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cameracomputerclothes · 8 years ago

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An Alpine Slide in Time, Pt. 1.

Dear Pop and Adele,

I was finishing the droll TV adaptation of Stephen King’s “11.22.63″ on Monday and lamenting to myself about the inane obstacles that always seem to obstruct protagonists who travel through time with a noble purpose. In the case of “11.22.63″, the hero, Jake, is given specific instructions not to fall in love or get close to anyone and, instead of being a compelling drama about thwarting the assassination of JFK, it becomes a tedious exercise exploring the weak lust for of the modern traveler for a Monroe-esque librarian and his 1960′s hillbilly recruit who, of course, falls in love with Oswald’s Russian wife. Its a common thread in time travel movies: what should never go wrong almost certainly does. Marty McFly nearly gets raped by his mom in “Back to the Future”; Cole watches himself get shot in “12 Monkeys”; Peggy Sue, despite constant attempts at bettering her future, still ends up “Married” with Charlie; The Terminator just keeps coming back in multiple time streams, HG Wells leads us into monkey hell and on and on and on, over and over again. In fact, very few time travel books or films have positive outcomes- the only ones I can think of with happy endings are “Groundhog Day” when he finally breaks his existential hell and “Run Lola Run” when after 2 deaths, Lola finally stays alive by choosing a different path, doubles the money, doesn’t hurt anyone and pays off the mob to live happily ever after with Manni. I nearly threw a tantrum after wasting 8 hours on this vapid miniseries. But then I realized there was a character I actually did like besides Lee Harvey Oswald in “11.22.63″: The 1960s, as realized by Stephen King. He’s always held my attention when he writes about the past as a character. His time periods are compelling and filled with a sincere wonder and underlying terror in their shortcomings like racism, child bullying, political strife, etc. In an effort to purge the foul taste of James Franco’s half baked performance as Jake Amhurst, the horny, time- traveling Oswald-murdering English teacher, I put on King’s near flawles opus to 1959,“Stand by Me” while I finished my edits for the day.

Upon hearing the opening symphonic notes of Ben E. King’s title song, I was reminded immediately of who I was the summer of 1986 when the film was released. I was fully recovered from my pectus excavatum surgery at the Mayo Clinic and the world was looking bigger every day. Anytime the advertisements for Stand By Me came on the TV that summer (it would be released on August 1st), I was electrified- It was the evolution of The Goonies: Instead of friends looking for treasure to stay off foreclosures of their parents homes, these boys were looking for riches within and answers to their mortality. The parallels of my tight friendships and the constant explorations of the woods appeared to be portrayed in this film, albeit in a different era. And it wasn’t only the forest preserves around our houses in Northbrook, IL that defined our world view- we took journeys to the deep woods of Washington Island, WI with the two Steve Morrisons every spring and fall. Having become extraordinarily familiar with guns, tents, rations and knife etiquette at such an early age, the boy scouts never held any sway over a few of us. We already knew so much more thanks to the maniacal (and sometimes abusive alcoholic) Steve Morrison, Sr. and his drunk weird German friends that would terrorize Stevie and I at our campsite.

Click here to see what Steven R. Morrison, Jr. is doing now!

Even Dad would get in on the action, sending us youngsters into a spin of paranoia about the shadowy movements of the legendary axe murderer “Thor Heyerdal” and long distance swimming bears who lurked behind every bush on our twilight walks. Nothing like a couple of 7 year-olds with an urge to kill anything that moved around the dark radius of our solemn Coleman lantern-lit campground. So, the story of four boys wandering 30 miles to see a dead body had an immense appeal as I entered the 5th grade. From what I could tell, it reminded me of the scavenger hunts on the island that would propel 3 boys miles away from camp, sloughing through a foot of mud in fertile farms and getting completely lost during thunderstorms as evening approached, wondering where we had made the wrong turn; of the questions we would ask each other and the strange designs within the glowing embers of our late night fires which we would meditate on and describe to each other before crawling into our tiny tents. I couldn’t wait to see it- But before I would get to marvel at Rob Reiner’s perfect adaptation of “The Body” from King’s “Different Seasons” anthology, I would have to fly to Denver to visit my grade school chum, spoiled brat extraordinaire, Dan Hronek.

