Soap operas have long been disparaged as overdramatic and far-fetched. The characters are shallow, the writing is weak, and the production values are lacking. It was mind rot for bored housewives. These are now phrases used to describe prime time television.
Even free-range kids need a respite from the summer heat. I was at my grandparents’ house, playing outside, when I came in to cool off and get a drink. As I sipped my Kool-Aid, I watched the program on the television. It was a soap opera, also known as a daytime drama.. My grandmother and disabled uncle watched ABC’s offerings daily. I had walked in on something called General Hospital.
When I was a kid, daytime television consisted of game shows and soap operas. While game shows mostly aired in the morning, weekday afternoons belonged to the soaps. The three major networks all offered a full complement to keep stay-at-home moms and the chronically unemployed engaged. All the programs operated using a similar formula. Absurd storylines, marginal acting, and characters with untethered sexual mores. Somehow, viewers commonly got hooked. It was up there with cigarettes and heroin as far as addictability was concerned. All the while, the networks cashed checks from companies that made feminine hygiene products and fabric softeners. This was before personal injury lawyers monopolized daytime ad slots.
It was the lifestyles of the rich and dysfunctional. Trysts and twists. Duplicity and double-crosses. The character names alone were fascinating. Perfect for one of those games you see on social media. Your soap character’s first name is your city, and your last name is the model of your car. Introducing Dr. Fresno Touareg, neurosurgeon, embezzler, serial rapist. His socialite wife-cum-assassin, Eden Prairie Camry, who had been having an affair with Frisco Ram, the rough-hewn womanizer who once served a sentence for the armed robbery of a laundromat. Now involved in an extralegal plot, they were all being pursued by Detective Oxnard Verono and District Attorney Cortland Acadia.
As I drank and cooled down, I noticed the show on in my grandmother’s den was a departure from the overdramatic dialogue between lovers while consuming brown liquors in a room full of mahogany casegoods. Yes, it had these scenes, too, but not exclusively. Characters were stowaways on a luxury yacht. Their intent was to steal a diamond statue that contained a formula that could unleash some sort of permafrost on their home city of Port Charles. High drama at its finest, I poured myself another glass of Kool-Aid and settled in.
“Steven, don’t forget to refill the ice trays,” called my grandmother from the den. I could see a tuft of silver hair and corn-inflicted big toes extending over the ends of the floral print sofa.
Little did I know that I was diving into a bona fide sensation. This was the era of Luke and Laura, the quintessential lovers in a dangerous time that had taken daytime television by storm. Born from a discotheque rape, as many great romances are, the pair turned out to be ratings gold for the show. It was the early 1980s, and obviously a different time. In those days, rape was a more acceptable means of meeting women. Most of the time, it could be shrugged off as a simple misunderstanding.
However, it wasn’t Luke and Laura that had captured my rapt attention. I was far more interested in another character and Luke and Laura cohort, Robert Scorpio. As in Robert (Louisiana) Scorpio (Ford, circa 1988). Scorpio was some sort of secret agent working in the employ of an outfit called the World Security Bureau, which, in retrospect, seems more than a touch Orwellian.
Scorpio was quick-witted and had a knack for sarcasm. Played by Tristan Rogers, he was the prototypical tall, dark, and handsome leading man for the era. A hero was born. Naturally, I looked up to my dad. He was smart, athletic, funny, and a good provider. But he was an accountant. When was the last time he’d stowed away on a yacht to save a city from a manufactured ice age?
In fairness to my father, when you’re eight, only a handful of vocations are acceptable: firefighter, professional athlete, doctor, spy, or sanitation worker. Even Nolan Ryan, author of five big league no-hitters, could not boast of such feats. It was decided. I was going to get a job with the WSB.
Scorpio, Luke, and Laura battled the wealthy and powerful. You could tell by the surnames these were deep-pocketed families of influence. The Cassadines. The Quartermaines. Big money, in league with the Rockefellers, Kennedys, George Jefferson, Edward Stratton, Richie Rich, Philip Drummond. I realize Jefferson and Stratton were not blue bloods; they earned their wealth, but I digress. Whatever the case, the General Hospital tangent into espionage and their international superagent had me hooked. It was just like they said. After a single exposure, I was in front of the television at 2pm every afternoon for the rest of the summer.
Double-naught spy and fleeting role model, Robert Scorpio
Soon, I was pretending to be a stowaway on the Cassadine yacht, Titan. I drew portholes and taped them to all the doors in our house. My friend from down the street was also a fan, and we imagined we were in the show, with him graciously allowing me to play Scorpio. We created a replica Ice Princess and acted out scenes on my uncle’s ski boat, which was stored for a time in our backyard. Not exactly Titan, but at least seaworthy.
As the drama built day by day, I was staring down a tangential problem of my own. School would be starting, and there was no provision for me to take the 2:00 hour off in order to remain current with the happenings in Port Charles. By the time we reached our first school holiday, I’d be weeks behind. At that time, VCRs were as large as refrigerators, more expensive, and rarer than credible storylines.
What I did have was my trusty Radio Shack Realistic tape recorder. My grandmother, in a display of effort and commitment counter to her lifestyle, dutifully recorded the audio each day. When I got home, I would listen to the recording of that day’s program–minus the ads for feminine hygiene products and fabric softeners–while eating my after-school snack. I couldn’t see, but the visions were still vivid in my mind from a summer of religious devotion.
To augment my knowledge, I committed to outside reading. I’d traded Sports Illustrated for Soap Opera Digest. My father was thrilled. I was spared the brunt of his semi-playful billingsgate as he placed the blame on his mother. She was a bad influence and corrupting force for exposing me to such pap. My mother, who gave me the 75 cents for the weekly fan mags, seemed to understand, or at least hope, that it was a fad. One that soon would pass. She wasn’t as outspoken as my father, but I knew she found the entire genre ludicrous and somewhat trashy. When I would share information from the day’s episodes, she would scowl and shake her head.
As August became September and then October, my interest in General Hospital waned. I was no longer listening to the audio recording from that afternoon’s broadcast. I don’t recall who put an end to this. I might have said never mind. The NFL season was in full swing and had captured my attention. My grandmother may have stopped recording, deciding it was too much effort. Not to mention being a bad influence. I never saw another episode of General Hospital.
More serious matters loomed on the horizon.
I was about to discover professional wrestling.
