I haven’t worn a suit with a tie in decades. Not to weddings or to funerals or dinners or meetings, but I knew this was an exception. This time, this event, this man was owed my respect. Father Jim had died the previous Wednesday and the news spread faster than a windstorm fire. Incredibly the word of his passing was the main topic of internet social groups and we all waited patiently for the time and place where we could say our final goodbyes. That day was today and as I turned onto Mitty way. I could see a traffic jam of students, alumni, friends and co-workers all I’m sure he would have called his family. I bypass the parking lots and try Doyle rd., but even that was full all the way down to Glentree Dr. a quarter mile down Doyle. I find a spot on Glentree noticing the shock and dismay of others that had followed me as I park. The Indian summer kept this fall day warm even though the familiar sapphire sky turns to midnight blue as the sun slid towards Hawaii, and in those blue shadows I walked down Doyle. Due to recent inadequacies at being human, my knee was hurting, so instead of dutifully walking to his celebration, I kind of moseyed my gimpified butt down towards the school with smoke in hand. I feel bad with every step, but not because of the pain but because of why the pain is there and now guilt washes over me. “Why am I allowed to attend?” I ask myself, and then I see his face and hear his voice and it sends me back to when I was a kid walking down Doyle for lunch. Me, Mike Ayala, Scott Norman and Johnny McGaugh picking the prickle balls off of the trees and throwing them at the passing trucks. He forgave me for that, I think he would have forgiven me for my latest infraction…he would probably be the only one that would. “Maybe that’s why I’m going.” I say under my breath. To ask the only one that had a knack for that kind of understanding for a final favor. I reach the fence opening to the parking lot and put out my smoke and as I walk up I can see the Hearse, so I stop and cry. The Gym is already full so I am directed to the Auditorium. I hide in the back corner, standing at my isle seat to let everyone by knowing I will need this isle seat. The air conditioner ticks on and I can feel a faint movement of air, but the place is still stuffy and only half full. The video screen is a good piece of technology, but some of the beginning words are lost among the crowd that is still pouring in…I see nobody I know. 15 minutes into the mass we are sat and situated and the father at the podium is droning on in a very Sunday school kind of way. I am startled every time we have to stand up or say something or sing, I gave this up more than 25 years ago, it is all lost on me now so I do nothing. I can see people around me trying to catch a glimpse of the godless heathen from the corner of their eyes but when I go to meet their eyes they glance up or down or at their watches. Who is more justified to be here, a religious believer that doesn’t have the sense of respect to simply turn their phone off as to not disrupt this service and break the mood or a boy who respected a man enough to forgo all he thinks is wrong with the world and sit amongst people he has nothing in common with and pay his respects even if he knows he won’t get any in return. They cross their heart and sit down, I do nothing. I see more sideways glances as the mass continues, but I phase out to the last time I saw Father Jim.

Our season was almost over, a couple more games left then I was off to Oregon to play more soccer and continue my schooling. The grey winter day was perfect weather to play soccer in and as I finished my pregame ritual, listening to my Walkman, putting on my lucky undershirt, filing down my cleats to create more damage I can hear the rest of my teammates doing the same. It was cold, but not uncomfortable and then we heard him. “Hey, how’s it going’ fellas!” Father Jim exploded into the locker room and went around to each of us shaking our hands and slapping our backs and suddenly it didn’t seem as cold anymore. We were dressed, circled, blessed and out the door shortly thereafter. The walk from the locker room to the outer field was 100 yards and coach Musonic always wanted us to walk out single file to look more ominous, but we always fought him on that, purposely milling in clumps. We could see the other team practicing but mostly we are bullshitting about Friday night indoor soccer and the parties after until… “Hey, get in line and get your heads in the game!” Father Jim said catching up to us. “Sorry Father Jim.” Is what we all said, not out of fear, but because somehow, we knew he was right. “You guys got nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about…Go get ‘em!” He finished and continued to follow us out. Our cleats are soaked by the time we get to the field, but they always were, and something about the smell of the trees eases my pre game jitters again as it always did. This grass and mud is my grass and mud, I have bleed, laughed and cried my battle cry for 4 years on this field. I can taste the cool air and feel the gofers digging underneath my feet, it’s time to play.

