In 2012, in the extended universe, a branch of Colonial Williamsburg, the living museum company, gambled on expansion. Research revealed Gen Z had no interest in powered wigs or churning butter. They targeted the 1950s. Everyone loves soda fountains and sock hops.

The search for their host town took them across all 247 municipalities in Vermont before landing in Brandon. Its broad, tree-lined streets and brick storefronts already looked like a film set. The corporation called it Norman Rockwell Country (Rockwell had actually called Massachusetts home).

Not everyone in Brandon was on board. The company offered the residents two options: buy-outs or buy-ins. They’d offer 25% over market value for your property, and about a third of them took it. The others received monthly payments in exchange for their participation. They had to live by the 1959 rules. They were promised self-government, though the fine print included pages of rules: clothing, language, tools, even grass seed had to match the period.

Over the next two years, the town transformed from a cozy modernist Vermont village into an exact replica of the 1950s. Dumpsters hauled away microwaves, cellphones, and farmhouse decor, replacing them with 1950s versions. Two chrome-clad diners were delivered.

Inspectors dressed in plaid jackets swarmed every day, searching for violations. Nylon socks and Hokas would draw a fine. So would saying ‘amazeballs’ instead of ‘swell’.

Homeowners were forbidden from updating their houses. Lead paint was reintroduced, and men wore hats, while women wore pantyhose.

The re-creation wasn’t limited to architecture. Social order took a hit. Women were pressured to leave their jobs and return to homemaking. Few wanted to revive the rigid gender roles of the Mad Men era, but officials promoted it as authentic.

There were classes to learn how to make Jell-O molds. Tourists strolled past staged scenes: women hung laundry, and men mowed lawns with cigarettes dangling from their lips.

Downtown, you’d find a Robert Frost impersonator wandering Main Street, reciting lines from his poems. Margaret MacArthur played her signature folk music lying on a picnic blanket in the town square.

At first, American Brandon was a resounding success. Tourists bought milkshakes, seniors posed with the Frost look-alike, and residents leaned into their roles. They forgot quinoa existed and lived off a diet of potluck dinners and casseroles. The transition, though disruptive, went more smoothly than expected.

The events of 2015 changed the American Brandon project forever. A flu-like outbreak with deadly outcomes forced the entire planet into lockdown, similar to the COVID-19 outbreak in VT-1. For three months, tourists were forbidden to enter Brandon. Company insurance and government stimulus sustained the town, with one decree: don’t modernize. Maintain the 1950s Vermont lifestyle so that, when tourists returned, Brandon would be a welcoming escape.

The residents agreed and without any corporate interference, self-policed, and the atmosphere changed completely. Without bus tours riding down Main Street every 45 minutes, and with no cameras, the town ramped up the vigilance. Neighbors accused one another of breaking character. Fines for un-American Brandon activities tripled. Mostly for using modern phrasing and modern foods and alcohol. When an empty Twisted Tea can was found behind the butcher’s, fifteen residents were arrested. It was later determined that the can predated the American Brandon project, but not before two dozen residents spent a night in jail.

Inspectors fined families whose TVs showed anything but I Love Lucy. Psychologists compared it was the Stanford Prison Experiment. Playing pretend with real punishments. Paranoia ran amok. Anyone suspected of secretly writing to the outside world or whispering doubts about the project’s viability was viewed as a danger.

The Rosenbergs, who ran a small gift shop, were especially vulnerable. Before the lockout, they were often seen talking to tourists in un-American Brandon ways. Their business shuttered during the lockout. Rumors swirled about them contacting outsiders. Nothing was proven, but the whisper was enough for a town feeding on toxic isolation.

In the real 1950s, Julia and Ethan Rosenberg were executed for spying. That was coincidence enough for American Brandon. They were arrested for “communicating with the enemy.” A trial was arranged in a courtroom filled with residents who wanted to see blood for the so-called un-American Brandon activities.

After a short sham trial, they were found guilty. The courtroom erupted into cheers while The Rosenbergs’ teenage son tried to settle down the crowd, reminding them it wasn’t real, but by then, no one knew the difference. It felt real enough, and reality blurred when a seemingly working electric chair was rolled out. The Rosenbergs sobbed into handkerchiefs. The teenage son was carried out of the room.

Just as Julius was seated in the chair, a low rumble stirred outside the courtroom. The townspeople focused their attention on the back doors as muffled voices grew louder.

The doors swung open. Tourists poured in, their cringy 2010s clothing a garish contrast to American Brandon’s carefully stated 1950s world. They froze at the sight of a trembling man bound to an electric chair. They surely weren’t going to execute a husband and wife. Tourists convinced themselves it was a theater.

The lockout had ended. Corporate announced visitors would return immediately, though no one in American Brandon had an email or television to know it was coming. The intrusion quickly shattered the illusion. Inspectors rushed to intervene and halt the execution. Julius and his family were released for a weekend, before being ordered back into character on Monday morning as if nothing had happened.

Not long after, American Brandon was sold to a private equity firm. Executives drained what they could, claimed a generous tax loss, and abandoned the experiment. The town of Brandon remained, but outsiders were no longer welcome.