Molly the rat died in early spring, just about the time the Three Mile Island nuclear reactor nearly melted down and ruined the only planet known to support life. Marty had seen the movie China Syndrome about a week before, and it was chilling in its prescience. He hoped that the scientists – who were supposed to be the smartest people in the world – would not start something they didn’t know how to stop. His was the first American generation that had to wake up every morning with the knowledge that all life on Earth could be destroyed that day… accidentally. As the party people say, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.” Poor Molly succumbed to a tumor in her belly, but not the radioactive kind. The ancestors of domestic pet rats were laboratory white rats, which were bred for a propensity to tumors. Pet rats usually only lived 2-3 years. It was sad to see a little furry friend dragging around an abdominal growth about half as big as she was. Dr. Killdeer kindly put her down, with the same dignity afforded to a beloved dog or cat. That’s life in the pet store called ‘earth’ – as Marty cynically observed – you drag your shit around with you till you die.
In Mr. Parker’s history class, the students who actually did the assignments (like Marty) were learning about the Manhattan Project that ended World War II but launched America on a far more dangerous path. He remembered snatches of adult conversations he overheard as a young child, describing his father’s dubious role in that infamous scheme. Daniel was recruited right out of Ohio State, where he was receiving his Master’s in Chemistry, and assigned to the mysterious Oak Ridge facility in Tennessee. Marge and Julie were the only reliable sources to ask about the extent of his involvement with building the first atomic bomb. Marge didn’t want to talk about ‘that man’ in any way, but Julie confided that he was married to another wife at that time, so anything was possible. Marty wasn’t interested in spite or rumor; he wanted solid facts. He knew his dad had an actual sample of melted earth from Alamogordo, New Mexico (the site of the first nuclear detonation), because he showed it to him one night when he was drunk. When Marty asked him where he got it, he just changed the subject. Inspired by recent films and news reports, Marty thought maybe he should call him and get the real story.
“Hell-o-o!” His Highness answered the phone with a sexy growl like a tomcat. Apparently, he expected it to be someone else entirely.
“Um, hi Dad, it’s Marty.” In the shocked few seconds it took his father to regain his composure and switch from playboy to autocrat, Marty could sense him puzzling over what possible reason his son could have for calling him when it wasn’t Christmas or a birthday.
“Ahem, hello,” Good Ol’ Dad recovered his autocratic Dragnet voice. Just the facts, ma’am. “Why are you calling?”
“I’m doing a report on the Manhattan Project at school. And I know you did some work on that when you were young,” Marty tried to deliver his rehearsed lines with the innocent tone of a son who is interested in his father’s life. Without giving him time to object he probed, “Mind if I ask you a few questions?” and winced because he sounded more like an investigative reporter. There was a long silence on the other end.
“I can’t really talk right now, I’m expecting a call.”
I bet you are, Marty thought sarcastically. “Can I just ask one thing? What did you do down there? Were you part of building the bomb?”
“We all just did our jobs, son. Listen, I really have to go.” He wasn’t as freaked out as Marty expected, and his tone of voice actually sounded like he might be able to bring it up again sometime.
“Okay, well thanks,” (for nothing, Marty thought), “Bye.” He hung up. So the budding young reporter didn’t get to uncover a forgotten historical conspiracy, or pull skeletons out of any closets, but he thought maybe he had scored a point in a complex game somehow. There were a lot of things about Good Ol’ Dad’s past that were shady. He learned German in college, before being recruited in 1944 by the government. He was officially discharged from the Navy after the war, but just exactly what a sailor was doing hundreds of miles from the ocean in Tennessee remained a mystery. Julie believed he got married to his first wife there. He started working in Kodak’s technical department, presumably using the skills he learned in the secret military labs. Marty’s late grandfather was a patent lawyer for the same company for 25 years, which dominated the Rochester area politically and economically in the post-war years. Over time, Daniel became proficient in the technical aspects of photography and graphic reproduction. He met Marge at his younger brother’s wedding, when the latter was getting married to the former’s elder sister. So the two brothers wound up marrying two sisters! (Marty didn’t know what happened to his stepmom, the first wife.) Later, his position as a traveling sales rep gave him ample opportunity for all sorts of clandestine monkey business. Hell, I could have half brothers and sisters all over the country I don’t even know about, Marty mused with astonishment. One thing Marty knew for sure: his dad wasn’t going to tell him a damn thing unless he pried it out of him, so he’d better build up his mental fortitude before interrogating G.O.D. again!
