Write Me: (I’m lonely, confined and waiting for the chance to respond) By Dave M.

As far as I can tell my high school graduating class was unable to muster the drive to stage a ten year reunion. Not that I am disappointed. I am not sure that I would have attended anyway. The concept of a reunion is interesting, but in reality I can only imagine that it is a bunch of drunk old acquaintances exchanging new phone numbers and empty promises to get back together, “just like the old days.” I don’t mean to be cynical, I would have had a good time; I know I would have, but I am in a way relieved that the reunion seems to have never produced itself. I was not, however, able to avoid attending my wife’s high school reunion. I cried, I kicked and I screamed, but in the end I acquiesced to her wishes and accompanied her to the ritualistic gathering of high school mates. Instead of lamenting the passing of ten years without my own gathering I will tell you of my experiences as a reunion husband.

Part of the reunion protocol is to bring your spouse along. The purpose of the spouse is obvious so I won’t go into the details. But the spouse’s experience is a subject seldom broached or even considered. It is such an interesting premise that it seems that I should be composing these thoughts for “Good Housekeeping” or “Cosmopolitan”. This article should be titled “How to properly show off your husband at your upcoming high school class reunion.” The inset side article would be: “What he wants you to suck afterwards. Hint: It will be just like Prom.”

What does a husband do at his wife’s high school reunion? This was a question that would haunt me for months beforehand. I could only imagine how I was going occupy my time hanging off my wife’s shoulder as she introduced me to droves of individuals that would pass before my eyes and just as quickly pass from my memory until we are introduced again in another ten years. It was daunting and yet my greatest fear was the shear boredom that was sure to dominate the evening.

My wife has a married high school friend that we visit frequently. I assumed that her friend’s husband and I would simply hang out and drink all night. That was an easy out; our wives would descend into a night of great memories while her buddy’s husband and I further forged our bond as the spouses of two best friends. But this best friend was too pregnant to attend, leaving another of my hopes and dreams dashed. In short, I just wasn’t very excited about this particular upcoming event.

We arrived at the country club in the heart of the bedroom community of suburban Detroit where my wife was reared. The town is filled with middle class/middle management workers that make the drive into the city, but decided to raise their families an hour away in general seclusion and safety of white suburbia. As we pulled into the parking lot I immediately noted a shining purple Ford F-250 elevated several feet off the ground by oversized monster truck tires. I don’t mean to stereotype people, but I was beginning to envision a night of red neck drinking, and some serious Garth Brooks sign alongs. There is nothing wrong with red neck drinking; red necks are great interesting people. I hate the people that only pretend that they are red necks. Pretend red necks are assholes, and pretend red necks drive brand new F-250’s with monster tires. Real red necks couldn’t afford the vehicle.

I happen to know several people from my wife’s high school class in addition to the best friend I spoke of earlier. The woman checking names at the door was Dawn. I met her when I was freshman in college. She was sitting on the floor outside my future wife’s dorm room. She’s cute, nice and we always got along very well. I spent a good portion of the night speaking with Dawn about her new boyfriend, her dog, and everything else that is going on in each of our lives. I hadn’t seen her in a few years; she expressed the standard disappointment that always follows my confession that I don’t carry pictures of my kids. The concerning half joking contemptuousness that scolds a father without a bill fold packed to the width of two inches with photographs of his offspring. She laughed off her concerns over my apparent disassociation from raising a family. A side note to fathers, or perspective fathers: you are automatically placed in a “bad dad” category when you are unable to produce pictures of your children on a moments notice. I know this, but I still don’t carry pictures of the kids.

I remained at the check in table for a few minutes, but when the line to check in began to back up, it appeared like I was sluffing off my duty to collect money and update contact information, but people didn’t know me and they felt bad, like they were supposed to recognize me but have forgotten who I was. They waited quietly for Dawn, obviously more familiar to them to finish with those in line ahead of them while maintaining a air of frustration towards me. If only they could remember my name, they would not feel guilty about calling out my lazy ass. I decided to move on, I was tarnishing all of these people with a projected attitude that while a complete fallacy maintained solely in their minds, it is still a bad way to meet people.

