No-frills garden apartment complex in a west-side Tampa suburb. 1980. My favorite T-shirt is a dark blue Adidas. My clarinet is a rental. The reeds scratch the roof of my mouth. I make first chair and get two Pete Fountain LPs for Christmas. Saturday mornings are spent at Major League Lanes West. I’m trying to get strong enough to trade my ten-pound ball for a twelve-pounder. Heavier means better pin action, if you can handle it. My aunt and cousin live in the apartment downstairs. Some Fridays, I babysit. Cousin never wants to go to sleep.
A stranger calls on the phone. He asks me questions I’m not supposed to answer.
Behind our building is a field of grass and ant hills. There is no shade from the sun. Eighth grade band practices Earth, Wind & Fire’s September a thousand times. Our teacher is disappointed with the sound. We earn a Superior at the city-wide competition. Pierce Jr High is less than two miles away so there is no bus to ride. It’s a long walk and the sidewalk is scorching. My favorite class is Algebra 1.
The stranger calls again. Cousin has gone to bed, and I am full of fear and curiosity. There is no internet. My entire world fits inside two apartments, one right above the other. And still, a stranger can slip in.
My aunt’s carpet is green shag and there are glass ashtrays on the coffee table. Factoring polynomials soothes me. A boy in band asks if I’m “going with anyone.” I join the Drama club. On Sundays, my aunt cleans her apartment listening to Pink Floyd at top volume. The floor of our apartment is the ceiling of theirs. It vibrates to the dark beat. The two eighth grade English teachers at Pierce are friends yet they convince us they’re rivals. The faux clash becomes tribal. We are reading Lord of the Flies. My parents take me to the drive-in movies. We see a double feature of Funny Girl and Funny Lady. A naked guy streaks across the lot during intermission.
When the phone rings in 1980, it is hard not to answer it. There is no voicemail or answering machine. It just rings and rings, if the caller doesn’t hang up. You must unplug it from the wall, and hope no one important calls while it’s unplugged.
After a few small acting roles, I find my Drama club niche as Assistant Director. I keep track of the scripts. I help cast members learn their lines. I make sure the costumes are ready, and the set design is on track. I thrive on the responsibility, grateful to avoid the stress of being on stage. I sit in the dark and watch others. The Director (my English teacher) says I’m “indispensable.” I like that feeling. On opening night, she gives me a copy of The Giving Tree.
My aunt starts dating her next-door neighbor. They stay in a lot. I don’t babysit much after that.
Alone in my room, I think about talking to strangers on the phone, in the middle of the night. I think about numbers and dial tones and voices. Random shots in the dark. I am thirteen.
In the summer, I join a second bowling league. I get a twelve-pound ball. My strikes begin to sound louder. My power is growing, every day.