He decided a rock & roll concert was a great way to build character. The Outlaws were playing again, with a new band he and Mike liked called Molly Hatchet… and best of all the concert would be right in Marin at the Veterans’ Auditorium! Each band featured three lead guitarists, and The Outlaws now had two drummers, so it promised to be quite a high-energy event. There was more than the usual sense of anticipation because Marty, Boobers, and Mike would all be initiated into the official cult of the Summer of Love, by dropping acid for the first time. Paula knew of a top secret source of “little tabs from a very trustworthy chemist.” He made a big deal out of presenting them with some very small squares of tissue paper, on each of which a drop of lysergic acid diethylamide had been dried. They had mysterious little symbols printed on them that appeared to be Tibetan. The three guinea pigs waited until they parked the car at the concert, before taking the LSD. In those days, kids would willingly ingest any experimental chemical, if it promised any hope of altering their minds. Some were altered too much, and never resumed normal mental function. Their first acid trip turned out to be very anticlimactic. It had none of the fellowship of smoking a joint, or the crazed intensity of doing lines. They stuck the paper tabs on their tongues as if licking postage stamps, and then swallowed them. In mute apprehension they looked at each other… was that it?
“Wee-ooh!” Boobers made a twisted face, and they all cracked up. If this was the “cult of LSD” everyone was talking about, the neophytes were sorely disappointed by the initiation ceremony. Hopefully the effects would be more entertaining than the partaking.
Molly Hatchet opened the show with a grueling, gut-wrenching performance of all their best songs. They played with great passion and energy, and were the perfect opening act. After a few numbers, Marty began to notice strange qualities in the stage lights. The laser beams pulsing through the smoky air had an intelligent arrangement of their own as they scattered in fractal patterns of dissipating colors.
“Cause I’ve been hung up on dreams I’ll never see…
Lord help me babe, dreams get the best of me…”
Boobers grabbed his arm during the intermission, desperate for attention. His eyes were like the twin bores of the Waldo Tunnel, with the Golden Gate Bridge shining behind them. Those tunnels had rainbows painted around their openings, and Marty drove right in. “Oh my god, do you see what I see?” Boobers asked breathlessly. Marty did a U-turn and came back out through the other tunnel, so he knew exactly what his friend was experiencing because he’d just been there, too. They looked for Mike, but he had gone to find a bathroom. Marty wondered if he would be able to find his way back to their seats, and that would make such a funny cartoon… He was in a state of confusion because all the thoughts that were possible for him to think were happening all at once instead of one after the other. He didn’t have enough awareness to sort them all out, so they were swirling around in his head like a field of fireflies. He could catch a flash of one – there it goes! But its meaning would be lost, and then – oh, there goes another one! Marty’s hands and fingers didn’t know what to do, and were crawling like spiders between the pockets of his jeans and the worn corduroy coat he was wearing. Boobers was writhing spasmodically in his seat to some internal music only he could hear. It definitely wasn’t in time with the stuff they were playing between acts. It was more like he was covered with invisible fire ants!
Just then the usher appeared, escorting Mike, who was so happy to see them he was crying without tears. They all hugged and gestured excitedly like toddlers, and the usher, a grandfatherly man with a face like a walrus, just smiled and wagged his tusks knowingly as he waddled away. “May I have your attention, please!” a voice yelled from a microphone somewhere. “I’d like to introduce to you the Florida Guitar Army: The Outlaws!” The band took the stage, already playing the opening chords to their signature opening tune, Why Don’t You Stick Around for Some Rock and Roll, and the drummers rotated into position on a turning platform. Colored spotlights blasted in synchronization with the music, and Marty’s brain dissolved into subatomic particles that danced like a million Shivas in the air. He had read the Bhagavad Gita recently, and it came in handy when he needed the electrons and neurons of his brain to finally get back together.
The Outlaws played an outstanding set, with jaw-dropping musicianship that defied description. The three lead guitarists had about 36,000 fingers between them, and Marty could hear notes behind notes, hung on a scaffolding of rhythm that only two drummers can produce. Their signature song, Green Grass and High Tides, went on forever – longer than the Day on the Green, or their live LP, on which that song takes up an entire side. Marty, Boobers and Mike followed along with their air guitars, and practically everyone else was doing the same thing – it was a Southern Rock guitar-pickin’ lollapalooza! When it finally came to an end in an impossibly drawn out crescendo of lightning fast licks, they all yelled and screamed for more, until the auditorium was so filled with sound that it pushed out all the oxygen. The Outlaws came back for their encore, and the guys from Molly Hatchet were with them! They dedicated the last song as a tribute to their pals from Lynyrd Skynrd who recently died in a plane crash, and started into the opening organ notes for Free Bird, and the place went absolutely nuts! There will probably never again be such a spectacle in rock concert history. Six awesome guitarists, shredding on one of the greatest rock & roll guitar songs of all time, and absolutely destroying it!! The crowd yelled and screamed when it was over, wild-eyed and ready to root hog or die! The three boys beamed at the old, bearded biker dudes next to them in battered cowboy hats, who were smiling right back at them with amazed, disbelieving faces of shared human experience, pantomiming, “Did you just see that, too?”
