Michael ...
He knew reunions were supposed to be happy times. A chance to meet former classmates, friends from a bygone era (that era being the late-1970's). To catch-up on all the 'old times' (which he couldn't remember anything particularly good about them), reunite with old friends (he had none that he could clearly recall) and reminisce about the old school (the only high school in his hometown at the time). These thoughts ran repeatedly through Michael's mind as he rode the elevator from his floor to the lobby of the Sheraton Executive Suites that was near the center of the city that had grown from the town he had escaped upon graduating from Cloverville High School, in 1978.
Personally, if he had never set foot in Cloverville, Indiana again, he felt it would have been no great loss; however, this was something he had promised his wife he would do.
As the elevator descended, his mind drifted back ten-years. It had been one of those beautiful autumn days in Idaho. He sat at her bedside, the place where he spent most of his time. The hospice nurse would visit, as well as their friends and co-workers. Rebecca, 'Becca as he affectionately called her, was dying and they spent most of her waking moments looking at the scenery from their bedroom window. She was quite adamant, she wanted to pass away here, looking at the scenery she loved.
Out of the blue that day, 'Becca had asked, "Michael, you've never told me what you were like in high school. What were you like?"
He moved from the chair he had been sitting in at her bedside and moved to her bed. He ensured she was covered. And told her everything. He was just that kind of guy, honest and forthright.
As he talked, 'Becca followed his every word. After he finished, she placed her hand on his thigh and gave it a weak squeeze. He looked at her and she was beaming that beautiful smile he knew so well. Although she was a shadow of her former self, those alluring blue-grey eyes and wonderful smile had never changed.
Looking at her she said, "Michael, promise me you'll go to your reunion for both of us."
With a cheerful 'DING' the doors slid smoothly open and he was startled back to the present. Wiping at his eyes, he stepped into the lobby, he followed the sounds of loud music. As he entered the noise and commotion of the ballroom, a smile crossed his lips. 'Becca would have been right home here, she had loved parties. The cavernous ballroom thumped with the sounds of Boston, Journey, Foreigner and several rock groups from the late 1970's and early 80's. It was decorated in the colors of green and gold. Four-leaf clovers were plastered everywhere. Cloverville high's mascot was a muscular leprechaun and the sports teams were known as the 'Lucky Charms'. If one wasn't familiar with these factiods, one would have thought St. Patrick's Day had been moved to October.
Slicing through the low lighting of the ballroom were flashing strobes and other special effect lights controlled by a disk jockey who occupied a corner of the room. Tables and chairs encircled a large dance floor that was occupied by his former classmates.
His grey eyes scanned the room and all around him old people were laughing and seemed to be having a good time. He had acquired the knack of putting names with faces in the Navy and it had served him well in his second career, as an asset manager with the large investment house he had eventually became a senior partner of. He was at a loss here though, as none of these people had been important to him in high school and he didn't recognize any of them now.
"What's the name, champ," asked a grinning overweight woman, sitting behind a table adorned with green and gold streamers and balloons to his left. Her hair was more salt than pepper and was worn at shoulder length. The nametag she wore on the lapel of the jacket read, "Tracy Smith" in bold type and was accompanied by a picture of a pretty, seventeen-year-old, who was about 150-pounds lighter, had long black hair and was wearing a cheerleader's uniform.
Michael smiled warmly and said cheerfully, "Hi, Tracy. Mike Richards." He preferred Michael but knew most people automatically used the shortened version.
Tracy carefully scanned the nametags that were laid out on the reception table before her. She repeated Mike's name over and she followed her finger looking at the names. When she found it, she gleefully exclaimed, "Found it," and held it up to compare the likeness on the badge to the graduate who was forty-years older that was standing before her.
"Oh, my God," she exclaimed, "Mikey Richards! You sure have changed!"
Michael looked at the younger picture of himself and inwardly winched. He was gangly and pimple-faced, had a pronounced overbite and wore glasses. The quintessential geek. In the politically-incorrect 1970's, he had been repeatedly bullied by the jocks, laughed at by Tracy and her cheerleader friends, as well as just about everyone else in the student body.
He quickly glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but in the din of classic rock and the shouted conversations, no one seemed to take notice.
"Why, thank you," he said cheerfully, pinning the nametag to the lapel of his sports coat. Adding politely, "You haven't changed a bit."
Tracy blushed and said, "You're very kind," and commenced explaining that the bar was non-host, which she had been against in the event planning, that there were no snacks and that you could order from the restaurant. He courteously listened and thanked her. As he moved into the room, Tracy repeated her introduction to others coming in behind him.
Parties had been 'Becca's thing, not his. "God, I wish you were here," he muttered as he stepped into the chaos.
