40th High School Class Reunion

The prologue to this item is “Appointment in Samarra,” also on this site. You might want to read it first for context.


The plane banked to make our final approach into Philadelphia. This was it. No turning back now. Odd random recollections bobbed up in my mind.

USA Today headline: “Philadelphia Voted City with the Worst Attitude – you gotta problem wit dat?”

David Brenner’s telling Johnny Carson a story on the Tonight Show. He says he runs into a guy in Vegas and can tell he’s from Philly, too. Carson asks how. Brenner shrugs and says you just know. Carson won’t let it slide. Brenner gropes to knead the feeling into words. “Two guys stop at a lunch cart on the sidewalk and order hot dogs. They stand there and eat them. A piano rolls off a balcony fifteen floors above, falls and splatters one of them all over the place. If the other guy keeps eating, you know he’s from Philly.”

News item: A Philadelphia Domino’s Pizza delivery man was questioned by police because it was discovered that he’s moonlighting by delivering corpses to a morgue with the same vehicle. He was released when no statute could be found prohibiting it. Unbelievable. Who would eat Domino’s in Philly when the real deal is available? In another item, entrepreneur Gloria Strunk announces the opening of her ice cream parlor called “Lick This!”

Baseball manager Tommy Lasorda said he was most apprehensive about Phillies fans. “If the game gets rained out, they go down to the airport and boo bad landings.”

News item: A magistrate court was installed in Veterans Stadium to process the high volume of disorderly conduct arrests at Eagles games on the spot. Also, Santa Claus parachutes into the stadium as part of the halftime show of a late season game. He misses his mark and is raucously booed.

Home sweet home.

I pick up the rental car and steel myself for a refresher course in combat driving. Picture the Ben Hur chariot race across eight lanes at 80 mph. Well, 80 or 0, depending upon time of day.

I remind myself of the basic rules. It’s not who has the red light at an intersection, but who can back off the other guy. A siren and flashing lights buy you nothing. If you’re in a funeral procession, you can’t be in more of a hurry than I am. If they didn’t want you driving on medians, sidewalks and shoulders, they shouldn’t have paved them. Traffic laws are more guidelines than requirements. Urban driving is not for the weak-kneed.

I veer onto a hairpin ramp to eyeball the old neighborhood. Endless row houses partitioned by narrow alleys. There’s a boarded up place on a corner that used to be Garabaldi’s Candy Store. I swapped soda bottle deposit pennies for many a Skybar, Pez and Fizzies there. A couple doors down was the old clinic where they did fillings on an assembly line basis, over-drilling in the process. Perhaps the juxtaposition of the two was no coincidence. I run my tongue over a few crowns that later resulted from the subsidized dental work.

I see a couple street kids scraping up a sailcat and can’t help but stop and smile. If you grew up of modest means in the inner city, you know what a sailcat is. If not, and you are somewhat sensitive, skip a paragraph.

When a cat or large sewer rat gets run over in these neighborhoods, animal services does not come around to clean up. The carcass gets flattened repeatedly, the fur worn off and the sun bakes it hard. When it’s sufficiently thin and rigid, you pry it up and play with it like a Frisbee. You take your toys where you can get them.

The older of the boys catches me looking. “Hey, vaffanculo!” Even obscenity sounds classy in a Romance language.

“Testa di cazzo!” I shoot back reflexively. He grins and waves. We understand each other. Nonetheless, I move on. Strangers on the turf have a street life of about ten minutes, and the pristine rental marks me as one. Urban-based cars have a way of quickly getting dinged into indistinguishable heaps. I bump along, musing that I have retained some turf vocabulary. At least the part south of the waist.

I check into the hotel. The clerk says, “Mr. Dorfman? A Mister (he double-checks a note) No-Neck says he can’t meet you at Alvino’s, but will catch you at the reunion.” A Cape Buffalo in a guyabara shirt at the next station turns toward me. “Hammer? Sonavabitch! I’m rottin’ in line inda lobby of some slapdick hotel, an’ in walks none other than da Hammer.”

I haven’t responded to that name in decades. Before I can, my arms go numb and I feel my feet kicking above the floor. “Bull. Uh, Bull. You want to put me down? I’m having trouble breathing here.”

