There was a lot of love in the Eighties. That is, if you believed the love songs. I was ten years old in 1980 and as soon as the great ball in Times Square touched bottom, there seemed to be a wave of love on the radio. I must admit that I listened to a lot of what was called "easy listening." If there wasn't Lionel Richie talking about Dancin' On The Ceiling or Billy Ocean singing "Suddenly," you had Spandau Ballet telling you what was true. The truth was...

Crack, a highly addictive form of rock cocaine seduced all takers regardless of social status. Any one from your mailman to your preacher could be addicted and you wouldn't have known it. Well, you wouldn't have unless the social security checks started missing or the church's collection plate turned up empty week after week. Crack was unlike any drug that had come before it. It wasn't the type of high you could recreationally use and be in control.

It's grip was lethal. Lethal to family bonds, friendships and anyone you thought you could count on. There are countless stories of how Crack addled the minds of grandmothers to steal from their children and grandchildren just to get a hit. There was the mother of a certain former friend of mine who prostituted herself for Crack.

In high school there were teachers who were addicted. How was I able to tell? The neighborhood and more specifically the building I lived in was the epicenter of the Crack epidemic in New York City. If there was Crack to be had, my building was the place to come to get it. Watching the license plates of the people who drove up to the building, there was a who's who of the contiguous United States. I can thoroughly attest that the state of Virginia had a serious Crack problem.

I would see teachers from school dart into the building and try (emphasis on try) to get out without being recognized. Even when I saw a teacher face to face I would get the lie: "Oh, hi ... I'm just here to see my sister. She lives on the seventh floor." I looked him straight in the eyes, giving no quarter. "There are only five floors in this building. You having a family reunion on the roof?"

As he tried to think up another lie, our resident Crack dealer materialised next to him. "You know him?" he asked me. "He's a math teacher at the school," I said. "That's fucked up!" he said. Yes, I thought to myself, truly fucked up.

People crawled in and out of my building like ants at a picnic. On the radio, I could hear the strains of Bobby McFerrin singing "Don't Worry Be Happy". I was worried and unhappy as Crack, the silent assassin picked off my friends and family at its leisure. As is the way of the world, things got worse before they got better. Summer snuck in like a paratrooper on a night time raid--unnoticed and unchallenged. Teachers from my school started taking more and more "vacations". The grapevine had finally reached the administration that Mr. So and So, who weighed 240 when he started teaching, now weighed 100 pounds. The whole school knew he was a Crackhead, now the administration did, too.

Those are my recollections of the Eighties; some sex, all drugs and the occasional bit of rock and roll (courtesy of the Go-Go's). I liked the Bangles; Suzanna Hoffs was hot. I moved as one with the Force and enjoyed all my Jedi adventures. I can't say that I was sad to see the Eighties go, but as I look back, I had happy moments. I had survived; I'd lost friends and family members, but I had survived. As resolute as I was, Crack was still there as well. There would be more casualties, but there were the 90s to look forward to. New adventures awaited the drop of another Times Square ball--but that is another story.

Author's Biography

L. David Ryals is a New York writer, poet, and teacher--and Seven Seas' voluntary essay reviewer.

He holds a BA in Writing and Literature and an MFA in English and Writing from Long Island University.

He currently teaches high school English in New York City.

E-mail David at ldavidryals@yahoo.com

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