The Eighties: A Bitchen Time To Be a Teenager!

by Tom Harvey

  I had never seen anyone with AIDS and, based on the instant reaction, neither had anyone else. He spoke for half an hour about the virus then opened it up for questions.

  I looked around the auditorium waiting for the obvious one.

  I whispered to Joe, “I can’t believe no one is going to ask him how he contracted AIDS.”

  Joe replied, “Ask him.”

  “You ask him.”

  “I’m not going to ask him. There’s two hundred people in here. It’s your question, you ask him.”

  My heart pounded. The thought of asking this very personal question–the question that hung over the room like a fog–was too intimidating.

  I chickened out.

  No one asked the question and our speaker never volunteered the answer.

  What he did say, with conviction, was this:

  “You can put your cut-up hands in a bucket of AIDS-infected blood and still not contract the virus!”

  A girl close to the front asked if he was sure about that. The impassioned speaker repeated the statement, louder and with even more conviction. He added, “The only way you can contract AIDS is through unprotected sexual intercourse! That is the only way!”

  We walked out of class in the fall of 1989 with that visual–hands in a bucket of blood–and this misinformation provided to us by a major university in the greater Los Angeles area. Even in 1989, AIDS was greatly misunderstood.

  Upon returning for the winter 1990 semester, our guest speaker’s obituary was in The Daily Sundial. As it turned out, the man left behind a male partner so our assumptions regarding how he contracted AIDS (through unprotected sexual contact) seemed to be confirmed. It saddened me to read of his death simply because a few short months earlier the man looked perfectly healthy. Vibrant, confident, defiant.

  Tuesday, October 17, was a warm evening–one of the rare instances when I had the apartment to myself. I welcomed the quiet solitude.

  With the roommate fiasco still fresh in our minds, Joe and I reoccupied the master bedroom and our fair share of the rent.

  I lounged on the king-size bed reading one of my Greek history textbooks straddling the thin line between consciousness and sleep.

  Persephone really got the short end of the stick. Hades was such a prick for kidnapping her. Run, girl, run! Don’t eat those pomegranate seeds …

  My eyelids drooped shut …

  The only noise came from the TV at the foot of the bed. The familiar voices of Al Michaels and Tim McCarver were reviewing highlights of Game Two of the World Series, minutes away from the start of Game Three. For all the hype of the unprecedented “Battle of the Bay,” the Oakland Athletics hadn’t had any trouble with the San Francisco Giants and were up 2-0 in the series.

  Al Michaels’ voice faded …

  Wham!

  The framed picture of Joe’s girlfriend, Karen, fell over on the headboard. The bed suddenly transformed into one of those cheesy vibrating beds you see in the movies. It was an earthquake, no doubt. My instant thought, People, somewhere, are dying at this very moment.

  Al and Tim were replaced with a fixed image that simply read, World Series.

  Al Michaels’ voice sounded like he was speaking into a walkie-talkie: “I don’t know if we’re on the air. We’re in commercial. I guess we’re still here.” As the vibrations continued, Al nervously chuckled, “That’s the greatest open in the history of television.” The audio fell silent.

  Three hundred and fifty miles to the north, the Loma Prieta earthquake, measuring 6.9 on the Richter Scale was no laughing matter. Within minutes, every TV channel began airing live feeds of the Bay Area’s devastation.

  Collapsed buildings.

  Buckled streets.

  Plumes of thick, black smoke rising through a dozen areas in the city.

  Chaos.

  Most channels cut to the most gruesome scene of all–a section of two-tier freeway known as the Cypress Street Viaduct: cars flattened under tons of steel and concrete on the lower deck, cars dangling on the edge of the twisted upper deck. Helicopters helplessly circled the scene. I watched wide-eyed and horrified.

  When the stadium feed was restored, Al was no longer laughing and Game Three of the World Series was no longer of importance. Players from both teams milled around the field not knowing what to do. Some climbed into the stands looking for family members.

  For days, San Francisco and the surrounding area slowly unburied itself from the carnage. In all, sixty three people died, thousands were injured, and thousands were left homeless.

