The Class of 1995 (Short Story)

The Class of 1995 (Original Publication: Wild Violet - June 2008)

I'm a bit nervous as I stride into a ballroom packed with kids who are too old to be making out in the back of a theater and too young to worry about menopause, life insurance or their 401(k)'s. My heart hammers inside my chest. I don't recognize a single face, and they, in turn, don't appear to know me.

It isn't long before someone named Will approaches and shakes my hand.

"Greg," he says, eyeing my nametag with all the grace and subtlety of a rum-filled sailor. "Greg Stevens."

"Yeah. We know each other?"

Will gives me a thick smile. His jowls jiggle like pudding (a dessert, I'm sure, he's tasted many times, given his fleshy arms and bloated belly).

"You were in my freshman PE class, weren't you? That quiet guy. Sat right next to Coach Peterman's office in the locker room."

"Coach Peterman?" I ask.

Will throws his arm over my shoulders and exhales a laugh that reeks of pretzels and cheap beer.

"Wasn't Peterman a trip, man? The way he'd make us run around the track all morning? Do all those crazy pushups?"

I shrug, suddenly realizing that I've been initiated into Will's buddy club.

"Lew! Timmy T.," Will calls to a nearby group huddled around a trestle-table laden with hors d'oeuvres, chips, dip and chopped veggies.

Timmy T. and Lew turn, along another guy whose nametag reads Abraham Klein.

"Found another one of Peterman's lost soldiers, boys. We're gonna round up the whole brigade tonight."

Somehow, these three gentlemen make Will seem like the night's designated driver. Lew and Timmy T. have their cheeks stuffed with potato chips, both stoned out of their minds. Abe practically tips the table over in a drunken stagger when he trips and uses it to balance himself.

"Heeey!" Timmy T. says with a big crescent grin. "Hooow's it goin', man?"

"Hey," I shoot back, noting his bloodshot eyes.

"Peterman…" Lew says, reflecting on the name for a minute, soaking it in, then erupting in laughter. "Friggin' Peter-man…"

"You guys remember senior prank night?" Will asks. "Locking Peterman in the gym?"

"When we used Freddie's bus to block the front door," Timmy T. adds, still holding his crescent grin. "Yeah, maaan. That was a riot."

Will laughs. "We made this whole school one big parking lot. By the cafeteria. Behind the library. Our cars were everywhere."

Abe stumbles up to me and stares into my eyes, his nose a hair away from my mine.
"You…you…" Abe says, then swallows and drops his eyelids, like he's going to upchuck. I take a step back as a precaution. "I don't know you…"

Abe spills forward. I catch one armand Will catches the other, saving Abe from doing a face plant.

"Whoa!" Will says. "Ain't gonna cash our chips in jus' yet, are we?"

Startled, Abe shakes his head and manages to look sober enough to keep from being tossed out.

"Hey!" Will bellows, spotting a photographer. "Get a picture of us, will ya?"

The photographer nods indifferently. It's probably the sorriest group of glory-day-boys he's seen, but that's why he's here: to take pictures of yesterday's football, soccer, and track stars.

Will huddles Peterman's brigade together (and I'm a part of it, whether I like it or not). But it doesn't stop there. Two girls see us and join in. The girls soon flag three friends, their nametags reading Gina, Kay, and Lucas. And these friends, in turn, wave even more friends in.

Before long, it seems half the ballroom is crowded in front of the photographer… with me smack in the center. It's my fault, I guess. It was my stupid idea to wonder into this place after reading the signs in the hotel lobby. Sure, I had graduated in 1995 but my team wasn't the Angels; ironically, it was the Devils. I attended Roosevelt High, some two thousand miles from Lake Hill High, the institution responsible for this gathering. I've never met Will, Timmy T., Lew or Coach Peterman in my life. I have no idea what senior prank night is, although it sounds like fun (my school was too strict to tolerate such nonsense: part of the reason I skipped my reunion two months ago).

"Okay, on three give a big shout-out to the Angels," says the photographer, positioning his camera. "One…two…"

As I scream "Angels!" with the rest of the alums, I recall my encounter with Mr. Eskimo-kisses. How can Abe, the highest bird in the cage, be the only person to grasp my secret? Right now, the guy couldn't be trusted to drive a lawnmower, much less a car, and yet he plainly stated the obvious.

That I was a stranger.

That I had no earthly business showing my ugly mug in their group picture, which would undoubtedly wind up inside photo albums, in wall frames, or — if I was lucky enough! — right on top of my favorite coach's desk.

To Peterman ~ Class of 1995 10-Year Reunion

Copyright 2008 - Vincent Lowry (Author of Constellation Chronicles: The Lost Civilization of Aries)