Chapter 13
D iana and I wander into the computer room the next day. She needs to pick up a book she left in a desk cubby while playing The Oregon Trail . I have to tag along to see these advanced computers. I was fairly certain Google wasn’t available until the late nineties, but I still felt the need to test these machine’s capabilities. Maybe I could find local company and organization information here, like a hard drive version of the phone book on one of these computers. The fact that I hadn’t even thought to look for this information in the physical phone book laying on Marcie’s kitchen island makes me shake my head. I make a mental note to go through it at home. There’s a good possibility Sheriden or Marigold could be listed locally.
As we enter the room I spot Evan coming out of the classroom two doors behind us. He meets my gaze and picks up his pace toward me, likely wanting an answer to his earlier date request. Diana reaches the computer desk before me and I look around for possible places to hide just as she begins a performance of outstretched cheer arms in an attempt to mimic my first day of cheer practice.
“Will she trip or will she fall? Hoo-rah, hoo-hoo-rah! Will she be okay at all? Hoo-rah, hoo-hoo-rah!” she chants as her arms move back and forth in a tight-fisted satirical motion.
I manage a light punch to her armpit while her arms are lifted and instantly pull back to a defensive position in case she tries to get me back.
“Ouch! Jeez! Where did you learn to hit like that, Atta?” Diana rubs her pit as if I’d actually done some damage. “It feels like you left a bruise, and why are you standing like a bodyguard open carrying? It’s like James Bond stole your personality this week or something,” she muses. I suppose I can use a little less finesse in everyday life, I remind myself. I’m so used to carrying my body a certain way, especially after pulling a quick pass at something.
“Maybe you won’t be half bad this weekend if you keep everything so stiff like that. You know, to be honest, I’ve never seen you do anything remotely cheery. You’re more the runner type, but like running to a chessboard,” she continues.
“That describes me really well. Thanks,” I say with sarcasm.
Diana jumps at the sound of movement behind us as Evan pops in from behind and extends his hand out to me. I’m temporarily shaken, unsure if he wants me to grab his fingers and walk hand in hand with him down the hall or not. Thankfully, I notice a slip of paper poking out from between his middle and index finger. I grab for the folded note. He smiles at me, leaving our conversation solely to paper, and takes off, his dark permed hair parted down the middle lifting like two bird wings flapping in the sky on his way out.
This time I open the note in front of Diana. It’s a fresh piece of paper with only his handwriting and she doesn’t seem to find it odd that I’m reading what is very obviously a love note clearly passed to me from Evan.
Hey, let’s try for next weekend. I was going to pick you up at 7 tomorrow night but Tyler’s having a house party and I can’t miss that. You’re invited, by the way. You should come. I’ll meet you there. :)
“Hasn’t anyone noticed that Evan seems to have a thing for me?” I ask Diana.
“Well, it’s not like it’s a secret. He’s been pursuing you for weeks. We’re all just waiting to see how long you’re going to hold out on him. At this rate, it won’t be long before you cave, right?” Diana says nonchalantly.
I shake my head in thought trying to understand why Eighties Atta was leading him on.
I follow Diana’s lead and insert the disk into the Apple Macintosh and begin playing The Oregon Trail next to her, following the same sequence of clicks. The computer instructs me to “Input names and press enter” and for a few seconds I marvel at the wonder of a simple eighties life before diving into the relaxing world of retrogaming. We both select our character’s profession, decide between options like banker, carpenter, or farmer, and are given a salary based on our choice. I give the party members ridiculous names like “Snoop Lion”, “T-Pain”, “Tommy Boy”, and “El Nino”—the last two, a reference to a couple of my favorite Chris Farley characters. The irony of unfamiliar modern-day names found by someone in this era brings a smile to my face. Like a perfect inside joke. We begin purchasing supplies and start our wagon journey West.
“T-Pain just died of dysentery,” I snicker. The slight disappointment I feel turns quickly to amusement.
“Character simulated experiences where you suddenly fall ill. You won’t know your fate until you starve, lose your cart, or lose your cattle on the way. Isn’t it exciting?” Diana says, almost giddy, from a higher octave.
A two-inch rubber eraser slaps Diana’s cheek right in front of me. Our heads turn murderously toward the door.
“Diana, are you available this weekend?” Tyler struts toward us.
“First off,” Diana says, barely louder than a whisper, “what makes you think throwing an eraser at me is remotely okay?” She rubs her cheeks as if it’s in pain. “Second, why would you ever think I would want to spend my weekend around you?”