The drive home was more interesting than Marty wanted it to be, and Mike really had to focus to make the road stay in one place. He was glad when everything stopped moving and the car was back at the Rusty Bucket Ranch. Mike took his hands off the wheel of the Stanger, and stared dumbly at them in awe and gratitude that they brought them all home safely. It was late, so the two of them tiptoed into their bedroom, turned on the lights, and slept for about a hundred years. There was no way they were going to sleep in the dark, with only their rearranged minds as a point of reference!
April Fool’s Day was a silly tradition at Sir Francis Drake High School for fools of all classes. For Marty, being the official cartoonist and unofficial court jester of the junior class, there was pressure to come up with an original prank worthy of his stature. He and Will put their heads together and conceived of a plan. They targeted Mr. Parker’s class because (a) he was a nice guy with a good sense of humor, (b) they were in his sixth period class and might get out of school early, and (c) he would be drunk enough that it could be really funny. During the break between classes, when he went out to his Volvo for refueling, Marty and Will snuck in with a gang of roadies and quickly moved everything out of the classroom onto the lawn. Desks, tables, wastebaskets, Mr. Parker’s chair – they even stuck the American flag into the turf! Then they all took their usual places at their desks with the rest of their giggling classmates, who were seeing the gag for the first time. A few goody-two-shoes types refused to take part in the disrespectful shenanigans and stood next to the classroom door in protest, where the teacher could witness their fealty. Meanwhile, a small crowd gathered to see what would happen. When Mr. Parker came around the corner in his usual shuffling gait, eyes to the ground, he got all the way to the door and looked inside. Puzzled, he looked up at the number on the door, just to be certain. Then he looked around and saw (nearly) his entire class seated angelically at their desks, in the bright patch of grass between buildings, and he totally cracked up. Everyone else was laughing too, but Mr. Parker had a real belly-whopper of a guffaw, until tears came to his eyes.
“All right you guys, that was really funny,” he chuckled, looking at Marty and Will because they had the biggest halos. “Move it all back inside, willya?? Whoo boy! I gotta sit down.” He sat behind his desk on the lawn with a big smile on his red face, wiping his glasses and watching them return all the school property to its rightful places. Will suggested they pick up the teacher’s chair and carry him inside, too, but everyone voted him down. That was just too weird; even for them.
Marty’s popularity increased with his hijinks, but he discovered with dismay that there was an unwritten code among females that meant it was okay to laugh at the clown, but not to be seen with him! Girls would smile and hold their hands over their mouths when he walked by, but if he stopped to talk with them, they got very uncomfortable and quickly found something that urgently required their attention elsewhere. Marty experienced the peculiar loneliness of the fool, who is surrounded by laughter but crying behind his mask. The little angel appeared on his shoulder during those times, crooning like Smokey Robinson into his ears, “Smiling in the crowd I try, but in my lonely room I cry… the tears of a clown… when there’s no one around.” The cartoon devil appeared on his other shoulder with his hands over his ears, imploring Marty to use a tennis racket to squash his adversary. How else could he be popular? He wasn’t attractive enough, tall enough, or athletic enough to win a winsome heart in the usual way, so he had to employ whatever talents he had to be unique and memorable.
In the bathroom at night, as he pored over his face on a search-and-destroy mission for pimples, Marty critiqued his reflection in the mirror. He was fascinated by the beginnings of a mustache, which might someday distract from his big nose (which was even bigger after it got broken). He checked for evidence on his chin or jaw that it might be time to start shaving, but found only an uninspired thatch of peach fuzz. His long, brown hair was greasy by the end of the day, and hung in listless strands like limp lettuce. His blue flame eyes were too deep and intense for his face, like twin burners on a rocket, and even he couldn’t stare into them for very long. No wonder girls looked away!