The game is started and even though everything is wet and muddled we play like a pack of wolves floating above the grassy loam of a meadow, chasing our dinner. I can hear Father Jim calling us out by name almost coaching us and the sweet sting of the cool air on my joints I could almost see what was going to happen next. Slide tackle…steel the ball…banana the ball up the right side…cross to center…missed head shot, but half a second later the ball found the back of the net. We don’t cheer because we knew it was coming. The grey day stayed the same as we fought for the ball and fought for the ref’s calls, which progressively got more one sided for the other team. The first half ended with a horrible call that would have given us a penalty kick, but it was somehow missed by the ref’s keen eyes. Coach Musonic in his yellow windbreaker and Father Jim in his gold 49er jacket both went out to talk to the ref at the end of the half trying to find out what was going on. "Ok, this guy has got it in for you, so be careful you’re not going to get any calls…as you can see.” Coach says to us in the huddle. “First team, how’re you doing?” He asks us, because he normally subs in at the half. “We’re fine coach.” We all say. “Alright, start the second, I’ll sub you in about 10 min.” He says. “You guys got it, no problem.” Father Jim says followed with a prayer and another “Go get ‘em!” After the start of the second half the first 3 calls were against us which got the Coach, Father Jim and the rest of the team yelling, something was coming I just didn’t know what. Suddenly a long ball flies over my head, but nobody ever got that by me. I sprint in front of the other player and do my little slide to kick the ball out then I hear a whistle. I pick myself up off the ground to see who got called to find out it was me, I run over to the ref. “What was that for?” My young voice asks exasperated. “Dangerous Play.” My nemesis says with no emotion. “WHAT!?” I scream with my arms in the Y position. But before I could talk my way into a yellow card, I see the yellow and gold coming to my defense. “Are you Crazy?!” Father Jim was the quicker of the two. “What the Hell was that!?” Coach says forgetting that Father Jim was a Father. Behind them I can hear the rest of the team forgetting that Father Jim was a Father letting go some choice complaints. “Alright, that’s it, keep your comments to yourself, this is your one and only warning.” The ref says giving them a free indirect kick from the top of our goal box. Still flustered by the call, the ball is in the air in headed in to our goal in seconds. Knowing I’m already in trouble I keep my mouth shut while walking back to my position. But I can see everyone on the sideline continuing their discussion with the ref. We get ready and kick off, but it is stopped by a whistle, all I see is Coach Musonic, Father Jim and the ref with his finger pointing out toward the parking lot while his other hand held a red card, they had gotten ejected from the field, all of them. “What’re we going to do now…?” I say to myself.

Hello & Goodbye

My “bucket list” was small to begin with and has not grown much since I graduated 25 years ago. I have fulfilled fantasies, seen things no one has seen, done things I never thought I could do and survived it all without major injury or regret. I finally get to cross out my last one this year, barring any unforeseen accidents and although it may not seem much to anyone else there were times when I had severe doubts that I would, or even could, finish. Of course, when I wrote the list it wasn’t called a “bucket list”, just a “to do” list, least everyone thinks I’m trying to be cool by stealing the name from a movie. But with all the eccentric items that I had made over the years, this one seemed somehow superficial now, yet there it was at the top of my laptop screen, looking back at me wondering why it was the last one 12.) Make it to my 25th High School Reunion. But I had no answers for it. It had been alone since 2008 when… 32.) Date someone half your age. Was scratched off, one I added when I was 36, of course. Keeping the list in the first place was hard because things change in a quarter century, you, your priorities, and the world. It’s tough to stick to your guns but there it was, one of the originals, the last one, attainable. April rolled into town with a little wet weather and very sad news. One of my friends from school was not going to be making the reunion. I can remember Michelle by her smile, her laugh and her unbelievably mellow demeanor. I can see her hanging out by the wall wearing her sunglasses and smiling her beautiful smile. Last time I saw her was at the 5th High School Reunion, but I was too busy playing videographer to stop and talk to her… and now looking at the event invite I realize how much of a loss that was. We all are so somber, quietly saying goodbye as her Father and Daughter speak. I am in the back again, it seems to be my place, and through watery eyes I begin to recognize old classmates. Grown up people that I used to know as kids, dressed like grownups and then a laugh from the crowd and an old familiar song lighten the heavy mood. The wake is over and I begin saying hello to all my classmates wondering if they even recognize me, they don’t. But even with tears in our eyes we fall into our old places asking each other where we are going now hoping to finish off this wake with a drink and a laugh. The bar across the street is small and crowded but we don’t mind. We reminisce about Michelle and parties and Santa Cruz and everything we could remember. We reconnect and slowly bring up the reunion, which is still 6 months away. Joel and I smoke and drink outside, remembering my parties trying to figure out how we survived those 4 years…I don’t know is the answer.

With the party winding down I say my goodbye’s to my new old friends and promise to get together before the reunion. But as I drive home on 17, I remember my friends Steve, Kahn, Mike and now Michelle, they will always be a piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is m Scratch the Itch

