Fifteen Years Cold

Everyone wears name tags at a high school reunion. Big white stickers plastered onto new dresses and fancy shirts.

I wrote “Patrick Bateman” on mine. He was the lead character in “American Psycho,” a brilliant commentary on selfishness and mistaken identity. The perfect moniker for such an event. Pasted right below my left nipple.

Besides, I hadn’t changed that much in fifteen years. Lost an inch on the hairline and added a few to the waistline. But other than that, I was still the oily-skinned guy in army pants with a drink in his hand.

And I figured if you didn’t know me then, there’s no reason to get acquainted now.

My wife Tevis would let me know who was who, and what was what, filling in all the holes left by too many years of booze and smoke and blotter. We’d graduated together and she had been my supplementary “memory” ever since.

Walking in, we went straight to the bar. Shot of whiskey with a whiskey-coke chaser. A chardonnay for her. $18.

We mingled. Passing by familiar faces, just as we’d done in the halls. I smiled. Nodded. Stood behind Tevis for a few drinks. It was our usual formation at parties. She’d chat while I smiled and laughed on cue. Then we’d part ways and mingle until the end of the night when we’d return home for some drunken debauchery. And this party was like the rest. Except here, we hadn’t seen many of these people in many years.

I found myself standing alone quite a bit. Just like in school. Watching and wondering…

Did I date her?

Was he always such a douche-bag?

When did her tits get so big?
Didn’t I do one’ hitters with him?

What do her nipples taste like?

Questions that I didn’t really need answered. Curiosity mostly. I mean, that’s what reunions are all about. Satisfaction of our curiosities. Who got fat? Who got divorced? Who looks old?

That curiousity can be borne of goodwill or genuine concern, but also self-satisfaction. A bit of revenge. Best served fifteen-years cold.

I guess it depends on who we are. Or who they are. Our own internal feelings.

For me, I caught up with a few old friends and I was glad to find out they were doing well. Not if they had nice families and careers, but that they were happy. Truly happy. And so many were, thankfully.

I learned of old lovers. Shared laughs. Received apologies from drunken enemies. Past pains that I had long forgotten, and cared nothing for now.

As the night went on, cliques regrouped. Gossip spread quickly. Pictures were shared. Some of children. Some of new homes, fast boats and fancy red cars.

Music changes. Fashions change. Our bodies change, but even without a name-tag, some people will always be recognizable.

I’m glad I went, but probably won’t return for another decade.

-end-

Aquaman has crabs.

If someone is passionately against illegal immigration, then that person should boycott factory farm meat.

There are few things as bitter-sweet as your child’s first day of school.

When children hear noises at night, they automatically think it has some ghostly origin. What they think is a witch in the attic, is likely just a gust of wind and an open door…Some people never outgrow these assumptions of evil. They’d rather resort to fear and supernatural explanations, rather than logic.

High school reunions would be more fun if they were set up like speed-dating. Two minutes is pretty much all you need with most people.

Over seventy years later and Judy Garland can still captivate a two-year old with “Over the Rainbow.” I don’t know which is more beautiful, the song or the spellbound child.

Even atheists like making snow angels.