He drops me and slaps me across the back. His arm is the boom of a jibbing schooner. I try to suck in air. “Yo, Roach! Yingyang! Looky who’s here, inda flesh. Hammer!”

Two hulks of indeterminate species lumber across the lobby. I’m still too addled to dodge, and go down under their combined weight, hearing my bones clack together. Bull piles on and we’re grappling around on the carpet, grunting and laughing. People casually skirt us without so much as a sideways glance.

Home sweet home.

Roach hauls me to my feet with one hairy paw. “Yo. You’re sittin’ with us tonight an’ I don’t want no lip on dat.”

I didn’t require all my faculties to remember that there was no percentage in going up against Roach. But, I had made a commitment. “Lynda already claimed dibs.”

“Dat smut muffin? Fuhgeddaboutit! You’re at our table. Adelle sees you’re here and not with us, she goes apeshit.” I didn’t recall being all that integral to their crowd. Or any other, for that matter. My sixth grade report card observes, “Henry is a leader without any followers.” Not exactly my perspective, but close. At an early age, I chose to be an outrider between the clique villages that dotted the hierarchal landscape.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll mostly be circulating around.”

“Circulatin’. Ya hearin’ dis shit, Bull? Da hitter’s away for a phone number an’ he comes back talkin’ like some kinda poet or somethin’. Yo, ya ever wind up with dat Fiori skirt?”

“Darlene? No, we went our separate ways after high school.”

“Dat one could give ya a blue steel hard-on a cat couldn’t scratch.”

“I’ll be sure to pass along your regards.”

“Yo, I’m not jokin’ around. Ya don’t come by da table right away an’ Adelle will be all over ya. Badabing, badaboom!”

“And how is the lovely Adelle?”

“She can still get it wet.”

“You’re a bit of a poet yourself, Roach.”

I went up to my room, watched some local news and showered. Then, I dressed. From the emails that had flown back and forth, I determined that our class could be triaged. Those who had generated sufficient “escape velocity” to get out of the neighborhood seemed to ride the momentum to extraordinary levels of achievement. The much larger proportion didn’t. That was divided between those who toiled hard to carve out a respectable existence and those who embraced crime. A “career” outside the law holds no stigma here, as long as you’re not preying on the meek. Taking down “foreign” drug gangs or avaricious enterprises is well within bounds. I elected to dress as a toiler. I had no desire to one-up anyone.

A quick elevator ride and a few steps put me at the portal of the proper ballroom. Okay, into the belly of the beast.

There was the customary nametag table, staffed by two women with hairdos a little smaller than Nebraska and dusted with glitter. “Dorfman. Henry Dorfman.” It’s not “Bond, James Bond,” but that’s the hand I was dealt.

“Hammer? Omigod! It’s me! Anita Stankowicz.” She trotted around the table as fast as her undersized dress would permit and bearhugged me.

“Great to see you Stin…, uh, Anita.”

“That’s okay. You can call me Stinky. Everyone still does.” Might explain why she still had the same last name, too.

“Okay, great to see you, Stinky.” Her nickname was derivative of her surname. But, that probably hadn’t ameliorated the impact on her formative years.

“I didn’t see that the Sooz signed up. I thought, you know, as big-time as he is now, he might want to kinda slide in. Do you know if he’s coming?”

Sooz had been my partner-in-crime in many spectacular pranks. Also, a band and making movies for amateur competitions. He had gone on to make good in Hollywood. “No, I don’t know. Haven’t talked with him in a while.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Not really. He and I had fed off each other’s feral creativity and would ratchet up to feverish levels, well beyond the bounds of good judgment. I hate to think what it would’ve led to if we had not taken different paths. “By the way, whatever happened with Darlene?”

“She and I split after high school. I saw her a few years ago. She’s fine.” Again, not really.

“That’s a sin. She was somethin’, that one. You blew it big time, buddy.” Okay, this is shaping up nicely.

I looked at my nametag. “Where’s table two?”

“Right up there, near the front. The bar’s in the corner. You might want to stop there first.” Yes, I might.

