The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel

by Keith A Pearson

  I pick up the copy of ‘Penthouse’ and scan through the pages, reacquainting myself with the delights of Amber, Christy, Candy and Electra. Huge perms, bright lipstick, lurid blusher, and the bushy pubic hair no longer favoured in modern pornography. I turn my attention to my preferred masturbation material of the time, ‘Blue Climax’, and thumb through the tatty pages. Unlike the highly staged shots of solo girls in ‘Penthouse’, ‘Blue Climax’ contains pictures of couples having sex. Every page is a feast of mustachioed studs doing all sort of unspeakable things with obliging continental women. I spent many a happy evening under my duvet in the company of Lars & Sabine from page eight.

  I tear off a black sack from a roll that Mum has left on the bed and drop the magazines into it. Not because I have any use for them, but because I still don’t want my mum to find them. The rest of the drawers fail to deliver much of interest, unless I can find a market for a dozen blank C90 cassettes, a battered Sony Walkman, a half-dismantled Rubik’s Cube, or scores of depleted batteries. However, one of the two large storage cupboards finally delivers something that might be worth keeping — my old Commodore 64 computer. A few months after starting work at Video City, I replaced the antiquated computer with a cutting-edge Nintendo games console. The ability to load a game simply by inserting a cartridge was a revelation, compared to the temperamental and tediously slow cassettes used with the Commodore. No longer of use, I boxed the computer up and placed it in this cupboard, where it has sat for thirty-odd years.

  I carefully lift the box from the cupboard, place it on the bed and open it up. I give a nod to my teenage self for so meticulously packing it away. Everything is exactly where it should be and carefully wrapped in the original cellophane packaging. Even the box itself is in perfect condition. I pull my mobile phone from my pocket and search for a website to get an idea of retro computer prices. I find a page of Commodore machines, most of which aren’t boxed or look in as good a condition as mine. Looking at the prices being asked, I guess mine must be worth about £150, especially as I’ve also got the original cassette player still in its box. It's a tiny step towards my ten grand target, but it's something. However, this modest windfall depends on whether the computer still works or not.

  For a few moments, I consider taking the computer home to test it, but I doubt I’ll be able to connect a thirty year-old computer to a modern TV, so I’d also have to lug my worthless old portable TV with me. With little else in my schedule for the rest of the day, I decide to set up the computer here. I pull the dust sheet away to reveal the black ash desk beneath. Sat proudly on top of the desk is my old 14-inch Ferguson portable TV. I never quite understood why we used to refer to small televisions as ‘portable’. It weighs more than a hod of house bricks and getting a half-decent picture involved dozens of miniscule adjustments to the feeble aerial. Once you'd achieved a reasonable picture, the last thing you dared do was move it.

  I unpack the computer and place it on the desk in front of the TV. I then position the cassette player next to it and connect all the cables. I plug the transformer and TV power cables into a double socket behind the desk and then check all the connections. Satisfied I’ve remembered everything, I nervously flick the switches on the wall socket. Nothing explodes, which is a good start. The red LED light above the keyboard is brightly lit, indicating the computer has power. The light is an encouraging sign, and with a twinge of excitement, I push the power button on the TV.

  For a few seconds nothing seems to happen. Then I smell burning dust and the TV makes a slight hissing noise as the screen flickers into life. With my more immediate problems put to one side, I take a seat on a foldaway plastic chair in front of the desk. Although the screen is awake, it’s only displaying static, so I pull open a panel on the front of the TV and try to recall which of the preset tuners I used for the computer. I press the top one and I’m met with a slightly different array of static. The second button displays a faint, ghostly picture of a lunchtime TV programme. Buttons three and four only produce more screens full of static. I press the fifth button and the static is finally replaced with a vibrant blue screen, displaying the once-familiar pale blue text...

  **** COMMODORE 64 BASIC V2 ****

  64K RAM SYSTEM 38911 BASIC BYTES FREE

  While those two lines offer some assurance the computer is working, they should be followed by the word ‘Ready’ and a blinking cursor — neither are present. Instead, there's a single line of text I’ve never seen before...