The reunion bug had bit us all the night of Michelle’s wake, reconnecting with the older versions of ourselves somehow filled our bones with new marrow and with help from the posted pictures on Facebook, I could feel a party coming. Our first “Mitty Mini” was at Aqui’s in Campbell 2 months later, instigated by Misty’s return from the humidified state of Florida. I am late, the blue tint of twilight was telling me to hurry up but I didn’t need the push because I hadn’t seen these girls in years and my want to see them was push enough. I tried to picture them in my head and remember their face structure so I didn’t pass them up when I walked in. That concentration made me forget about the extra 40 pounds I had put on since I’d last seen them and as I park and walk around the corner, I get nervous. Suddenly I can feel the extra weight and feel my double chin and feel my arthritic joints locking up, so I stop. 40’ from the side entrance I stop in a mini panic, so I light up a smoke and lean against the wall trying to flush all the negative thoughts, wondering if I owe any of them an apology from my past mistakes. I finish my smoke and head towards the door, I can see the interior lights first creamily bouncing off the adobe color of the restaurant and before I could get inside, I see them me and the 40 pounds, double chin and arthritis disappear, melted away by their smiles and hugs. We all sit and begin catching up on family and friends, where we live, what we do and I notice it’s them talking, not me. It wasn’t because they are extra chatty, it was just because nothing has changed for me, but I am content hearing their voices and seeing their faces. Margaritas are ordered and served and drank then repeated before Mija and Ben show up which is an extra treat. I sit and drink my margarita with salt, even though I asked for no salt and rehash some old conversations that I felt weren’t sufficiently concluded. These women are so candid so fearless I get an earful from 2 of them on how I broke they’re heart, something that was lost on me and my teenage ego. But then they thank me for doing it, confusing me, saying it got them ready for college. I am lost in my own argument, or apology, or whatever it was, not knowing which way to go so I fall back on something I learned what I was married. If you’re not sure what you’re arguing about or whether or not you should apologize…just apologize, which is what I did, which is all I could do. More rounds and now appetizers and I had yet to pay anything, I begin to feel guilty, like I always do, and try to get up and get them something. No, no, no, sit down is all I get, so I do, not wanting to lose another argument with these ladies. The evening falls into night and our table is cluttered with miscellaneous glasses, plates and now desserts and as we chew up the landscape of our past we slowly realize that everyone else is gone and the waiters are waiting for us with crossed arms. “Excuse me, what time do you close?” A question is asked collectively. “10 minutes ago.” Is the reply. Embarrassment kicks us in the head, so we quickly finish our drinks and pay our bill. Outside we laugh at ourselves for being so involved, but the scratch still itches and we decide to go across the street to the “Cardiff Lounge” for what us older people call a “nightcap”. “Need to see everyone’s I.D., please.” The bouncer says as we walk up. “What?” I say, trying to figure out why he can’t see my grey hair. “Oh, shut up Chris, it’s nice to be carded sometimes.” I forget about the other sex’s perspective. It’s late and in between the vodka’s, the smoke breaks and the young guy asking all of them to dance we decide to call it a night. We say goodbye and go our separate ways, I can hear Sue demanding that Misty take her to Jack in the Box as I get in my truck and I laugh. On the drive home, I realize it’s after midnight, it’s late for me to be out on a “school” night. So as I roll through the desolate streets of south San Jose I can remember bits and pieces of conversation from the night, but past and present seemed to merge into one long drunken ramble and it worked for me, my itch had been scratched. Unfortunately for me, like many a mosquito bite as soon as you scratch it, it itches more C.B. Hannigan

