Appointment in Samarra

I’m writing this in anticipation of my upcoming fortieth high school reunion. I’ll follow up with a post-event report.

I didn’t see this coming, but I got caught up in an uncharacteristic wave of nostalgia that seems to be emerging as I approach middle age. I define middle age as five years older than I am at any given time. It is a surprise to me that I’d consider the reunion worth the trouble of a 500-mile trek. In the aftermath, it’s always asked, how do these things happen?

In this case, the origin was an email from Lynda, one of my high school classmates. They were talking about organizing a reunion. It was already months past our graduation date anniversary; what’s the hurry? They said it wouldn’t be a party without me, so I had to come. If memory serves, they eked out any number of parties in high school without my presence. They must be record bored if they thought they needed me.

Each polite decline elicited a more determined effort. They would schedule the event around my calendar. Okay, I’ll go. I hadn’t been back to Philly in a few years and was suffering cheesesteak withdrawal. I’m not alluding to the ersatz, bland pretenders you find on every other chain menu. I mean the finely crafted collages of flavors and grease that play upon your taste buds like Ramsey Lewis works the ivories.

Decades ago, I had gone to our tenth. It was scheduled the same week I would be in Philadelphia on business, so why not? Also, two months after my wife’s reunion, through which I had suffered three days of designer logo shirts, pressed khakis, and polished Volvos. Not my style. Quid pro quo was in order.

That was not a sentimental journey. There were 1,100 in my graduation class, counting what were termed vocational arts students (the dawn of the age of euphemisms), and I spent most of that reunion running into people and inquiring, “Did we ever know each other?”

I asked Carol what she thought of the scruffy crowd. She pulled her chair closer to mine and shuddered. “These people look like they’re from West Side Story.”

“These people thought “West Side Story” was a comedy.” I smiled to myself. Mission accomplished.

The weeks wore on since my agreement to attend the fortieth. Lynda shot me an occasional email to keep me on the hook. She said they were having a little difficulty finding enough people with an interest in helping with the reunion. Bruno, another classmate, emailed me that the theme should be, “We didn’t give a damn about each other then; why the hell would we now?”

I’ve never been one to sit by idly, so I put together a class web board to generate a little communication and excitement. One by one, they straggled on. But, not one message was posted.

I decided to prime the pump with a trivia quiz on the site about the school, teachers, etc. that would evoke some warm memories. I even offered a prize. The winning response by default (it was the only post) was, “Who gives a rat’s ass?” All right! The tone was set.

Weeks passed and still no invitation. Finally, an email went out with the date. Waiting until the last minute, they could only find a hall open on a Friday night. That would deter out-of-town attendees, but Lynda assured me that many of the people I would want to see lived in the city, and weren’t permitted to leave it anyway. I didn’t ask why.

At last, a glimmer of enthusiasm. The committee decided the members of the championship football team should be presented commemorative jerseys. We were asked for our sizes. That’s more like it. A week later, a few of us received a follow-up email, saying we wouldn’t receive the honor because of when we had been “expunged” from the team.

The week before the “big game,” some of the rank seepage that comprised our rival had defaced our stadium. It was widely known who did it, but trite phrases like “innocent until proven guilty” and “lack of evidence” were bandied about, and justice was forsaken.

This aggression could not stand.

A small band of right-minded patriots rose to the occasion and exacted our due. Justice was served. For some reason, the authorities knew precisely whom to come see about it. They severely overreacted to our little prank. Probably because they substituted pejorative terms for “prank,” like “federal offense.” You say tomato, I say tomahto.

This was outrageous. No jersey? I was being Pete-Rosed! It’s been forty years for crying out loud. What’s the statute of limitations?

I’m not one to look back and dwell on stale laurels, thinking my finest achievements are yet to come. I didn’t care that much about the jersey, but this just sucked. However, I wasn’t going to let it dampen my spirit.

Then Lynda emailed. “You wouldn’t be bringing Darlene by any chance?”

Ouch. Another sore spot. At my tenth reunion, almost everyone I had introduced Carol to seemed to greet her, turn to me and inquire, “What happened with Darlene?” Carol just loved that. I heard about it for many years to come. I think it may have even come up at our divorce hearing. Nice of Lynda to remind me of this.

