Its Christmas morning, 1982. The streets are empty. Most of the people have vanished. Their houses and cars and clothes are still where they left them. The lights still work. The water still works. The phone still works. I turn on the television: everything is normal. I turn on the radio: everything is normal. But everything is not normal. Just yesterday everything was fine.
I turn the radio on. I hear 80’s synth pop music. Then another synth pop song. I look around. I am in an abandoned city. Or something else. I look at the sky. I do see a jumbo jet flying—somewhere. A formation of military jets flies by.
The music on the radio is eerie. It echoes with the emptiness. A heavy bass song comes on. You gotta fight for your right to party. My head rattles. This stark reality reflects and echoes in my head. Is this the apocalypse?
A little boy is sitting in his house. There is no Christmas tree. There is no breakfast. His father walks in and looks at him with a mean mug. And he turns on the TV. Cartoons are on. His sweet heart is pounding so hard. It would be decades before I understood. Because of this little boy.
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