People don’t act right anymore, they’re voices are guarded and they’re gilded actions are shockingly deliberate. Being a scientist of sorts, I never thought that technology would have such an adverse effect on us. Lost in all those “1’s” and “0’s” is how we used to see the world, how we were raised to interact with it. We have become cold and distant, ready to block, unfriend or just plain hang up at a moment’s notice if we don’t get the answer we want with no discussion, no quarter or query, no humanity. Lost is the gesture of speech, the nuances of accent, the architectural movement of face and facet. Lost is the art of conversation. The written word has suffered also in this technological boom. Gone is the familiarity of stroke and verse, the excitement of a sentence and the way your press harder or softer to the page depending of the mood and meaning of what you’re writing. Instead the cold flat keys of a keyboard dutifully type perfect boxed up letters and sentences, correcting your spelling and sentence structure as you blindly almost mindlessly plunk through your thoughts. Bring back the fountain pen and disconnect the Blackberry’s, let our hands and voices remember what it was like to be young and new. Experience everything for the first time again relishing every new moment as we drift through the wonderment of human expression. And I would, right after I pry my eyes off Facebook, looking at the invite list to the next Mitty Mini at C.B. Hannigans…I love technology. Already through the jitters of seeing my friends I bypass the self-torture as I park my car in the Bank of America parking lot behind C.B.’s. I limply walk up to the front, again with smoke in hand. I notice my limp is a little more pronounced today than usual and I wonder if anybody else from the class has to deal with this shitty arthritic condition. I can accept parts and pieces of my faulty joints due the maniacal way I played for so many years, but it seems that recently everything I do is about pain management. Take a pill to do this, take a pill to do that, sit on the bed in the early morning before I stand up just so I can rub my knees and ankles, warming them up for the trip to the bathroom. This sends me into another panic, not wanting to say I suffer from something your parents suffer from, so I stand for a bit, stretch and muscle through the pain. My walk looks more like a meander as I turn the corner, my grimace turns into a smile and I think to myself, ‘it’ll get better once I get some go juice in my system, I stop outside to finish my smoker and play my little game of trying to remember something without looking. I can see the quaint dining room on the bottom floor, always sparsely populated, the high ceiling with cherry wood partition, and the kitchen on the left then up the wide stairs passing the outdoor patio. I can’t picture the stairs because as soon as I imagine the outside my mind only remembers the circus that is the upstairs, always full, always moving, always looking at you as you climb those non-descript stairs catching your attention and making you stumble. I finish my smoke and step inside…for the second time, it is how I remembered it. I slide through the crowd seeing some upperclassmen at the big table, so I say my hello’s and move down the bar. Here Denise and Sean are having an underclassman discussion that I don’t want to bother so I stand at the secondary table in the east end of the joint, facing the stairs. It’s dark and comfortable and far enough away from the desperate and frantic ordering of drinks at the bar. I quickly grab our waitress Allison and order a vodka soda slipping her an early tip so she won’t forget about this corner. She smiles and assures me she won’t. People begin to show so I silently invite them to join us in the back corner with a wave of my hand. I recognize everyone, looking past the years and seeing the faces I knew back then. A few drinks, a few laughs a few memories corrected and the party is going full swing. Allison is slowly becoming my best friend but she is too young for me. I look around the bar and I can see Mitty slowly taking it over squeezing out the usual’s and cramming ourselves into the tightest of corners. I have not moved because I love my vantage point, I can see Monique, Rose, Gina and Misty holding their own court at the head of the table looking more radiant than they did in school, wondering how they tamed maturity to lay across their faces so beautifully when I could only manage a few distinguishing grey hairs on my chin. I look around at the other women of our class and see more of the same. Mija, Shelly, Monica, Dorea…all of them have this mature beauty about them, like a well-aged actress that gets cast in a sexy-mother type roll. I stand next to Allison and comment on this new found fact. Quickly I say never mind, realizing I was probably creeping her out. I order another drink, and another and another, now the bar is packed, conversations are louder and laughter is nonstop. I head outside for a smoke, leaving my safe corner to wade through the human swamp, saying hello here and there to the others that hadn’t made it back to my haven…it takes a long time to get outside. I am well relaxed; my pain is gone and the cool august mountain air of Los Gatos keeps me from sweating my stinking shirt off. I watch the cars pass by on N. Santa Cruz Avenue when a motorcycle crosses my eyes. He pulls up on the other side of the street and gives me a little hand wave like he knows me. I quickly race though my memories trying to figure out who were the 2 wheelers from school, coming up blank. He takes an inordinate time to put all his crap away, but as soon as he takes off his helmet, I can see from 40’ away that it’s Johnny. We say our hellos and I update him on who’s here so he doesn’t have to go around guessing. We get back upstairs and people are beginning to leave, I forget that I’m one of the few kid less classmates here and I don’t have to get back to relieve the babysitter by 10pm, so I don’t protest too much. “I’ll see you in a couple.” Is my reply to the ones that need to leave and be a parent? The night moves on and after a brief, weird conversation with Lisa and her friends I say goodbye to Bobby, his wife and George and I try to remember, with everyone, if I was as close to them during school then I seemed to be now, but that thought is lost in the drink. Brian, Joel, Neils and I finish off the night in the low tabled dart board area of the upstairs, next to the bathroom. We bullshit and banter back and forth, I finally get to comment to someone about the beauty of the girls that were in our class and how they seemed to be oblivious of time and age. We all agree that we were very lucky to have been born when and where we were…among other things, but we are old and done and can only last another hour so we say our goodbyes and make our exit through the now young crowd, hands up trying not to accidentally bump into their young bodies Another drive home after midnight, more scratched itches, more reminiscing about old friendships and romances and another young smile on an old face.

