When I was a kid I expected to be viciously attacked and probably murdered by a man named Bob, the demon spirit from the TV show Twin Peaks, the denim clad sneering demon spirit with dirty long hair who killed Laura Palmer.
Twin Peaks came out in April of 1990 when I was 11 years old. From the first episode my family gathered 'round and watched this crazy ass show. We loved it, it was probably the only time we all watched TV together. This now seems strange to me. I mean, my dad would change the station if there was kissing or a butt in a bikini going on, but he didn't mind me being subjected to the pathological creepiness of Twin Peaks. Rape and murder were A-OK. Bob's "death bag" was family entertainment.
An episode would end, my parents would say okay guys time for bed, I'd head back to my room filled with a gnawing, sick dread. The hall to my room was the hall to Laura Palmer's room, my room was Laura's room. Of course, I was convinced Bob would be stopping by for a visit. So I was forced to develop a complex, exhausting ritual (exhausting being the key word here because I'd have to be totally exhausted to approach sleep, and this way of exhausting myself by compulsively fiddling around stayed with me for a long time): the sheets had to be a certain way, so did the bedspread, they both had to be pulled up to my eyes, just so I could see through the gloom. Above all the position of my body had to be perfect--on my left side, facing the doorway, my legs together and bent at the knees at an exact 45 degree angle. There are many details that I can no longer remember. I think there was some counting involved. Yes, there was definately some counting involved. Like: If I could slowly count all the way to thirty I could relax a bit. And if I could make the count to sixty, well, maybe I'd live to see another day, maybe even another week and another Twin Peaks episode. I know my stuffed animal friends took watch around me. Maybe I even fluffed my pillow, and if it wasn't exact in its fluffiness, maybe I'd fluff some more and more. No no, that's only what I do now, back then it didn't factor in, it couldn't protect me a bit. Yes, my fiance calls me Fluffy.
Ritual complete, I did not move, I barely breathed, silence is important. This is life or death here.
Would Bob come from the foot of the bed or from the side? I'd usually keep an eye on the foot, that's where he hung out as far as I knew. Emotions I couldn't pin down ran through my brain, emotions that lasted through to the next morning, especially when I had to take a shower before school.
It got so bad that I was forced to take my showers with the curtain drawn. I was sick of peeking out every five seconds, I had to be ready. Bob could strike at any time. But then I was forced to look into the bathroom mirror. If you know Bob, you know mirrors are really fucking scary.
After these showers I'd dry off my freaked-out pre-pubescent self and have to go to school. 6th grade. Were there other 6th graders wandering the halls like me? I wondered. I still wonder. (Though obviously there were some kids suffering from REAL problems)
When Twin Peaks finally ended after the half-baked season two, you'd think I'd be able to move on, that the fear would lessen--it didn't. Bob was still out there, somewhere, he was looking for a new body, and I believed, fully and totally, that that body was me.
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