I grabbed a scotch and wended my way to the table, avoiding eye contact for now. No one was at the table, which was fine with me. I just as soon ease into a hot tub.

Clumps of people who look vaguely familiar are standing around the room. Thinner hair and longer belts, but I can put names to some. For others, it requires a trademark cue. A face pulls into a lopsided smirk. George Hernandez. A bearded man strikes an angular pose. Pete Ortels. Scattered around the ballroom are a few tees and sweatshirts. Had I overdressed?

Ouch! I looked up to see who had slapped my head. “Oh, hi, Adelle. Roach.”

“You think you can just slip in here and not give me a big hug?” I gave her a big hug.

“That’s better. Now what’s this garbage Bobby tells me about you sitting at the snotty committee table? You too good for us? Bobby says you talk fancy now and all that.”

“Moi?”

“Don’t give me that Miss Piggy shit.”

“Hey, Adelle, lighten up. I don’t know anything about a committee table. Lynda just asked me to sit with her and Bruno, and I said I would. I’ll be circu….uh, moving around.”

“Okay, it’s just we haven’t seen you in so long. I don’t like this hearing you might’ve gone uptown on us.” She put her nose an inch from mine. “Once a hitter, always a hitter. You wanna remember that.”

“I’m committing it to memory.”

“Besides, those mamalukes at our table are already boring the mess outta me. We need you to jack it up. If I have to listen to Marie bitch about her friggin’ hysterectomy one more time…”

“Hell is other people.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what Sartre said.” I could’ve bit my tongue.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Jean-Paul Sartre. Old guy. Talks like Miss Piggy.”

“Don’t know ‘im. You just get your pooper over to our table before I shiv Marie with a butter knife.”

“Will do.”

Roach smirked. “Yeah, c’mon over. Denise was askin’ about ya.”

“That puttana? Zip it, Bobby. The biggest reunion you’d ever see would be her knees, and that ain’t happenin’. Hammer doesn’t want any part of her. Right, Hammer?”

“Yeah, I don’t want any part of her.”

“See?” Adelle stalked off, trailing Roach in her wake. I turned my attention to the DJ. He had just cued up “The Makerina.” Yeah, that fits.

Someone kissed me lightly on the cheek. “Hello, Henry.” An elegant woman gracefully alighted on a chair facing mine and smoothed a rich satin fabric over ballet dancer’s legs. It would come as absolutely no surprise if she was the only one to address me by my given name for the entire evening. You could cut as deeply as you cared, but you would find her to be solid gold all the way through.

“Hello, Allison.” I had obsessed over her in tenth grade. She elected to pair up with an upperclassman who came from one of the few “right families” in the district. But, not before toying with me over a few months. Her beau’s father owned an electronics factory on our turf. The boyfriend had impeccable clothing, manners and diction. I had all but three of those. His name was J. Ramsey Hefflefinger (“the third”), but went by “Hef.” He drove a Triumph TR3 roadster and smoked cherry blend tobacco in a calabash pipe. He was a perfect ass.

“So good to see you.” I don’t know many people who could say that and not appear pretentious. Allison could bring it off without breaking a sweat.

“So good to be seen.” The master of snappy repartee.

Allison beamed. Green eyes and dazzling, ice white teeth. Did someone turn up the thermostat? I struggled not to glimpse her pendant. Or whatever. “I sometimes wonder what becomes of someone like you. What became of you, Henry?”

“Got into the champagne a little early, did we, Allison?”

Unflappable doesn’t begin to describe her. If anything, her smile widened. “No, really. When I think back, you were one of the unique people who touched my life. What became of you? I want to know.”

“Well, after graduation I went to college and majored in time forecasting. You know, projecting what time it’ll be like ten, twelve hours from now. But, the economy was soft when I graduated and I couldn’t find a position in the field. So, I took a job as a maple syrup taster in Saskatuan until something else came up. Now I’m touring with Cats, the musical.”

The smile didn’t waver. “You don’t court favor. You haven’t changed.”

“We’re all who we were in high school.”

“Calvin Trillan.” Damn, she was good. “Are you still with that Darlene girl?” That Darlene girl?

“We went our separate ways after high school.” Might be easier just to write it on my nametag.

