A Collection of Photo’s on Flickr of the rest of us Jedi’s from the 70′s and 80′s.
It is amazing to look back and see that even though we were spread across the globe we all shared the same fascination and suckered our parents into buying all the same merchandise. And to wonder where we all our now and if without the lessons of the evils of the Dark Side and the power of “The Force”, if we’d not be the people we are today? As far as I can tell in the photos, I’m the only R2D2 with tube socks.

In grade school we wore navy blue pants and white dress shirts. The boys had triangular collars while the girls wore the rounded ones that little Catholic school girls wear. There was an unfortunate era when my sister and I wore the same size shirt even though we were two years apart. And, of course, there was that day. One of the days that sticks with you forever and came back to me the other day when i was trying on used sweaters at an outdoor market in Amsterdam.

“This is a girls sweater.” I said to Susan.

“Oh no it’s not. It looks good on you.” She answered.

“Irrelevant how it looks, the buttons are on the wrong side.”

Back to grade school. The unlucky day must have been around 5th grade and it was made clear to me by my teacher that I was wearing a girls shirt. She asked, of course, in front of the class. “Are you wearing your sisters clothes?”

The class turned and errupted in laughter.

“Stork-dorks wearing a girls shirt!”

So my question is this, was it I who was half asleep while dressing watching Woody Woodpecker or was it my father who was half asleep while he ironed our shirts that morning. Where were the parental checks and balances to sound the buzzer for these things? Was this just a “boy named sue” moment in which my father tested me on how I would handle the rigors of manhood? The only thing it has taught me is to pay extra notice as to which side the buttons are and what shape the collar is.

It was a Jesuit, shirt and tie, all guys’ high school. Everyone drove to school or had a ride. I rode the city bus. “H.A.R.T. Line” was the Hillsborough Area Regional Transit Association. They had a big red heart for a logo. Most were faded to a semi-brown heart that looked more like the ones on anti-smoking ads. The buses were smoke-free although smoking may have been a welcome relief to mask the random odors floating through the cabin. Looking back I think the decision to send the boy home on the bus was a character builder. Maybe it was a message to do well in school. But with transportation only a quarter from school on a student pass, how could a parent go wrong?

The driver on bus number 7 was Richard Diggs. Dick Diggs we called him. I met Diggs the first day my dad dropped me off. I boarded armed with a quarter and my newly pressed Jesuit shirt and tie. Although I wasn’t the only wearing a hat I was the only one wearing a beanie. “That some kinda Jewish hat you got there, son?” Diggs asked.

I told him it was something we had to wear as freshman and it was tradition and we could burn it at a homecoming bonfire in a few months but he didn’t care too much about the details. He was all business. In the future when I realized I only had to wear my beanie on campus he’d asked, “Where’s that funny looking Jewish hat, Son. Shouldn’t you be wearing that hat?” He’d continue on the address system as I took my seat. “I think you may have left your hat at home, Son. You want I should turn around so you can get that funny little Jewish hat of yours?”

Unbeknownst to me, my father followed Diggs that first day to map out the route and see how long it’d take to get to school. I guess he followed a few cars back so as not to alarm Diggs. The plan didn’t work. Again, this driver was all business. Soon I noticed the bus taking evasive actions. Charging through yellow lights and making quick lane changes. Passengers would bounce free from their seats with each abrupt turn causing them to inadvertently hit the “Next stop” button. Each lane change was met with a “Ding – Stop Requested” followed by Diggs yelling, “Is that a real stop or someone hittin’ that button?”

Another sharp left and another “Ding – Stop Requested.”
“Just trying to lose this Jack in a white Blazer truck!” Mr. business Diggs yelled. “I think I gotta white guy tailing us!”

“Ding – Stop Requested.”

I turned, aided by the bus’ momentum, and saw my dad a few cars back. Although his car was more agile than the city bus it didn’t possess the guts behind the wheel that we had. We were successfully pulling away. “Woah!” I yelled up from the back of the bus. “That’s my dad.”

The words bounced off each passenger on the way up to Diggs causing each to turn their head as they grasped the meaning behind my yell. Some translated the words faster and turned faster but overall it was a wave a twisting bodies starting from me and progressing to the front.

“What kind of kid are you who’s gotta dad has gotta follow you on the bus?” The lady next to me asked, “If your dad is going the same way why didn’t you save your quarter and maybe stop as McDonalds too?”

“This is my first time on the bus. I guess he just wanted to make sure I got to where I’m going?”

“It ain’t that hard.” She reasoned. “You pay your money and get on. You push the button when you want to get off. Simple as that. Pay to get on… push to get off.”

“I understand. I guess he just wanted to see how long it took.”

“All you gotta do is read the map.” She said. “ It tells you how long each bus takes. It even tells you what time they leave. What time it goes and what time it stops. Simple as that.”

“Yes, I know. I guess he just wanted to see for himself.”

“He could have scene it for himself on the paper there. Simple as that. I’ve been riding the bus for years and never had no trouble. Always on time. Always running on time. You should just push the button now and get in with your dad since he’s going the same way. Maybe he can stop off and get you some McDonalds.”

