And new resentments were created too, as one clique member decided to become the “reunion police” and monitor every outburst, touch, and drink of choice with the eye of a Block Mother.
A Block Mother was some kind of crazy community service program from the seventies in which every few blocks or so, a sign was placed in the window of a participating house, indicating that a stay at home mommy was available. Call it a safehouse from bullies and other childhood dramas as you’re on your way home from school. The program died out long before most Mommies took down the signs.
How did we look? Twenty fucking years old. It was easier on the eyes to see those that managed to keep in contact with one another but hell on those that we hadn’t seen in decades. It was clear that some made a very consorted effort to prepare for the event. As for myself: fuck first reprise impressions; I wore an Iggy & The Stooges black tee shirt. Check the photo of our old asses in the hometown paper. I’m the one on the lower right corner. The photographer took away my Stoli and limeaide right before he said “Cheese.”
The first night many of us converged on an old watering hole by the river. When it was hip, the place was essentially a hole in the wall fairly cool place to start the night. In the ensuing years, the new owners decided that the beer garden was a waste of precious square footage and turned the area into a shitty supper club that booked karaoke on the weekends. The bartender and staff, once a reliable source of drugs, sex, and entertainment now consisted of rude society floaters hell bent on keeping up with your own drinking pace.
Brief flashback that I just remembered: the place, which featured a cartoon rat on the outside painted sign, used to employ a forty-five year old skank who wore tight Gloria Vanderbelt jeans and sparkly blouses. She was a great waitress, and just about the time you were getting shitty, she would start doing this slutty dance at your table while taking your drink order. It was funny, scary and sad. It was embarrassing if you happened to be entertaining a girl and were on the verge of getting somewhere with her. No, there’s nothing like the sways of a middle aged woman who’s trying to remain relevant with the opposite sex to break the mood of a young couple trying to play chess.
Digression ended…
Present day supper club also contained several desperate middle aged women, and men too, I suppose, but the guys had more of a “I’m drunk beyond retarded” faction. I stayed a little buzzed and sought out Bernie Kozar. On the second attempt I succeeded. Trouble was, I had to endure a drunken “my life is shit” soliloquy while we smoked near the dumpster in back. “If a cop comes, you’re eatin’ that thing. It would fuck up my child custody if I got busted with a roach.” I agreed to Bernie’s conditions and got lit enough to endure another round of memories like the corner of my mind misty water colored memories of the way we were.
Bad choice.
The girl who was advised earlier by the reunion police that she could not drink Jack and Diet Coke decided to break the law and drink Jack and Diet Coke. By midnight, she was asking me for a ride home when she clearly needed a lift. I selfishly declared that I would drive her home in a little bit and somewhat soberly suggested that some people were leaving at that time and would gladly assist her. I never said I was a designated driver. She hung out and kept bugging me for cigarettes even though I refused every request. The last thing I need is for some drunk chick vomit all over herself from a headrush nicotine overdose simply because she hasn’t had a Montclair since ’92.
When they eventually did last call the place, she again asked for a ride. I made my way through the clusterfuck of departing patrons and waited in the car for my friend to exit. With even a few more Jack and Diet Cokes under her belt, we waited and, appropriately, The Smiths’ “Hatful Of Hollow” played in the cd player. Suddenly, she’s all up in my personal business asking about the SLF, acting sincere about my happiness before admitting “That sucks. I was hoping to make out with you this weekend. Just kidding! No, I’m not.” By this time, I’m getting pissed about my friend’s delay and my desperate need to have him save me from the girl who drank too many Jack and Diet Cokes. He came, we dropped her off, and then made a few more drinks at my parent’s deck.
The next night was definitely more of a “Let’s see who can talk the loudest” kind of event that again mixed alcohol, memories, continuing alliances/feuds, and “this is what happened to me since we last saw each other” dialogues. We found out who was in jail, and agreed the first person in our class to get knocked up was Renee M. She was thirteen when she had her first child. She conceived another before she graduated. She didn’t make it to the reunion.
Dead Mothers, domestic abuse, methamphetamines, jail, divorce, marriage; No subject was taboo and the sheer amount of information was sometimes overwhelming and/or tedious. But fuckin’ a, I’d do it again. We all drank like champions. Or put another way: we drank like this would be the last statement of our youth. The final night proved to be too much for my friend who declared “You see, I’m in a bad place here” seconds before passing out in the back yard of my parents house. It was true: I had done the same thing 20 years prior and remember the dew on my face, the dogs barking from the paperboy morning delivery, and the burn marks my vomit left on the grass. Good times. Damn good times, as David Lee Roth would say.
Swear to God: this was the only photo I took the entire weekend. Go figure…
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