  PATH CORRUPTION ERROR. RESTORE? Y/N

  I find the operating manual in the top drawer of the desk, and flick through the pages until I reach the section on error messages. I scan the list of standard system messages, looking for the solution to my particular fault, but there’s no reference to it, let alone a solution. I grab my mobile phone and conduct a web search for the error message. I scan through the first four pages of results, but there is nothing even remotely relevant to my query. I sit back in the chair and stare at the screen. If there is an error, it makes sense to restore the system. However, if that restore fails, I’ll be left with a worthless block of retro plastic.

  My finger hovers over the keyboard, floating up and down between the ‘Y’ and ‘N’ keys. Based upon years of making wrong decisions, I go against my instincts, and hit the ‘Y’ key. Another message pings up on the screen...

  INPUT PATH RESTORE DATE:

  Another check in the operating manual draws a blank, so I can only assume I need to enter a date to reset the computer back to. Initially, this seems an impossible request, but there is one infamous date from my teenage years I'll never forget — Saturday 17th May 1986. I distinctly recall working on a bug in one of my self-coded games that morning, as I tried to keep myself busy before visiting Tessa’s house. I know the computer was working perfectly that morning. I enter the date and hit the ‘Enter’ key. Another message appears...

  RESTORE DURATION (1-48):

  Any initial excitement I had about tinkering with my old computer is now being replaced with frustration. I refer to the operating manual again, more in hope than expectation. Unsurprisingly, there is no reference to this message either. I drum my fingers on the desk and wrack my brain, trying to recall if I’d ever seen a reference to ‘Restore Duration’. Nothing comes to mind, so I need to work it out with simple logic. Patently ‘duration’ refers to time, but do the numbers 1-48 refer to seconds, hours, days or even weeks? I scrub that line of thought as with no other point of reference, the numbers could mean anything, so there’s precious little point in procrastinating over it. I input the maximum number, ‘48’, and strike the ‘Enter’ key again. I shake my head as yet another message appears...

  CONFIRM PATH RESTORE? Y/N

  I hit the ‘Y’ key with more force than is necessary. Nothing immediately happens. With frustration mounting, I’m just about to unplug the damn thing when the screen turns from blue to red. A message appears in the centre of the screen, in large yellow letters...

  RESTORING CORRUPTED PATH - PLEASE WAIT…

  I stare at the text as it blinks on and off, every second. On, off, on, off, on, off. I’m not sure if the text is getting a tiny bit bigger every time it reappears. I move my face closer to the screen and inspect the text in greater detail as it continues to blink rhythmically. For a split second, I could swear the message changes, but it blinks off again in a heartbeat. I move closer again, so my face is now only a foot away from the screen. The blinking appears to be more rapid. Again, I’m sure a different message pings up, but with the increased speed of the blinking, maybe it’s just my eyes playing tricks on me.

  And then the blinking stops, the text holds for a moment, and disappears. I can still see the ghostly outline of the letters as I flick my eyes across the screen.

  I hold my position for a few seconds, but the screen remains blank. Just as I’m about to sit back in my chair, a tiny white square appears in the centre of the screen. Suddenly, the square rotates ninety degrees in a clunky movem
ent. It seems an odd way for the computer to restore, and I stare at the square with increasing curiosity. Then it rotates another ninety degrees. A few seconds pass and the same thing happens. The clunky rotations gradually become faster, and more fluid, until the square is rotating like the sweeping second hand on an expensive watch. I watch it rotate through mesmerized eyes as it grows marginally larger on each rotation, eventually becoming so large that the corners are almost touching the edge of the screen.

  Then the restore process gets weird. Worryingly weird.