Dan was different than most of us. He had brain surgery when he was 6 and never let us forget it- despite never wanting us to notice the huge question mark scar on the left side of his skull. He was extremely competitive, obsessed with the Bears and Iowa football, ate cereal for nearly every meal, treated his parents like complete shit and was spoiled rotten. He wasn’t particularly popular and got picked on by Trevor Enders. He whined, a lot; more than any of us combined. We made fun of his tantrums and bullshit but Dan also had a pool, a huge backyard and lived in a cool part of town. It was host to a slew of converted farms and modern mansions, where yard exploration, aka trespassing, bordered on exceptional. And his yard was connected to the biggest graveyard in town, so we could always get weird there as well. There was also a noticable lack of bullies in the area which made for safe exploring. For those of us willing to suffer his allergies, superiority complex, control issues and constant whining, those major commodities outweighed any reservations. I would tolerate his snottiness and idiosyncracies if he could tolerate my only child complexes and constant thirst for adventure. It might seem material, but Dan was a lot of fun as well and he, Stevie and I were inseparable for the majority of 1st through 6th grade. He was adventurous and kind in the moments that would count. Decades later we would find each other again and I crashed at his place after we got too drunk while reminiscing. He not only brought it up but we howled at how much of an asshole he could be as a kid. He not only mellowed out after moving to Texas but became an actual gentleman and a scholar.

Click here to see what Dan Hronek is doing now!

His mom, Karen, was a warm woman and always seemed to have a little relief when I was around as my folks had ensured I was always pretty polite. I also had great taste- and she finally had someone who appreciated not only her kindness but her food besides Pete- her husband who would come home late from his executive duties at the Culligan Water Plant. Dan’s dad was much older; he had kids from a previous marriage that were in their 30s and could play the piano like Scott Joplin. I always enjoyed hanging at their house due to loose rules on tv, video games and R-rated movies. So when they asked Mom and Dad if I could come to Colorado in July of ‘86, I was fucking stoked. Dan grew up as an avid and enthusiastic, talented skier but he always was a bit underwhelmed when he spoke of Colorado in the summer. He lamented it was boring at times. I was about to find out how wrong he was.

A few nights before I was set to leave, we got a call that soured the mood a bit. Dan had been climbing near the condo, slipped and gouged his shin open on a jagged rock. It was described as a horrific wound. He wasn’t on crutches, but he was limping. Which immediately meant to me that he would be whining even more than usual. He had taken a large chunk out of the front of his shin and apparently you could see the bone. The flesh had fallen out and there was nothing they could do but stitch a bit and dress the rest. This of course, meant swimming was going to be an issue- Well, for him, anyway.

I remember a few details from the day before I departed. Mom and I went to Toys’R’Us and bought some exciting M.A.S.K. action figure packs that had just been released- two for me and two for Dan as a get well and thank you gift. Together, we would have the full set of new Adventure Pack releases to help us combat the terrible “boredom” of Colorado’s incredible vistas, road trips and mountain hiking! “Mobile Armed Strike Kommand “ or MASK was one of our favorite cartoon and toy lines at the time- and of course, Dan had most of the collection. I was excited to bring something new to him.

I was flying solo, and it was my first time on an airplane. I had flown to New Jersey with my folks as an screaming infant to see Aunt Pat, but that didn’t really count. This time I was traveling like my Pop: solo and in control! I had been taking the train downtown with Stevie Morrison to his Dad’s office and had flown in his Cesna multiple times by this point so I had no fear. However, this was different. This was a commercial airliner, the glorious steel beast that would deliver my first solo adventure.

