1981


Whatever happened to gliding down the Slip ‘N
Slide or getting a toasted almond bar from the
white uniformed Good Humor man? Stickball bat set 
aside, we flipped baseball cards, and I won a tall
stack. Then lost it to a random flip, an early
gambling addiction. We played Ms. Pac-Man at the
pizza parlor; she ate the pellets hungrily. One
kid had a quarter on a string like Buster Keaton
when he cheated the gas meter. The sci-fi film
Escape from New York came out; crime was real in
the Bronx. Our house got robbed when a kid squeezed
through a narrow basement window. The teenage
neighbor saw and chased the burglars down the street
with a baseball bat, but all my mother’s jewelry was
gone. She cried. AC/DC’s 1980 album
Back in Black still tore up the airwaves. Poor Bon
Scott died a grim death, but Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ‘n’
Roll” was playing everywhere on WPLJ.
Black leather clad Joan was my first crush. When 1982
rolled around, I discovered WNYU, punk and
new wave music, plus Greenwich Village, Bleecker
Bob’s Records, and a one-dollar subway token ride
to anywhere worth going. But 1981 left an
indelible mark on me like a tattoo or scar.