A few years-ago, I wrote this story under the pen name MrTwisted2112. I stepped away from writing for a few years as life occurred, but recently again sat down at the keyboard to again tell a story or three. In preparation for publishing a follow-on story, I've edited this piece to correct several spelling and grammatic errors that occurred, when I first wrote it.
I hope you enjoy it and I look forward to soon sharing part two of Michael and Sharon's story.
The Reunion
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), 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 Executives 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. Stepping into the lobby, he followed the sounds of loud music. 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 he neared the noise and commotion of the ballroom, a smile crossed his lips. Rebecca, 'Becca as he affectionately called her, would have been right home here, she'd loved parties. Rounding a corner, he located the entrance to the cavernous ballroom with the sounds of Boston, Journey, Foreigner, and several rock groups from the late 1970's and early 80's pumping from it like a firehose turned on full. The double door were decorated in the colors of green and gold and 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 facts, you would have thought St. Patrick's Day had been moved to October.
His grey eyes scanned the room and all around him old people -- several hundred of them 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 also been very useful 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 a single one now.
"What's your 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 100-pounds lighter, had long black hair and was wearing a cheerleader's uniform.
Michael smiled warmly and said in a cheerful baritone, "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 and scorned 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 was against, 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.
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 he was 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 skeptically 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, for their drinks!"
A late middle-aged 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. 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 blood to explode, and staggering him.
"This piece of shit place is rippin' people off," he pronounced drunkenly and waving a hand at the sheepish young bartender, snapping Michael back to the present. Nudging Michael's arm declared, "Am I right?"
Michael smiled and good-heartedly said, "It's okay," and then exclaimed in feigned surprise, "Why Steve Thompson! How've you been?"
Caught completely off-guard, Steve narrowed his blood-shot eyes to get a clearer look at Michael's face, to help with recollection. He then looked down at Michael's name badge and then back to his face. Michael could clearly see the rusty gears turning in Steve's mind as he tried to recall who was talking to him. Then a light bulb of recognition 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. Michael 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 shouted, "And you