I then ran into a law school classmate of mine. That was interesting. I spoke to another individual that I had previously met at a funeral. Then I spoke to some Morman family members for a long time. I met the sister the year previously and began talking to her brother on the basis of that knowledge. I was pleased to meet members of a Morman family that exceeded by four the number of children in the family of Mormans that I am friends with. The best part was that this brother and sister were close enough in age to graduate in the same year.

I met a fellow husband and his wife Tara. The husband and I discussed the implications of being a date at the high school reunion. Tara was pretty and nice to talk to, seemingly a smart girl. She gave me the opportunity pull the cliché reunion date trick. The trick of which I speak is to pretend you are a member of the class and embarrass the victim into believe he/she has forgotten you.

While I was speaking with Tara a beautiful woman named “Nicki” walked over to begin mingling. I had noticed Nicki earlier, well, I noticed her face, her ass, and her boobs, and pointed them out to my wife. She agreed that Nicki was cute and confided that she was pretty nice. Nicki said, “Hi” to Tara and asked if I were her husband. I smiled, looked her directly in the eye and with the most feigned tone of shock that I could muster I said, “Nicki, you don’t remember me.”

“No. Should I?” was her response.

Tara spontaneously stepped into character, turned to Nicki, and said, “Nicki, you don’t remember Dave? He graduated with us.”

Nicki began to turn a little red, but I could see her accessing her memory banks for any recollection of my existence. It just wasn’t there.

That’s when I added, “Nicki, its Dave, we even dated for like a second in high school.” At this point she was becoming even more embarrassed and confused.

Tara piped in at this moment with, the purported recollection, “Yeah, I remember that.”

Before Nicki could conjure an excusable reason for her memory loss, I confessed my ruse and explained that I was actually my wife’s husband and have never met her before. As I stated, Nicki was beautiful. She also turned out to be very nice, intelligent and thoughtful. She lives in Los Angeles. She apparently decided one day that she hated winter and decided to move to Las Angeles. She works as a chiropractor, which surprised me.

After that conversation I needed to use the restroom. In the hallway I encountered a group of people much the same as those gathered in the reception hall. There was one woman who weighed at least 400 pounds. She was fat, real fat! Some other person saw her and burst into an old friend’s greeting. “Kristie, how are you? What have you been doing since we graduated?” I laughed as I walked by, and said quietly to myself in a knowing manner, “She’s been eating.”

There was also the standard too drunk ass that was overly friendly with everyone. He was clearly not well liked by many people. He also had many things to prove to this group of people. Let me report that if you need to prove something at your high school class reunion, that you should not attend. In a conversation with some random person that I didn’t know, I pointed to the guy and said, “What’s this guy’s problem.”

“Oh he’s an idiot. He wasn’t even in our class; he failed his senior year and graduated with us. I don’t know why he is here.” is the response that I received.

Later in the night I wondered outside to get some fresh air. I encountered a multitude of smokers, one of whom was this very jackass. He was engaged in some asinine conversation, and as I approached he looked up and in his best Matthew McConaughey impersonation, and I shit you not, seriously says, “That’s what I like about high school chicks, the older I get they still stay the same age.” My jaw dropped with disbelief at his stupidity, and as I passed he pointed at me, and added, “See, he knows what I’m talking about.” I didn’t respond and I don’t think anyone else did either. What a moron.

But the best part of the whole night was a photocopied hand written letter that was placed near the centerpiece of every table in the reception hall. When I glanced at the letter I could see that following the signature line of the letter’s author was what appeared to be a serial number. I immediately assumed that this letter was written by an individual deployed to a foreign war in service of our country. I sat down and decided read what this person had to say. Here was the surprise that greeted me after the obligatory salutation, “Dear Classmates”, and a few introductory lines, “Back in 1996 I got into a physical disagreement with a man. The man died and now I am serving a lengthy prison sentence.” That line is a euphemism. When you read it, you should internalize the following confession, “I murdered a guy, and now I’m in the clink.”

The letter then reveals that its author is friends with everyone at the reunion and hopes that everyone considers him a friend as well. It then includes a final request. “Please write me, I will respond, and I look forward to hearing from you.”

Damn right he will respond, what the hell else does he have to do for the next 10-15 years?