31 photos that show what life looked like in 1981

Mom's lining up her shot while Dad watches from across the table. Friday night at the local bar, 1981. The cowboy hat, the wood paneling, the TV mounted in the corner. Everyone's got a beer and nowhere else to be.

Every phone is taken, every conversation is private and completely public at the same time. LaGuardia Airport, 1981.

Blueprints spread across the drafting table, a 1981 calendar on the wall, and she's looking straight at the camera with the expression of someone who has absolutely no intention of getting back to work.

End of the day at the Gulf station in Mineral Wells, Texas, the light going golden, a broom in her hand and the flatlands stretching out behind her.

"I loved that man so much. He was a crooked South Georgia mobile home salesman and former con man, and by all accounts a complete scoundrel. But to me, he was just "Papa."

Three women in life vests on the deck of the SS Norway, one of them holding the life ring like a trophy. The safety drill was clearly the highlight of the trip.

Northern Brookhaven Little League, 7-year-old tee ball, Red team, 1981. She's the tallest one out there, and the only girl, and she's not making anything of it.

Someone pulled out a camera and half the class immediately started performing. The kid in the "I'm an Italian Playboy" shirt was ready before anyone else.

Service manual open, every component exposed, a bench covered in tools and parts. In 1981, when something broke, you fixed it.

Two crew members are behind the counter at lunch rush, hot pies warming in the case behind them. McDonald's, Charlotte, 1981.

Goofy, then Pinocchio. He's collecting them one by one and absolutely not playing it cool.

A Fisher boombox the size of a small suitcase, carried on one shoulder through Central Park like it weighed nothing. New York City, 1981.

Breakfast, lunch, beer, and food to go. Walt's Diner, San Francisco, 1981. There's a Reagan campaign sign leaning against the bench out front, and nobody inside looks up from their plate.

Arms on the door, initials on the T-top, silver Z28, and nothing to prove. 1981.

Three women leaning against the car, high-waisted jeans, gold hoops, ready for Whittier Boulevard. East Los Angeles, 1981.

Five kids crammed onto a diving board at once, a stolen stop sign on the fence, nobody thinking about consequences. Backyard pool party, 1981.

The Eastern Airlines counter at San Antonio International, 1981. Eastern, Ozark, Texas International. Every airline on that sign is gone now.

Two kids at the Atari display, games fanned out in the case below, three TVs stacked above. The demo unit was free. Convincing your parents to buy one was the hard part.

Arms crossed, mustache immaculate, leaning against a black El Camino on a cold suburban street. The car is half truck, half muscle, and fully his.

Kurt Cobain, 14 years old, on the snare drum at Montesano High School.

Red bucket hat, red Nike tracksuit, boombox on the sidewalk, a full crowd gathered in front of the luggage store. New York City, 1981, and the street was the stage.

Sheepskin jacket, Alaska cap, crab nets behind him, one tooth short of a full set. He's grinning anyway.

Traffic backed up on 7th Avenue, a McDonald's sign towering over the whole thing. Manhattan, 1981.

Dozens of Atari 2600s lined up in a hotel ballroom, competitors hunched over controllers while a crowd watched from behind the rope. Competitive gaming looked like this before anyone had a word for it.

Maps and rulebooks spread across the table, one kid peeking over the Dungeon Master's screen like he's already plotting something. The campaign is serious. The crackers are not optional.

Two men, two bottles, and a hot dog sign on the wall advertising 60 cents. Jack's Tavern, Lowell, 1981. The guy in the cap has somewhere to be and is in no particular hurry to get there.

Her mom made every single one of them, including the life-sized doll in the armchair that has her face. Christmas morning, 1981, and she is completely surrounded.

Two kids working the Asteroids cabinet together, Pac-Man visible in the background, completely locked in. A quarter could buy you an afternoon in 1981.

She's laughing at something one of the regulars said, order pad in hand, coffee on the counter. The Turf Restaurant, Seattle, 1981.

Four people in an open-top Jeep on A1A, bottles out, palm trees bending in the wind, the beach a block away. Fort Lauderdale spring break, 1981. Nobody is wearing a seatbelt, and nobody is thinking about it.

Three guys in coveralls outside the Dunmurry plant, gull-wing doors open, getting a DMC-12 ready to ship to California. The car would be a sales disappointment and a cultural icon. In 1981, nobody knew which part was coming yet.