Carol is a very pretty and charming woman, and they didn’t mean to slight her. But my classmates had always been fascinated and puzzled by Darlene going with me. She was beautiful, talented and led her class academically. They wrote it off to the fact that she attended another school and didn’t know me like they did. I wasn’t quite the polished gentleman you see today.

I told Lynda that I didn’t know anyone I would inflict this on and would be coming stag. I had re-connected with Darlene a few years back, but that’s another story.

Lynda emailed that the only reason guys come to a reunion stag is to try to nail the girls that wouldn’t have anything to do with them back in the old days. I was aghast. I told her that was groundless, unwarranted and unjust. I wondered how she knew.

Another group email went out, assuring us that invitations would soon be in the mail. It’s three weeks away. What’s the rush?

But I noticed something in her message to buoy the spirits. The email address of Nick “No Nose” Del Vecchio.

“Hey, Nose,” I emailed, “what’s shaking?”

“You lousy bastard. Every time I’m in Seaside Heights I think of you. The second I see you, I’m gonna ram my hand up your butt, grab your tonsils and yank you inside out. I hate you with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns.”

“If you meet me at Alvino’s before the reunion, I’ll buy you a grappa.”

“Deal!” He always had a low resistance to free booze. Things were looking up.

He sent a follow-up message. “Hey, whatever happened to that Darlene broad?” Great.

The message icon re-appeared. Sue “Beach Bunny” Lesnak had cadged my address from Lynda’s group email. “You need gas money to get here?”

Ouch. The ugly past came swimming up in my mind. I had doubled with her and John Gutkowski one summer day for a jaunt down to the shore. My car was set up for drag racing and could barely wring eight miles from a gallon of gas. I needed to fill up as soon as we go there, which I hadn’t factored into the game plan.

We spent an idyllic day romping on the beach, but stomachs began to growl. I took Gut aside and asked him how much money he had on him. Not much, as usual. We decided to leave before the subject of food arose.

On the drive home, the girls started politely alluding to being hungry, but Gut and I claimed to still being stuffed from the small bag of peanuts we had all split at the beach. Or, I simply feigned that the roar of the lake pipes had obscured their pleas. We dropped off Sue, then Darlene. I pointed my hot rod Chevy toward McDonald’s and burned rubber.

Gut and I pooled our coins, calculated the maximum amount of bulk we could buy and placed the order. We sat in my car (McDonald’s had no “dining area” in those days) and greedily gorged ourselves. Saved.

Not quite. A long white Caddy pulled into the space beside us. It wasn’t a Cadillac neighborhood and Darlene’s mother had the only white one I knew of. We looked over and there were Darlene and Sue glaring at us. Wordlessly, they flounced up to the window and obtained victuals. I would hear about that for a while. In fact, I was hearing about it now, forty years later.

“One little thing, BB, get over it.”

“One thing? That’s close! What about Parfait’s party?”

“Are you going to spend the reunion bringing up every stupid thing Gut and I ever did in high school?”

“Did you ever do any other kind of thing?” No snappy comeback for that.

“Really look forward to seeing you again, BB.” Right.

Another email, from Bruce Immordino. Ah, an up note.

“Believe it or not, I work at the high school in administration.”

“That’s great, Dino. At least they have Kevlar vests now.”

“I thought about you last spring. We suspended a kid for cutting and he said he must have the record. I told him he wasn’t even close.”

I must digress here. I viewed public schools much like any other public utility. Say, the water works. When I feel a need for water, I turn on the tap. When I don’t feel a need, it’s my prerogative not to turn it on. None of the school officials could ever grasp the flawless logic of the analogy and harassed me endlessly about my attendance record, or lack thereof. Nice of Dino to remind me.

Would there be no end to the picking at the scabs on my psyche?

Dino popped up on the screen again. “Are you bringing Darlene to the reunion?” No, there wouldn’t.

We all have our Appointment in Samarra when the final reconcilement will take place. Mine seems to be coming a little early.