  It’s barely perceptible at first, but after a minute, I become acutely aware that my peripheral vision is tinged scarlet red. I try to move my eyes, but something compels me to keep focussed on the rotating square. The redness encroaches further across my line of sight, becoming increasingly vibrant. Panicky seconds pass until it feels like I’m looking at the square through a pair of red-tinted binoculars. The blanket of scarlet red continues to dominate my entire field of vision when, all of a sudden, the square starts to shrink slowly until all I can see is a tiny square, rotating against a solid red backdrop. My initial curiosity gives way to mild terror, and my brain instructs my legs to stand and walk away. The message is sent, but not received, and my position remains fixed. The panic mounts and further efforts to move away from the screen prove futile.

  Then the square disappears, and a message in yellow letters appears...

  PATH RESTORED. GOOD LUCK PROFESSOR.

  The message fades out, but the solid red backdrop remains. My mind struggles to process what the message means as a slow throbbing sensation develops at the back of my eyes. It doesn’t bring pain, just unadulterated fear as it spreads quickly until it feels like my entire head is beating. The throbbing intensifies, the beats coming faster and deeper. It spreads down my neck and engulfs my chest, syncing in time with my rapidly beating heart. It may have been within seconds, it may have been within minutes, but at some point my entire body pulses.

  As the throbbing approaches a crescendo, the blanket of red slowly fades to white. A kaleidoscope of colourful, indeterminate shapes zoom from the centre of my vision, and the throbbing is accompanied by sense of weightlessness, like being in an aircraft during turbulence. I feel like I’m falling faster and faster, as the coloured shapes spin past me at an increasing pace. A metallic tang hits the back of my throat, and I try to cough it back, but my body and my mind are now separate entities with no communication between the two. The assault on my senses is completed when static crackles in my ears. The throbbing is now so intense that it’s become a constant humming sensation, penetrating every limb, every muscle, every nerve. There is nothing for my mind to cling to, other than the thought I must be dying. Did I have a heart attack, and this is my journey to the afterlife? I feel such terror I’d happily embrace the calm waters of death in lieu of this.

  Then I feel nothing. There is just darkness and silence.

  PART THREE

  1

  I’ve had some epic hangovers in my life. The kind of hangover where you feel so intolerably awful that sleep is the only way out. The kind of hangover where you can only recall vague fragments of what occurred the night before. This is worse. I try to pull my thoughts together, but even the slightest concentration pounds a sickening ache across my skull. I clear my mind and focus on my breathing. Slow, deep breaths. Three seconds to inhale, three seconds to exhale. I subconsciously disengage every sense, so nothing can divert my attention back to the pain, to the nausea, to the fragmented memories. I want to sleep, and eventually, my mind relaxes enough that I do.

  I sleep for maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe days. I don’t know how long I sleep, but I do feel marginally better when I come around. Thoughts start to order themselves. Where am I? How did I get here? What the fuck was I drinking last night? My tender head is on a pillow, and I’m cocooned in a duvet, so I know part of the first question; I’m in a bed. I cautiously open my dry, gritty eyes and squeeze several exaggerated blinks to encourage moisture back. The mist clears from my vision and I can see the outline of vaguely familiar shapes, but wherever I am, the light is too dim to see much. Despite the darkness, I know that this isn't my bed at home; the pillow is too thick and the mattress too hard. I draw a breath through my nose and instantly recognise the smell of a certain brand of fabric conditioner from the bed linen. The dots join up, and I realise that I must be in bed at my parents’ house. I don’t know why, nor do I know why I’m naked.

  Every answer seems to raise more questions. Why am I lying in bed at my parents’ house, naked and seemingly at some stage, incredibly drunk? I pull my arm from beneath the duvet and raise a hand to my temple, massaging it to encourage answers. As my hand moves around my temple, it brushes something. I stop and cautiously inch my hand towards my forehead. Again, I feel it brush something. What the hell is that? I probe a little further with the tips of my fingers and they also make contact with the mystery foreign object. It’s hair, my hair apparently. Most people wouldn’t be too alarmed to feel their own fringe — unless that fringe receded a decade ago. I pat my head, and rather than the large expanse of bare skin I expect to find at the top of my forehead, I feel thick hair. Was I so drunk last night that somebody glued a merkin to my head? I gently pull a few strands, but there is no resistance. This thing is well and truly stuck down.

