Heroes for Hire

“I believe it was General Grant who said when you're surrounded and outnumbered, there's only one way out…Surrender.”

—Col. John "Hannibal" Smith, The A-Team

I grew up in the mid-late-‘80s, the era of A-Team syndication. My mother and brother LOVED the A-Team and other such shit reruns on WPIX, Channel 11. I hated them. But I was forced to watch them.

I know the questions that could possibly arise from such a statement:
“Why was she ‘forced’?”
“There were no other pastimes to pursue?”
“Why such tortuous reminisces?”
“WTF?”

But whatever. I did a lot of things I didn’t want. As we all do. My primary MO: Be pleasing. (I imagine my older sister Ann Marie, an A-type personality, does not appear in such memories because she had, indeed, found other pastimes to pursue.)

Picture the rec-room: I don’t know if Mom and Rob really sprawled themselves on the couches while I uncomfortably parked myself on the floor; but the fact that the memory plays in such a way speaks volumes about the pecking order in our particular family unit. Mom and Rob were their own A-Team. And I didn’t quite rate.

The feeling to convey: uncomfortable, confused agony.

The A-Team’s tagline: “Heroes for Hire.” Col. John "Hannibal" Smith and his team (at the end of their stint in Viet Nam) were framed for robbing the Bank of Hanoi (which they had done, but under orders). They were sent to a US military prison and, of course, they escaped. They became heroes for hire while on the lam, working as good-guy vigilantes. Hannibal, an expert at disguises, was their leader. “Face” was the team’s con artist and lady’s man. “BA,” officially "Bad Attitude" (and played by ‘80s icon Mr. T.), was their mechanic and intimidator. And "Howling Mad ‘Murdock,’” was an expert pilot, and a certified lunatic—they broke him out of a mental hospital whenever they needed him for a mission.

Yes… I know.

(And I only know this because of what I found on IMDB.com. I recall some of these details—perhaps two of the names—but not much else. I must’ve been daydreaming.) Mom and Rob fucking Loved. This. Stuff. The title credits, the whole bullshit in between, and the end credits. And for some reason I felt compelled to sit there, on the floor, with them while they watched. These reruns on Channel 11.

The feeling is that of four o’clock on a Saturday… There I was trying to make myself comfortable on the rec-room floor (to give credit where it’s due, the concrete slab was covered by a thinning carpet), while Mom and Rob stretched out on the couches. I don’t recall anyone really talking, ether about the action onscreen, or the lack thereof, off. But I didn’t necessarily express my own discontent. Middle children never do such things.

It was an understood appointment: A-Team on. Now. Microwave your potato (top with bleu cheese dressing, if available) and meet in the rec-room. First one on the couch claims it. (The oldest-in-the-front-seat-of-the-car rule clearly did not apply to the couches in the rec-room. Perhaps if I’d had forced the issue, it might have been another story. But middle children never…) I figured Rob could benefit from the comfort more than me. It was a survival-of-the-fittest scenario and I clearly did not have the goods.

I guess I could’ve gone outside but then, what? Be by myself? I wasn’t one to knock on neighbor kids’ doors to ask if they could come out to play. I only did that in the presence of Ann Marie or Robert. Middle children never really go out of their way for affection. They take what they can get. Even when it’s watching a shit rerun on Channel 11, when—outside—it’s 70 degrees and perfectly breezy. Ideal for making mud pies in the back yard. Perhaps with some neighbor kids with whom siblings helped secure hang-out time.

So I sat there. I tossed and turned. Offered to fetch orange-juice ice-pops. Perhaps I made mocking comments throughout, who knows? I probably did. And I might’ve gotten some laughs. All I know is that I hated it. And I hated me. And I wanted to get chips and dip, something to make the time pass quickly until we could, maybe, I don’t know…

But there were no chips or dips in the house.

And the middle child never comments on such things.