Graveyard of the 90s

Graveyard of the 90s

Graham Swanson

I try to tell the orphan I adopted what living in the 90s was like but I can’t because there isn’t anything left. Then I awoke at night with the horrible revelation that without evidence, perhaps all the memories of the past are inventions. At once I awoke my nephew, and told him to come on a walk with me in the dark to a far away, secret place.

I lead him from our trailer, under the sunken viaduct, around the fallen gate of the synthetic grass factory, down the small town slum where the homeless sleep in the halls of subsidized apartments, and crackheads rummage the garbage. He held onto my arm as I led him across the war memorial cemetery. Deprived cries pressed up against the dirt, and wobbled our feet, but we made it out to where we barely made out bright lights and masses of merrymakers spilling carelessly there cocktails and hard earned money. The orphan never saw such festivity among adults, but he looked on confused.

“They look so sad, but they are having fun? How can that be?”

“What I will show you won’t answer that,  but it I hope it will make you feel better about it. No matter what you must keep it a secret. If anyone learns of this place, it will disappear forever.”

We walked until the stones receded to clear grass lots, and we travelled so far the when we looked up we saw all the stars in the galaxy.  Faint tint brightened the ground, and before them stood two dirt roads intersected in a helix. Both of them stood, and first the stars disappeared. Then a horrid howl erupted over the distant pines. Then paced patter beat the dust. Untied laces flapped on the road. Boot steps approached.

The slouching stranger obscured by the dark lurched with a stringless guitar smacking his lap. In the center of of the helix road he stopped, and  struck a match. A yellow mane and uncombed beard masked his face, but up so close he stood only as high as my nephew. I offered him the bag of magic rocks I carried. He took out the pale stones, and held them up to the sliver of moon. My nephew shrank back from him as he yawned so hard tears pressed down his cheeks. His hair clung to  Sweat behind his ear and running down his neck. His lips cracked with dryness when they parted, and when he shut them he wiped his nose with his sleeve and dropped the offering in his pocket. Even as he tried to relax tears cleaned trails in the dirt under his eyelids. One arm held the opposite elbow from spasming.

“Okay now, some say this man is a genius. He’s going to show us the way there.”

“I don’t want to go with him.”

The straggler knelt down, and untethered the guitar from his shoulder, and rolled it to rest on his lap. He studied the fear in the kids face, then rose in anger. “You dare bring a child into this world? When was he born? 2009? 2008?”

“It’s okay, Kurt. It’s time he sees it.”

“Silence. Child, do you understand that what you may behold will change the course of your life forever and for all eternity?”

“I already told him”. 

“Very well, but only because I can tell by the look on his face that he’s a better musician than you. Come with me, the both of you, and keep up!  Courtney is waiting for me.”  

“Who?” The Orphan asked.

“Nevermind.” 

He stamped the ground, and a tunnel spilt. Hot oxygen blow out. The guide hurried down and quickly vanished. They followed his patter around winding roots and flowing air valves. The light behind them dissipated, and in the dark they heard the growls of furious demons and the clashing fists of vicious knights cleaving open suits with great axe heads. 

When the light appeared at the other end my nephew clung to me. The guide’s silhouette eclipsed the exit, and dissolved in the brightness. When we came out of the other end, he stood there, at peace, staring over the black hole in the sky, and the garden of musical vegetation surrounded eight once sparkling columns that bolstered high, wide open glass gates under heavy ramparts made from recycled scraps of ship bulwarks. A film of dark clouded the walls. Like a temple without followers it sat hollow and echoing the soaring wind. 

“What is it, uncle?”

“We call it  shopping mall.” 

“There was a time when culture and music glowed from those walls.” The guide stopped walking, and stared at a rotting beanie baby in his palm. His voice echoed in the empty parking lot. “And children safely gathered to peek into windows, and fortunes were made selling make up between a diamond store and  discount shoes.” 