Being 

Seeing everyone then having to leave knowing I wouldn’t be seeing them in first period tomorrow made me happy and sad at the same, kind of like the old song “Sleepwalk” by Santo & Johnny. That only lasts for a day because the next morning as I lurked around Facebook I can already see another invite to another Mitty “Mini”. “Were going to be sick of each other by the time the actual reunion rolls around.” I say to my laptop screen. I immediately hit “attend” anyway, not being sick yet. The days move by quickly as Joel, Brian and I decide to meet up at the Toll House Hotel at the end of Los Gatos, then suddenly I was there pulling off Hwy 17 and making that familiar left turn onto N. Santa Cruz Ave. I drive down the street at a snail’s pace looking at all the clean streets and well-groomed citizens looking into their perfectly lit shops with their quaint little fucking names and I stop and realize that I’m turning into that angry 17 year old, know it all, rebel again, driving angrily down the same street in my ’84 Mustang with the bumper stickers “Why Be Normal” and “Question Authority” on the back. Running away from the perceived persecution of MY high school, to the cool breakers of Bonny Doon Beach I speed through the last block daring the police to pull me over so I can be angry at someone else. My eyes refocus and I cool my jets before I get a chance to drive my conservative Audi into one of those quaint shops. Back to normal I still feel a little rebel scream deep inside me filling part of my memory with disdain for this little town, not knowing why it’s there, just knowing it is, created in my young brain so long ago. Why did I come here so much if I didn’t like it?” I question myself now, and, then I remembered why…because of my friends. And with the thoughts of friends in my head my little rebel yell dissipates to a whisper. Dissipates, but doesn’t disappear. I pull up to the Hotel and I appreciate the architecture but not because of the panache they had to build it this way, because they had to build it on the side of a hill and made the lines interesting out of necessity. I walk in and unlike other hotels where there is a wash of conditioned air or major temperature change, this time there is none and I am caught off guard. Then I notice the dark wood, lit beige and flat whites that make up the three-tier entry way. It almost feels like the bottom is closing in on you as you walk up the steps. There is a party going on outside on the patio, but it’s just starting and it’s not for me anyway so I pass it up trying not to look. I pass by the front desk, looking like I’m going to my room and head up. I knock on the door and hear laughing and music, so I knock again. The door swings open and there they are with cups in hand filled with vodka. Two seconds later I have a cup filled with vodka and I think what verve, what direct motive this room emanates. The music, the booze, the laughter, I can almost hear what they were talking about before I walked in because it was still reverberating around the room, caught in the air like exhaled smoke. A minute of hello’s and how do you do’s and we are out on the balcony smoking our respective smokes. Another minute spent on the niceties of being mature, how are you, how’s the family, what are you doing now then, POOF, we turn into 17 year olds again. Cars, parties and girls were all we talked about for the remainder of our stay. More drinks and revelations were served as we weaved our way through the 80’s. “You went out with WHO?!” “I don’t remember doing that.” Were said and repeated numerous times, but it was getting to be that time, so we finished our drinks and then drank another before we headed down stars. I hesitate to get a room as we pass the front desk, not worrying about where I was going to lay my head tonight, if I get too drunk I’ll sleep in the bath tub of their room I figure. We stop at the full-blown party on the patio just to take a look and then stay for a bit when we see what we see. Being a 17 year old, even if only for the past half hour, and seeing all those beautiful mature women, I case the joint pointing out the ones I thing are interesting…or available, wondering if a young man like me could ever impress one of those types of women. “Dude, how old?” I ask in my high school accent. “I don’t know…35.” Joel says forcing my eyes open to my latest fantasy. “Come on, let’s go.” I say rubbing my old eyes seeing the marked women as what they are…younger than me. Five & Five rings in my head, my latest rule about women. Five years older or five years younger, that’s the limit that will keep me out of trouble or at least minimize it. So we leave and head down the street. We pass Number One Broadway, Mountain Charley’s and the Black Watch, all bars that from time to time served as THE place to go to burn those much-needed brain cells. With each bar we pass, the people seem to get older and uncooled. My limp that I do even when it doesn’t hurt goes away, the night air has a faint “clove” smell to it and I realize I’m getting younger the closer we get to C.B. Hannigans. “It’s going to be a good night.” We all say as we turn the corner

Requiem

Our teenage bones, revived with the memories of youth, burst through the front door like jackals finishing a laugh that was started outside. I glance up and can already see a bunch of our old classmates. A warm blanket is set upon me as we stroll past the downstairs tables, waiting to see if anyone recognizes us, but we go unnoticed by the mob who are already in deep conversations of connection and reconnection doing the same thing we did before. Our extra drink and little walk had made us late, but that didn’t matter to us as we tripped up the stairs. The chatter from this elevated spot dropped on our heads drowning out the fear of age getting louder and louder until we were met with big smiles. Hello’s, hugs and handshakes are tossed around like hand grenades creating hoot’s and screams of joy and recognition as they exploded around us. Unlike the last “mini” here, this is an ’85 party with only a couple exceptions. Someone had already commandeered the main table but for some reason only a couple of them were sitting down, the rest were lost in the sea of the past forgetting about the drink for the moment. I don’t forget so I sit and order. Soon after I am followed by some, but for the most part the sea had swallowed most. Shots, shots and more shots seemed to bounce off the table. Me, Joel, Brian, Steve, Kristin, Kris and Sara had sat and started our own roundtable. We were surrounded by assorted friends who would switch up and come to shore for a moment before heading back out to sea. Again, I just kind of sat there and tried to listen to everyone…soaking it in. Every conversation seemed to be about us, almost like the bar had been rented out then…SLAM! Another shot is laid before me almost scaring me. So I drink it and I hit my drunk. Green highlights from the incased shot glasses, green Budweiser sign and green overhead lamps mixed with the ongoing chatter and together they married with the glassware on the table crossing my eyes and turning that table into my table at the old Booksin house. The watermarks, dents, scrapes and gashes remind me of every distinct party each happened at. The amount of cards, bottle’s, glasses, food, flotsam, jetsam and dancing girls that had been on top of this table through the years is unfathomable. The stories of everything that happened to it ooze out of its finish and goes beyond memory, it is a piece of me which is why, after 40 years, it still sits in my family room. Even sleeping under…FLASH! The table turns back to the one at C.B. Hannigans. I blink my eyes and see Erica at the end of the table smiling. I mock complain for a moment, rolling my eyes and waving my hands like I’m blinded but then smile back at her…so she takes another one, blinding me for real this time. Shots are showing up faster now thanks to Brian and Joel, but I am man, so I drink. Leaving the safe corner seat of the table I decide to go for a swim in the Mitty sea milling around like I used to do at parties, smiling and saying hello stopping briefly to say hi to Allison, who is still too young for me. Time slides by and I get tired of swimming so I sit next to one of the first people I knew at Mitty and a frequent Dance Date Sara, but that’s not why I sit next to her. I need to close an unfinished chapter in my book of youth. I lean in with a drunken look of melancholy on my face and begin yet another apology and like usual my mind decides to replay the whole fiasco to make sure I get it right

