In 1989, I moved out of my childhood home and into a townhouse in Crystal Village in Attleboro, Massachusetts, with my friends Bengi and Tom. We called our home The Heavy Metal Playhouse, and for the next three years, we had a lot of fun while living in poverty and perpetual uncertainty.
We kept a communication log in a wire-bound notebook that Bengi blessedly saved.
He passed it onto me earlier this year, so I have begun reading it.
I’ve written three posts about the pages so far. Today I turned that page and read the next two.
On the left side is a note from our roommate, Tom, who has lost his tickets to a concert we are attending that night.
Mötley Crüe, Warrant, and Tesla. A fantastic concert at the Worcester Centrum.
Tom’s asking for help finding his tickets because, in 1989, if you lost your ticket, you were out of luck. A physical piece of cardstock was required to enter a theater or arena, and if you misplaced it after purchase, you would be refused access to the performance and your seat would go unfilled.
Real stakes existed in the 1980s.
Video games cost 25 cents to play.
Returning movies late carried hefty fees.
You don’t lose your concert tickets, damn it.
Sadly for Tom, he did, and help never came. He missed that concert.
Tom’s plea for help is dated December 14, 1989, at 7:30 AM. It was a Thursday, so Tom likely wrote this message before leaving for work.
Below it is a message from Bengi, who, uncharacteristically, signs it with his real name, Jim. He writes:
Matt,
Phone works.
Arctic doesn’t.
Jim
Our phone is finally connected, which, in 1989, is a big deal. Without mobile phones, the only way to contact other people was by a phone attached to a wall.
Think about it:
I could only call people from the kitchen. Every other place on the planet was bereft of a phone for me, unless I decided to find and use a payphone.
After a week, we finally had a phone.
The reference to “Arctic” is the downstairs bathroom, which was always inexplicably frigid. Eventually, when things get especially cold, the pipes burst, and we simply never used it as a bathroom again. Instead, we used the bathtub to store beer for our parties.
The room essentially became a refrigerator.
The bottom of the page and the following page are comprised of a note from me, which contains multitudes.
Apparently Bengi went to a concert, maybe with Tom, the night before, but we are also going to a concert on this night, too:
Mötley Crüe, Warrant, and Tesla.
I need directions.
Can you imagine? Without the internet or GPS, you can only get directions to the venue by asking another human being. You might be able to use a map, but almost none include street-level directions.
A map might get you to the city of Worcester, but after that, you’re out of luck.
Back then, I could certainly get to Worcester without assistance, but finding the then-Worcester Centrum was another thing.
When society falters, and the world collapses back into an analog existence, Gen X will rule the planet because we have navigated the analog world before and can still do it today.
On the second page, I offer Bengi four options, because I was leaving early for work, of course, and Bengi liked to sleep late:
a. Wake him up at 7:00 AM
b. Write the directions down
c. Call him for the directions
d. Fuck off.
No indication of which one he chose, but I went to the concert, so he must’ve chosen one of the first three.
I also reference McBoos:
Small plastic buckets given to children at McDonald’s in lieu of the traditional McDonald’s Happy Meal boxes.
Since Halloween had passed and surplus McBoos were available, I brought some home so we could use them to store things. When you are poor, almost any object has worth if you’re creative enough.
Then I ask Tom and Bengi to wish me luck in the snow. Historical records indicate only a dusting of snow that day, but I was less than a year from going through a windshield headfirst in a snowstorm and requiring CPR to restore my life, so snow still panicked me back then. I had half a dozen pieces of glass still in my forehead (instead of the two I still have today), my right leg was still regaining strength after surgery, and my left leg was still occasionally spouting blood through an unhealed hole that wouldn’t be fully repaired until six years later with a second surgery.
I had plenty of reminders of the accident, making snow hard to handle.
I also remind my friends, but really just Tom, that “When there’s time to lean, there’s time to clean.”
We all heard this phrase a lot while working at McDonald’s. Tom was a messy roommate, and this is my attempt to remind him to try to be a better human being.
I may have been only 18 at the time, but I was already on my way to becoming an organized, efficient person.
Also a bit of a nag.
I also write, “We need to have that meeting soon, Jim.” This is likely a meeting with Tom about keeping the house clean and dealing with his mice, which keep escaping the cage until he eventually moves out.
The postscript to this message is fascinating:
“Dann is history!”
Danni is Danni Fawcett, a woman I briefly dated. Danni lived about 45 minutes north of the Heavy Metal Playhouse and was occupying much of my time, both commuting to her apartment and the relationship itself.
I broke up with her because I wanted to spend more time with my friends.
Despite how callous my message appears in this communication log, I’m sure I ended things fairly well.
I have always been good at ending relationships decently and respectfully, and almost all of my ex-girlfriends remained friendly or became actual friends with me after our breakups, though admittedly, I don’t think I ever saw Danni again after we split.
But it was an exciting time for me.
Living on my own for the first time, without a safety net, then and forever.
Hanging with friends whenever I wasn’t working.
Cobbling together a meager existence with guys I loved dearly.
Other girls would soon appear in my life, but in that moment, I didn’t need or want a girlfriend.
Life was already so full and thrilling.