“Pity. You were a striking couple.”

“So were Beauty and the Beast.”

“We were a cute couple.”

“You and Hef?”

She bopped me on the head. This was starting to be a trend I could live without. “You and me. Admit it. We had grand times together over the time we dated.”

“All three days of it.”

“Months.”

“Must you step on my best lines?”

“Then stop giving me lines and tell me about yourself.”

“You first. Didn’t I hear you married Hef?”

“Yes, but that didn’t last long. It was more for appearances on his part.”

“Appearances?”

“Don’t act thick. You know what I mean.”

“He was gay? Hef was gay?”

“It was obvious. As obvious as you weren’t.”

“You mean because he didn’t try…”

“No, that’s not the difference. He was just a little, you know, pretty.”

“Huh?”

“His hair, his clothes; everything was just so.”

“As opposed to?”

“He was meticulous about everything.”

“Wait a minute, back up the train.”

“So, once he was promoted to art curator, and they didn’t really care…”

“Are you saying I’m not pretty?”

“In your way.”

“In my way?”

“Yes. Are you going to tell me about yourself or not?”

“Not. I don’t feel pretty.”

“Save me a slow dance.” She waggled a ringless finger. “I’ll make you feel pretty.”

Another time, another place, I might’ve proven a pushover for her. “We’ll see.”

She patted my shoulder and glided off.

My table filled, as did the ballroom. Having been missing in action for so long, I was targeted for many of the inquiries and wasn’t that anxious to hold forth. I preferred to hear about the others.

Dinner service spared me somewhat. Chicken in a pale lavender cream sauce. Can see why the ticket was eighty bucks. Canned green beans and runny mashed potatoes. Maybe they were shooting for cafeteria food nostalgia.

A rather plainly attired woman sat next to me. “Hello, Hammer.”

“Oh, hi. Long time no see.”

“Yes, it has been quite some time.”

“Decades.”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s good to see you now.”

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Mary McCullough.”

“Gams McCullough? The girl with the legs for which the team begs.”

“Bingo. But, it’s Sister Teresa, now.” Ooooo, he shanks it into the rough.

“Well, that would explain the ‘bingo.’”

“You haven’t changed.”

Plates were cleared and information seekers were once again in the hunt.
The crosshairs turned back on me, the prodigal son.

Weren’t you the only one to ever get injured playing on the chess team? Hey, it’s a varsity sport.

Whatever happened with Darlene? We went our separate ways after graduation.

Remember when I kicked the snot out of you in fifth grade? Yes, but that was the year of your growth spurt, Jeannie.

You live in Cincinnati? Isn’t that out west, like with buffalos and Indians and all that crap? We call them bison, and the Indians are in Cleveland.

Wasn’t it you who flunked shop because Mr. Pickel couldn’t tell which of the two assigned projects you were turning in? I preferred to work in the abstract.

Whatever happened with you and Darlene? We split after graduation.

Was Sooz voted Mr. Personality, or was that you? No, I was picked Most-Likely-to-Take-a-Life.

What do you do for a living? I’m an interpreter at the International House of Pancakes.

Remember when your band was playing a school dance and you got suspended for making an obscene gesture? I had a sprained finger.

You were the one who got the Philippine exchange student stuck on the frozen flagpole by telling him it was a holiday tradition to lick it, weren’t you? Actually, that was more of a language barrier issue.

What are you doing now? I’m a mole rancher in Clovis, New Mexico.

I thought you were killed in Nam. Outside Da Nang. Feeling better now, though.

I heard you got shot in the… We were retreating.

Whatever happened to Darlene? She’s touring with k. d. lang.

Time for more scotch. And, backing up to a remote wall to figure out why the DJ was spinning disco for a baby-boomer reunion.

Through the mélange of gyrating dancers, a wizened, elderly ferret of a man swam into view. I picked up on the trademark bowtie and elbow patch sport coat, and felt the hairs prickle on my nape. He extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Mr. Brody. I was your class advisor.”

“Ah, Kurtz.”

“Pardon me.” He withdrew his unaccepted hand.

I didn’t answer. I was tracking the path of a carotid artery in his neck.

