Letting go is not an easy thing to do. It amazed me what things people held on to and how some people could not let go of anything, and others could let go of everything and not bat an eye. No flinches or second thoughts. The house for example, I didn’t feel a personal attachment to it. It burned to the ground and they would plop a big ugly house in its place and I felt no different. I felt nothing. I was raised there but there were more bad memories in that place than good. The house was associated with turmoil, it was a portal for negativity, the thought of it transporting me back to a time of melancholy.
Would we get caught? Most people are idiots and brag about dirt for status but that wasn’t our character. The five individuals who knew the details explicitly were vaults. No one would talk, not on our end. We hoped no one saw us. We hoped Carlton’s body would never be unearthed. No body, no witnesses, no proof.
Would the Mets ever win another championship? I’d like to see another victory in my lifetime preferably not from inside any state correctional facilities. My Mets won the World Series in 1986, against the Boston Red Sox, forever damning Bill Buckner for his error in game six, beside the fact the Sox still had another game to win, and didn’t. Honestly speaking I’ll root for the Red Sox whenever they play the Yankees, almost any team really. You can love the team from the Bronx, Just not if you’re from Queens. I am admittedly a hater. 1986 was a good year. My parents were in love, or maybe due to my young age it was easier for them to mask the dysfunction better. Maybe we peaked in in that year.
Ronald Reagan was president and embroiled in the Iran-Contra Affair. The New York Giants defeated the Denver Broncos to be the champions of Super Bowl XXI. Best number, by the way. The princess was always in another castle. I’d wake my dad up to beat levels I couldn’t in Super Mario Bros. I’d forgotten that he’d do that for me. I’d forgotten that he liked video games briefly. Our relationship was peak in ’86. The Rangers also made the playoffs that year.
I sat in front of our floor console television and watched the beef between G.I. Joes and Cobra, Autobots and Decepticons, He-Man and Skeletor and The Thundercats and Mumm-Ra. Metallica mastered puppets, The Smiths informed us that the queen was dead and Slayer reigned in blood. Beastie boys had a license to get ill. Jason lived in ‘86, with Critters and Night Of The Creeps. Rutger Hauer was a hitchhiker that you shouldn’t ever stop and pick up.
The troubles persisted in Ireland. The space shuttle Challenger ripped into pieces 73 seconds after its launch. A Soviet nuclear reactor in Chernobyl, Ukraine exploded and released radiation and radioactive materials that swirled the skies, contaminating the surrounding environment and crept into Europe. I’m sure there were plenty of other events, both spectacular and catastrophic, events that I was unaware of. I’m certain that there is always suffering somewhere, if not everywhere.
And I could be wrong, but maybe it’s no different in any time, but I want to think that it was, it felt like presently things of great importance are often overlooked, while the focus is fixed on things of little to no matter or significance. Why would we care so passionately about things that are meaningless, things that don’t affect or serve any use in the world we inhabit. Everyone is walking around in their own little worlds in which they are the center. Whereas I always felt like a visitor from somewhere else, a grotesque alien, speaking a foreign language and unable to behave within the societal norms. I was someone who was well aware of his own imperfections but also adept at detecting the deficiencies in everything else collapsing around me. I was always competent in reading the ugliness in between the lines. I saw everything that made this world unattractive and hideous, majority of the time.