Recently, a fellow author friend told me that I’m the most nostalgic person she knows. I wasn’t surprised, of course (how many people does she know who wrote two novels set in the ‘80s?), but it did get me to wondering just why I’m so nostalgic. The obvious, pop-psych explanation is that my brother died in the ‘80s, so, in a way, I’m still trying to go back there. My mind is still stuck in the time of neon Trapper Keepers and mile-high hair. But, like I always do, I wanted to go deeper. As another friend once remarked about how I view the world: “You look around and ask yourself: ‘Is this crap? Let me get close to it. Let me smell it. No, let me taste it. Yep, it’s crap.’” (He may not have used the word “crap.”)
This desire to go deeper on my nostalgia craze made me think of a memory—actually, two memories, and the differences between them (hence, this blog’s title). In the late ‘80s, my parents were friendly with my grandmother’s neighbors who lived across the street. One day, they moved, and we were eventually invited to their new house. My sister and I couldn’t believe the place. It was at least twice the size of their old house, though that wasn’t saying much, considering the modest bungalow they used to live in. The foyer had an enormously high ceiling (almost as high as the aforementioned ‘80s hairstyles), and you could literally hear your voice echo back to you when you spoke.
The neighbors’ two boys were in (I believe) Fourth and Fifth Grades, though they looked like twins, and they were incredibly excited to see my sister and me, almost as if their favorite celebrities had shown up at their doorstep. (In those days, they would probably be Madonna and Pee-Wee Herman.) They seemed to have the whole night planned for us. First, they gave us the grand tour: there was a wide open kitchen with an island, something I had never seen before, and a beautiful living room with a giant, plush sofa that seemed to encircle the room. They even had an inground pool in their backyard.
Their favorite part of the tour was their bedrooms, since they were much larger than their original rooms at their old home. It seemed that we had interrupted a major battle with their action figures, as they were splayed all over their carpet. I recognized a few of them: He-Man, G.I. Joes, a couple of leftover Star Wars figures. But there was a quartet of oversized turtles I had never seen before.
“Who are those?” I wondered.
“You don’t know who the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are?” one of them asked. I did not. They had not yet broken through on my pop-culture radar. He then proceeded to school me on all the turtles, complete with names, weapons, and bandana colors. I was amazed at how they could keep track of which turtle had which color with which weapon. In a few months, I would have all of those stats memorized, courtesy of the cartoon show. (Side note: TMNT will always hold a special place in my heart because it was the last toy line I played with.)
We were then summoned to the living room downstairs, where we were treated to a showing of Top Gun on the biggest T.V. screen I had seen at that point. Now, keep in mind this was the late ‘80s, so it was probably a quarter of the size of your T.V. screen now, but those were simpler times. Top Gun was new on VHS, and when the movie started up, I was blown away by the stereo surround system accompanying the huge (read “not that huge”) T.V. I felt like I was at the movies. And it didn’t hurt that the movie had an awesome soundtrack. (I still fire the CD up in my car every now and then.)
We ate a delicious meal afterwards, though I couldn’t tell you what it was, and then horsed around with the boys some more, playing tag, hide-and-seek, the usual kid stuff. At the end of the night, the brothers were begging my sister and me to sleep over, but it was late, and we hadn’t brought our pajamas. (Also, we were scared of sleeping over the house of a family we barely knew.) As I stepped into my Dad’s car, I distinctly remember him telling their disappointed faces, “Don’t worry, guys. They’ll sleep over next time.” Well, I don’t need to tell you. There was never any sleepover.
In fact, the next time I saw them at all was a few years later in the early ‘90s. I believe we were there because the older brother was celebrating his graduation from junior high. When my sister and I walked through their front door, we were no longer treated like celebrities. The icy response we received from the two boys couldn’t have been more stark than the last time we saw them. Instead of excitedly leading us around the house to show off their toys and large screen T.V., they looked at their parents as if to say, “These people? Why did you invite them?”
To say that the rest of the afternoon was awkward would be an understatement. Since it was June and the weather was favorable, we stayed mostly outside in their backyard by that amazing pool, but the boys stayed far away from us, hanging out with their “cooler” friends from school. The older one was obnoxiously braying like a jerk, and at one point, he tried pushing his friend into the pool.
I almost asked them if they still had their Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles but didn’t have enough courage. (Even then, I was nostalgic for a time that was only a few years old at that point.) It was a good thing I never did, because I’m sure they would’ve laughed in my face.
Needless to say, there was no begging for us to stay over for a sleepover that night, despite my Dad’s promise that we’d do just that for our next visit. As we pulled away in their driveway, I can still see them half-heartedly waving goodbye.
That was the last time I saw them.
Years later, I learned from my Mom that they got in trouble in high school, getting into a few fistfights with other students. Also, their parents divorced. Apparently, the father had an affair. I think about these two days often: one set in the ‘80s when everything was pastel colored and joyful in my mind, and the other set in the grimy ‘90s when everything went to hell.
This is one of the reasons why I don’t necessarily view growing up as a good thing. The other day, my daughters were horsing around in their bedroom, and they accidentally broke their nightlight. I asked my younger daughter what type of nightlight she wanted so I could buy it for her, and she replied, “That’s okay. I don’t need it anymore.” I almost cried right then and there. You could argue she’s past the age of needing a nightlight, but it was one of the few remaining threads tethering her to her childhood. Other people see growing up as gaining things: wisdom, confidence, self-reliance, which, of course, is all true. But I too often see the other side, what children lose: innocence, wonder, joy. Those things matter. In my view, they’re the stuff that makes life worth living.
When I think about my grandma’s old neighbors, I think about those two, wildly different days, and the choice is clear. I’d rather be back in that big, beautiful house in the late ‘80s, when those brothers are playing with their Turtle action figures on their bedroom floor, their parents are still married, Top Gun is blaring from the high-tech stereo surround system in their living room, and everything is frozen in time. That’s where my mind is. That’s where I choose to live.
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In other MTP news: I’d like to welcome and thank the new subscribers of this blog who signed up at my last signing. (Well, not the last signing—that one was kind of a bust—but the one before that.) As promised, I’ll never share your info with anyone; I hate when people do that to me. (I constantly get emails and calls from people telling me they have the perfect marketing plan for “The Electric Gods and Stories.”)
In other, other MTP news, I have my first Barnes & Noble signing coming up next Saturday, May 23 at 1 p.m. in Manhasset, NY. I’m pretty excited about this because I’ve been literally trying to get a signing at one of their locations since my first book, Danger Peak, was released 4 years ago. I guess good things come to those who wait. I hope to see as many of you there as possible.
MTP
P.S.: The Danger Peak audiobook is now available!
P.P.S.: The new edition of The Electric God and Other Shorts is available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble:
Michael Thomas Perone 