I soon learned that this is what I was paying my quarter for… the experiences. Some of them I’d offer fifty cents for if I had to do it over again.

One of the stops along the way home each day was at a K-Mart. It was a transfer spot where people would often switch busses. It was an intersection in the routes where you could get a transfer ticket and jump to a different route.

There was a day when a rather large black woman got on at the K-Mart stop. She had just done some shopping while waiting for the bus and came on board with all her bags. She was wearing typical H.A.R.T. Line summer attire… a single, large moo-moo. While maybe this fashion has its roots in Hawaii as beachwear it has made its home surrounding the fatty flesh of women across America. It’s looks like nothing more than a non-fitted one-piece bed sheet fashioned into a dress. A kids ghost costume with a hole for the head and arms.

She sat directly across from me in the seat clearly labeled “Reserved for Handicapped Riders” and even was able to harness herself in using the safety straps for wheelchairs. I watched her fumble through her bags. I played with my beanie to look busy. She pulled out a can of generic aerosol deodorant. She shook it up to get maximum spray. Armed with the can she reached up though her legs, under her moo-moo and aimed the can up from about belly level. She fired. She continued to fire. In all, she shot deodorant for about thirty seconds.

It emanated from every hole of her non-fitted bed sheet. It gushed from her armpit holes hiding her meaty arms in a fog of unscented aerosol. It rose from her neck hole like Old Faithful. It soon crept out from the same opening she took aim from dropping to the floor like a fog machine in a carnival haunted house.

Waiting for the air to clear I wondered if the same women would be there when the show was over? Maybe she was a superhero and this was her guise used during the transformation? Maybe she’d come out as a wonder-twin in a leather suit or a crime-fighting robot?

Unfortunately, when the air did clear it was the same rather large black woman that joined us at K-Mart albeit better smelling. As if to answer my puzzled look she explained, “Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.”

That piece of wisdom only cost me a quarter.

Growing up, my parents both worked in management there. He was the VP of Marketing. She did the same but for the Special Events department. Both titles had there own distinctive perks for two spoiled theme park kids. Marketing, through the eyes of a child, was more about trade than advertising. We had plenty of coupons and free food cards to eat wherever the current ad campaign was partnered. One month it may be a stack of free Taco Bell tacos for dinner. The next we’d have our fill of subway six inch meatball subs.

Special events was hosting parties after the park closed. Often we’d pack up our homework and have to go to the park at sunset. After dining on whatever the banquet was serving for their guests we’d ride the rides until forced to do homework. The lure to finish was the promise of Churro’s and Strawberry Mirage’s for dessert from the stand outside the dolphin show. You might think the lure would be the actual dolphin show. When you’ve seen it as many times as we had it becomes no lure at all. Yet the dolphins get excited and jump through the same hoop for the same raw fish as last night?

During these events, the party would be held in one of the many themed sections of the park. The company would rent a section and have all the rides and shops open for them during their event. This would mean we’d have all the rides and shops open for us. Being that there were often more rides than people… there would be no lines. We’d have our run of the park. Ride all the rides we wanted or hit the water slides until our bathing suits wore thin. Often we’d not even get off the ride… they would just run it until we told them to stop or it looked as if we were too sick to continue.

Busch Gardens is an African based them park. Even though I’ve never been to Africa, I feel that I am somewhat of an expert. I grew up in the suburbs of Tampa but African craftsman, belly dancers and snake charmers were my neighbors. As a child, I could probably bang out a brass pot or weave a leather sandal given the right tools. 
My treasure map was the printed park map or Busch Gardens. My friends would play hide and seek in Timbuktu or in the Congo or take a nap along the train ride through the African plains. I would wait for my father along the eastern edge of Lake Victoria or outside Stanley Falls. I’d use my Busch Bucks to buy a pith helmet from the gift shop to go along with the rest of my theme park wardrobe at home.
The place that kept me most entertained was the Sultans Arcade. If the parents were looking for me… they knew to look in the arcade. I grew up thinking how great it would be to work in a game room. (I was given that chance in high school and it wasn’t that great.) I was there for the release of all the great games of the late 70’s and 80’s. This was my babysitter and home away from home. Being that I was there every day the clerk would give me a key to open the game and manually trigger the switch to simulate feeding it a quarter. I was there the day Paperboy came out. I was there the day Dig-dug was delivered. I remember watching them take the plastic off Hard-Drivin. But I was also there when they wheeled some of the greats out to sell them off to bars or laundry mats. My games were shipped out to undeserving drunks who would actually pay money to play them.

Walking around the parks now as an adult I have the nostalgic feeling of going home for a visit. Like seeing your babysitters house from an adult eye… things look a lot smaller. I am reminded of so many pivotal moments from my childhood. Where I fought with my best friend or where I was shutdown after revealing a crush on a schoolgirl. I can pick out the spots where I was scolded for arguing with my sister and where we’d both have to sit and do our homework until we got along.

Maybe one day I’ll make it the actual Stanley Falls. I hope they sell Churro’s.