I Survived The 80s and Lived to Tell About It
Mitchell T. Lancaster had a quiet intensity about him that made people fidgety. He wore a Leonard Skynard T-shirt like a homecoming sash and kept a comb in his back pocket in case he needed to touch up his feathered-back dirt-brown hair. Known for being laid-back with unshakable strength, Mitchell only made eye contact if he had something to say. Lucky was the girl on the receiving end of the hypnotic gaze that followed.
My friend Katherine's eyeballs nearly popped out of her skull when he swept past our lockers on the way to art class and grazed my elbow with his science book. "Hey," he smiled with a look I’d only seen in movies. "Hey," I hushed back, noiseless—heart pounding like a freight train in a cocoon.
Kat had already planned our wedding by the end of the third period, and only the cool people would be invited. Though sad to learn my parents wouldn't swing for an open bar, she assured it would still be epic. "Dude, seriously," she laughed. "He was totally checking you out. What are you gonna wear to school tomorrow? You know, in case he talks to you again."
I tore through my closet that night, searching for the perfect outfit as if my life depended on it. It's incredible how quickly your thumbs can swell from squeezing into pants that don't fit, but the outcome was perfection. There wasn't a boy alive who could resist pocketless Chic jeans and a Def Leopard T-shirt. It was a safe bet for a girl who didn't want to overplay her hand in the 80s.
There is something to be said about teenage warfare. On the morning of the attack, my comrade and I sat down to strategize. The plan was simple. I was to stand in the same spot at the same time as yesterday and wait. Kat would be at her locker, pretending she forgot the combination. "Shhh... Oh my God, here he comes!" she whisper-squealed, "Get in position!"
Holding a loaded Trapper Keeper with my back pressed against locker #236, our script came to life. "Hurry up, Kat. We're going to be late for class," I cried as he rounded the corner. "Hey," he grinned.
The idle chit-chat lasted a full three minutes but felt like an eternity. When asked what my plans were that weekend, I shamelessly faked boredom with a well-rehearsed response. "Just hanging out at home," I sighed. The bait was set.
He said Stan Keeler was having a party and offered to pick me up Friday night around 7:00pm. Stan was captain of the football team. You only got into one of his parties if you knew someone and I just made the cut. “Cool,” he said, whisking his hair back with his fingertips. “Catch ya later.”
Nerves rattled, I cranked the knob on the turntable. "Candy-O, I need you. Sunday dress, ruby ring." It was my favorite song, and something about listening to it full blast made the fact that he was 20 minutes late soothe my soul. "Don't worry, I'm sure he'll show," Kat reassured. "What time was he supposed to be there?"
Opening the door to his black Mustang, Mitchell T. Lancaster, better known as Mitch ain't your Bitch, offered a hand. "Sorry I was late."
He got behind the wheel, reached under the driver's seat, and pulled out an envelope. "I made something for you in art class." Stunned, my heart dropped all the way down to the floorboard of his car and landed next to a cigarette butt. It was the most significant moment of my dating career, and I could not wait to call Kat.
"What is it? I asked, holding a globular clay sculpture into the light. My best guess was an ash try, but I didn't smoke, and it was flatter than Dina Spano's chest. Still, I was impressed that he made the effort. Pointing to a small detail on a lusterless surface, he sheepishly confessed that his inspiration stemmed from extensive experience in the drug world. "It's a lude," he beamed. "See the 714 Lemon and the divider line on back of the pill?"
"You mean you made me a Quaalude?" I gasped. "Don’t be ludiculous.”
The helium bubble that had floated me through the week nearly popped out loud in the front seat of our breakup spot. Who could have known that this simple gesture, as thoughtful as it may have been, would end our relationship before it started? Being a grown-up was hard in the 80s, but somehow I survived.
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