My life in orange by Guest Tim 1975-

Author:Guest, Tim, 1975-
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Guest, Tim, 1975-, Rajneeshees
Publisher: Orlanda, FL : Harcourt
Published: 2005-07-10T16:00:00+00:00

Tim Guest

I still have a copy of my old passport from the time. When my mother gave it to me recently, I cried. The photo of me - young, smiling uncertainly into the camera - would have been taken at Oak Village, the day before my mother lied to the passport authorities and was found out. Every page is stamped with our destinations: Bombay, Germany, California.

In the summer of 1983, when the commune stereos were still playing Joan Armatrading's 'All the Way from America', I visited my father in California again. It became a yearly tradition. That visit was the same as the next, and the next. Each year John lived in a different apartment, but that was all that changed. In the end, all my visits blurred into one.

California was another world. Blue denim. Go-karts. Crazy golf. Redwood forests, breakfast cereal, Saturday morning TV. My father drove to shopping malls and we played games in the cold conditioned air of the arcades. 'Wizard needs food, badly,' the cabinets told us. 'Warrior is about to die.' His favourite game was an old one, Time Pilot, where you flew an old biplane, spun it around the screen, shot down other biplanes amongst the clouds. Then you travelled forward in time, to become a jet fighter, then a spaceship, the enemy planes always just keeping pace. My favourite was Star Wars, where you clambered inside the cabinet and paid your quarter, then flew down into the death-star shooting fireballs, 'Red Five standing by', blowing up the Dark Side again and again, the whole world made real by lines of white and red light pressed up against the back of the glass. In those air-conditioned malls my father and I became our stack of quarters; we lived as long as we could.

When we got into the car - his silver Mercury Lynx, with an entirely maroon interior -1 would burn the pale underside of my arms on the metal of the car seatbelt. Back at his house, he would inspect my fingers, tut, and get out his nail clippers. In Medina there was no one who did this. Looking back, it seems

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