My nemesis. If John Brody didn’t actually conduct the orchestration of my punishment in differences with the school’s administration, he certainly assumed the mantle of concertmaster. He cut me no slack, whatsoever. In one disciplinary write-up, he referred to me as “a barbarian.” I thought it a bit hyperbolic.

In retrospect, I admit to immaturely being a maverick of the first order, and bringing much upon myself. But, something about me triggered an insecurity in Brady, and he went out of his way to rain down on me.

He peered at my nametag. Recognition registered on his face. “Dorfman.” I was gratified to see him take a step back. I’m sure he’d witnessed many thousands pass through the hallowed halls. But, our clashes were heated enough that I was equally certain he hadn’t forgotten me.

“Live and in person, John.”

“Nice to see you here.”

“Mmm.”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “So, what did you do after high school? What did you go onto?”

“Oh, not much. Raised two excellent children. Earned an MBA with honors. Started a few companies that employ hundreds of people. Raised millions for charities. Invited to throw out the first pitch at several major league baseball games. Have dedicated myself to nonprofit social services for the indigent, now. Advise the White House on public health policy. You know, pretty much what you would’ve expected.” Didn’t mind laying the facts on him.

A few long seconds passed. “I always knew that you were gifted. I often said there were no limits to your potential if you would just see fit to adjust your priorities.”

“I’m doubtin’ it.”

He cleared his throat. “Believe what you will. That’s your prerogative.”

“Mr. Brittingham showed me some of your write-ups.” He had nothing to say to that. “I think we’re done here, John.” He nodded and trudged away.

A Laurel & Hardy duo approached me. “Hammer!” The wiry speaker was wearing a windowpane pattern suit that would be loud compared to an AC/DC performance.

“Rat?” (Affectionate diminutive for “The White Rat”). I looked at the larger of the two. “Dumbo?” We shook hands and hugged enthusiastically. Two quality guys. Not exactly major stars in the social galaxy (not unlike me), and I doubt if many classmates had appreciated them.

Rat was perceived as shy and quiet, almost to the point of mute. But, if you bothered to talk with him, he was quite articulate. Probably didn’t work in his favor that he was emaciated and acne-plagued. What most saw was Brillo hair, Coke bottle glasses and mom-picked clothing. Or, to hark back to the argot of the era, “completely whipped.”

Present day, he wore contacts, a stylish do and dressed quite continental (well, on the sliding scale of our hood). I was delighted to hear he owned a travel agency and loved the work. He had blossomed and then some. “What do you do, Hammer?”

“Little of this, little of that. What about you, Dumbo?”

“That would be Dr. Dumbo.” He theatrically slid his thumbs under the lapels of his designer suit.

“No kidding? Fantastic!” Carlos Ramirez had been known as a class clown. Most people never got past the surface. Dumbo had substance.

Rags to riches. After graduation, he clerked in a drug store. Something kicked in. He earned a degree in night school and became a pharmaceutical rep. Then, he doggedly ground it out in med school, and now was an ER doc. It’s overused, but it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

“Hey, Hammer, you seen Jackie Rice around? I hear she’s divorced and I’m loaded for majorettes now.” Jackie had been one of the shiniest stars in the social galaxy.

“I think I saw her at one of the tables near the stage. Swinging for the fences now, Carlos?” Somehow, “Dumbo” no longer seemed appropriate.

“A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a penis for.”

“She’s lookin’ strong.”

Carlos straightened his tie and ran a wet finger across his eyebrows. “Come to poppa!” He low-fived me and strutted away.

Rat pointed his chin over my shoulder. “Whoa. Bar fritter at twelve o’clock high.”

An Amazonian woman was ordering a cocktail. “Who’s that, Craig Vosburgh in drag?”

“Nah. That’s Mona Blatt.”

“She certainly got uh,…sturdy.”

“Think I got a shot?”

I appraised his diminutive frame. “I wouldn’t work without a net.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“So I’m told.”

“What about Mona?”

“Go for it.”

He did, nearly colliding with a wobbly incoming. “Yo, Hammer!”

“Yo, Rico.” We shook hands. I had to extricate mine.