  When play resumed ten days later, ABC compiled footage of the grief, the rescues, the cleanup, and the rebuilding to Journey’s Lights. It was a fitting, poignant tribute, and I fought back tears watching it in the living room with my roommates.

  The A’s went on to sweep the Giants in four.

  The decade came to a close on a Sunday night. I talked Odie into going to the Visalia Holiday Inn–needing my married friend to provide an escape clause for a girl I agreed to meet there.

  Did I ever.

  The Holiday Inn’s bar was rocking by the time we arrived at 9 p.m. The place was packed and in the middle of it all stood my date with a drink in each hand. With her long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and tight black dress–a size or two too small by the looks of it–Odie patted me on the back and yelled, “Well, looks like I’ll be finding my own way home tonight!”

  She was a sight to behold dancing with no one in particular. On her head, a tiara. Around her bare shoulders, a bright pink feather boa.

  I yelled back, “We came together. We’ll leave together!”

  The girl, I honestly don’t remember her name, thrust a drink in my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. Odie, in his Wranglers, cowboy boots, and cowboy shirt, made a beeline for the bar.

  My date, we’ll call her Linda, slurred, “I was supposed to meet a friend here … would have been great for your friend, but she flaked on me!”

  I yelled back, “It’s not a problem, he’s mar …”

  Before I could finish my sentence (“he’s married anyway”), she planted a big, wet, drunk kiss on me. For a moment, we stayed there–frozen in time–then someone jostled us on the packed dance floor and the kiss was broken.

  As the night wore on, Odie danced with every dateless girl in the place, oblivious to my growing concern around where and when the night would end for me. Every time I tried to steal a moment with him, a girl would grab him and he’d be back on the dance floor. His energy knew no bounds. A few times I heard him yell, “Just so you know, I’m married!” The girls just smiled and nodded.

  It wasn’t that the thought of a one-night stand was against my principles–but the thought of unprotected sex with an inebriated girl I barely knew posed too many variables. I had intentionally came unprepared (no pun intended), if you know what I mean.27

  As the countdown to midnight began, the music stopped and I whispered in Odie’s ear, “Help me!”

  Odie giggled his boyish giggle and said nothing.

  Five, four, three, two, one …

  Happy New Year!

  Everyone on the dance floor began kissing each other. While Linda locked lips with me again, Odie was getting peppered left and right, dodging the lips of his many dancing partners. The guy was a saint. I have to give him that.

  A few seconds into the new decade, Linda grabbed my hand and said, “I have a room. Let’s go!”

  I called back to Odie, “Do not leave! I will be right back!” The pink feathered boa swirled behind her, blinding me in the process.

  Within two minutes, we were in her quiet hotel room, the thumping music of the bar ringing in my ears.

  “Want a drink?” she asked, motioning to an array of soda and hard liquor lined up on the nightstand. I eyed the bottle of Tanqueray and thought, The girl’s got good taste in gin.

  What happened next, I think, would have happened regardless of my answer.

  “Um, no. I have to drive Odie home tonight a
nd it’s a thirty-mile drive.”

  The black dress fell to the floor and there she stood in just the tiara and feather boa. To borrow an Odie-ism, she was naked as a jaybird.

  She flung the tiara and boa across the room and jumped on the bed. Adding to the awkward moment, she grabbed a pillow and covered her face. Before I could say a word, there she lay: naked, headless, and quivering.

  Which brings me to that classic scene in Animal House–Pinto’s internal struggle with good and evil, complete with the manifestation of a sweet cherub and a crude demon.

  My own debate began.

  Demon: Wow! This doesn’t happen every day!

  Cherub: Don’t you dare!

  Demon: Oh c’mon, don’t be a wimp!

  Cherub: You are NOT prepared for this!

  Demon: What is your problem?

  Cherub: Odie is downstairs waiting for you!

  There she lay, naked. Her sides heaved in nervous anticipation.

  For the next long minute, my conscience debated the pros and cons. I sat on the bed, looking up and down the length of her pale skin. She was pretty. This was oh-so-tempting.

  Finally I said, “Yep, you’re not prepared for this.” I was speaking to myself.

  She replied, her voice muffled by the pillow, “The hell I’m not!”

  I gently squeezed her calf and her entire body flinched.

