Ghostbusters

A few years ago, after a rousing story telling at my brother Larry's house which included this little episode of my phantasmagorical adolescence, I decided to put this event into words for posterity. Becca convinced me that there might be other readers out there who could find a glimmer of entertainment from its contents.

Ghostbusters

Movies were always a constant in my family’s life. Rarely were we to be seen gracing the cushioned oasis of the local theater; but, fortunately VCR’s were created so that we could select from the myriad of titles that lined the walls of the rental store. I remember, with a hollow emptiness, the days before the advent of the videocassette. Long wasted hours of inhaling fresh air and performing physical exercise while playing outdoors with friends (these were also the days before Nintendo).

Fortunately, my fiscally-responsible parents did deem it worthwhile to allow us to attend the movie theater on special occasions in order to experience the real world of cinematic magic. On one such blessed occasion we found ourselves crammed together in our stylish, brown van en route to one of the blockbusters of the year: Ghostbusters. We already knew the song by heart (thank you MTV) as well as the story (thank you kids in the neighborhood); which just served to heighten our fevered anticipation to watch the movie. I won’t go into the actual details of the movie, the plot, or even the characters and special effects. Suffice it to say, it exceeded the mountainous expectations our little minds had piled upon it.

For weeks we discussed the finer nuances of the film and would re-enact choice scenes that were indelibly etched into our maleable consciences. In an effort to expand merchandizing, the beneficent movie-makers produced a cartoon based on the movie which allowed us to experience Ghostbusters on a daily basis. The only aspect of the Ghostbusters phenomenon we did not indulge in was the toy campaign (Star Wars and G.I. Joe still held the corner on that market in our house). My parents even invested in the Ghostbusters soundtrack. This tape became a staple in the marathon dance sessions that were held in my parents’ living room. Nothing adds more to the reverberating bass blaring from the speakers than the constant rattling of my mom’s chandelier and curio glass. We knew the tape by heart within two days of having it in our possession.

Unfortunately, my reality was not solely occupied by living room jam sessions and I had the sad misfortune of having to take the bus to school almost the entire extent of my childhood. When I was really young, taking the bus was an adventure filled with interesting new vocabulary words expressed lovingly on the back of seats, hardened chewing gum of every color of the rainbow plastered like warts in the most unlikely of places, and paper formed into precision projectiles that could elicit an occasional “ow!” or “hey?!” from some unsuspecting victim. As I grew older, the bus became a horrifying nature show where the weak are preyed upon by the remorseless carnivores- a place where you would sell out your own brother for a moment’s protection.

When I was in Junior High, our bus driver allowed us to indulge in the art of music. Often, we would be found listening with rapt attention to the antics of the popular morning disc jockeys placing prank phone calls and telling the sordid details of the previous evening’s escapades. The driver also afforded us the unusual privilege of bringing our own music to share with the bus as a form of aural show-and-tell. Many of the carnivores on my bus preferred the dulcet sonnets of such composers as Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, and Ratt. On many occasions I felt it was a true tragedy that the vast majority of those present had to endure this jarring assault on our ears while only two or three people were actually enjoying the presentation. It was at one of these moments that I resolved that I would bring something for the little people and thus find fame and acceptance by catering to the common man. I even harbored the belief that I could somehow bridge the gap between us lowly life forms and those of the cool by finding some kind of mutual common ground on which we both could frolic. In some horribly, twisted way I was able to forge a fleeting unification of bus-commuting students; but not in the way my self-promoting fantasy had contrived it.

Myself being a lowly 6th grader (lowest form of life found on most Junior High school buses), I was hesitant to enact my plan. One part of me solemnly believed that this would be my ticket to glory and catalyze my future as a “cool kid” at my school. The other, more realistic and often pessimistic, side of me warned of the colossal failure that could precipitate, and of collateral damage that could accompany me throughout the endless expanses of bleak adolescence. I gave a hearty laugh in the face of my over-worried self (something I have not deigned to do in the almost twenty years since this memorable experience) and resolved that I would indulge in the joys of becoming popular.

One crisp, fall morning (I won’t say cool since we lived in southern Nevada and cool can be a relative term when one comes from such a place), I quietly placed an item from my frenetic household into the confines of my backpack. Afterwards, I slipped away to school with a grin plastered on my face that would not have fallen away even had I been depantsed in front of the whole school. Careful planning told me that the optimal time at which to pile upon myself glory and honor would be on the bus ride home from school. In the morning the other kids would be too lethargic to appreciate the wonderful gift I would be presenting to them; and, I wanted to be sure every pupil could delight in the joyful activity I would be providing. The day crept by second by second. Several times I was asked why I appeared in such a good mood. I would just shrug and respond, “it is just a good day.”