Kairos, a religious retreat for seniors, was the schools way to show us that faith was cool and hearing Sara and other classmates talk about it, it almost did seem cool, but being the self-important, self-proclaimed all time party animal rebel of ’85 I was almost expected to buck the system For some reason our class was told more than once NOT to bring any drugs, alcohol or cigarettes so I grabbed four beers out of the refrigerator and hid them in my sleeping bag. Driving in the bus on the way there we did our usual kid banter, but this wasn’t like our soccer trips up to San Francisco, there was something different this time, a different destination. We clumsily roll through the mountains in our rickety old school bus as our camaraderie grows with every mile and when we pull up we see familiar faces greeting us with smiles. The first nights exercises, meal and then bunking with non-familiar friends gave me a feeling of belonging, a feeling of being a part of something bigger than myself and for the first time in my short life I was beginning to feel different. The activities were set to be emotional and I could see how the counselors wanted to break down our teenage walls to our base feelings and start building them back up with this feeling of belonging, camaraderie and love. I could see how it worked but I wasn’t fighting the process this time, the first time in 12 years when my walls were first built. But as my roommates and I lay down that evening joking about the cold-water shower trick everyone was pulling on each other the fresh evening smell of pine was replaces with a different, familiar, plant smell. We were at the end of the cabin complex but we could hear each room start to snicker and gasp when the wafting pot smell permeated each room and we do the same when it hits us. The smell goes away after a couple of minutes and we finish up our conversations for the day, laying our heads on our pillows and closing our eyes. I am almost asleep when a loud crash wakes us all up, I shake my head to clear it but I already know what had happened. A bottle of booze was released out of a second story window with fervor. The sound of it hitting the bushes then breaking made me angry up until my elbow hit a free roaming beer. Guilt started up from me elbow, moving up my arm into my neck getting stuck in my head and I decided to talk to my friend Sara in the morning to see if I could be absolved for my minor sin.