  “No, I meant I’m not prepared for this. I’m sorry but I have to go.”

  With that, I walked out the door and locked it behind me. My pace picked up with each long stride. Back in the bar, the party raged on. Odie leaned against the bar with a Coors Light longneck in his hand. His grin was a mile wide. Grabbing him by the shirt, I yelled, “Let’s get the hell out of here! And I mean, right now!”

  And that’s how the eighties ended and the nineties began for me. Not with a bang, but with Odie laughing at me the entire way home.

  CHAPTER 22

  March, 2011

  I am in the airport on my way home to Seattle and wander into the duty-free store. On the shelves sit the usual assortment of hard alcohol, cigarettes, and fragrances. To my surprise, I notice the round, dimpled bottle in front of its bright pink box. By the look of the half empty sample bottle, the fragrance is still going strong.

  After a full exhale, I bring the nozzle to my nose, close my eyes, and slowly inhale. It takes a moment for my nose to register the smell, then another moment for my brain to flip through twenty six years of memories. I crack open an eye to see if anyone finds this behavior odd–no one does–so I close my eyes and inhale again.

  And, there she is.

  Tiffany and I are eighteen again. We’re at her dad’s Portuguese club spaghetti dinner. Amidst the aroma of garlic bread and tomato sauce, I smell that smooth area of bare skin between her left ear and shoulder.

  I breathe in again.

  She’s next to me and we’re standing outside Ahhhs, a novelty store in Westwood Village. The night is cold and we’re huddled together on the sidewalk. She says matter-of-factly, “I think I’ll apply for a job here. This looks like a fun place to work.” I say something disparaging.

  “ALASKA AIRLINE FLIGHT SEVEN NOW IN FINAL BOARDING. PAGING MR. HARVEY TO GATE 41B.”

  I open my eyes and I’m forty three-years-old again, alone, in an airport store in Newark, New Jersey.

  Without thinking, I mash on the plunger and soak my left hand with the fragrance.

  “MR. HARVEY TO GATE 41B. THE GATE IS CLOSING IN SIXTY SECONDS.”

  No time to run to the restroom. Damn.

  The plane is full and I have an exit-row-aisle seat, 15C. I’m the last to board and the overpowering odor of sweet perfume swirls around me. The guy overflowing in 15B sniffs the air, confused. I sit on my left hand.

  As soon as the plane is airborne and the seatbelt indicator chimes off, I rush to the lavatory and douse both hands with soap and water. Twice.

  It’s no use. My skin has absorbed the liquid and I’ve transferred the smell to both hands.

  My brain is in total recall mode now: the white, ruffled dress she wore to the ‘85 Prom, the black and red dress she wore to the Christmas Ball, passionate kisses in her dark living room, that stupid Don Johnson poster in her bedroom (Don, in full white, leisure suit-soaked to the skin standing knee deep in the ocean. God, I hated that poster.), Love Zone by Billy Ocean, I Send A Message by INXS, the entire Tao cassette by Rick Springfield, the night I broke the heart of that pretty half-Portuguese girl.

  Enya in my earphones, “Sail away, sail away, sail away …” Even the iPod gods are unrelenting. I hit the shuffle button. Metallica’s Broken, Beat and Scarred. Better.

  The drink cart is a welcome intrusion as the distinct smell of Yves Saint Laurent’s Paris wafts unmercifully from the guy in 15C.

  “Gin and tonic. Actually, make that two, please.”

  And that’s kind of how it is, looking back at the past. We all have our Paris perfumes and Back In Black’s and Star Wars action figures as reminders of our youth.

  Our lost innocence.

  Whether we’re looking for the journey or not.

  I graduated from Cal State Northridge in December 1990 with a BA in History but never made it to law school. The sudden death of my friend and benefactor, Ray, in October 1990, sent me careening down a different career path. Instead of law, I studied healthcare administration and graduated with a Master’s Degree from Cal State Bakersfield. I’ve been in healthcare ever since.

  Could I continue writing a book about the nineties? Not even to save my life and I’ll tell you why. I don’t have a diary of my teen years. Everything in this book came from vivid, colorfully clear memories. These memories come to me driving down the road, and walking the dogs, and sitting at my desk.

