Singles Going Steady: Van Halen's "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?"

Laurel invited us to her house for a sleepover. This was unusual because Laurel's mom worked the night shift at the factory and we weren't allowed to stay over at someone's house if there weren't any parents there. But Laurel's mom had switched shifts, so Laurel begged and pleaded to have a slumber party and finally her mom gave in. We were all excited because it was kind of a big deal: Nobody had ever met her mother and had never spent more time in her house than it took to borrow some pink Reebok high tops or her very dog-eared copy of Forever. In fact, Laurel herself never seemed to spend all that much time at her house.

My mom dropped me off and when I got to Laurel's door, I could hear shouting; it also sounded like someone was throwing things. I wasn't sure if I should, but I rang the doorbell anyway. The noise didn't stop. I rang again. Nothing. Finally I just started pounding on the door and her little brother Satan opened it. "Hi," I said. "Is Laurel here?" He gestured toward the stairs and yelled, "Laurel! Your stupid friend is here!" I heard a series of thumps coming from above, a "No, you shut up," and then Laurel ran down the stairs, "Asshole!" She hit Satan in the head. "She's not stupid. You're stupid!" Then a woman's voice, very raspy, "Laurel! Satan! Don't talk like that. Be nice, goddamnit." Satan and Laurel looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "She's the asshole," Satan muttered under his breath and went outside. "Who is?" I whispered. "My mom," Laurel said. "Oh," I replied. I mean, really, what else was there to say? This was definitely not like any family I'd ever been around. Ours was by no means perfect, but there was no way in hell that my parents would let me or my brother get away with that kind of language.

At the top of the steps appeared Laurel's mother. She was a tiny lady, with big, permed bangs. Tapered-leg stonewashed jeans ended at the top of pointy, black ankle boots. A tight, hot-pink sweater rounded out the ensemble. The bags under her eyes had bags. She was smoking a More and cradling a beer in her arm. I watched in fascination as this woman, this mom, crashed her way down the stairs and over to us. "This is one of your friends?" she slurred. She smelled like a perfume counter—like the smell of tampon deodorant. Being auto-programmed to be nothing but nice to adults, I extended my hand, "Hi, Mrs. H_____. I'm Iseult."
She stared blankly at me, then frowned. "Don't call me Mrs. H____. It's Mrs. T_____, now."
"Oh," I was embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
Laurel scowled. "Don't be. She isn't."
"The divorce isn't final yet," she coughed. "And it can't get final quickly enough," Mrs. T cackled. "The bastard." She took a deep drag and exhaled smoke through her nose.
Fortunately, we didn't get more into that discussion because Skatie and Gray showed up. Mrs. T didn't even talk to them.
"Okay, this is everyone, mom," Laurel said. "Are you going out or what?"
Mrs. T tottered off to the kitchen, "As soon as I finish my drink. Keep your pants on."
"Hurry up! God!" Laurel turned to us, "Let's go into the family room."

The family room blew my mind. The walls were lined with crate after crate of records, floor to ceiling—two deep, in some places. "What's all this?" I was mesmerized. "Are these your mom's?" This was more records than I'd ever seen in my life, more even than I'd seen at the record store.
Laurel plopped down in an easy chair. "No. They're mostly my dad's. He couldn't wait to get the hell out of here so he didn't take any of them."
"How many do you think there are?" Skatie asked.
Laurel shrugged, "There's more in the basement, too."
"Doesn't he want them?"
Laurel stuffed a handful of gummy bears into her mouth, "Who knows, and who cares?"
While Laurel, Skatie, and Gray watched MTV and talked, I started to thumb through the crates. A lot was old-people music: Creedence Clearwater, Three-Dog Night, Dan Fogelberg, but I saw Prince, the Go-Gos, Information Society, and Thompson Twins in there, too. All in pristine condition—many still in their shrinkwrap. It was a goldmine. I was geeking out, bouncing from crate to crate, not sure where to look next.

Mrs. T interrupted my revelry. She clomped into the family room wearing a coat that matched her jeans. "Girls. I'm going out."
"Good," Laurel said. "So go."
"Don't talk to me like that, you little brat," she snarled.
"Whatever," Laurel spat back. "What do you want?" Skatie, Gray, and I stared at each other uncomfortably. It wasn't difficult to determine why Laurel never spent much time at home.
"I'm going to the Holiday, but I'll be back in a few hours. So while I'm gone, no pay-per-view, no calling boys, and no booze. And stay out of my room, understand?" She looked around like she was missing something. "Oh, and if you see Satan? Tell him he better be in bed by 10."
"Yeah, that's really going to happen," Laurel snorted.
"Do it," Mrs. T fired up another More. "I'll see you later."
As soon as the door slammed, Laurel jumped up and said, "Have you guys ever tried Manischewitz? It tastes just like grape juice!" None of us had. "Come on! You're gonna love it."

