by John Hargrave
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On Friday, I went to my ten year high school reunion. As happens with most of us, my personal history has somehow been rewritten. My friends and family often imply that I was popular in high school. This reunion set the matter straight. There were actually two reunions: an informal one on Friday night at a local bar, and a formal one on Saturday night. The Saturday night gig costed forty-two dollars per person. This was unbelievable to me. For 42 smackers, I could go to the fanciest restaurant in Boston. The 42 dollar invitation was printed on a badly Xeroxed piece of paper, and contained the following graph.
So you see, the class reunion was cheaper than a ticket to the Cleveland Cavaliers or a Jimmy Buffett concert. Which left me with only one question: who the fuck goes to see Jimmy Buffett? Now, before I tell you about the informal reunion, let me show you this high school yearbook photo.
Here I am giving a speech to the Rotary Club. For the life of me, I have no idea what the Rotary Club was, or why I was speaking there. What is clear is that I have a moist, pulpy housefly caught between my teeth. Also, I suspect that someone doctored this photo to give me a crazy eye. Although it's difficult to make out my eyes from beneath the layers of quivering, molten fat. And please note the lone strand of hair that is fighting desperately to escape the humiliation of my mushroom-shaped haircut.
I went with longtime friend Jay Cornelius, and our wives. Upon entering the bar, Jay immediately began greeting scores of old buddies. It was like watching Hugh Hefner at a party. I, on the other hand, recognized three people. A typical exchange during the evening went like this: Me: Hi, I'm John Hargrave. Do you remember me? Former classmate: Hello ... [Looking with fear at my Salvador Dali mustache] More interesting former classmate: [Butting in] Hi, former classmate! FC: [Ignoring me] Hey, more interesting former classmate! MIFC: [Ignoring me] Great to see you! FC: [Ignoring me] You too! What are you up to? Me: Uh. MIFC: [Ignoring me] I'm in public relations! Living in Cincinnatti! FC: [Ignoring me] Great! I'm a financial analyst in Cleveland! Me: Uh. I have a Web site. FC: [Ignoring me] Married? MIFC: [Ignoring me] Yeah, three kids! Me: Uh. I have sex sometimes. FC: [Ignoring me] Hey, did you hear that Bob Jenkins became a doctor! MIFC: [Ignoring me] No kidding! Me: Uh. I once had a mole frozen off by a dermatologist. FC: [Ignoring me] Remember that time we drank the case of beer and ended up in your sister's clothing? MIFC: [Ignoring me] That was terrific! Me: Uh. There are few social situations more powerless than being ignored in a conversation. That's why I often had to fake like I was throwing up. It was the only way I could extricate myself. Like Howard Stern, I have a need to gain fame and reputation, so that I might have a sense of power (an illusion, I realize, but a powerful illusion) over these people from my past. That need was intensified during the few hours I spent in the bar. "When I am famous," I growled to myself through gritted teeth, "these people will pretend like they were my best friends. And I will exact my revenge by not attending any subsequent class reunions! Ha ha ha!" I definitely need to see a psychiatrist.  |
