They don’t make hangovers like that anymore. You were looking forward to it since you got the invite.
Your class Reunion – can’t imagine it’s been ten years. You forgot what everybody looked like, except maybe that One – the One you always meant to say something to – the One you had designs on – the One who gave you the right time of day once – the One you’re hoping shows up.
Admit it – you don’t really want to see the guys you went to gym with – the guys you smoked dope with in the auditorium – but you kind of do. You want to see who drives what, who got the Rolex – who has an office with a window.
You were class of 1970 – you weren’t into all that conspicuous consumption hoo-ra – you were at one with the Earth – you didn’t even eat Dairy – you went out in solidarity – didn’t matter with what, you were solidly with it.
But things changed – you wound up working at Office Depot and you became Manager and you had to wear a tie and a badge, “Hi: My Name Is”. – the eleventh grade you would have smacked the 1980 you square in the head. You aren’t wearing a suit to this thing – you like the paycheck and you like the discounts – you like getting shitfaced at lunch and hiding in your office – you wonder if she remembers you.
The fifty bucks you spent to get into this thing covered the open bar. By the time you hit your fifth Johnnie Walker you have fallen in love with everybody and you are in stiff competition with the other class clowns who have ingested almost as much alcohol as you have. Together you have become The Marx Brothers and you are bound and determined to make this a reunion to remember. You made up for lost time with all the girls you never had the guts to talk to – you have a pocket full of phone numbers and promises to call.
And She finally shows up. You catch a boozy glimpse of her and race like a crazed Banshee to the bar where she is busy nursing a Cosmopolitan and looking at name tags. You let out a shriek – she recoils. She remembers – you gasp – you get emotional – she smiles – this will be a night to remember . . .forever. You become paper and glue.
By the end of the evening you are wrestling in the back of a Jeep Cherokee, tossing confessions around like confetti, steaming up windows – smearing lipstick – tearing clothes. Why did you wait 10 years? She drinks just as much as you do. You see a future with this woman – you see kids who look just like you.
And then comes the weepy part. Suddenly she breaks out in hysterics and mumbles a nearly incoherent confession that she’s married and has two kids. You break out in hysterics and howl that your life is over. The ensuing drama would make Sam Shepard blush.
How you managed to get home is anyone’s guess – one thing was for certain; your clothes are shredded and the pocket full of phone numbers became a wet wadded-up ball of ink-smeared paper.
You look in the mirror – two black eyes a broken nose with lips the size of basketballs squint back at you.
Maybe you’ll just go back to bed and sleep it off. Maybe it’s all a mistake.
Maybe she really didn’t have a husband – maybe that guy punching your lights out in the parking lot was a relative. You wonder.
You crawl up to a cup of coffee and flick the radio on – KMET – Allen Kane – calm returns.
You can hardly wait for the 20 year reunion.