“Woah!” Tyler acts as if he’s taken aback. “I was only trying to invite you both to a party at my house this weekend.” He feigns an innocent smile between the ratty mullet curls that poke out at his neck. Diana scrapes the chair against the floor, standing in a quiet fit of anger. Her short slouchy boots look just as angry and I fear Tyler’s toes have it coming for them.
“Tyler. You’re a piece of work. I don’t know how my brother even stands to be around you. You’re mean and reckless, and frankly, I’d love it if you’d never throw an eraser at me again.”
I sit, watching history repeat itself in another dimension. Diana had made a similar statement back in 2009 after he’d cut her hair, pushed her into a pool, and made one too many mistakes over the course of a year. Her lecture back then became more of a lesson on the politics of black hair and how insulting and offensive it was for him to even touch her hair without her permission, rightly so. I wondered where this eraser lecture was headed.
Tyler melts into a sad puppy right before our eyes, experiencing the emotion of shame for what was likely the first time in his life. From what I knew of his younger self, Diana was the only one who could evoke that feeling from him.
“I’m sorry,” Tyler says stiffly. “But you won’t even look in my direction, so I have to resort to other means to get your attention. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I shouldn’t have done that.” Diana shifts her weight to the other side, absorbing his words.
“We will consider going.” Diana turns her back to Tyler. “Atta, you’re staying at my house Saturday anyway, right?”
I nod.
“Hope to see you there,” Tyler says. He seems satisfied with Diana’s answer and Diana seems to be lost in her own thoughts as we head in opposite directions.
At home, Aunt Jevie muses over the cookbook rack in the kitchen. Alphabetic tabs spill out of the attached recipe card drawers as she sifts through each stained index card. It’s Saturday morning and she’s still here. Too many boxes that didn’t fit and a few days of negotiations with her new husband, Gary, about what they can and can’t keep made it impossible for them to leave earlier this week and since the original plan fell apart, they decided to stay a few more days. I guess they want to rendezvous a few more days amongst the dewy rain-washed foothills and sun-kissed red rocks or drive by the Golden City historic archway—that happens to remind me of a bowed Oh Henry! candy bar dangling from the sky.
Marcie enters the room and growls at the maritime blue “Today’s Mood” chart—A hand-painted wood wall hanging with six pegs strewn under two carved hearts and dangly circular honey wood pieces with various emotions drawn in fine-tip permanent marker. I remember adjusting Grandma’s mood chart for fun as a child. I’d choose “Feeling Flossy” because I thought it was funny she had an emotion about tooth care. Little did I know, it meant she’d be feeling bright and ostentatious that day if she chose it.
I watch to see what emotion she’ll assign after giving it a stubborn morning growl. “Feeling Squirrely” is today’s pick. She must have done something dumb this morning. I really could use one of these at my desk. That way the fellow agents around me could read “Feeling motivated!”, “Feeling curious enough to solve this case” or “When is lunch?” moods when passing my desk and maybe enjoy a quick laugh.
My young uncles enter the living room in stringy wrestling singlets under pea-green sweats with sweaty ear guards dangling from their necks like gold chains. It’s a sight of my uncles I never needed to see.
“Are you ready to cheer today? Did you get enough practice in with Erica yesterday? Do you think you’ll remember all of the cheers?” Marcie asks, clearly concerned with my abilities in regards to today’s game.
“If I forget, I’ll just smile, Marcie,” I say with a derisive grin. I practiced the four cheer routines until late into the night last night and even drew out the steps in my crossword book-turned-planner. I’m confident I won’t ruin their performance.
“Marcie? You little toot! You’re my daughter. You’re not allowed to call me that, Atta.”
“Mmhmm,” I laugh inside. I can’t call her Mom. That would be betraying my conscience.
“This isn’t the way to the mall is it?” I ask Erica on the highway. Things have changed drastically for me since time traveling to the past but not enough for me to forget the way into Denver. Erica’s driving in the opposite direction, toward the abandoned mine-filled mountains instead of the highway.
“Greg called this morning asking if I’d pick up five fishing nets at the mall for him. We’ve got to stop by and grab his money before we go.”
“He’s going fishing instead of watching the game today?” I ask. I still hadn’t quite grasped what kind of guy Greg was. He walked around like a twenty-five-year-old that didn’t belong in young Erica’s world, sporting a handlebar mustache and cowboy boots tucked under tight jeans, but his wave amidst the car filled with boys during my first encounter was youthful.
