Binderama60for60

We loaded the U-Haul in late August to hit the road, each of us going our separate ways: back home, back to school or no where in particular. Wait, does this sound like the beginning of every coming-of-age story you’ve ever seen? Cool.

It was hot and muggy in the parking lot surrounded by lots of townhomes with lots of windows. We could see neighbors peeking from behind the curtains, no doubt thinking to themselves, “’bout time those degenerate sons o’bitches moved on.”

Their kids, though, were clamoring for something else: “Where’s the Old Man?”

They had the U-Haul surrounded. It became clear we couldn’t leave without giving them what they wanted: The Old Man. Back inside, Scott laid on a mattress, and we covered him in linens and clothes, maybe some duct tape. We carried him out, stretcher-style. From under the covers, Scott screamed bloody murder the whole way, cursing us and the kids in the Old Man’s voice. He didn’t stop even after we flung him into the trailer, roughly, locked it and drove off.

So ended the Summer of 1984.

It was a good summer. A great summer. Madonna and Madonna Wannabes, big hair, “Where’s the beef?” and that Orwell book (or is it now considered a manual). We watched MTV on a tiny black and white TV, rocking out in grainy mono to Van Halen, Duran Duran, The Cars and “Thriller.” Bob preferred RUSH on the stereo upstairs. Between Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” and the LA Olympics it was an especially jingoistic summer. Even Miss America made an appearance in Penthouse!

Earlier in this 60|60 series I likened my memories of the Summer of ’81 to John Hughes’s body of work. The Summer of ’84 is more worthy of “Porky’s” and “Animal House.” We’ll leave it at that and attempt to keep this PG-13.

1984 was my third summer working at Kings Dominion, a theme park north of Richmond, VA. I spent my first working on a rollercoaster and living in a trailer behind a truck stop in Doswell. The next in heavy costume, portraying the legendary Captain Caveman, rampaging through the park: the greatest gig ever. For some reason, leading into the summer of 1984, I sought out more responsibility and authority. Maybe it was the promise of a 25-cent pay bump.

I convinced college friends Bob and Scott — and later, a high school friend Jonathan — to join me and get jobs as security guards for the summer. We trained on the weekends in the spring, commuting from JMU a few hours away. That often meant departing past midnight after a Friday rager, driving through the fog on twisty mountain roads, and then sleeping in the car until our shift started.

The Crib

For the summer, we rented a semi-furnished townhouse in Ashland, a few miles from the park, and made it our own. Mattresses on the floor, sheets on the windows, ashtrays everywhere.

It’s hard to describe what an apartment that three and four college students occupy for the summer actually looks like and smells like after a few weeks. We couldn’t afford air conditioning so there were fans in most windows. Wall art was sparse but not of bad character. There was a large coffee table (Scott’s I believe) covered with contraband, surrounded by ample plush if soiled seating (Bob’s?). On the floor behind the couch was a half-dressed mattress, ostensibly for guests, but it was not a good look.

Fast food bags, boxes and wrappers were omnipresent, as were many, many beer bottles and cans with names like MeisterBrau and Black Label and Schlitz Malt Liquor. The ashtrays overflowed, and they were big ashtrays. We didn’t have a phone so we’d climb out of the back patio, leap over a ditch and sprint across Route 1 to the Circle K payphone. We got our beer and cigarettes there, probably a few meals too. The kitchen was the very picture of a tragic health department violation: the entire set of dishes, pots and pans that came with the place were piled high in the sink, swimming with filth, likely discarded there weeks before after a single use. It was unsightly and fetid. Yes, fetid sounds right.

We didn’t get our security deposit back.

The Job

We were 19 and 20 and given to merry misadventure of all kinds. Yet we were somehow able to show up to work at 6 or 7 in the morning, shaved and mostly sober, to direct traffic, walk a beat and carry a radio. We also had a whistle for some reason. We knew all the 10-codes from our training. We learned to do CPR, though mercifully we were never tested on that. We looked for shoplifters, dope smokers and line breakers. Occasionally there might be a fight or a fire to report.

The supervisor of the department was a legit sheriff of Hanover County and carried a gun. He had a half-dozen deputies working for him, mostly college kids with an interest in law enforcement. They had arrest authority and were serious about it. One of them was especially serious about it, like something out of “Full Metal Jacket.” The crew also included firemen, EMTs, first responders. It was obvious that Bob, Scott and I were carpet-bagging college kids, majoring in some kind of radical liberal arts or nothing at all. We won some of them over with our wit and charming incompetence, but not all of them were amused.

