Then, one day, something knocked at the door.
He looked up from his bowl of oat bran at the door. "Who is it?", he asked.
"Why don't you open to the door, man, and find out.", said the groovy voice on the other side.
"Hmm," he wondered, "who would be calling on me at this time," as he turned down the volume on his classic rock CD. He walked to the door, very curious as to who, or what, was on the other side.
"Okay, who is it? If you're selling something, just fax me a brochure."
"No way man," said the voice, "I'm not that high-tech. Why don't you just open the door and let me in."
He looked at the door, puzzled about the voice. He knew that voice, but from a very long time ago. It brought back memories, as if he had tried to block them out with time. He decided to look through the peephole. What he saw sent a shiver of revulsion and fear up his spine.
It was the 1970's knocking.
"I've missed you, man," said the voice.
It all came back to him in a sudden flash - the bellbottoms, the lovebeads, the mood rings... Disco. 8- track. Free love. Hairy chests. Ugly cars.
It was like a nightmare - only real, and standing on his doorstep.
"But... but... we killed you... " he wimpered.
"Hey man, chill." crooned the voice. "Mere bullets and a few nasty words can't keep me down, dude."
He was sweating. He messed his Armani pants. He was scared. His past had finally caught up with him, not willing to merely haunt him until the end of his days. Those days came back so clearly now - Studio 54, dancing with Margaret Trudeau to Disco hits like ABBA's "Dancin' Queen" and The BeeGee's "Stayin' alive". Even the Bay City Rollers. The Village People.
"Nooo!" he screamed, "You had your time! it's over now! why are you back?!"
"Hey man," said the suave voice, "I never left. I've just been waiting for my chance to come back. Open the door and enjoy my vibes."
"NO! I'm a man of the 90's now! I cut my hair short! I wear suits! I care about other people! Leave me alone!", he cried, curled up in the corner, hugging his DAT player.
The voice became mystical. "Hey, chill. Tell me, man, was free love THAT bad? Imagine - sex without AIDS! you could walk into any bar and get a blowjob, without worrying if you're gonna catch anything. It was great."
A glimmer of memory catched the man's eyes. "Yes," he whispered, "I remember. The day of birth control." He caught himself just in time. "But those days are gone! We have to be careful, or our dicks'll fall off! Go away and leave me in peace!" he screamed, hugging his DAT player closer.
"Tell me man, how comfortable are those Armani suits?" the voice soothed. "Can't you remember the freedom of polyester? stain-resistant, wrinkle-free, you could dance all night without losing a crease. And those bell-bottom jeans. You could walk anywhere with them, and they'd never bind your ankle. The open-air comfort of thongs. Just think, you wouldn't be uncomfortable anymore."
The 70's story was beginning to crack his 80's hardened shell. "You know," he said, "The clothes may have been ugly, but they were comfortable." The DAT player slipped from his grasp, falling silently to the carpet.
The glimmer left his eye again. "NO!" he screamed, "My suits are good-looking cotton! they cost a fortune, and make me feel like a fortune. The 90's are a free, people-oriented decade. We have the control of the 80's, without the burdens!", and clutched his programmable remote.
"Hey man, just go with the groove." said the voice. "The clothes were great - bright colours in beautiful prints. But that wasn't the only groovy thing, man. Think of the great hair then: huge, free afros. Long, easy maintainable straight hair. No need to brush it, it had a mind of it's own. No moose, just use your palm to grease it back. Get your hair cut? why bother? no one cared. It was the Me Generation. The way it should be."
The glimmer began to take hold again. "Yea, I had a real nice, curly afro. All the chicks loved it."
"That's it, man. Remember those groovy times," eased the voice.
The man was being won over. "But... but, what about my brand new import, with a 24-valve V6, ABS, standard airbag, and 250hp..." he whimpered. "Cars are so much better, now..."
"Forget that, man! Bad karma time! The cars in the 70's were big, curvy and luxurious - and cheap! you could still buy a big car for under $5000. They came in groovy colours like green on green. They had great options, like vinyl half- roofs, opera windows and corduroy seat covers. Big, thirsty V8s to haul them around in all their 3-ton glory. There was nothing better than a big pink caddy with zebra seat covers. Those were the great days before economy and gas mileage mattered, when getting to the disco in style came before function. You remember your car, don't you?"
The glimmer now took over. "Oh yes. I bought a brand-new 1976 caddy. It was long, wide, and got 6mpg. It was fabulous...", and the remote fell from his grasp.
the glimmer receded a bit. "But, but, I left that all behind me..."
"No way, man," said the voice, "look in your closet."
The man crawled over to his closet, and opened it. Inside were all his clothes from that long-ago era - the white leisure suits, the reverseable green slacks, the ankle boots, plastic and polyester for miles. In a box were all his 8-track tapes - Sean Cassidy, The Bay City Rollers, ABBA, The BeeGees, The Village People, Barry Manilow, The Captain and Tenile. Photographs of him with Andy Warhol, Gordon Lightfoot, Salvador Dali. He found the rhinestone glasses Elton John gave him. Newspaper clippings of the Watergate Scandal, a videotape of Saturday Night Fever. A three-inch tie. It was too much for him.
"No! No! NOO! I gave all this stuff to the goodwill!" he screamed, oat bran gurgling out of his mouth, slouched and convulsing against the wall. "Those days are gone... I killed you..."
"But you didn't, man." said the voice. "You only put me aside. But if you look around, I've been creeping back into society. The kids are wearing bell-bottoms and buying 'House Music' - recycled 70's Disco hits. I always go for the 'Hip' crowd first, 'cause they're the most susceptible. You older cats, who remember me the most, are the hardest fighters. Come open the door. I know you want to. Let me in, man."
"But, but... I'm a man of the 90's..." he whined.
"No way, man. You just think you are. You really want me back. You want the cold war, you want Gerald Ford. You want your polyester shirts, and the durability of 8-track. Stop hiding behind this 'I'm a sensitive guy' routine, and come with me to the days of the macho man. Come with the 70's..."
The man rose. All his willpower had left him. He was an empty shell, waiting to be filled. "I am yours," he said.
The voice cackled on the other side of the door. "Open the door and let me in, man."
The authorities later arrested him at a local dance club, where he was wearing a leisure suit and harassing the DJ to play "If You Think I'm Sexy" by Rod Stewart. After a careful psychological evaluation, he was admitted to the Institute for the Criminally Disturbed, where, to this day, he makes love beads.
So be careful people, because you never know who, or what, may be knocking at your door. Just ask yourself this question: "Do I really like where I am?"
Knock, knock... Who's there?