On our way to breakfast I saw Sara and waved her over. With my most catholic face put on I tell her about the beers, hoping she can tell me what to do. I did this because I trusted her and wanted my infraction to just go away, I liked the place I was at and I didn’t want to lose it. “Tomorrow…we’ll take care of it tomorrow.” She says reassuringly. “Just keep it hidden.” She finishes. So I did. The smell of the woods and the chirps of the squirrels didn’t put me at ease because now someone else knew, even if it was Sara, so I struggled through breakfast with an uneasy look about me. At noon we were summoned to the main hall for some part of exercise. The walk back down the dirt path, underneath the canopy of the Santa Cruz forest cleansed my guilt from me, not completely but enough to take the next step. Our group arrived at the hall, which looked like an old hunting lodge, made from the forest that surrounded it. When we entered I noticed a fire in the fireplace that half lit all the beautiful wood furniture and being from the woods it made me feel warm, comfortable and safe. Counselors, student counselors and priests were already there talking amongst themselves then when we arrived they sat us a big wooden benches and told us what today’s event was going to be. Unbeknownst to us, there was a mandatory meeting back in San Jose at the Mitty chapel for all our parents where they were asked to write a letter of love and hope to their child so it could be read to them in hopes of making their bond with God and family stronger. After the first couple of letters were read, by counselors and priests, I understood the meaning. Each one was more touching than the last and each student cried during and after the letter was read. One by mother and one by father and from the hardened athlete to the unnamed band member to the pigeonholed stoner everyone cried. I missed some of the letters getting lost in the fantastic way the counselors put this together because not only did we get to hear OUR parents praise, but we also got to see how other families love worked. My tears fell with most every letter. It was making us one big family. Then my name was called and I hear my Mother’s undying love come from the mouth of another. She is eloquent and purposeful. Her writing is perfect in every way and as her words are read I can see her perfect penmanship floating above the paper, she means every loving word. But as the letter ends and I wipe the tears from my eyes I hear my Dad’s letter start, I had forgotten about Dad. Dad, by nature, isn’t religious but not because he has any hate or disbelief, it was just the way he was raised. From farm to Korea to starting a business he just never had any time for it. So I sat there almost afraid to hear what he was going to say. And then it starts…I can tell by his sentence structure that Mom had nothing to do with his letter, but then I listen to his words. Things he wrote he had never said to me and even though they’re coming from someone else I can hear his voice and I can see him writing in his chicken scratch writing, cursing and maybe thanking Mom for dragging him along. The next letter to someone else starts but I don’t hear it because I am still crying at my dad’s letter. Afternoon turns to evening, the squirrels are done and the birds are saying goodnight when we finish our letters. The girls are hugging each other and the guys are trying to play cool with their red swollen eyes. We get a fifteen minute break but are told to stick around and not go back to our cabin. So we bullshit in front of this hall of God and ruminate about our parents letters. Some of us tear up and more girls hug each other, but mostly we will stay close having a new understanding of each other and how we fit into this community. My dad was a rebel of a different era and I now think that maybe I was trying to connect with him that way because that was the only way, but after hearing what he said it was clear that’s not what he wanted. We are called back in, I am at the back of the group acting like a Sheppard, and as I cross the threshold I am grabbed by the arm and as I turn around I see the head priest with his face drowning in anger. “Come with me Mr. Aparicio.” He says, and I can feel his grip on my arm tighten. Confused, I don’t say anything, forgetting about my idiocy. “Did you really think you could get away with it?” He whispers through clinched teeth. And then I get it, they found the beer. “Your Mothers on the way, you’re going home.” He says. I can detect a faint air of victory and relief in his sentence like he had caught the Devil in a lie. I say nothing because I am in shock…this is all going away. We get to the outer offices and I see all my stuff packed up and waiting for me. My Mom shows up shortly after, she had been crying already. The priest and counselor say nothing as I load my stuff into the back of the Mercedes. I close the trunk and look for something, anything in their faces. Sorrow, regret, failure, compassion, but they’re backs are turned and they’re already walking away. I look at them for a minute to see if they would turn around, looking for some form of forgiveness, but they don’t. I get into the car and we head home. Hwy 17 is dark and wet with fog, I can’t look at my Mom but I can hear her cry, so I cry and we do this all the way home. I cry even harder watching the trees pass by my window, knowing that my Dad, who sacrificed so much to show his emotions, will just shake his head and not say a word when he sees me. By the time Mitty expelled me for this final sin of under aged none drinking I already knew that my dreams of an Oregonian college and belonging to community were gone, I was on the way back to being cold and distant. The expulsion committee tried to give me reasons of why they searched my stuff and my stuff only but I was having none of it. Their deviousness was beyond my forgiveness and when they tried to throw Sara, one of their own, under the bus as an excuse it just made be angrier. I blamed all of them, their inadequacies, their fear, their fake faith. My anger grew and grew and I began to blame Sara, forgetting about logic and reason that was for other people now. My passion, my hate for that sect of people became a rash, a rash that if you attacked it, it felt good but would never heal and I attacked it a lot…until it bled. FLASH! My eyes refocus and I see Erica has taken another picture saving me from the past hell, finding myself sitting with Sara again. I look at her blinding smile, kind eyes and shy auburn hair and remember one of my last days at the shrink and the breakthrough that sat me next to my old friend that I had blamed for so long without logic or reason...I am standing now screaming at my midget of a shrink, I don't remember standing. "It's not my fault!" My eyes are shaking. "It's not my fault!!" I can feel my biceps on the inside of my shirt. "I trusted them!" My voice breaks in the scream. "It's not my fault!" I am frothing now, this memory is not a good one to bring up with me, but somehow he knows this is pivotal. Through my shaking eyes I can see him slowly move from his chair to his desk, he was good at it, not making any sudden movements to further enrage the grandstanding gorilla. He can see I want to ruin something. "Aw FUCK!" I scream with my last breath and slump back down into the chair. "Why does it have to be my fault?" I say, not asking him or anybody else. My eyes well up and I cry. How could one action, one movement, one motion...one innocent moment that lasted less than 20 seconds do so much damage I think to myself while I cry. “Sara, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for blaming you for Kairos.” I say with my guilt filled head bowed fighting the booze. “I am so sorry.” I say. She just looks at me like I’m crazy, which I might have in fact been. But I needed to let her know whether she knew I did or not. “Ok, it’s alright Chris.” She says. Then the bar swirls back into my consciousness and although I know that she doesn’t understand the torment that I had to deal with her forgiveness is better that any other I know and of such a higher standard than any adult that kicked me out of Kairos or Mitty. Another shot is thrown at me and my requiem is complete. I stand up dizzy from remembering my moment of awakening and walk outside for a much needed smoke. The night smells different now, it’s moving faster than I thought and by the time I get back upstairs Brian asks me where Joel is, I don’t know is the answer. Another drink and another story about a forgotten party and Brian asks me again about Joel. “I’m going to go find him.” He says. I am drunk and done, my memory has been taxed too much so I go with him stopping and saying goodnight to whom I can get to. Hitting the streets we walk back down the path we came popping our heads into “The Black Watch” just to be sure he didn’t segue into it. We cross the last street and I hear someone running up behind us, I turn to expect Joel running up behind us but all I saw was Brian trying to hold his balance with his body flung forward. “Oh Shit!” I say as Brian flies by me, saving himself from a fall. “Dude, I tripped.” He says with a smile then laughs. We bypass the last couple of bars, opting to get back to the hotel before one of us trips again. The hotel is dead and I wonder what time it is, not looking at my watch. We get to the room and turn on the lights to find Joel already in bed. Brian hits his bed and that was that. We laugh for a bit but they are done. “I’ll see you guys in a few weeks.” I say in regards to the reunion and leave them to their devices outside at my car, I can hear 17 going to sleep. The moon is out reflecting off the trees of the pass so I look up and say goodnight. The roads home are empty, my “Strokes” CD is playing my favorite song over and over, and I feel good. A little closure, a rash that was salved and a very nice scratch to my very wanton itch.

