2.
TELEVISIONLAND
As far back as I can remember, it’s been dark in the Sunshine State. For years and years, I’ve sat next to 60-watt light bulbs lighting up the corner of our living room couch. Watching the morning weather report telling me it’s going to be another sunny day. I’m viewing wounded and dying soldiers from the War in Vietnam beaming into my living room on The Nightly News. Stunned at assassinations of Presidents and Presidential Candidates, Civil Rights leaders, and Black Power leaders. A deluge of darkness and death is pouring out of Televisionland, in between cars, cereal, Coke, and candy commercials. Every so often spies invade the TV, in the form of Max and 99 on Get Smart, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin on The Man from Uncle, and the whole gang from Mission Impossible. I stare into the TV, wishing I had a kooky futuristic gadget like a watch that was also a phone. The people inside the TV screen shoot beams of invisible light out at me, for their own amusement. Long before I meet him in the Eighth Grade, Tom Wheatly has already figured out how to travel at the speed of light within the cathode beams of Televisionland. Tom hasn’t figured out much about Florida. He’s only lived here for a few months. I’ve told him it’s going to get insanely hot, and there are an endless amount of flying and slithering creatures wanting to bite him and inject him with stingers or poisonous venom.
Most of my nighttime growing up memories center around falling asleep to the sound of the TV, still turned on after the late news fades into static. Heeeere’s Johnny, the TV says. And then it happens every time. The dark force takes over. The TV changes channel. Johnny’s gone. And Televisionland whooshes my mind to a place of shadowy streets with smashed streetlights. While I’m trying to fall asleep around the corner from the TV, it’s making weird, deep underwater sounds. Televisionland wants my gray matter like an aquatic demon craves wooden sailing ships. Advertising, repression, propaganda, meaningless social conformity – it’s all strobing in my brain. My parents are captives of the propaganda machine beamed directly into their skulls from Television Central Command Center. Each night, I sense them being reprogrammed, with newer, shinier untruths. As I drift off to sleep.
I’ve grown up in a dark hallway the light couldn’t reach. I remember the whooshing and burbling underwater sounds of black and white TV shows come to me in distant dreams. I try to remember back to early childhood days before I lived in Televisionland. But they’ve been buried by submerged sand kicked up from insatiable aquatic monsters, gurgling and bubbling in secret caves underneath the surface of The Gulf of Mexico, mere steps away from the shoreline. The masked people who live inside the TV are trying to teach me their language, but their transmissions are muffled, and guarded by invisible beams of light. Truth be told, I was waiting for someone to come along and translate it for me. Someone like Tom Wheatly.
A few weeks after we first go shoplifting at Woolworths, we’re heading over to his family’s rental duplex, on the worst side street in Pinellas Park. There’s twice as many rusted late 50s Chevys littering front lawns up on concrete blocks, than anywhere else around. We’re walking at a fast clip on cracked concrete sidewalks, and we have large spaces reserved in our brains for a single pulsing thought: There’s no school tomorrow. Our breath comes out in solid shapes of air, a rare occurrence in Central Florida, even in late December. I’m wearing a thrift store Navy P-Coat over a well-worn black sweatshirt and jeans, and Tom’s got on his Forest Green wool shoplifting coat that reaches down almost to his knees, and his usual big-cord gray-purple bell bottoms. I feel the cold night spreading its invisible fingers around the blue TV screens and lamp-lit houses as we pass by.
Outside Tom’s door, he says, “I’m going to grab a different shirt. We’re not staying long.”
Inside, Tom pulls off his coat while saying to his two younger brothers, “This is a new friend of mine from school, so don’t act like assholes.”
It’s clear from their expressions how meaningless Tom’s words are to their ears. They long ago perfected the kid-mind technique of systematically blocking out entire segments of communication issuing forth from an older brother’s vocal cords. Plus, they’re both at the prehistoric mud-boy stage of boyhood.
Harry, the next to youngest to Tom, is almost Tom’s height but as wide as a double-door refrigerator.