“Hammer.” It didn’t sound like a question. “Hammer.”

“What?”

“Can I be honest with you? It came out as “honisht.” He was listing heavily to starboard.

“I wish you would.”

“You were one weird dude. I could never get a handle on you.”

“I appreciate the feedback.”

“Can I be really honisht with you?”

“No, and if there’s a God in heaven, you won’t.”

“You didn’t ever give a rat’s ass, didja?”

“Did you want a rat’s ass?”

He was momentarily puzzled. “Hammer. “Hammer.”

“What?”

“Did you ever notish that almosht everyone has a nickname?” It was the way of the turf.

“Your point?”

“I mean a name they weren’t christened with.”

“Thanks for walking me through that one.”

“I never got a nickname.”

“Okay.”

He sank more than half his beverage. “Don’t sheem fair.”

“Look Rico, when your name is Rico Bel Camino, you don’t need a nickname. What you need is a real name.”

He tilted his head back and finished the drink. “Okay, okay. So, what you’re shaying ish that what I need…what I need ish a real name.”

“Lease with an option to buy. You don’t want to get stuck with a lemon.”

“Thash what I mean. I never underschtood a thing you were shaying. I think I’ll go get pretshels and another highball.”

“Couldn’t hurt. And try letting some of the air out of that tongue.”

A couple approached me. American Gothic, except he was towering and had a mountain man beard. Someone’s got the wrong ballroom, I thought. Sorry folks, the Mennonite orgy is down the hall.

He noticed my puzzlement. “It’s us, Michael and Ruthie.”

And so it was. Their story: shortly after graduation, they wed and launched a ministry in central Pennsylvania. A couple decades and numerous children since, they morphed it into a motorcycle ministry, reaching far across the country. In 2003, they transplanted it to Romania. Major stoners, so who would’ve guessed? Not what I would’ve expected, but they had definitely made a mark.

“Ruthie and I were praying you’d be here.”

“Should I ask why?”

“We recalled that your people were from Romania and that you always had a hawg. We wanted to speak with you about giving yourself to Christ and joining our mission.”

Crisscrossing Romania on a scooter, preaching the Gospel. Yep, that’s me. “Nice of you to think that, but I don’t think it’s my cup of tea.”

To digress a moment, this was not the strangest offer I ever received from a classmate. Our former Philippine exchange student once divulged that the wealthy were always at risk at home and his family maintained a cadre of bodyguards. He offered me a position in security, throwing in my own cottage within the family compound, with “plenty peegs and cheekins.” Hard to turn that down, what with the pigs and chickens and all.

“Please, just hear us out.”

“Trust me on this one.”
Fortunately, a song ended and someone tapped a microphone. I turned to see Brody at the podium with Jeff Alehurst, our class president. I knew that only because that’s how he was introduced. I couldn’t name our class officers if my life depended upon it, then or now.

Brody welcomed everyone and went through the standard reunion boilerplate. Alehurst ladled on some yadda yadda, yadda. I cast an eye toward the bar and wondered if it would be out of bounds to get a refill during the program. Living in the Midwest had skewed my compass. I’d have to eviscerate the bartender to raise an eyebrow here.

Alehurst announced that we would conclude the ceremony with a presentation of commemorative jerseys to members of the old championship football team. Brody took a carton from beneath the podium.

I had already been emailed that I would not receive one. Wayne “Wood” Jankowski, Roach and I had been expunged from the team at the end of the season. In response to some cretins from our rival defacing our stadium, we saw their bet and raised it considerably. It might’ve played well in Beirut today, but was deemed over the top then. More or less defined the concept, “seemed like a good idea at the time.” That was ancient history, but someone had decided to “Pete Rose” us.

The former players received their honorariums. This was our class’s most noteworthy legacy? A boyhood game? Seemed inconsequential in the larger scheme of things. And whom did it truly reflect upon? The entire student body or the few dozen zealots who ran up and down the bleachers in the searing heat of August, in preparation to do battle? We won, you watched. Maybe it was the sour grapes talking. Or, the scotch.

Alehurst concluded the program and wished everyone a pleasant remainder of the evening, urging us to continue to do our esteemed alma mater proud. I somehow managed not to puke.