“He’ll be there. He didn’t say he was heading anywhere, just that his friends needed the nets today.” Five fishing nets. How odd. What in the world do they need five fishing nets for? It’s not like they needed that many to fish. I’d been fishing enough times to know one was enough for a small group. I can’t help but dwell on his absurd request.
Erica pulls up to a golden brown home with a large angular rooftop where sunroom windows collect gold and orange hues underneath green tree leaf shadows from the morning sunlight. For a house built in the seventies, the atrium design is spectacular. I admire the sky between the rooftop and the trees above, which looks more like stained glass watercolor art perched behind a thousand tree branches rather than a piece of sky.
The dark brown garage door to our side begins to rise, exposing two tight acid-wash jean covered legs as it reaches the halfway point. I take in the second pair of acid-wash jeans—so intensely acid-washed they appear more white than blue—realizing this pair belongs to Ben who’s hovering over a ping-pong table holding a cardboard box with large red markings. I watch from my window as Erica’s boyfriend Greg greets Erica at her door and hands her a fifty-dollar bill.
“Just get two or three nets at Sports Castle. We don’t need five anymore,” he says, smiling back at her for a lengthy period of time before brushing his short chestnut mullet back with his hand and holding it there. The continued stare toward her lips tells me that he’s thinking of something other than fishing nets and we’re all brought back to reality when his hand lets go of its hold and a spring of bangs fling back into place.
Erica leans forward and their mushy embrace prompts me to turn back to the garage where I find Ben biting his cheek and glaring in my direction. At least this expression makes his dimple pop more than usual, but I feel his annoyance. It’s as if he thinks my whole purpose in life is to blackmail him for something he thinks I know, that I actually don’t. I stare back at him with a gaze that only a clear conscience could muster. I wasn’t guilty of anything, yet.
“What’s in the box?” I say, hoping to coax something other than a glare out of him.
“Dynamite,” he responds.
“Haha funny.” My eyes roll up toward my lashes with that response. He pushes the box further into the table. “K, but really, what is it?
“I told you. Dynamite.”
“Oh, you’re serious? What in the world do you need dynamite for?” At this point intense curiosity has me leaning against the window crank, arms dangling out the car door window to get a better glimpse at the box in his hands.
Against his will toward hating me, his face lights up and a smile sneaks through. Whatever sanguine thoughts he’s thinking must be greater than his angry facade. What could Erica’s boyfriend and Ben be up to with a box of dynamite and a few fishing nets that makes him unable to resist smirking when he’s so keen on keeping a stony face in front of me?
He chooses not to answer and I can’t help but imagine Ben and Greg out on a boat lighting sticks of dynamite with tiny matches and dropping them into a nearby lake to blow up some fish, then scooping out the remains using fishing nets with the hopes of “catching fish.” It’s not logically sound, but it’s what I can come up with given the details provided. I try not to be too disappointed when we take off and Ben doesn’t even look back after refusing to answer my question.
“Greg’s house is nice. What’s the atrium like up there? It looks amazing from the outside,” I ask Erica as we head toward the mall this time.
“Oh, that’s actually Tyler’s house. Greg and Ben were just organizing stuff for the party tonight since they don’t play anymore and the rest of the guys are having a shooting practice before the game.”
So this is where Tyler’s family lived in this alternate universe. The subdivision where he lived in Non-80s-Land hadn’t even been built yet. I’d learned this on that first drive to the school with Diana.
“They have dynamite and fishing nets. Aren’t you the least bit curious about what they’re going to do?”
“They’re always doing random things like that. I can’t keep up with those boys, so I don’t pay it much attention.”
“Dynamite, Erica. Dynamite.”
“Ben’s just messing with you, Atta. Don’t put too much thought into it.”
While Erica checks out at the Sports Castle register with three wood fishing nets in hand, I find myself being watched by her large skeptical eyes as I scout out the neighboring shops for a sign of an electronics store. My actions incite confusion within her, but I’m already gone in terms of concocting a somewhat insane escape plan, so I don’t care.
The mall’s my chance to find a transparent phone. Erica’s eagerly on the lookout for shoes and I find myself deeply contemplating how I’m going to execute the plan. It’s just a simple mission of theft, but Erica’s watching me and my conscience feels for the eighties business owner I’m going to wrong, thanks to the lack of funds my eighties self possesses. The pathetic pickle jar of mostly pennies on my dresser drawer is testament to that.
