This summer is my 25th high school reunion and I believe that the people you go to high school with have a lot to do with who you are as you grow up. It will be an interesting reunion to be sure, because I think the Shadow will be interested to meet those to blame.
Some people have never attended a reunion because they think it will be a ‘glory days’-fest or a launching point for their mid-life crisis or perhaps just because they don’t want to hear Flock of Seagulls again. I’ve never attended one because I’ve never been able to. 5th year – stationed in England; 10th year – stationed in the Azores; 15th year – England again; 20th – literally days away from the Shadow giving birth to our daughter. Technically, I could have gone to that one but it really wouldn’t have been a prudent thing to do.
So, as the countdown to summer and this little shindig begins, I’m wondering what happens at these things because a lot of high school is kind of a blur. I remember a guy in my first period study hall drinking a huge blue vodka-Slurpy every morning at 8 a.m. (I think he works in law enforcement now); I remember, on really nice days, getting up in the morning and turning on the shower until I heard my mom leave for work and then going back to bed or calling some friends and going to Canada for R&R; I remember being a freshman and hating it and being a senior and loving it; I remember doing homework five minutes before class started; I remember graduating and people saying they’d keep in touch forever; and I remember never hearing from many of them again.
Largely though, I remember the parties. For my town we had a spot called, quite simply, “the pond.” I’m sure most small towns have such a place. The pond had a real name, but no one ever used it. Party at the pond was enough to ensure someone would bring firewood and something to drink. Through our graduation, the drinking age was 18, so it wasn’t difficult to procure adult beverages. I think the vodka slurpy guy attests to that.
But the party I remember most was probably the only one I ever hosted. My parents thoughtfully took a cruise and left me pretty much to myself for a couple weeks. Now, I’m the youngest of 7 kids and by the time your 7th kid makes it to high school, as a parent you’re pretty much shot. The feeling at this point is, ‘if he’s made it this far, he’ll be fine.’
So, I invited about 15 of my friends and no fewer than 40 showed up – I’m sure I didn’t know some of them. But I wasn’t bothered because I was under the care of a doctor at that point – Dr. McGillicuddy to be specific. Dr. M. was a magician because he made menthol-mint schnapps that got you drunk while at the same time making you feel like you’d just brushed your teeth.
One of the side effects of the good doctor’s concoction, however, is that it gave one superpowers. Or, specifically, it made me actually squeeze a highball glass to the point of it breaking in my hand. Several seconds of extreme clarity manifested themselves at that point: first, I remember saying, “huh…” and watching as my friend Eric said, “fuck…” and then pretty much lose his mind. The glass did no significant damage but it did puncture one finger and the blood was pretty thin at that point.
Now, Eric used to be an Air Force cop and a few posts ago I told you that AF cops are good folks to have around in a bind. Eric went above and beyond. He tried to stop the bleeding with direct pressure; he raised my hand above the level of my heart to try to stem the flow of blood; he rinsed it out in the sink; he held my bleeding finger as I went to the bathroom – if I live to be a hundred I will never be able to say that about another human being. Ever.
Eric is also not a medic. While holding my hand under the tap he says to me, “turn your head, this may sting.” So I did. After about 20 seconds I said, “So, are you going to do anything?”
He said, “turn around.”
I looked as he was pouring rubbing alcohol over my still bleeding finger. “You don’t even feel that do you?”
“Um…nope.”
“Good grief, you’re fucked up.” (Eric swore quite liberally even then)
So at this point it’s determined that maybe the hospital would be a good venue, because, let’s face it, this bleeding is not going to stop. The blood is bright and red and smells a little like mouthwash. So enter another friend, D.
D was everyone’s designated driver and was possibly the best sport about this ever. The money she could have made on blackmail alone would have put her through college. Fortunately, and I can’t over-emphasize this, this was pre-cell phone, pre-digital picture and, most thankfully, pre-facebook. If what we did then happened today, none of us would have jobs.
So, at the hospital I’m fortunate again in that I know one of the local cops who is there with some guy who’d been in a bar fight. As me and this crazy old man (who was probably about as old as I am now) talked our gutter drawl, the cop signed me in to the emergency room and gave me that laugh that simply said, “you’re such a dumb-ass.”
An hour or so later, I’m back home and… and this is the great part … my friends have chucked everyone out, cleaned the house and even went so far as to sort the bottles into returnables and recyclables. What a great group of caring, thoughtful and relatively tidy friends.
Looking back at 25 years, I like to think that perhaps I owe my friends a big thank you for not screwing me up too badly. The Shadow just wonders why more of what made them so excellent didn’t rub off on me.
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