Perhaps I have watched too many
TV shows and movies about the much-anticipated high school reunion. They usually come in increments of ten
years and essentially function as a way of absolving any regrets or residual
anger. Most of us say we have no
interest in attending, but we all know that is a lie. We claim we have let go, but the poison is in the wound as
the protagonist from “Lolita” once stated in that literary masterpiece. We want and deserve a second chance for
redemption. A second high school
prom, if you will. I move forward
into the holiday chaos and look back on that date just one day after
Thanksgiving on Friday, November 26th, 2010.
I asked a high school
acquaintance whether she was planning on attending and she responded without
missing a beat, “What for? To show
everyone what I have not accomplished over the ten years.” I looked into her eyes and saw the
beaten down gaze of someone who had been tossed around by the post-high school
Gods. Like a single soul
relentlessly thrashed about by waves commandeered by a vengeful Poseidon. I spent most of my post-high school
years taking a perpetual holiday in Loserville, but things eventually fell into
place in time for my return to the metaphorical halls of Arlington High
School. There is solace in knowing
that some of my 600-plus classmates who sometimes referred to me as a loser
lack a published book to brag about.
High school reunions are about vindication and closure.
I just mentioned that high
school reunions function as a second prom resurrected like a phoenix sprung
from its ten-year dormancy.
But…reality has a different agenda and I’ve been watching too many TV
and movies about the glamorous reunions when those bitter pieces fall back into
place. And even by reality’s
standards, my reunion was totally lame.
The invitation informed me the
event started at 8:00 p.m. and being a typical individual on the autism
spectrum, I showed up a few minutes before eight without any concept of being
fashionably late. The room at the
Poughkeepsie Grand Hotel was too small and I was the first one to show up. Slowly people began to trickle in and
compliment the balloons and stars smothered with pounds of glitter. One by one. And then the traffic stopped. Barely thirty people chose to attend my high school reunion
and not all of these guests were even from my high school. My foreign date was Shannon Lashlee who
became my devoted friend after she hired me to work at her funeral home while
conducting the interview and preparing one of the “clients” at the same time.
I told people that I could have
just saved about $140.00 by skipping the whole affair and just made an
appearance at one of the local bars where there were more high school
acquaintances than at the actual reunion a few blocks away. But that is not the point. I enjoyed the people I was with and it
could have gone the other extreme.
We regret the things we do not do and are haunted ten times more. Even in these desperate economic times,
money is still a replenishable entity as opposed to skipping.
I could have been practical and
assumed the reunion would be lame like the 550 classmates who wisely chose to
skip the expensive night. Then…I
would grovel for what I wanted to hear and be told how magical the night turned
out by a well-meaning classmate.
“You should have attended, Jesse!
At least eighty percent of our class showed up and some people asked
about you. They heard about your
book and are very proud of your accomplishments. I am so glad I chose to go myself because the bitterness I
had nursed for ten years melted away.
Don’t worry, though. There
will be another reunion in about ten years and you will have another
chance…” The few people who did
show up had fiercely augmented the magic of that night and this was enough.
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