Archive
04/21/09
Fiftieth High-School Reunion
Their last-ditch, bottom-of-the-ninth plan was, quite simply put, To gang up on him and pile on, As if he were threatening the world with WMD's or anthrax
Instead of just brandishing a recalcitrant, if benign, desire Not to participate in his fiftieth high-school reunion, Which was less than two weeks away from its three-day D-Day.
Hadn't he made his intentions more than painfully clear, Over the past year and a half, Most obviously by not responding to the e- and snail-mail barrages
That violated his privacy, at least monthly, And, eventually, daily, in the form of phone solicitations Exhorting him to attend the dinners, luncheons, cocktail parties,
Informal lecture series highlighting his class's luminaries — Those who'd succeeded in academia, business, politics, religion (One was even the owner of two National League baseball teams)?
But the pilers-on didn't succeed at making him feel important, needed, Convincing him the class required his presence, to validate its existence, Fill in one of the few available missing links to their past.
(Nine of those who'd gotten diplomas when he did had good excuses: Two were languishing in cancer hospices; one was a lifer, in Joliet; One was on life-support, in an eleven-year coma;
Five had gone "In Memoriam," over the half-century since graduation.) He wouldn't have even had to make travel arrangements, As he'd never moved way, never left his parents' house.
He knew what the committee was: eagles, buzzards, vampires. Whether he was dead or alive, they craved his flesh, carrion, blood, In the form of a fat donation to the class gift fund.
They didn't give a flaming shit about what he might contribute, In the way of meaningful dialogue, small talk, BS. Truth was, he'd done nothing of note, in his productive years,
Had no exciting experiences, discoveries, affairs, epiphanies to share, No financial boondoggles or eurekas to brag about. Mostly, he had no interest in reliving his youth; he'd hated high school.
With less than seven days until the "Glad You're Here Ice Breaker," His e-mail was red-hot with missives begging his attendance; Answering-machine messages were planes backed up on a taxiway.
With three days to go, he booked that weekend in a cabin on a lake In northern Wisconsin, in a town of less than a thousand, Where he could catch up on his reading, ride out the reunion.
But when he arrived, he found three notes tacked to the door: "Sorry you're not here — having a great time!"; "You're gonna kick yourself in the butt!"; "Can still make Sunday."
He gave himself an extra four days, for good measure, then returned. But the calls, e-mails, and letters kept coming, for months, years, No longer as insistent invitations...but as death threats.
04/21/09
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