The Class sweaters – the mementos that made their appearance every reunion since the first were getting less and less.
The wearers were fading – but the moths, the vagaries of nature and well-intentioned but ill-informed offspring were taking over. Mementos were busy being forgotten or sold on E-Bay.
And invariably every other person standing at the bar would say ‘it’s not who’s here, but who’s left”- agonizing over whether or not to just get the club soda or take one last stab at falling down drunk while trying on their own versions of gallows humor.
The ones with younger wives weathered waves of stink-eye at the notion of having to make excuses and book a room to sleep it off.
The ones who decided being single after divorce Number 3 earned the right to try on some 80 year-old rebellion and roll eyes, just this once.
It was a room full of ghosts – all busy squinting at graduation photo name tags, trying to match a face with some major crush from another century.
The gaggle of hosts, servers and mc’s – all volunteers from the Alumni association were properly gorgeous and took the place of nostalgia. But the blank and distant stares were the dead giveaway. You were reminded you were not age-appropriate and most would have doubled as grand-children quite nicely. You were relegated to stuffed Panda status and giggled off to benign territory. Color you Casper.
The guys gave up pretending – the paunch from the 50 year reunion became the imposing health hazard by number 60. The subject of heart attacks and cancer scares became ritual banter, only broken up when the amiable but clueless dj spun a Zombies single. And eyes would gaze skyward, trying to grab on to that reminiscent scent of a freshly lit joint and a snort of Mateus just for old times sake. “She’s Not There” took on a special meaning that night.
Some of the women had resigned – the ones who embraced everything and accepted the sags, wrinkles and memory lapses as part of the process now seemed willing to accept tomorrow someplace else, but not right here – right now. They no longer had anything to prove and were enjoying themselves.
But then there were the ones who wouldn’t take no. Digging feet and nails, investing 401K’s and alimony money on implants, tucks, and Collagen. Faces of waxed fruit, boobs of polished mahogany and faces that refused to show emotion one way or the other. A frozen manufacture of approximated bliss.
Their name tags told different stories. Once were charming and spectacularly popular. Who landed well and got either well-publicized settlements or family inheritance.
That was your 60th – you had doubts if you would show up at #70, but you swore up and down you weren’t going to make #60 – not that you were planning on stepping off any mortal coil but because it stopped making you curious. It gave you an attack of melancholy and it made you feel sad. Maybe by #70 you would be struck by gratitude and relief you dodged the last bell.
When you weren’t busy being bludgeoned by Institutional nostalgia that either never happened or was an approximation handed the organizers by Claude or Chat GPT, you caught glimpses – caught flashes. Somebody dug out patchouli, somebody still wore their Grateful Dead t-shirt, complete with coffee stains and moth holes. Somebody looked at you and it all came back – the girl you loved in 1966, who never lost the look in her eye. She still gave great hugs and you wondered why you ever broke up. You promised each other you’d call as soon as it stopped being crazy.
And one of the grandkids was busy handing out zip drives of Dave Hull on KRLA in January of 1966 to every one who uttered “oh wow!’, and made their night.
That made driving down Sunset, on a street you no longer recognized anything about, a little more bearable.
Here is a taste of Dave Hull just as he sounded on January 1, 1966 from KRLA.