  In contrast, the nineties are a blur of working for a paycheck, failed relationships, and mortgage payments. Not that the nineties were bad–they just weren’t that memorable. There were no more first kisses and school rallies and college roommates.

  On New Year’s Day 1990, no one stood up and said, “HEY! The eighties are now officially over! Girls, turn in your legwarmers and Pat Benatar albums! Guys, the mullets have to go and, for Chrissake, throw out that Twisted Sister CD!” I certainly didn’t pause to mourn the passing of the Decade of Decadence. Sometimes I wish I had.

  It was, arguably, a simpler time.

  We didn’t have the internet or personal cell phones.

  Mountain Dew was the only energy drink we knew.

  Blackberries were fruit you hurled after drinking too much Jack and Coke.

  Dennis Rodman had shock value.

  The Commodore 64 was cool.

  Someone knew someone who knew a victim of spontaneous human combustion.

  You could get a raw egg in your large Orange Julius.

  Which brings me full circle to my twelve-year-old niece, Chloe. Not long ago, we sat on her bed reading my favorite book–Maurice Sendak’s Where The Wild Things Are. God bless that girl for indulging her uncle’s simple pleasures.

  She stops mid-sentence. “I’m thirsty.”

  I move to remedy this and she grabs my arm. “I’ll call down to my dad for a drink.”

  “OK.” I plug my ears. The girl has a piercing scream.

  She picks up her cell phone (the bright pink one with sequins) and hits speed dial.

  “Hello, Dad? Can you bring me a glass of water?” Surrounded by twenty posters of Justin Beiber smiling down at us, I can’t help but laugh.

  Times have changed.

  In the dessert table of my life, the eighties is that seven-pound chocolate cake from Costco. You know the one: covered in a thick layer of frosting and shaved chocolate, that wondrous dessert is a sight to behold.

  It is yummy.

  It is memorable.

  And, it is decadent.

  Thank you for taking this journey with me. You’re bitchen in my book!

  Tom Harvey

  April, 2011

  Tom and Susan Harve
y about to enjoy U2 rock the stadium in Seattle. June, 2011. The ‘80s are alive and well … how could anyone forget it?

  APPENDIX 1

  I’m sure every decade has its share of one hit wonders, but, honestly, I never paid much attention before or after the eighties.

  Music provides guideposts along the trip down memory lane and certain songs remind us of very specific moments. For example, I remember that the DJ played Can’t Live Without You by the Scorpions at the 1985 Christmas Ball. Tiffany, much more into INXS than heavy metal, huffed off before I pulled her back on the dance floor.

  I took a recent poll of Facebook friends and asked them to give me their favorite eighties one-hit wonder. In less than four hours, I had thirty comments. This is what we came up with, listed in chronological order:

  Cars by Gary Numan (1980)

  Theme from Greatest American Hero (Believe It or Not) by Joey Scarbury (1981)

  Come On Eileen by Dexys Midnight Runners (1982)

  Mickey by Toni Basil (1982)

  The Safety Dance by Men Without Hats (1982)

  I Ran by A Flock of Seagulls (1982)

  Der Kommisar by After The Fire (1982)

  Something’s Going On by Frida (1982)

  Electric Avenue by Eddy Grant (1983)

  True by Spandau Ballet (1983)

  Major Tom by Peter Schilling (1983)

  Too Shy by Kajagoogoo (1983)

  Rockit by Herbie Hancock (1983)

  Somebody’s Watching Me by Rockwell (1984)

  99 Red Ballons by Nena (1984)

  Obsession by Animotion (1984)

  Take On Me by A-Ha (1985)

  Party All The Time by Eddie Murphy (1985)

  Voices Carry by Til Tuesday (1985)

  Let’s Go All The Way by Sly Fox (1986)

  I Can’t Wait by Nu Shooz (1986)

  The Rain by Oran “Juice” Jones (1986)

  Heart and Soul by T’Pau (1987)

  The Lady in Red by Chris DeBurgh (1987)

  Here I Go Again by Whitesnake (1987)

  I Need Love by LL Cool J (1987)

  The Promise by When In Rome (1988)