The guide hung his head, then waived for us to follow him as he toured the shadow where the mall roof obstructed the moonlight. Above the ramparts N’SYNC stood vigilant. 

The walls hummed and the air rushed from cracks in the ceiling. Pale moonlight trails swirled on the floor of a dry fountain. Three Boomboxes lay with speakers blown out inside stacked on one apple monitor. 

We walked up an immobile escalator to  the platforms where row after row of heavy iron gate rolled closed and shut the quiet stores. Sun washed posters of models with bleached hair tips covered the windows.

Paper and rats patterned the floor. Behind each pillar awaited a pair of eyes pressing against our backs. Tickle Me Elmo’s cackle echoed behind the trash dispenser. 

From the distance, one store glowed. Its gate rolled up, and inside we saw carefree friends trading pogs. Everyone inside wore overalls. When one young boy tried to leave with pogs in his pocket, the gate collapsed over him. The mall went dark again for a second but for the boys sitting front of a Playstation 1. 

“Oh man, you hear about the Mario movie?” They said.

“Yeah, that movie is going to rock. Did you see that new show called The Simpsons? It's so fresh and on edge.”

Behind the catwalks elderly lovers walked hand in hand in the moonlight of the revived stores. They reminisced about old films, and summer days of a youth they barely remembered. Then a creek of Surge cola flowed down the platform surfed by a barge stirred honestly by Bill Clinton, and faithfully his wife Hillary stood besides him as they guided their vessel in the dark. Michael Jordon's head floated harmlessly over the innocent young idling in the pizza arcade. We went down power ranger forest, where Nintendo buried its failed projects,  then a new store lit up before my nephew, and what he saw stifled him in ways a beautiful maiden will when he’s older. On a pedestal inside stood a single fanny pack. It’s belt woven with jet black fibers, its zipper strong enough to hold shut a space shuttle door. My nephew gently brushed it open, and weaved his fingers over its thread bare designs, the personalized etchings to display personal wealth. 

He took it, and walked out of the store. The doors did not slam shut, and he follow his shadow back towards me and the guide. Confusion and anger wrought his brow, but he shook his head.

“It's his now., but you must leave.” He pointed down a long purple hall where a fire escape waited for them.

“I can’t believe it. A fanny pack.” I sneered at him.

As my nephew and I walked, he held the fanny pack tight against his waist. He looked even more childish than ever. Inside he found premium Revlon wands. 

“I think I like the 90s.” my nephew said. 

But I didn't respond. Two shadows walking in tandem caught my attention. They walked opposite us to the echo of the dial up modem.. They looked like kids themselves, but they wore high black boots and wore heavy rain coats. Caps covered their heads and sunglasses obscured their eyes. One boy held a large duffle bag at his side. The other rested a guitar case on his shoulder. Both Smiled and laughed with one another with affection and compassion. One wore a shirt captioned “Wrath”, other other’s read “Natural Selection.”

“Who are they? I bet they were really cool in the 90s.”

“Don’t look at them. Don’t speak-”

“Wassup, playa! Wicked fanny pack.” One young man said.

“How are you, man? We’re going to shoot hoops with some friends at school. Wanna come?”

“Don’t you fucking get near him.” I braced my nephew and looked both kids in the eye.

They both turned their heads towards each other, the back at us. 

“Chill out, we don’t want to throw down.”

“Straight. We’re just slammin’, talk to the hand.”

They walked together like jet fighters soar in tandem. Both strode past us marching in lockstep reinforced in heavy boots . Their etching steps obliterated the echoes of dance anthems, filthy grunge singers, the beeps of the Tamagotchi, and the childish giggles of the mall. 

I pushed my nephew along once their echoes rang over our ears. He kept hugging my leg not in fear of losing me, but in curiosity, so he could still watch the two boys stalk with their backs turned. I lifted him by the shoulders. He dragged his feet, and left streaks of rubber residue on the tiles.

At home he barricaded himself in the bedroom with the fanny pack, and ever since he’s worn it as a badge in the face of tragedy and misfortune.