The spirit of '71
(... drunk at grad night again)
In my quest to spend the entire year in the company of the
elderly, I attended my 30th class reunion.
The reunion was split into two sections. Friday night's
portion -- called Grad Night -- was held at the Festivity Room of the
Windsor Golf Course and open to grads only (although some misguided
fools brought their significant others anyway -- no flirting for you,
Mary and Susan).
As I do at any party, I looked around for the lowest common
denominator so I could then raise my behavior a notch and blend in.
Unfortunately, Bobby didn't show up this year, but Joe did, and
alongside his nametag he stuck another label to his shirt that read,
"Homosexual." Translation: "I'm drunk and I'm harmless. No matter what
I do to you."
Shit. That was my idea. I felt I needed to do something to
make the 30th reunion memorable, so telling everyone I was gay seemed
like a nice touch, especially since no one in our class had ever come
out. Besides, it wasn't like I was going to get laid, not even by Cindy
(yes, the ex-cheerleader's still hot). None of the senior girls fucked
me way back when, and they sure weren't going to fuck me now. I don't
know if it's out of heartfelt conviction or mere force of habit.
And even though the homo label on Joe was a joke (I'm pretty
sure) it made me wonder: Where are the gays and lesbians? Out of a
class of more than 400 people, someone has to be queer, especially
since Santa Rosa High is a northern California school. Why hadn't they
come to the reunion and announced it? Maybe gays and lesbians just
aren't reunion people. Or maybe they figure coming out to a bunch of
rah-rahs is just as bad an idea now as it was 30 years ago.
Beats me. Even Oscar turned out to be straight. Go figure.
Speaking of rah-rahs, I should confess that I was senior class
president (I know. I can't believe it either). Apparently, senior class
president is a lifetime term, so some of my old classmates expected
things from me, such as Debbie, who suggested I take the microphone and
welcome the class. Fine. I'll be Mike Eagan for five minutes.
Although I had changed my last name to Jasper when I was 20, I
made the mistake of not becoming famous enough for my old high school
classmates to notice. So my nametag read, "Mike Eagan Jasper." At least
it didn't say Michael.
I grabbed the mic and stood on a chair.
"Hi. It's Mike Eagan Jasper -- is that a stupid name or what?
I just want to welcome everyone to the reunion and remind you that it's
okay to eat the food. You only have to pay for the drinks. By the way,
I want to explain why I ran for class president. You see, I went to the
county fair in the summer of 1971 and collected 20 "Reagan for
Governor" bumper stickers. I discovered if you cut off the "for
Governor" part and then cut off the "R" it spells "eagan." So you see,
I had to run for something. The bumper stickers were way to cool to
waste."
It was just like high school. I spoke and they didn't listen.
Whatever. Better to mix and mingle anyway.
I pride myself on remembering names, even though it's not
always the case. "Great to see you, Randy," I said to George. "Man, has
it really been 30 years since I've seen you, Carl?" I asked Richard.
Then I improvised.
"Man, you look like James Taylor," I said to Robert. He glared
at me. I suppose I had just said, "Dude, you're really fucking bald."
Then I ran into Gerry. He's never forgiven me for missing the
bunt signal on a squeeze play in junior high baseball, so every time I
see him I feel compelled to apologize. If you had seen his face as he
ran from third base, you'd understand. He was sooooooo out.
"Sorry, I missed the signal, Gerry."
"You should be," he said. Damn, brother. Get over it.
Shirley stood next to Gerry. She looked great, a lot like
Katie Couric.
"Do I detect a Texan accent?" she asked.
"Yep, maam," I said, milking it. "I've lived in Austin, Texas
for ten years now. But don't worry. I had nothing to do with George
Bush."
She measured her gaze. "I like George Bush," she said.
Given it was a few weeks after the 9/11 bombings I said,
"Well, I guess we all do now."
Shirley wouldn't let it go. She's so Gerry that way. "Well,
some of us liked him before."
I wanted to say, "Look. I know he's the fuckin' President and
we have to rally around the flag boy for now, but he's still nothing
more than Dan Quayle with a famous father and a coke connection."
Opting for peace and harmony, I just mumbled, "Uh-huh," and made my way
to the bar to buy a four-dollar Corona.
Five Coronas later as the crowd thinned out, I decided it
would be a good idea to lay a wet one on Peggy.
"You're a good kisser," she said. Cool. Then I shall spread my
wonderfulness everywhere. Next was Becky. After that, Cindy. Finally, I
turned to Debbie.
"No way," she said. Ahhhhhhhh. Playing hard to get, are you? I
followed her to her car, but she still refused.
"Is it because I'm overdressed?" I asked.
"Yeah. Something like that," she said.
I made my way back to the Festivity Room only to discover no
one remained. Fuck! I was the last one to leave. Not good.
One of the catering women spied me and said, "All of your
class is gone."
"Never had it in the first place, baby," I said as I headed
out under the Sonoma County moon to the redneck, blue-collar company of
Eddie's Bar ($2.75 Budweisers, every night).
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