In response to an Infrequently Asked Question: yes, I did recently go to my 10-year high school reunion.
In short, it was lame.
In long:
My parents are thirty years my senior. Each of them received invitations to their 40-year reunions over the summer. At the time, I asked both of them if they were going; both said no.
“But…? Why not?” I asked.
“Nah, geepers. The same people always go to those things; my last one had about 25 people,” said my dad.
“I didn’t want to talk to any of those friggin’ cows 40 years ago, why the hell would I want to talk to them now?” said my mom.
Both of my parents are geniuses.
The reunion I went to five years ago was vastly preferable to last week’s sideshow footnote. This time, I spent two hours on the road, dragging my girlfriend all the way from the Cape Girardeau area and her family’s Thanksgiving celebration, to f***ing stand in a room I could not f***ing locate at a high school I barely f***ing recognize full of people I never, ever talked to in my f***ing life.
Was Matt Buckley there? He was not.
Was Greg Cassimatis there? Why, no!
Was Mike Lawyer there? Whatever!
Jim Buckeridge, John Missal, Todd Pickles, Josh Gibbs? No, no, no, of course not.
Anyone in my entire Russian class, from any of the four years? Anyone from Mr. Conway’s class? Anyone from any gym class? Silly rabbit!
Anyone I ever knew by name or spoke to, who I didn’t already see all the time? Any teacher who ever taught me? Any janitor with a familar face? Beautiful dreamer!
Those bastards I could never have been bothered with in the first place, the guys who used to sign their names with their football/basketball jersey numbers? Yeah, it was pretty much those worthless fuckers. That asshole loudmouth stoner from math class who I once tried to kill with my mind, who never got expelled because his dad taught there, who somehow is a police officer now and showed up in uniform with a gun despite my fervent wish five years ago that he was wearing that outfit because he was a male stripper? Oh yeah, him too. Yo yo yo, in full effect. I knew their faces, wanted to punch said faces, and that was that. They looked like they sell cars now, but their fatness and baldness would only have gratified me if I could have remembered their names. Yeah. Them, and that guy who stole all the stuff from the Student Council office senior year. He looked happy to be there. He was enjoying the hors d’oeuvres.
Oh, and d’ya know what never occurred to me? I had no job when I got there! My last job had just ended, and I had had an interview, but no hire… and see, maybe this is why I am unemployable: my planning and forecasting skills are such that the possible hilarity that would ensue from this setup did not even occur to me until I got there and someone asked, “So, what do you do these days?” Only then, only then, did it even occur to me that I would be asked this question ALL NIGHT, and that my answer would each time be, “Why, nothing!”
Yeah. It was awesome.
In a crowning achievement of coordination and sentiment, the reunion was held in a part of the school that did not exist when we went there. I came inside and went to every possible room where I thought the shindig would be- I spent fifteen minutes walking around- and I ended up doing laps around the abandoned ruins like the Omega Man. “Hello?” I cried to my echo. “Hellooooo???” It disturbed me on a level that even the PSATs did not. I started calling classmates to ask if I’d been Punk’d.
And here’s the thing: my high school has a fucking pool room. Do you understand me?! There is a goddamn room in my high school that has 45 motherfucking pool tables in it. And pinball and arcade games and shuffleboard and, like, cotton candy machines and meth labs and Hot Wheels racetracks and a ferris wheel. Yes, there is an iota of hyperbole here, but we had a goddamn game room. This, I am not making up. So why the FUCK was my reunion, or ANY REUNION, HELD IN THE COAT ROOM OF THE FUCKING THEATER THAT DIDN’T EXIST UNTIL LAST YEAR? Was the parking lot booked this weekend? Was it still too warm in November to have it on the track?
Dipshits.
On the big plus side, my college roomie Brian was there, so I had someone to chat with. I also reconnected with Bill, a refugee of my old homerooms… who I’d seen at Joe Hodes’ wedding a week earlier. I also said a brief “hi” to Joe Jordan, a guy who is my best friend in an alternate universe not too shy of our own.
In addition, I was touched and amused by the tribute to Dave, The Classmate Who Lives No More. Dave was a student in the “alternative” clique of kids, back in My Day, when “alternative” Meant Something, before your “trenchcoat mafias.” They had blown up and mounted a great, in-character photo of him with long hair and shaved sides and shorts and high-tops, jumping off of a rock somewhere west of here. And they had all of the attendees sign this picture so it could be presented to Dave’s parents. This means that, given the attendees and their prejudices at the time, Dave’s parents are perhaps even now being given the gift of a picture of their dead son autographed by all the people who would have beaten the s*** out of him when they knew him.