Tom goes over, turns up The Brady Bunch on the TV, and begins sorting and flinging shirts piled on the couch, until he finds a pin-striped shirt with red and purple lines, breathes in a whiff, decides its close enough to clean.
Tom’s youngest brother, Victor, wearing only a pair of white Fruit of the Loom underwear pulled up to his belly button, decides it’s an opportune time to act like a demented seagull by hurling himself at Harry and flapping his arms. Harry looks at his younger brother like one glances at a mosquito before extinguishing it’s life with a rolled-up newspaper. Emitting a single grunt, Harry picks Victor up by the neck and tosses him over the back of the couch. Victor laughs as he flies over the couch, wails when his head bounces against the wall.
I turn to Tom. “Is this what usually happens around here?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Worry not, my friend. I foresee a better time, only a few blocks away.”
Tom, finishes buttoning his shirt, reaches down to check for any blood on Victor’s head, then speaks in an I’m in charge tone, saying, “What did I say?”
In unison, Harry and Victor answers in sing-song voices, “Don’t be assholes!”
“Exactly,” Tom says, and then he yells at Harry, “Where’s mom?”
By this time, Harry’s planted himself on the end of the couch, and is intimately involved with a turkey sandwich. In between gulps of the sandwich, he shouts back, “Don’t bug me, I’m watching TV.”
To which Tom replies, “Cool with me. Don’t break anything or kill each other. See you in a few hours.”
We walk along winding backstreets, and I realize I don’t know where we’re going. Does it matter? Not a bit.
I met Tom two weeks after my dad died, in the first week of December. Dad was sick for nearly a year in a shared room in St. Anthony’s Hospital. A place where the air conditioning was always turned up too high. Mostly, he died from anger and bitterness, according to mom. But smoking two packs a day of unfiltered Lucky Strikes for over 40 years probably didn’t help. I witnessed life becoming compressed like the in-squeeze of an accordion and then out-squeezed with the wheezy tune of lungs gasping for one final breath. Until there was no more.
As Tom and I get to know each other, the last few weeks of the 1960s are winding down. Inside myself, I’m balancing the lingering sense of death in the air with the complete joy of meeting a life-changing friend.
For the rest of 1969 and into the first few months of 1970, we steal records in the dark of night from Woolworths, and sometimes Eckerd’s Drugstore. Hiding our musical circles over at Marty’s, and smuggling them into the shed in my backyard. The same place where we drink beers I sneak from the fridge. After school, with a slight beer buzz, we listen to Cheap Thrills, Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits, Jimi Hendrix Live at Monterey, Let It Bleed, the Soundtrack to Easy Rider, Abbey Road, The White Album, John Lennon’s Instant Karma and The Beatles Get Back, on repeat on my stereo.
Walking along, Tom talks about The Monkees, Love American Style, Room 222, and Batman, and how he loves it when TV reality and cartoons smush together. He thinks he’d like to make a movie someday. I say my friends would be into the idea. He’s heard about how hot it’s going to be in the summer, and he knows it’s going to suck. I tell him he has no idea. I talk about how Televisionland isn’t really real, and yet, it’s how we all grew up. TVs are like another person added to the family unit – a schizoid split-personality creepy person who moves into our lives, reads our minds, and before you know it, is running our lives. As much as TV Land insinuates itself into our lives, it thinks we’re idiots. Known in the fine print as “home viewers,” TV thinks we’re too dumb to know what’s funny. Screw you, TV, I’ve thought more than once or twice. TV forces canned laughter down our throats and shoves. Shoving fake insecurities into our minds. And no one ever talks about it. Except here I am, spilling the beans to Tom, underneath a cloudy nighttime sky, walking through brainwashed mind-numbed neighborhoods.
Where we wind up is Charley Wright’s house. He was standing next to Tom when I went up and asked Tom if he stole records. Charley has a round, soft face. Eyes with long eyelashes, and a high-pitched giggle as a response to most things. I don’t know what any of this means. I haven’t been exposed to this type of thinking. Until tonight.