  I roll onto my back and stare at the dark expanse of ceiling. I concentrate more intensely to recover some memories, but there’s nothing there. It feels like I’m wandering around a field in a claustrophobic, impenetrable fog. I need to find a stimulus, a sign to point my mind in the right direction, but I won’t find it lying here in the dark. I cautiously raise my upper body, so I’m sat-up, and swing my legs ninety degrees to the left, placing my feet on the carpeted floor. Something doesn’t feel right, but I put it down to residual alcohol that must still be in my system. Trying to ignore my confused thoughts, I focus on confirming my location, and shedding some light on the situation, literally and figuratively.

  Assuming I am in my old bedroom, I should be facing the window, which is only a few feet from my position on the edge of the bed. I lean forward and slowly reach out with my right hand until my fingers touch the curtains. I brush my fingertips across the fabric until I find the thick vertical hem, securing it tightly between my thumb and forefinger. I delicately pull the fabric towards me. A shard of daylight bursts from an inch-wide gap between the curtains, prickling my heavily dilated pupils. I quickly turn my head back to the darkness. I squint as my eyes readjust to the tepid light, and after a few seconds, I can clearly see the pine bedside cupboard, and the jaunty angles of a black office lamp sat upon it. In one fluid motion, I reach out with my left hand and flick the switch on the lamp, while releasing the curtain from my right hand. My eyes welcome the transition to the soft glow of a forty-watt bulb. If I had any lingering doubts as to my whereabouts, they are quickly dispelled, as the soft light illuminates my old bedroom, and my naked body. My naked, and unbelievably skinny body.

  Losing weight is damn hard, especially for somebody with my lack of self-discipline. I simply love beer and cake too much. Not together, obviously. I’m sure I’m not the first man to have wished I could wake one morning to find my beer belly, love handles and b-cup moobs had magically disappeared overnight. As much as I may have wished for such an impossible intervention, the reality of sitting on a bed, staring at a body that is several stones lighter than when you last looked at it, is a truly terrifying experience.

  I stare down at my genitals like I’ve never seen them before, which isn’t too far from the truth as they’ve lived in the shadow of my pot belly for years. My once-chunky thighs are now like those of a marathon runner, and my moobs replaced with a table-flat chest. This is not right, this is not right at all. The only vaguely plausible explanation my addled brain can muster is that maybe I’m not suffering a hangover, but I’ve been in a coma and fed intravenously for months. In isolation, it might just about be a credible notion, but when combine
d with everything else about my situation, it doesn’t make a whole heap of sense.

  If my miracle weight loss was not perplexing enough, my eyes are drawn beyond my genitals, to something strewn across the floor that defies explanation. I lean forward and stare at it with disbelieving eyes. The item in question is a distinctive, blue and orange dressing gown, which looks identical to the one I owned as a teenager. Of the many things I currently don’t know, I certainly do know I consigned this dressing gown to the dustbin, sometime in 1986 after Mum burned it with the iron.

  I tentatively pick the dressing gown up and inspect it for scald marks. I check the front, the back, and then both sides again to be sure. There are definitely no scald marks. How can this garment be here? I distinctly recall mum showing me the burn mark, and I put it in the bin myself. Truth be told, I never liked the dressing gown and was glad to see the back of it. Yet despite all logic, I’m now holding it in my hands.

  While the dressing gown adds yet another unanswerable question to the growing list, it solves the immediate problem of my nakedness. I stand up on shaky legs and slip it on, fastening the cord around my inexplicably slim waist. I pause for a few seconds to ensure my woozy head can coordinate my movements, and shuffle forward to the window. Hoping some fresh air might help to clear my mind, I pull back the curtains and push the window open as far as it will go. Squinting at the bright daylight, I lean on the ledge as my stomach tries to return its contents. I swallow hard to keep it contained, my gut growling angrily in protest. I close my eyes, lean forward and draw several deep breaths. The dizziness ebbs away enough for me to dare to open my eyes again.