Finally, that closing school bell rung. I had the great fortune of being in a class located right next to where the buses retrieved their pubescent cargo. Normally a very reserved and composed child, I had jostled to the front of the classroom so that I might be the first one out of the door and onto the bus. My hand was already enclosing my ticket to popularity; all I had to do now was place it in the trusty hands of the bus driver and my fate would be sealed. I darted across the short expanse to my bus and I clambered up the waiting steps. The bus driver appeared startled as I lunged forward thrusting something towards him. I quickly stuttered, “w-w-will you play this as we drive home?” He looked down at the object and a quizzical expression formed on his face. He nodded his assent and tried to suppress a grin that many a headsman has worn before he has dropped his axe. I was oblivious to the smile and simply floated down the aisle to a center seat so that I could witness the full splendor of the upcoming event.

Slowly the seats filled to capacity and I looked with enthusiasm at those unsuspecting faces. Halloween was soon approaching and I was imaging the shock and delight the other students would have when they heard the words, “When there’s something strange in the neighborhood, who you gonna call? GHOSTBUSTERS!” I then envisioned the bus erupting in cheers and belting out, “I ain’t ‘fraid of no ghosts!”

Each moment was an eternity until I finally heard the squeal of the bus doors drawing closed. The wheels creaked into motion and I held my breath as I awaited the joyous sounds of music. The introduction began to play and I peered around, waiting for the smiles to form. My head was already beginning to sway as the speakers blared out their intoxicating message. My mouth was just beginning to form the words to that perfect refrain when I heard the words, “what is this crap?!” Followed by a quick, “hey, this sucks!” Like the Black Plague, a pall fell over the bus and heads began to swivel trying to locate the instigator of this new musical form of torture. Someone then declared, “turn this crap off!” which was then followed by a seeming multitude of “yeahs!” The bus was beginning to unify in a way even experts on social teen strata interaction could not have predicted.

My head slowly sunk to an almost invisible level (a technique I had perfected over the years of playing “prey” on the bus food chain). Someone boisterously queried, “whose music is this?” Images flashed into my mind of adolescent lynching parties beating a scrawny, little blond-haired boy into oblivion. A counter-image flashed in which I was not found, but the tape was confiscated and pulverized by the bus’s “cool” police. I knew I couldn’t let anything happen to that tape (my parents were not aware of its pilfered status and it would take years of allowances just to repay its loss), yet my will to live outweighed all other options. My head also began to turn, searching for the culprit of such a heinous crime.

The bus once again reverberated in its plea for the bus driver to turn off the horrid music. Fortunately for all parties involved, he reached up and produced a penetrating silence that allowed the echoes of the refrain to die painfully in minds of fifty young students. All eyes swept around like criminal searchlights, ascertaining the guilt of each of the other occupants. Time seemed to have lost its linear dimension and just floated in that moment like an indolent cloud.

By some act of divine intervention our bus finally reached its first stop and began to expel the contents of its metal carapace. Eternity crept on, and the bus arrived at each stop on its route. My stop came and I chose not to exit. I decided that I would wait until all other students were off of the bus before I would retrieve the tape. Five more stops rolled passed and finally we were at the end. After the last kid ambled down the steps I stood up on two quaking legs. I was imagining that all of the other bus riders were now organizing into a blood-thirsty mob and tracking the progress of the bus- just waiting until that “special someone” finally decided to remove his cursed tape and depart from the sanctuary the bus provided.

The bus driver saw me creeping forward through his enormous rear-view mirror and reached up and pulled out my tape. The pity in his eyes was unmistakable as watched me secret the tape into the darkest recess of my bag and quietly slip down the steps. I walked two miles back to my house along the most circuitous route I could contrive, attempting to avoid the condemning eyes of any of my peers. Just the mere sighting of me at an unusual location at that hour, on that day would have been a blaring admission of guilt. When I reached my driveway, I broke into a run and burst into my house slamming the door behind me. Only then did I feel safe enough to allow the fear of a painful demise to slip away. Surreptitiously, I slipped into the living room and placed the tape in its special slot- never to be touched by my fingers again.