“Hi Tom, so good to see you,” Charley says while he opens the door. “Nice shirt!”
In less than a dozen block, we’ve gone from prehistoric mud-man creatures to manners and compliments.
Tom takes off his coat and tosses it on a chair next to the front door. “Hi, this is my friend Alex. Remember, a few weeks ago when we met?”
“Hey, Charley,” I say, as we step into a nearly spotless living room, with the TV tuned to Get Smart. Tom and I start laughing at the Cone of Silence routine. It always turns out the same way. The Chief gets annoyed at their faulty spy technology, and Max always thinking the Cone of Silence will finally function.
Tom asks, “Anyone here besides you?”
“No, there isn’t!” Charley says. “Want something to drink? Coffee, tea, whiskey?”
“Coffee now, booze later?” Tom suggests.
Charley rushes into the kitchen, and brings back three cups of coffee with milk and sugar on a tray, and sets it on the coffee table.
He breathlessly tells us about how thrilled he is his parents are gone for the weekend, and they even took his younger brother (or “bother” as he calls him) along as well.
I feel the sense of pure freedom, and of no parents sniffing around, aiming intrusive stares at us. It’s like being let into a world where parents have been sent away. Maybe to a place called Vacationland. Their clothes, belts, wallets, and handbags are taken away upon being processed into the compound. They walk around the grounds of Vacationland in underwear, with permanent smiles pasted onto their faces. Quite possibly their minds will be wiped, and they’ll come out of the whole experience no longer knowing why they have to be so controlling with their kids. Or even how to do it. They’ll be reprogrammed with messages such as “Kids already know what to do, they’re born that way. Just leave them alone.”
And, oh hey, his father collects nudist camp magazines. There are stacks and stacks of them in the hall closet. Did we want to see them? After a few sips of coffee, Charley leads us to the closet, grabs a dozen or so magazines with photos of nude couples letting breasts and penises breathe free in the great outdoors on the cover of each magazine. He flings them on the coffee table.
Coffee with cream and sugar, and photos of naked humans wandering in a natural setting. Both civilized and weird.
The three of us sprawl on the floor and intently thumb through the magazines. Usually, if someone shows off their dad’s secreted away magazines, it’s going to be Playboy, or Playboy knockoffs like Oui. but not this time. Here I am, in the comfort of someone’s living room, looking at everyday folks, sitting nakedly comfortable at picnic tables, strolling near lakes, playing tennis – male and female nudists in forest retreats, not making a big deal about being their completely naked selves. Except maybe wearing sneakers or sandals. Tall, short, heavy, skinny, old, young, middle-aged, and all are naked, naked, naked. Lined, creased, with wild and bushy pubic hair, big breasts and tiny boobs, short and long dongs, hairy, smooth bodies. Many of them wore sunglasses. Men with crew cuts and women wearing long hair flowing down their backs. This was a part of America I’ve heard whispered about, but to see photographic evidence of people being as socially free as one can possibly be is hard to wrap my mind around. It’s like seeing pictures of real aliens in their natural habitats, sitting at the control panel of their flying saucer. Not fake photos or artist’s sketches.
Next, Charlie leads us to his father’s workshop in the garage, where a short-wave radio is kept. Much bigger than a regular table radio, and easily the most complicated radio I’ve ever seen. Giving off an odd green glow in the dim light of the garage, it’s got a cartoony sci-fi vibe, like a cross between the transporter technology on Star Trek and the Cone of Silence in Get Smart. Charley flips a couple of switches and in between static and squeaks, we hear voices chattering in English, Spanish, maybe some French. Possibly Russian? Snippets of words and phrases adrift in a sea of static. I imagine how far away the disembodied voices are (Cuba, Spain, Russia?). When the glowing short-wave radio connecting us to anywhere in the world loses its hold on us, we wander back to the living room.
A weirdo dad. With a short-wave radio in the garage, and nudist magazines in the hall closet. I’m thinking Charley’s lucky, but you never really know what goes on in another family until you see it with your own eyes.
