Logical Song" by Supertramp came blaring into Pat's mind, along with an image of Mr. Spock, someone Pat had always thought was kind of hot.
"Maybe, just maybe it's possible to do something practical but also do creative things, too."
Pat lifted a finger when she said this, which she imagined made Debbie look a little silly.
Pat also tried to sound cheerful but in Debbie's voice it didn't quite work; Debbie always sounded a little snotty.
Mrs. Taylor waved a finger of her own; she wore black fingernail polish, of course.
"No, my dear. You must spend all your time on practical useful constructive things."
Using Debbie's face, Pat made a face.
"Wow. It sounds like being an UM-CE sucks."
"Don't use the word 'sucks.' That isn't proper for a lady. And what's an 'UM-CE?'"
"It's an Upper Middle Class Extrovert. I always thought you guys had it made. I guess not," Pat said with a frown. "I don't think I want this life any more."
There was a flash of white light, and Pat was back in the white room with Mr. Smith.
"Time's up," he said.
Pat looked and saw that she was herself again.
Leaning against the front of the desk, Smith crossed his arms.
"What did you learn from your little adventure?"
Looking up with wide innocent eyes, Pat talked like Dorothy from "The Wizard Of Oz."
"I learned that if ever I go looking for my heart's desire I don't have to look any further than my own backyard." She then attempted the voice of Humphrey Bogart. "And the problems of two small people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."
Smith narrowed his Dr. Smith eyes in a look of boredom.
"Yes, very amusing," he said in a droll voice. "What did you really learn?"
Pat, with her own face, looked rueful. "That maybe Debbie doesn't have it so good after all. That there's always drawbacks to any good situation." She curled her lower lip. "That's assuming Debbie has a good situation."
Smith grinned. "And no doubt Miss Taylor learned how painful it is to be you. I think you're going to see a lot of changes from now on."
When Pat moved to step outside the white room, it vanished; there was no sign of it, only the park and the school.
As Pat headed for home, her real home, she encountered someone.
Debbie stared at her for a while then the two of them ran toward each other and embraced.
They were in that embrace for a while.
Imagine the voice of Rod Serling.
"Nothing to add. Only that another important lesson has been learned in 'The Twilight Zone.'"