On the beat, I spent as much time as possible in the shade, particularly in 76, the radio code for Safari Village. Deep in a copse of bamboo behind one of the shops I put a chair and spent hours hanging out and smoking cigarettes while listening to the radio for any Safari Village-related reports. Over in 74, the Old Virginia area, there was an air-conditioned perch backstage in the Mason-Dixon Theater that was a popular hangout as well. With shifts in the parking lot (70), at the front gate (71), along International Street (72) and Candy Apple Grove (75), there was no place to hide. You just had to Barney up.

The Untouchables

We threw a house warming party for ourselves in mid-June. We were meticulous in prepping the place, moving any hint of contraband into the upstairs bedroom/lounge that we’d furnished with a futon, stereo and trippy lighting appropriate to the era. The festivities were just getting started when a skunky odor spread to the main floor. One of the deputies asked me about it, a wry and wanton look on his face. I was careful in my response: this could go badly. Certain unspoken tells were traded and soon the lounge was the center of the action for a number of first responders.

For the rest of the summer, a police or fire vehicle would be parked in front of the townhouse two or three nights a week. We liked to think the neighbors were encouraged by the sight, thinking that, this time, they’ll finally “drag those goddamn bastards out of here.” If they called the police because of the noise or suspicious activities, no one responded, or maybe the first responders were already inside the house.

We had more parties. On our off-days or after early shifts, we’d hit the park to ride rides, catch up with friends or hit up girls for the evening’s activities, which might be at our place, at Randolph-Macon in Ashland or at some house way in the back backwoods. Girls just love a man with a badge and a whistle. That sounds so douchey, and it was. I also had a mullet, so very on-the-nose.

Fun side story: I crashed at one of those houses way in the backwoods and woke up to find a loaded shotgun in bed with me. That’s not a euphemism.

Another fun side story: I had to testify at a trial for someone I’d ID’ed for a minor offense. One of the deputies offered me a ride home from the courthouse in his prowler. When we got to the house, he put me in handcuffs, dragged me out of the car and manhandled me to the door. The neighbors’ curtains quivered with glee.

The Horror!

Another thing we did to offset boredom was to make a team sport of killing flies. The squeamish might want to skip ahead (if they’re still here). With open windows, no AC, summer heat and humidity, ours was a housefly hotspot. Every few weeks, we called for a fly-killing safari. Each of us devised our own weapons, combining rolled-up newspaper, cardboard and duct tape. Then we’d open the back door where our smelly neighbor’s dog liked to nap and let in even more flies. We tried to count them as they entered, 30-40 flies was about right for the safari to commence. One of us would be the sweeper and corral the swarm into a small area where the others would go in for the kill. We’d count as we went along, until that day’s work was done. Grossest of all: we’d leave the trophies stuck to the wall like insect hunting lodge. And yet, girls still came over.

Did I mention we didn’t get our security deposit back?

The Old Man

Sometime around late June, the Old Man made his first appearance. Kids were playing outside one afternoon, perhaps a little too loudly. We were bored, again. Scott was an actor and very funny, and he owned an old man mask made of rubber, as one does. He put it on and appeared at the window of the upstairs bedroom, screaming at the children to go away. They did, and fast. I can’t imagine how they shared the tale to their parents, but it surely didn’t help our approval rating in Ashland Town Square. As the summer wore on, the Old Man’s protestations became less effective as the kids grew more belligerent in response. Scott abandoned the role, only to reprise it for one last encore as we departed.

I’d like to think the Old Man is still notorious in Ashland Town Square, the stories down passed through generations.

Lessons & Takeaways

• There are plenty of woefully unqualified people in positions of authority
• At 19, you can thrive on burgers, pizza and beer alone
• If you’re having chest pains, switch from Marlboro Reds to Marlboro Lights. Your heart will thank you
• If you get your security deposit back, you aren’t living big enough
• Worthy Bonus: For fun and a bit of rivalry, we had a competition for the 4th of July: Find a date to take the Beach Boys concert on the Mall in D.C. Scott flamed out, my date became a short fling, Bob’s date became his wife

August came and we went. I had school, Scott had a job, Jonathan disappeared. So did the Old Man. Bob had a girlfriend. Crap, this just became a Nickelback song.

1984 out.