I was waiting for my mom to get dressed and take me to O’hare on a hot mid-July morning- so imagine my surprise when a small limousine pulled into the driveway. I thought for sure Mom would accompany me, but she just stood there in her shimmering beige floor length nightgown on that comfortable July morning, smoking on the brick stoop by the kitchen door. She wished me well and said the female livery driver would make sure I got where I needed to go- that I had been to O’hare before and knew how it worked. In hindsight, it seems a little loose on the parenting skills, but Mom was good like that. I still haven’t given into therapy beyond the diagnostic behavioral treatment and spiritual solutions available in the kind rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, so I think its all good. It will always be hilarious, harmless, and yet defining, moment of my mom’s boozy antics of my childhood.

The flight was uneventful. I was escorted to the gate by a desk agent, got on the plane, they pinned some wings to my new denim jacket and I sat with a lot of legroom on a window seat behind the bulkhead. I do remember the excitement of being on a big plane- despite the fact I had listened to Dad whine about them for years. I would, of course, empathize with Dad much later in life- realizing that flying to a shit hole and having to drive to a bigger dump makes the glow of airports much less appealing than my lifetime of curated adventures.

I wandered my way through the gates to find Karen and Dan waiting. We piled into their silver Olds with Illinois plates and began driving from Denver to Granby, Col. where they had a condo in the Silver Creek Estates. (see below)

Now, at this point you must wonder how I have these lush photos of Silver Creek and the outlying areas of my trip from 1986. Because, my dear readers, I was an unwilling time traveler 22 years later, almost to the day.

Allow me to explain: One year after I got hastily married, I was roped into a family vacation with my born-again Christian Chinese/ Taiwanese in-laws. We flew to Denver en masse and began the journey in Colorado Springs where my ex, En, and I had to sleep in children’s bunk beds in her evangelical cousin’s house. I was completely checked out from reality on this journey, trying to live within my camera and fighting the need to drink at every opportunity (my gradual and welcome relapse had begun several months earlier), When we got out of the car after a mountain drive the next day to the Silver Creek Inn, my head nearly exploded. It was more than familiar; I was caught in my own infinite loop! I ran into the lobby of the hotel and bee-lined to the left for the location of the old arcade, where I played countless games of Atari’s Crystal Castles alongside Dan back in 1986. As my system shock ebbed, the deja vu turned into full on “Fuck You!” filled with maniacal laughter because I couldn’t believe the old arcade was STILL THERE.. While not as exciting as it was back then, I was thrilled that resorts still have a place where kids can get away from their parents and vice versa. This was, of course, pre iPhone and iPad.

(Above 2 images courtesy of Google Maps)

After we checked in with the rental agents in the lobby, we went to our respective cabins. We had two between six of us and they were horrific, filthy and musty. We immediately complained and they pointed a spot on the map where we would find another rental office a few miles up into the mountains. When we parked, we had just landed us within a stone’s throw from the Hronek’s old condo. I was beside myself. The day just kept getting weirder- As one might expect on a time traveling, reality-bending trip with a slew of Bible-spouting Chinese in-laws.

Still, I was struck by the cosmic significance of the moment- I had just been transported to the first place I ever went on an airplane. What were the chances? I thought this is what it must feel like to travel in time, within the splinters of the mind’s eye. I had no control or say in it. We took the keys to the new “super suite” and opened the door. I realized I was out of my depth- were we were expected to sleep in the same condo with En’s relatives and parents??Might work for the always tidy Japanese, but there was only one bed and I was not exactly on tour with the Rolling Stones, or even Kill Hannah. I whined like Dan Hronek would have in 1986, and furiously set off to the rental agency to secure our own private cabin. As En and I threw down my card, this was met with frowns and clicking of loose asian teeth of my in-laws who had curiously followed us. En convinced me it would be okay and we could even have the master bed- her parents and brother and wife would take the two hide-a-beds and there was a Jacuzzi. So much for hanky pinky on vacation, let alone any privacy! Alas, I was trapped in Dante’s inferno; I felt like it was some horrible prank I set in motion during my previous stay 22 years earlier.

When Dan and Karen and I arrived at the cozy condo in Silver Creek in the middle of July 1986, the sun was just falling behind some heavy fluffy clouds. We had made a stop beforehand to play some video games at the Lodge and check out the indoor / outdoor pool. We then grabbed some treats and headed a few miles up the hill.

