The Nineties

There were still
payphones

and you could watch tv
over the air
for free
with a bent coat hanger
for an antenna,

and there were
countless chat lines offering
respite from loneliness
for $3 a minute,

and his name was still
Prince,

and OJ was not guilty
of murder,
but then he was responsible
for Nicole and Ron’s death,

and there were still
bookstores
and record stores
and video stores,

and I was still
young and single
and spent money
like time,
and days
like water,

and everything
I thought was
so fast,
now moves slowly
through my mind
as a lumbering dinosaur,
bathing my memories
in a romantic,
dreamlike patina,

or so it seems
from the vantage point
of this on-demand culture
I find myself
running alongside
just to stay current.

"Yay, Fullerton!"

We were transfixed,
watching the
slow-speed chase
that Friday afternoon
in 1994.

A white Bronco,
an unlikely center of attention,
carried
an even more unlikely
murder suspect
who held a gun
to his head
threatening
something,
as his narcissism
would not allow
suicide.

From our
Southern California
living room,
my Pop and I
watched
as the newscopters
followed O.J.
from Mission Viejo
north to Irvine,
Santa Ana,
Anaheim

and as if on cue,
we both looked
skyward out of the
sliding glass patio door
and saw the
tiny army of helicopters
that was taping the chase
from above,
the chase that was beamed
to the world
and to our living room
in Fullerton.

We smiled
and cheered,
not for O.J.,
but because we felt
a perverse pride
that our modest hometown
was part of this
huge,
ludicrous
news story.

“Yay, Fullerton!”

It’s still one
of my favorite memories
of my Pop.