“Just a minute!” Stephanie Toloczko stood up. She had been the captain of the cheerleaders (may not have a clue about class officers, but I did know my cheerleaders). “There’s one more presentation. Would Hammer, Roach and Wood please come to the head table.”

Stephanie produced three jerseys from a bag and pulled them down over our heads, giving each of us a long mouth kiss. I gave silent thanks for preceding Wood. He was never known for his personal hygiene.

The crowd exploded. Brody took an unusual interest in his shoes. This alone was worth the price of the plane ticket.

Spirits buoyed to a new level. We reveled late into the small hours when the hotel finally kicked us out.

Ollie, Jimbo and Weird Ed approached me about going out to find an all-night bar. Nothing can go wrong here. We locate one, but are a little too loud for them. Fine with me. I’m ready to crash. But, the crew wants to go to the Starlite Diner for old time sake. Ollie gets behind the wheel and starts reading the transmission letters like an eye chart. Ed drags him aside and takes over. Good call.

We order the gristliest fare in all Christendom. Except Ollie, who’s almost catatonic. We have him propped up like “Weekend at Bernie’s.” Finally, we’re ready to leave. But, a couple patrolmen walk in and we have to wait them out.

The next day was deemed the homecoming game (we were never sentimental enough to codify the custom) and I spent the morning trying to rebalance my body chemistry. But, Bull, Yingyang and Roach came banging on the door and dragged me out to Zadorozny’s, a local dive. I don’t think I spent this much time with them in all of high school. Boilermakers and hard-boiled eggs, the breakfast of champions

They’re sucking them down like they’re afraid someone might knock over a glass. I’m struggling to keep up, and full mugs are lining up in front of me. They show no effects. I usually don’t drink much. So when I do, I cook on pretty low heat. But Yingyang’s worse than me. We lead him to the car on unsteady legs, like a newborn colt.

Before the coin toss, Bull says we should go down and introduce ourselves to the players. Reeking of booze? Oh, I like this idea.

But, he and Roach each hook an armpit and we’re hobbling down the bleachers. Roach tells me we should find the linebackers and give them some pointers. Right. I knew better. My son played high school and college sports, and his teammates had about as much interest in my opinions as they did in learning how to determine the sex of clams. “Deese jamooks probably saw our trophies and wanna know how we did it.” Yeah, I’ll bet that’s close.

“I’ll just lay chickie by the gate.” When was the last time I stood lookout?

“You’re backin’ my action. C’mon.” We approached the bench and Roach launched into his tutorial. I watched the kids bite their lips. Kids? We had had maybe six guys on our team over 200 lbs. That would be a punter here.

The coach spots us and comes hustling over to disconnect us from his players. He asks what we’re doing on the field, with more civility than was warranted. Bull proclaims we’re from the last great team, and we’re here for a homecoming.

“What passed as a great team until my era, you mean.” All righty then. Bull’s ears turn red. This has bail bond written all over it.

But, the coach turns it around. “Last great team. Let’s see, you guys class of ‘65? ’66? Around that time? Tough bunch of monkeys, especially on D. I tripped over some of your game films when I cleaned out the office and used them for a motivation session. Who are you guys?”

“I’m Matt Elswick. You probably heard of me as Bull. This is…”

“I don’t know names. I only watched film. What were your numbers? Any of you number ten?”

Bull sagged. This guy hadn’t heard of the legendary Bull Elswick? Inconceivable! Maybe worse, he’d asked about the quarterback. Bull hated quarterbacks. Come to think of it, I hated quarterbacks.

“I was 69.” That’s right. Bull had the coveted number.

“Guard?”

Bull sagged even more. I could barely hear his response. “Tackle.”

“40,” piped up Roach with a proud flourish.

“Defensive back, right?”

It was Roach’s turn to wilt. “Linebacker and fullback.” Fame is fleeting.

Well, if their individual play hadn’t make an impression on the coach… I took my shot anyway. “Number 44.”

“You, I know.”

Roach and Bull rolled their eyes. My chest puffed out. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You scratched yourself a lot between plays. Jock itch?” Bull and Roach fell against each other, nearly collapsing in laughter.