I gave Dan his gifts, unpacked and we played a bit. I was itching to get outside but he was still sore from his injury. I was fascinated by the extreme nature of the wound and when Karen cleaned it with foaming peroxide, it bled, adding a new rust to the iodine stains around it. As Dan winced, he began to list off everything we weren’t going to get to do. I sighed but Karen assured me he would shake it off and we’d have plenty of fun. Pete was arriving a few days later and we would take a little day trip to some neat spots, including Winter Park where the legendary Alpine Slide resided. I had heard of this slide often during our sleepovers and had high expectations. I never thought it would become a symbol of my marriage 2 decades later.

At sunset, Karen wrapped Dan’s leg tight in saran wrap and we hit the pool near their condo. Dan was reluctant as I splashed alone in the pool but, like most kids, gave into desire for fun and plopped in as the sky turned azure. We got back, had dinner, traded some Garbage Pail Kids and Dan told me about this game they had in Estes Park’s arcade called Super Mario Bros., an evolution of our favorite vs. coin op “Mario Bros.”, starring the little Italian plumber who liked to stomp turtles. My eyes lit up when he told me Mario now shot fireballs and grows to twice his size when he eats mushrooms. He also told me I would die when I saw how advanced the graphics were. The game had BLUE SKIES. (Almost all side scrollers and most games still had black backgrounds due to graphical complexities up to this point)

The next morning, we went into town. I wasted some of the money Mom gave me on oversized Garbage Pail Kids at the gas station and then we wandered around Estes, which is like a semi-preserved old west thoroughfare. Filled with tourist trap gift shops, an antique store, a candy shop, a bait store, a pizza parlor, strange furniture shop and, of course, an era-appropriate arcade, It was pretty magical. We pretended we were cowboys walking on the wooden sidewalks. Karen gave us an hour and instructions not to spend too much. We ran off towards the musty log cabin arcade where the darkness would envelope the beautiful day outside.

I would return to this exact same strip with the Chen’s after a long drive through Rocky Mountain National Park. En and I had refused to let anyone else drive by that point due to the rest of the family’s adherence to the stereotype aka altruism “Asian Drivers/ No Survivors” and we were beat, but her sister in law Sasa so fucking desperately needed ice cream as desperately as she needed Chik-Fil-A at 10 am earlier that week so sure enough we headed to the famous Polly’s after a roundabout 7 hour road trip. I should point out that En and I were bonded more by our disgust for Sasa and her cousin’s evangelical wife in Colorado Springs on this trip than by the sacred vows of marriage. I was extremely uncomfortable running around with the public praying ways of these relatively strange folk and En couldn’t stand the condescending doublespeak from the Jesus Freaks. I liked her parents when they weren’t talking about Jesus but that wasn’t often enough. As we walked towards Polly’s sweet shop, I took notice of the western village before me. Not much had changed in Estes except for the splash of colorful meth heads hanging around with some ancient alcoholic cowboys outside an equally depressing 100 year old bar. A bar where I thought of having a cold one. But I staved myself and walked further back in time yet again: The arcade was gone, swept under the progress of today’s technology, but Polly’s sweet shop with homemade ice cream remained intact, as had a 30 year old vending machine.

The memories of Estes from that summer in 1986 were all tethered to the Arcade and our relentless pursuit of product from Polly’s. Dan was right- Super Mario Bros. was quite the marvel, but seeing as the grocery store had it as well, I found myself less inclined to wait in line to plop quarters into it and instead found myself drawn to a game about a gunslinger aptly called “Gun.smoke”.

Like plenty of games in the 80s, they were designed to take as many of your hard fought quarters as possible and this game had a relatively new feature that we gamers were addicted to- The Dreaded “CONTINUE?”. After Karen took our tally of the money we spent that first day in the arcade, it was strongly suggested that we slow down as there wouldn’t be enough to last the trip. As I pointed out the former location of the rustic arcade to En while we inhaled our force fed ice cream, I remembered the frustration of that blasted “Continue?” screen and wondered silently if my marriage would even survive the trip.

A day later, I would wonder if I would even be able to to walk.

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