He had always disliked social functions, even as a naval officer. After the emancipation of being freed from Cloverville High School, he had won a full scholarship to Indiana State University. There he joined the Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps program. Blooming late, he grew an astounding amount during those four-years. He was constantly having to be resized for his uniforms and his parents complained at his requests for money to buy new clothes. The hard, physical exercise bulked his scrawny frame and better defined his features. The Navy paid for some oral surgery and contacts replaced the 'birth control' glasses that had adorned his face for most of his life. Even his parents didn't recognize him at graduation. He was a completely different person.
He wove his way through the people. He was head and shoulders taller than more than 90% of them. Although balding, He had a striking profile and a commanding presence. The men would give a nod in greeting, but the women paid more than a casual notice. As he greeted them, he could tell they were not making any pretenses about looking him over. He could also tell they were closely examining his left hand -- particularly his ring finger.
When he reached the bar, he ordered and paid for a Sam Adams, which he saw was on draft. Sadly, what he received was a glass that was more head than it was beer. As he examined it before taking a sip, a voice to his left that was a little more than merely intoxicated said loudly, "That's bullshit! There they go again, ripping somebody else off!"
A late middle-age man with wavy blond hair, a beard and mustache under a jagged nose, with a serious beer gut was leaning against the bar and was blearily looking up at him. He wore a blue jacket over a white polo shirt that seemed several sizes too small, faded blue jeans and work boots. His name badge read 'Steve Thompson' and was accompanied by a younger version fully outfitted in football gear.
Instantly, a memory flashed in his brain. They were standing among lockers with teenagers standing all around. A younger Steve Thompson was facing him, with a scowl of rage on his face. His fists were balled and he was lunging at him. "I'm going ta fuckin' kill you, ya little piece of shit," he screamed.
He ducked under the swing and came up with a haymaker of his own that connected with Steve's nose, causing him to howl in pain as blood exploded from it, staggering him.
"This piece of shit place is rippin' people off," he pronounced drunkenly, snapping Michael back to the present. Nudging Michael's arm declared, "Am I right?"
Michael smiled and sincerely said, "It's okay," and then exclaimed in feigned surprise, "Why, Steve Thompson! How've you been?"
Steve caught completely off-guard and narrowed his blood-shot eyes to get a clearer look at Michael's face. He then looked down at Michael's name badge and then back to his face. Michael could clearly see the rusty gears of recollection turning in his mind as he tried to recall who was talking to him and then a light bulb came on. "Holy shit, Morphydite Mike," he exclaimed as he slapped the bar.
He stopped himself and tried to become as drunkenly serious as he could, "I'm sorry. I should've called you Mike." He held out a rough hand. Mike took it and gave it a firm shake.
"No harm, no foul, Steve," he said with a sincere smile, "Those days are long past."
Steve blurted out, "Ain't that the truth. I was kind of an asshole back then," to which someone overhearing the statement further down the bar exclaimed, "And you still are," which made everyone nearby burst out in raucous laughter.
Steve good-naturedly took the jibe. Swallowing most of his beer in one gulp, he looked up at Michael and said, "I haven't seen you around town, what happened to you?"
Michael repeated the line that he had practiced when he knew this question would come up, "I served in the Navy and have done a few other things. I settled-down, out west"
At that Steve stood-up ramrod straight, which brought his full height to just under Michael's chin and saluted with the wrong hand. "Thank you for your service, killing those Commies."
Michael was about to clarify a little what his service was but Steve, leaning against the bar began ranting, "I would've gone into the service, but a football injury kept me out of it." He then went on to check-off his list of woes that amounted to a life of wasted opportunities. All his problems were the fault of someone else.
Just then the D.J. struck up the tune, "Brickhouse," by the Commodores, to the applause of the gathered crowd. Michael had been leaning against the bar listening to Steve's diatribe, when just then it was interrupted by a wolf whistle from a guy standing on the other side of Steve, at the bar, followed by, "Holy shit, would you look at that!"
Straightening, Michael turned in the direction of what had caught the guy's attention. Wide-eyed, he recognized the goddess that had just entered the room.
Sharon ...
"I can't do this," exclaimed Sharon into her cell phone, in the middle of a full-blown panic attack.
"Mom, you'll be fine," soothed the calm female voice, "Calm down. Breath. In through your nose and out through your mouth."
She was sitting on her king size bed, dressed in a black silk bathrobe. She closed her eyes and with the phone still pressed against her ear, followed the voice's instructions. She inhaled several times through her nose, holding it for several seconds and then exhaling in a whoosh. She patted her chest with her free left hand, as the voice said brightly, "There, you see it works every time!"
