You’ve been avoiding these things ever since the 10 year reunion. Ten years wasn’t enough time to miss anybody, especially people you didn’t like – running at 90%.
But it’s Number 50 now and you’re curious.
Two years of COVID lockdown and you’ve turned into God’s own flotation device – you knew the day was coming and you were determined to lose the 40 pounds needed to cram yourself into the 28×30 jeans you’ve had in the closet since 1973.
Like everything else, it didn’t happen so you opted for basic black – now you look like an exclamation mark on a hospital bedsheet.
You were so pretty once – girls would stare at you – you had a stalker. Didn’t want to settle down – Didn’t want to miss out.
Now they stare through you – with a thinning wad of cotton and a broken eggshell face – the only women who want your number are the ones who want you to sign something.
But you’re reminded your classmates are dropping like flies – maybe one last fling . . .
Assaulted with ads – screwed on teeth and a hard-on to last centuries – promised six-pack abs just ten minutes a day and dates with your age-appropriate soul mate whose nipples are enormous and point to the sky.
It’s morbid curiosity that keeps you from turning around and diving into a bottle of Maker’s Mark – but you quit drinking on your fortieth birthday and everywhere you bump into sighs of relief that “you’re not him” anymore.
All the encounters – all the promises – all the nights plotting and scheming – all the letters – all the phone calls.
So you show up and you promise not to judge. And you run into Xerox copies of you – and strangely you feel at home.
Nobody recognizes anybody – piercing squints and struggles with names. A few appear preserved as if showered with embalming fluid – a few have visited the scalpel one too many times – the ballroom is dotted with wax fruit.
The collective air of apprehension drains as the sound of KROQ wafts over the PA system. Somebody brought a tape – somebody had it in a closet for fifty years – still too cool to dance, but the Advil would come in handy anyway.
Faces become familiar – conversations become animated – hugging starts – time, for the moment, evaporates. You decide to look for the love of your life from eleventh grade.
You recognize her – you’re met with vacant. You blurt out a litanie of nostalgia – you’re met with vacant – you try to hug her – you’re met with horror.
Even after you explain – go through, recounting moment-by-moment/step-by-step what a sensational kisser she was and how you swore up and down you would know each other for eternity she is stuck, idling between blank and vacant.
Finally defeated, you wander over to the buffet and pretend to study choices.
Well, yeah your feelings are hurt – not everybody recognizes everybody. You didn’t have the best breakup in the world. Tact was never your strong suit.
You conjure the notion of being pissed until you notice she’s heading to the exit with a limp and the help of a steady arm.
It dawns on you – you heard about the accident – you heard about life support – you heard about the brain damage – it’s you who forgot.
In exchange for the hundred bucks and the Ralph’s buffet you’re handed a going-away present; a CD copy of the KROQ tape.
And you listen to it – and listen to it – and realize you can’t go back, but you can visit from time to time.
Being a tourist has its perks.
Here is ninety minutes worth of KROQ with Jimmy Rabbitt, Shadoe Stevens, Flo & Eddie and a whole lot of music from February 10, 1974.
And you can always become a member and subscribe by clicking on that tiny icon: Become a Patron!
