I hummed while I packed for my high school reunion trip, the lightest I felt since my marriage disintegrated. It was decades since I’d been back to Howard Beach High. Pete Nichols, one of my former track team buddies, called and asked me to come to this year’s party. I mentioned Bethany Johnson to Pete.
“Bethany’s divorced. She asks about you,” he said.
We dated my senior year. Bethany had long blond hair, blue eyes, and she wanted to be a model. Her father would give me a look that could wilt flowers, and order us home by eleven. The most intimate we got was necking under the Far Rockaway, 42nd Street boardwalk, and I remembered the smell of treated wood, knishes, and coconut sun tan lotion. When I was accepted to university, we promised to write, but the willing girls I met distracted me, and my letters stopped.
After I spoke to Pete, I started a zero carb diet, and worked out every day. I could do twenty-five pushups. Not pussy, slight elbow bends, but real, chest down to the floor, pushups. Okay, I could do fifty without breaking a sweat in high school, and now the last couple left me gasping. But I was way ahead of the pudges I saw at the gym who worked with personal trainers, and rolled on rubber balls for exercise. In the right light, I could see muscle definition in a couple of places.
The reunion was at the Marriott, and I got a room. I put on my black suit, and the blue, silk tie I bought for the occasion. I tightened the Windsor knot and smoothed my graying hair in front of the full-length mirror on the wall. I smiled and proclaimed, “Let the games begin.”
I strode off the elevator into the huge ballroom and spotted a sign-in table. I grabbed a nametag badge and wrote “Ted Curtis” in big black letters with a Sharpie Marker. The girl at the desk was attractive with short, brown hair and lots of cleavage. She looked at me with a furrowed brow. At my insistence, she examined the list of names in front of her. I scanned faces around me, but saw no one I recognized. She said that probably I wanted the reunion going on in the next room. I looked in the direction she pointed. There were a gaggle of gray heads, belly rolls, and matronly gowns, including a person using a walker and another with a cane.
I said, “Those people are old.”
Her smile showed whitened teeth. “This is the Twenty-Year Reunion; I think you want the Forty.”
I walked slowly toward the group. As I neared, a woman with blue eyes and silver hair beamed at me.
“Ted, it is you. Pete said you’d be here.”
My eyes went to her nametag.
My mouth opened. I said, “Bethany?”
We hugged. She felt clammy and soft. The perfume I remembered from high school made a sour mix with sweat.
She stepped back. “Ted, you look great. You’re in the same shape as high school Wish I could say the same.” Her eyes went down.
There was moisture on her upper lip. Skin tags ran down the side of her neck like stepping-stones. The image of Bethany’s face in high school, fresh as a new cut rose, flashed into my head. This Bethany was like Dorian Gray’s painting, aged in the attic of reality. The teen memory disintegrated, and my heart felt heavy as bereavement.
I said, “You look great.”
She smiled at my lie. Kindness was the dying ember of affection.
Pete walked over and saved me. The two of us spoke, but we ran out of remembrances after an hour. I slipped away to my room. Inside, I threw my suit jacket and pants on a chair. I ripped off my tie, and tore at the buttons on my blue shirt. It was eight-thirty, but I wanted to sleep. I went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. The skin under my chin hung down like the belly of a pregnant pig. A spider web of cracks underscored each eye. The feeling of hollowness when I recognized Bethany returned. Blood flushed my face, and my jaw tightened. My hands clenched. I struck the image in the mirror with my fist. Glass sliced my skin. There were flecks of red on the shards that clinked into the sink. I slumped down, sat on the edge of the tub and sobbed.
I never spoke to Bethany or Pete again. The force of the punch cracked bones in my hand, and the injury never healed. Even now I can’t put enough weight on my palm for a single pushup.
“Bethany’s divorced. She asks about you,” he said.
We dated my senior year. Bethany had long blond hair, blue eyes, and she wanted to be a model. Her father would give me a look that could wilt flowers, and order us home by eleven. The most intimate we got was necking under the Far Rockaway, 42nd Street boardwalk, and I remembered the smell of treated wood, knishes, and coconut sun tan lotion. When I was accepted to university, we promised to write, but the willing girls I met distracted me, and my letters stopped.
After I spoke to Pete, I started a zero carb diet, and worked out every day. I could do twenty-five pushups. Not pussy, slight elbow bends, but real, chest down to the floor, pushups. Okay, I could do fifty without breaking a sweat in high school, and now the last couple left me gasping. But I was way ahead of the pudges I saw at the gym who worked with personal trainers, and rolled on rubber balls for exercise. In the right light, I could see muscle definition in a couple of places.
The reunion was at the Marriott, and I got a room. I put on my black suit, and the blue, silk tie I bought for the occasion. I tightened the Windsor knot and smoothed my graying hair in front of the full-length mirror on the wall. I smiled and proclaimed, “Let the games begin.”
I strode off the elevator into the huge ballroom and spotted a sign-in table. I grabbed a nametag badge and wrote “Ted Curtis” in big black letters with a Sharpie Marker. The girl at the desk was attractive with short, brown hair and lots of cleavage. She looked at me with a furrowed brow. At my insistence, she examined the list of names in front of her. I scanned faces around me, but saw no one I recognized. She said that probably I wanted the reunion going on in the next room. I looked in the direction she pointed. There were a gaggle of gray heads, belly rolls, and matronly gowns, including a person using a walker and another with a cane.
I said, “Those people are old.”
Her smile showed whitened teeth. “This is the Twenty-Year Reunion; I think you want the Forty.”
I walked slowly toward the group. As I neared, a woman with blue eyes and silver hair beamed at me.
“Ted, it is you. Pete said you’d be here.”
My eyes went to her nametag.
My mouth opened. I said, “Bethany?”
We hugged. She felt clammy and soft. The perfume I remembered from high school made a sour mix with sweat.
She stepped back. “Ted, you look great. You’re in the same shape as high school Wish I could say the same.” Her eyes went down.
There was moisture on her upper lip. Skin tags ran down the side of her neck like stepping-stones. The image of Bethany’s face in high school, fresh as a new cut rose, flashed into my head. This Bethany was like Dorian Gray’s painting, aged in the attic of reality. The teen memory disintegrated, and my heart felt heavy as bereavement.
I said, “You look great.”
She smiled at my lie. Kindness was the dying ember of affection.
Pete walked over and saved me. The two of us spoke, but we ran out of remembrances after an hour. I slipped away to my room. Inside, I threw my suit jacket and pants on a chair. I ripped off my tie, and tore at the buttons on my blue shirt. It was eight-thirty, but I wanted to sleep. I went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. The skin under my chin hung down like the belly of a pregnant pig. A spider web of cracks underscored each eye. The feeling of hollowness when I recognized Bethany returned. Blood flushed my face, and my jaw tightened. My hands clenched. I struck the image in the mirror with my fist. Glass sliced my skin. There were flecks of red on the shards that clinked into the sink. I slumped down, sat on the edge of the tub and sobbed.
I never spoke to Bethany or Pete again. The force of the punch cracked bones in my hand, and the injury never healed. Even now I can’t put enough weight on my palm for a single pushup.