That was how Marty became a nerd. He didn’t feel comfortable anymore with the party crowd, and the rah-rahs were too phony. The cool guys that got all the girls just used him to play Jerry Lewis to their Dean Martin character. Airhead jocks were annoying, and the straight kids gave him the creeps. Chas suggested that Marty join him and his friends for a game of Dungeons and Dragons. He’d heard of that role-playing game before, and remembered the artwork more than anything else, not quite understanding how it worked. Chas loaned him a couple of books to become familiar with the basic concepts, and he found them to be quite captivating. The Lord of the Rings was popular again because of a cheesy animated movie, and “D & D” sounded very much like a way to immerse himself in a world similar to Middle Earth.
Chas, Iggy, and their friend Jared all met regularly at a mutual friend’s house to play – even though he was still in the 8th grade. Seth was a quiet, intense lad, who lived a few hundred yards upstream from Marty, in a little clapboard house wedged between the creek and the road next to Deadman’s Curve. His little brother Tony hung around and tried to act like he belonged, because after all… he lived there. They all seemed excited when Marty arrived, as if a celebrity had come to their gathering. Chas, being the oldest player, was the Dungeon Master. That meant he designed the game scenarios in advance, including the puzzles, perils, and treasure that the other players would experience. They encouraged Marty to make a character and join their little band of make-believe adventurers, with an assurance that he would be granted “immortality” as a beginner so that he didn’t die as soon as the first monster showed up. He chose a thief, who was cunning and good at puzzles, but not very strong. Naturally, his name was “Nertz.” There was a ceremonial burning of herbs to appease the gods, and Chas started explaining the game story.
A princess had been kidnapped by evil stone giants, and taken to a far-off stronghold full of malevolent creatures. Marty wondered distractedly why little girls dream about growing up to be princesses, when they always seem to be a target. Their quest involved not only rescuing the princess, but in returning a set of sacred stones to the local Druid, who was apparently asleep or out getting drunk when the princess was abducted. Their starting point was in a dreary forest under a large oak tree that grew on the bank of a river next to a rundown hamlet. The method was to confer among themselves and dictate the actions of all their characters in various situations. Iggy controlled the imaginary band’s leader: a ferocious but addle-headed warrior named Grok. Seth played Orville the Odd, a wise wizard with secret powers, Jared’s alter-ego was Slash, a battle-scarred dwarf with an appetite for treasure, and Marty was Nertz, the rookie thief. They appointed Tony to be their porter so he could be part of the game, too, but he had to carry all their equipment.
“Now, what will you do?” Chas asked, and the game was on.
“Go into town, duh.” Iggy said impatiently. He thought he knew everything his brother was going to do, but Marty had an idea.
“Wait! First, I climb the tree to have a look around.”
Chas nodded approvingly, and interpreted, “Okay, you see over the wall of the town, there is a squadron of orcs laying in ambush. They appear to be well armed, bloodthirsty, and are facing the front gate.” Iggy and the other nerds looked at Marty with stunned respect.
“Anything else?” Marty pressed, feeling a surge of confidence.
“There is a small gourd hanging from a rope on the limb above your head, with a strange symbol carved on its side.”
“Wait! Don’t drink it! Bring it to me!” Seth shouted. Marty had to say out loud that he climbed down the tree and handed it to him. “I employ my lexicon of ancient languages to decipher this symbol,” Seth intoned with practiced cadence.
“The village head approaches to thank you for ridding them of the scourge of evil,” Chas continued, “He gives you a woven silver sack that he says will carry the sacred stones safely.”
And so the four adventurers (and their faithful porter) left the village and traveled far and wide, exploring imaginary ruined castles with labyrinthine dungeons, secret passageways, and hidden treasure, but also encountering dangerous make-believe creatures like orcs, wraiths, goblins, and trolls everywhere they turned. Their characters gained a lot of experience points, and found chests full of treasure that gave Tony’s character a hernia. Iggy’s warrior, Grok, was the only one seriously hurt so far. He lost an arm in a terrifying battle with a stone giant, and was pissed at the Dungeon Master. Later, Seth’s wizard found a tablet with ancient runes that magically transformed a limb from a red oak tree into an arm, so Grok became whole again. Chas was just using his omnipotence to mess with his little brother, as it turned out.
The game lasted over six hours, but they saved the princess, rescued the sacred stones, and crushed Tony under a pile of gold. Marty had a great time, and became hooked on role-playing games, or “RPGs” as the nerds called them. What was he going to tell Mike and the other bleacher creatures? That he had regressed to hanging out with sophomores and 8th graders? Or that he was hijacked by a gang of nerds and forced to join their math club? He concocted a cover story that he was doing research for a comic book about silly adventure games, and that was sufficient to salvage his honor for the time being.