The lavish and somewhat obnoxious tile path turns into a red brick cobblestone mall floor as we pass by store names I don’t recognize: Brookstone, Waldenbooks, Babbages, Contempo Casuals, and Gadzooks. My eyes scan each chunky bold neon sign floating above every store entrance for the eighties equivalent of a Best Buy.
We pass by Wall Music, where the entire store is a bright shade of candy apple red and a thousand silver trays line the wall along with stands holding cassettes and vinyls of various sizes. My heart flutters at the thought of spending an hour digging through popular albums from the seventies and eighties and I can’t help but hesitate a few steps until Erica pulls me forward with the tug of her hand.
An overwhelming smell hits my nose as we ascend up the cream-puff-colored escalator. I catch a draft of popcorn air and look over the moving railing to see a display of floating mini air balloons on an up-and-down rotating set of wires. On the other side of the forest green water fountain, another display holds giant-sized Venus flytraps and welded lily pads spouting water into drains in the floor below. It’s clear the circular bench around the water fountain is this mall’s designated public make-out destination, and I find it hard to tell from this distance which of each pair of mullet-styled heads smashed together was the girl or the boy in the relationship.
As we take the leap of faith off the escalator exit, I hear the jostling of plastic straws. Orange Julius and the red and yellow-tiled ribbon that wraps around the food court greets us first. It’s the first store I recognize from my world, Non-80s-Land, and I curse myself for thinking poorly of that jar of pennies. That money could have bought me one of those frothy foam-filled orange paper cups.
A Tandy Electronics sign as bright and as red as a hanging stoplight jumps out at me as we head for the Kinney Shoes store tucked in between a Wicks ‘N’ Sticks and a Waldenbooks. Erica’s already got the attention of the sales associate and I’m formulating my plan to sneak over to the Tandy store without her.
“You’re size 7.5 right?”
Erica crams a shoe over my dangling foot. The white Reebok Classics are a half an inch too small but the real concern fumbling through my mind is whether Erica has enough money in her purse to buy me a phone from Tandy’s next door, a more preferred route of theft. I rustle through Erica’s purse the second she leaves to request the next size up. My fingers feel for a plastic card, but all I find is two twenty-dollar bills, barely enough to pay for the Reeboks. Original plan it is.
“Let’s stop at Waldenbooks before we head out. I need a new crossword puzzle,” I say as we walk out of the store with a new box of cheer shoes in hand.
She agrees, so I direct her to the magazine display next door where I have a hunch she’ll remain for at least ten minutes. With three magazines tucked in her underarm and an open magazine in hand, I’ve set my trap. I just hope the weight will hold while I make an escape.
“Be right back,” I say, pointing to the other side of the store.
I make a u-turn at the newspaper stand and bolt to Tandy’s. With a slightly increased pulse rate and heavier breaths I peruse the coiled phone aisle in search of a transparent phone. There was a chance the everyday run-of-the-mill corded phone would work, but I was looking for exactness and it was the transparent phone with colored wire that could only replicate the trans-dimensional time travel I’d done in Pops’ hidden room. If I was going to attempt time travel I’d need a chewed wad of gum, a bottle of Clean Wave spray, and a phone, preferably transparent, in case its uniquely placed color-coated copper wires altered the makeup of the phone enough to make a difference.
At the very end of the aisle, upon a flat table, sits the rainbow wired phone, all of its colors exposed and snagging my attention with its boldness, but I’m unable to snatch it because a coke-bottle-glasses-wearing male store associate is lurking nearby. My time is limited. Erica can only flip through a magazine without sensing my disappearance for so long. I approach the man, doing my best to play the part of an innocent, not-going-to-steal-a-phone teenager.
“Um, I think she’s asking about the calculators,” I say, looking at a girl at the front of the store. I give him an encouraging nod toward her and carefully watch as he makes his way over to get into the nitty-gritty details of the electronic calculator. I’m slightly disappointed I won’t be able to stay for the awkward interaction, but I only have a few seconds to slip this phone inside my teal drawstring cheerleading bag.
It’s in. The phone is in. I straighten and add a confident, almost provocative swagger to my steps walking down the aisle and out the store opening as if I’m George Clooney in Out Of Sight , which actually isn’t too far off. I am robbing someone after all.