“Who is this?”
“You scared me.”
“You should be scared.”
“Why are you calling?”
“Because you miss me.”
“Why would I miss you? The 80s sucked.”
“I think you’ve just forgotten.”
“Not really. The only thing I’ve forgotten is the 70s.”
~ ~ ~
Bright neon is for road workers.
Mostly I’m scared of high rise acid wash jeans on men with no butts. But that’s another story. I miss the 1980’s and not because of Aqua Net hairspray and thick black eyeliner.
Once upon a time we didn’t have caller I.D. It was always a mystery as to who was on the other end of that ringing phone. Yes, phones rang. And everyone under the age of 30 would run around the house trying to be the first to pick up the receiver.
The only social media I knew of was sitting on a 386 computer, staring at a black and white monitor and reading lines of chat on some BBS (Bulletin Board Service).
I waited all day for KSJO (San Jose) to play some new song over the radio. And it was a small pathetic Radio Shack radio. If I turned the volume too high, my dad would get pissed.
I was writing even back then, but not on my computer (just yet). I had an electric Brother typewriter. I would write stacks of stories. I lived those stories. In fact I don’t think they were stories. They were fantasies. (Get your mind out of the gutter.)
So maybe the 1980’s are haunting me because I am slowly slipping away into my stories again. I come up for air every now and then. I eat dried up brownies on the counter and drink cold coffee because I can’t be bothered to warm it up. Dinner is salsa and chips on my desk.
And…I still roll up the bottom of my jeans into tight bands around my ankles.
I told you. I’m haunted by the 1980s.