Charley hops up and rushes into the kitchen, shouting, “Whiskey time!”
Tom laughs and turns the volume up Get Smart. Charlies brings in three glasses of whiskey. Two ice cubes in each glass, and pours two splashes of liquor and cold water. We’ve gone into TV Land, and are visiting a bar made to look like a suburban living room, in a spy movie. If only watch-phones could miraculously appear on our wrists.
After we have a few sips Charlie loosens up. He jumps and dances around in front of the coffee table, as if he’s performing for the uncovered nudists on the magazine covers. Finishing our first pours, Charley runs into the kitchen for more ice and pours some more.
“What do you think?” Tom asks.
“I’m thinking there’s worse places to be on a Friday night.”
After our next drinks are handed to us, Charley sits on the floor in front of Tom. He leans forward and asks, “What did you find out?”
Tom sips at his whiskey and grins at Charley. “A lot. So much. The rumors are all true. I’ll go down there with you, and be your lookout. How’s that sound?”
I have no idea what they’re talking about. Starting a larger theft ring? Moving beyond albums?
Tom looks intently at Charley, and says, “We’ll hitchhike down to The Pier. On a late Saturday afternoon.”
“Charley says, “So we’ll get there just after dark?”
“Yep,” Tom says.
Charley begins shaking and seems like he’s about to either start laughing or crying.
“What are you guys talking about?” I ask.
“The Pier, in downtown St. Pete,” Tom says. “I recently found out it’s a place where guys in their 20s who are gay go and pick up teenage guys, like Charley. Charley and I figure too much older might feel creepy.”
I’m thinking, how does Tom know any of this. I’ve kissed a few girls and gone to the movies and held hands.
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Charley’s gay? What’s that mean?”
Charley’s eyes lit up. “It means I want to have sex with an older guy, so I can learn a few things.”
Tom raises an eyebrow at me. “Used to be called “queer” and now gay is what being a homosexual is called.”
“How about you?” I ask Tom.
He double shoulder shrugs. “I like both girls and boys. But I haven’t done much yet, besides making out and touching girls breasts. I also kissed a guy when we lived in downtown St. Pete. for two months, before moving here.”
They both stare at me and say, “Now you.”
“I’m interested in girls. So far, kissing and hugging.”
“Not guys at all?” Charley asks.
I shake my head and say, “Yeah, just girls. I like the way they look, the sound of their voices. Going to start asking if I can draw them.”
“I can see that,” Tom says. “You’re going to start looking for models. That’s cool.”
“More drinks?” Charley asks.
Get Smart ends, and Tom picks up the remote. Flips through the channels and lands on Star Trek. Captain Kirk, Spock, Bones, and a couples of crew members wearing red uniforms who’ll no doubt get killed by aliens, just beamed down to a barren planet. With its usual sandy and rocky landscape.
Tom turns to me and says, “What are the odds? Three different guys wanting three different sex experiences. Do you think it’s weird to like both boys and girls?”
“Makes sense to me. If that’s what you feel.” I grin at him. “You keep surprising me. Why should this be any different?”
“Tom stares at me, then says, “Girls are going to like you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re the exact type of weird a lot of them are looking for.”
“Sounds suspiciously like a compliment,” I say.
For a brief moment, we bypass social rules that’ve been hammered into us from family and school, and release pent-up primal thoughts. We’re scribbling over our parents, teachers, society’s version of how we’re supposed to fit into the world. Thinking about how we’re going to make our own marks on the world – changing the world we’re already altering by being ourselves, and sometimes just by being alive during these crazy times we’re living in.
Charley comes back into the living room and shouts, “Star Trek! William Shatner is so cute!”
Tom and I look at the TV and laugh. Televisionland seems like a friendly place tonight. Some of the darkness has pulled itself back, like a fog recedes over the waves when you’re walking along the shoreline at night. I feel like it’s easier to breathe, for the first time in years.