The next few hours were spent downing juice glasses of Concord Grape Manischewitz and eating tons of gummy bears and Cheetos. I played DJ and pulled as many records as I could carry over to the record player. We danced around the living room to "Kiss" and "Heart of Glass" and "What's on Your Mind (Pure Energy)." Even Satan, who had come home no-doubt after having done something like killing the neighborhood pets with firecrackers, seemed to be having fun. When we got bored with that, we sang along to Madonna songs, "Holiday" and "La Isla Bonita." Soon, the massive sugar crash hit and the girls decided to watch TV, but I kept rooting through the records. Rick James, Dead or Alive, the Police, Van Halen, Culture Club, Donna Summer, Motley Crue, the Beatles. Laurel came over and kneeled beside me as I rifled. "What's so great about these records, anyway? Tapes are soooo much better."
I kept shuffling. "I don't know. They're just…cool. That's all."
She flipped through the crates for a while. "This is so boring."
"No it's not! It's fun … To me."
"Well, you should just take them with you if you like them so much."
My heart stopped for a second. "Wait. Did you say I could take them?"
"Sure. Who cares? It's not like my dad's even gonna notice. He doesn't even know how many he has." She looked kind of sad.
"No. I can't."
"Yes," she stood up, looking defiant, her hands on her hips. "Take as many as you want. I don't care." She plopped back in the easy chair and turned up the TV. "You guys want to watch Cinemax? Or Skinemax?" she giggled. "That's what Satan and his friends call it."

I couldn't be swayed by soft-core porn, my head was exploding at the gravity of the situation: How the hell was I supposed to pick a record out of this massive collection? I couldn't take more than one, I decided. I didn't want to be greedy. But which one? Gah! It was such a hard decision. Blondie? No, I had that on tape. Go-Gos? No, they were kind of girly. The Police? My brother had that already. What to do? The pressure was too much. I decided to sleep on it.

We had just drifted off when the door unlocked then slammed. I heard this hacking cough and the sound of keys dropping, then an, "Oh goddamnit." "Is that your mom?" Gray whispered. Laurel yawned, "She's probably drunk." Mrs. T stumbled up the stairs. We heard another door slam and then a thud. "I bet she passed out."

When I woke up again, it was morning and I could hear music coming from somewhere. I looked around and saw through the window that the guy next door was washing his car; a radio was perched on the roof. It took me a minute, but I recognized the song: Van Halen's "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?" from their Diver Down album. I knew this because my brother, Jedi, was a huge Van Halen fan and someone had loaned the album to him a while back. After school, Jedi would put it on the stereo and rock out. And I joined him, especially for "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?" because it was the perfect air-guitar song and fun to sing along to. (Jedi would get really into it; I rocked out with him through "Hang Em' High," which is, upon further reflection, a fun, quasi-punk-rock number, but once "Cathedral" came on and Jedi started going on about what a genius Eddie Van Halen was, that was where he lost me.) I hadn't heard that song in a while and forgot how much I liked it.

I was still listening when I noticed Mrs. T walking slowly down the stairs, hand on her forehead, kind of groaning softly. Laurel had just woken up, too, and when she saw her mother, she yelled, "SO! YOU HAVE A GOOD TIME LAST NIGHT, HUH MOM?" Mrs. T stopped in her tracks and glared over at us, "What did you say?" she rasped. "You heard me," Laurel replied. Gray and Skatie were awake by this point and we all sat frozen in our seats. Mrs. T scoffed, "Laurel, your friends are all sluts. Now get them the hell out of my house." And with that, she turned around and hobbled back up the stairs. We looked at Laurel, wondering what she was going to say to that, expecting her to go ballistic. Instead, she said softly, "I think you guys should go."

We took turns using the phone to call our parents to pick us up. Nobody said anything as we got our stuff together and waited for the honks. Gray and Skatie were the first to go. I was willing my mom to drive faster. Then I heard the familiar "squank" of her Mazda and I bolted for the door, mumbling something to Laurel about thanks for having me over.
"Wait! You didn't take any records."
"Uh, no, that's okay, really, I—"
Her jaw was clenched and she looked like she was going to cry. "You have to take one. Okay?"
"Okay." I stood in the family room and stared, not really looking at anything, then I remembered: The night before I'd seen that bright-red and white cover sticking out from a crate on the floor by the doorway. Sure enough, it was a brand-new copy of Diver Down. "I'll take this one."
Laurel nodded and sniffled. "I'll see you at school on Monday."

Van Halen's "Where Have All the Good Times Gone?" from the album Diver Down
Gift of Laurel H_____, Somehwere in the Steel Valley, Ohio
Spring 1988