The monkey made me do it

Big hair, big belt buckles, BIG glass of booze

Being at the wrong place at the wrong time has always resulted in some of my better adventures, but not many have been as purely entertaining and morbidly fascinating as what happened after I was nominated to organize our 10-year high school reunion.

Side note: I was not the class president or a holder of any sort of official office. My only claim to high school fame was a stint as the President of the Drama Club (who's cool? me) and instigator of a bizarre SNL-themed pep assembly that nearly resulted in two friends doing Hans and Frans getting beaten up by the football team. I was also semi-notorious for painting a banner with Calvin (of the "and Hobbes" fame) bare-assed and hyping some sports event. And I wore Hammer pants. good lord.

But my sister is best friends with the wife of the class president, and that perilous hometown connection combined with his lack of will and organization resulted in my assuming of the task (even though prior to this I was doubting even attending the event, much less being its cheerleader).

So I did sassy invitations (best line: "See who got bald! Who got fat! Who has lots of kids!"), booked the only semi-reputable pub and pool hall as well as a park for the next day's picnic, and tried to guilt-trip as many of my high school buddies as possible to come and keep me company. It turned out to be a fairly well-attended event, with people coming from Utah and California and probably farther (I was supposed to be keeping track of such things, writing recent addresses and contact information, responsibly noting who attended. Unfortunately I started drinking rather early in the night and after diligently recording the addresses of my friends and roughly the first five attendees, I forgot about it completely) (unless the scribbles on the following pages were me attempting to write further addresses, in which case I remembered but began to write in tongues).

The hicks turned out in full force, all wearing roughly the same tough-guy clothing that they had worn ten years ago. They looked 40 and were uniformly plump. The women had obviously bought into the T.V. evangelist mode of personal decor and spent the evening in a side room discussing their multiple children. A few of the popular crowd showed up, older and far humbler now that metabolisms had slowed and universal recognition of their popularity had not been achieved. They all were much friendlier and attempted minor conversation (once they remembered who I was) (though I still think some of them were pretending to remember). One ex-bully showed up unexpectedly with his beautiful fiance in tow - the boy who was known for once putting a nerd's head through a bus window was now mellowed by his Mormonism and gave all of us sincere hugs and a broad smile. It was eerie, I tried to be nice but couldn't help giving him the side-eye. I think he talked to me as well, but by this time I was buzzed and concentrating on thoroughly losing yet another pool game (I had named all the balls and had to be restrained from yelling in agony each time another was lost to the greedy, insatiable holes of doom) (I, obviously, never EVER sent them into the holes of doom. I am too kind and charitable.)

Most of the rest of the people had moved beyond their high school identities and were there to party. We mingled with folks we'd never mingled with before, talked about events that were never discussed back then. I learned secrets about classmates that blew my impressions of normal high-school entertainment to smithereens (of course, it may just be that I didn't fully understand what "running train" meant back then), and got drunk in the way that only that particular mix of discomfort and nostalgia can inspire.

Then K came in. K was a Drama Girl in high school (I wasn't much of one, despite my presidential reign). Back in the day she wore purple leggings, quoted... um,... nerd things, and hated me for somehow winning the top ubernerd ranking. New Improved K had chopped her permed hair to a slick, layered bob, lost at least 50 pounds and was aerobic-instructor thin, and was wearing clothes so tight you could see her religion (agnostic). She hugged me like we were separated at birth and almost immediately started scouting whatever available-looking men were around. I decided to help her and point out the divorcees and those who I thought would be there soon. There were only 5 single men - the ex-jocks who still got together every weekend to play basketball and talk about who they had "scored" with. They were busy trying to pick up the locals that frequented our pub of choice, since the only single women were me, my pal Super Bon-Bon (who had signed on as sanity patrol for me, and because she thought starting a lesbian rumor would be hilarious), and a couple of other girls that wanted nothing to do with them. K caught up with our alcohol consumption level quickly, and I lost track of her in the crowd of flannel and overfilled Levis. There are photos, however, that suggest a bob-haired impromptu pole dance and a parking lot tryst (with a not-so-single man). But the same photo collection shows me blurry-eyed and drooling, laughing uproariously at a wall, so I think they may be tampered with by unknown forces. Evil forces.

The next day's picnic was mellow, with many sunglasses and averted eyes. I didn't see K again or many of the men from the previous night. I ended up juggling the babies of long-lost friends and having long talks about people and places I hadn't thought about in years. It was nice, to check in. I'm developing an elaborate plan for the 20th reunion (which will be organized by someone other than me unless they want to all come to Seattle and go somewhere that I choose) (I've narrowed it down to Denny's or The Cuff) and next time will remember to bring a voice recorder, camera, and an alibi.

posted by LadyJay @ 9:09 AM