Albatross of Albakad

By Lana Melbrow

Growing up in the Midwestern town of Albakad, Illinois was daunting in the 1980s. Albakad High School provided a springboard to success for some and an albatross around the neck of others. Three of Albakad's finest students discover self-realization has its own consequences when they choose individual paths over mindless convention.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lana Melbrow
• Release date: Oct 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223996019

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Albakad

TAN SKIN GLISTENING with coconut scented lotion wasn’t enticing like it had been during the first weeks of summer vacation. When a scream inspired an eruption of laughter, gawkers grinned at the victim massaging her painful thigh while I jostled through the crowd and hopped a fence to escape the hoodlum’s next attack. Arti’s Nintendo would provide enough excitement in the final days before school reconvened.

Summertime in Albakad, Illinois brought the buzzing of hedge trimmers, menacing growls of lawn mowers and acidic aroma of fertilizer. Fifty thousand citizens slept soundly to early morning train horns while vigilant dogs barked at shadows. Arti and I spent most of our summers at the swimming pool or loitering at video arcades and shopping malls. But in 1986, we spent fewer hours outdoors and more time at Arti’s playing games on his dad’s IBM PC.

Arti Johnson was a paradox. He was outgoing but preferred to spend his time eating junk food while playing video games. His manners were disgusting in private but proper in public. Anything requiring brains came naturally to him and he breezed through school without ever opening a textbook. With bowl-cut brown hair and black Wayfarer prescription glasses, Arti seemed at ease with his nerd persona. He wore an eclectic assortment of clothes acquired from his older brother, Russ, now living away from home at college. The most striking feature of his wardrobe was a pair of age-eroded checkered Vans which were once a part of his brother’s signature look.

My dark brown hair had surpassed its feathered phase and progressed into a less objectionable style. I was 5’9 with a medium build which was almost bearable to Arti’s chubby 5’7. At the pool, I wore Speedos: skimpy swimsuits leaving nothing to the imagination and thongs. Sometimes referred to as flip-flops, these shoes would slap your heels and invite attention to the bulge in your Speedo.

On this bright Friday afternoon, Arti sat in the basement of his parents’ upscale home destroying enemies on his state-of-the-art game system. When I rolled into the driveway at my house, I hopped off my Huffy dirt bike and dropped the kickstand. I hurried to my room to call Arti on speaker phone. My mom came to the bedroom door with freshly washed clothes folded in her arms and asked, What are you doing now?

I’m talking to Arti, I responded.

Arti’s voice croaked, Shoot ‘em, Shoot ‘em!

We heard distorted explosions and bleeping spirals as he crunched potato chips and frantically stabbed the buttons on his controller.

My mom said, It’s a beautiful day. Maybe we could do something outside together.

I was outside all day at the pool.

Maybe Arti should get out more. He doesn’t sound well.

My dad burst through the front door and announced, I wish someone would put away their bike. I nearly ran over it with the brand-new car. C’mon. Let’s go for a drive. My mom oozed with pride and I told Arti I had to get off the phone.

Cars were an important status symbol in 1986 and nothing said I win like pulling into your driveway with a brand-new Buick Park Avenue. This week’s victory went to my dad upon his arrival home from Joe and Fran’s Hardware store owned by my parents.

A drive required a subtle demonstration of features the new car offered. For example, you couldn’t simply tell someone the car had power windows. You demonstrated by pulling next to them and rolling down the window without cranking your arm. You’d earn more points by lowering all the windows without anyone cranking their arms.

After 45 minutes my mom said, Can we please go home? I think our neighbors get the idea. We rode home and quietly enjoyed the carefree flow of suburban living.

§

The succulence of pot roast wafted through the house when my mom opened the oven door. I set the table in the alcove next to the kitchen while my dad sat on a couch in the glow of the living room window reading the newspaper. When our grandfather clock gonged to the