So I decided to rummage a little more deeply into my 80s walk-in closet and found an entire lost decade intact. No wonder it’s hard to find anything. The Laserdisc was in front because I have used it recently and I am thinking of selling it on Craigslist.
I wear a white painter’s mask because the dust of desiccated Power Spikes hair gel and mousse billow up whenever I step down hard on the unclean carpet or when I shuffle and open unmarked boxes too quickly. It’s like SCUBA diving and I must move gingerly lest I lose all visibility.
I stumble over my cheap suits and strange thin ties, my Talking Heads albums and my college diploma. Beyond that, my low-paying part-time jobs scramble across the floor like scared rodents. I can hear them but never catch a glimpse.
My friend Chris, who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge is there, still young. He is quiet and looks good for a deceased guy. Moving along, more dead, still in their 80s garb. Grandparents, people I kind of knew, kids from school that I knew of but never really talked to. They’re all still there just hanging out. You would think they’d find a better place.
I move on. The floor ungulates as I pass through the emotional temblors of teen life. There’s even an old dusty jar of acne, its gold and red contents shimmer and blaze against the darkness. It sits on a small dresser, protected by small Star Wars action figures: Storm Troopers, Darth Vader, even sand people.
I’ve seen enough and I need fresher air. I stumble back the way I came in as the dust’s deepening opacity clouds the room into an even deeper pea-soup foggy grey.
Finally, I find the door way that leads me out into the muted fears and horrors of 2013.