“I sweated a lot. I was known for being pumped up from whistle to whistle.”

“Yeah, I saw you pumping it.” I suppose my ears turned red.

The coach said he appreciated our visit, but we’d have to vacate the field. Bull and Roach wished him well in the game. I said I hoped he strangled on his lanyard. Always the good sport. We returned to the stands and harshly critiqued every move our younger counterparts made. Hey, who was better than us? Miraculously, they still managed to win.

Sue, Carol, and the Fuller Twins dragged me away from the guys in the stands before they got me in anymore trouble. I had been almost the only guy who would dance the previous evening and they were anxious to preserve the resource. Didn’t stop them from smacking the crap out of me when I expressed a few candid observations and recollections of them.

After a victory (or anything else), this group likes to party. It was off to a small airport in Jersey thats lounge had a band that belted out oldies.

The place was crowded with groups of various stripe, attesting to its desirability. Everyone there seemed to dance in the mode of their respective eras, regardless of the song selection.

An elderly gent entered the room and carefully scoped it out. He was like 64, 66 or 79. He zeroed in on our women and started separating the stragglers from the herd for dances.

This may have been lost on some of my male classmates, but I quickly discerned what was going on. The geezer had evaluated all the tribes in the room and decided that we were his best shot at taking over as alpha male. The nerve! In high school, we often got edged out by upperclassmen. Four decades later, it’s still happening. This aggression could not stand.

I elbowed Ollie, who raised his snout from his onion soup and B&B. I almost fell over the stool. His breath could’ve knocked a buzzard off a shit wagon. My vision defogged and I asked him if he noticed the affront. He suggested I might want to go up a collar size on my shirt. No help here. So, I waded into the fray to win back the distaff side with some serious footwork. Fortunately, Jeff was there to fly wingman and we gradually drove off the pesky interloper. Rick, Denny, Jerry and Jim also helped, but they had to tagteam to maintain the pace.

We were off the runway and rapidly gaining altitude when the band paused to note a birthday in the crowd. What? A measly birthday brings festivities to a screeching holt and the gathering of eagles in their midst goes unheralded? Incredible! I was incensed.

Janet looked at me apprehensively and said, “I know what you’re going to do. I know what you’re going to do.” I might add, that was a great deal more than I knew.

I approached the lead singer and informed her of the momentous oversight. She failed to grasp the enormity of the situation. A brief struggle for possession of the microphone ensued. Obviously, she has control issues. The little vixen took me two out of three falls (with the help of some highly questionable holds), but we still managed to orchestrate a rousing improvisation of “Happy Fortieth Reunion to You.”

That attended to, we returned to the business of dancing and depleting the liquor supply.
The hours burned off and revelers drifted away into the night. And then there were two. Ed and me.

He and I waxed philosophically. Bock beer will do that. The more we drank, the smarter we got. By 1:00 am, we were geniuses. We had both noted that, while many attendees had not known each other very well in high school (class of 1,100 students), old barriers were down and a lot of potent bonding had occurred over the weekend. It was heartwarming. I also contemplated that, if our class’s metaphysical horsepower had boiled down to Ed and me, it didn’t bode well. But, I didn’t say anything.

A brunch was scheduled for the next day, but I had booked an early flight in anticipation of having had my fill. I know my limits. Me and Sartre.

Epilogue. All in all, the reunion turned out to be an unqualified blast. The one negative was that it was sad to encounter a number of people who dwelled in the distant past. Some in high school, some had progressed as far as the service. Yes, I do realize that this was an event hinged on reminiscence. But, you can tell from a repeated mantra of old news that someone pegged their speedometer decades ago. I like to think we keep ascending and that our high notes are yet to come.

The good parts. It was great to see that some of the “squids” turned out extremely well. Calvin Trillan be damned. A petty person would’ve drawn some pleasure from the decline of the arrogant queen bees and BMOCs of the exclusive inner circle of yore. Good thing I’m petty.

The big surprise was that my classmates had, in fact, known me and gleaned fairly good insights. My retrospective had been that I orbited well outside the pall. Might’ve been a little more restrained if I had known I was on the radar screen.

Nah.