Facebook Follies

Summer fades and I can smell fall in the air, waiting around the corner for the right time to jump out and scare us. Now that event that seemed so far away was almost on top of us. With this firmly planted in the back of my head I noticed a picture on Facebook of Joel at a Prom with his blue tux and feathered hair, looking at 80’s n’s hit. Then another picture of an old Mitty quad with forgotten classmates smiling and goofing around. The Fiber’s laugh and kid about the pictures and post their own and day by day more pictures pop up. A dance picture here, an old party picture there a copied photograph from the yearbook and like that the earth gave away and Facebook was buried with an avalanche of pictures from another time. Pictures that were forgotten or thought lost until you signed on then…POW! There you were skinny and young again, holding hands with your Prom date or holding a California Wine Cooler. Everyday a new batch would appear biting at your eyeballs, making them squint and look away. But I couldn’t look away, I had to see how young we once were, how carefree, how blessedly naïve The next day I decided to ski the avalanche with my own set of forgotten memories, tracking up to the attic, moving the trophy box and my old ski clothes, finally reaching my box of youth. That night I spent the time cringing and laughing out loud as I shuffled through these miniature two dimensional time machines. My screams and knee jerks were so pronounced that I scared my cat more than once. As the night moved on I refilled my vodka side and lit another cigarette and picked some choice pictures to share with my friends. A picked the first picture because of the people in it, Dave, April and Sue getting ready for our senior prom. The next picture was from one of my parties and there I was with clove in hand, wine cooler in the other posing over my incredibly famous coffee table. Laura and I from my junior prom was the third picture picked and finally a picture of Steve and I in front of our soccer field after a game, I have my class ring on a chain around my neck which I forgot I used to do.

I sit in my icy office, watching the sun come up over James Lick Observatory. I had already posted the pictures as soon as I got in and now I found myself looking at the screen and waiting for some sort of response, then I realize that nobody is up yet except for maybe Misty or Mike due to earlier time zones. I sit there and look at the pictures while I wait and remember around them. Dave, April, Sue and I ate dinner at Dave’s house that night, I remember laughing so hard I spit up pot stickers. I also remember how perfect Sue looked…and I remember trying not to get caught looking at Aprils boobs. My clove and wine cooler picture was taken at one of my smaller parties, I remember Danny had his wisdom teeth pulled earlier that day. I also remember the teenage almost animalistic sex I had at the end of the party with an unnamed female classmate. My junior prom picture reminded me of poor Laura, who didn’t feel good that night and how me and my buddy Jim Beam didn’t care, dropping her off early so I could make it to Bob’s party in Almaden. Steve and I wearing our long sleeved white uniforms, smiling at one of our parents knowing that as soon as they left we were going to get shitfaced. I remember losing my ring that night somewhere in Saratoga. These memories filled my head and made me want more, then everyone else woke up and began posting more My office is warmer now and my workers are gone for the day so I sit and talk out loud to my laptop as I perused old pictures from my classmates. “I don’t remember that.” I say half cringing. “I wish I could forget that.” I say cringing deeper. But as the pictures rolled, I cringed less and remembered more. The week moves on and I bring more picture from the house, as does everyone. We jab and poke and kid each other about the girls’ poofy prom dresses and the guys’ feathered hair, along with all the other styles that were prevalent, which didn’t seem so bad back then, but were obvious now. Then the inevitable happens…our senior photo’s started to show up. Once again Joel is one of the first to make it his profile picture and soon after every time I logged on I saw my old classmates faces staring back at me. My picture was perfect for the person I was. Such a sly fox with one eyebrow raised and an all knowing smirk almost hidden like the Mona Lisa across my lips. I try not to look at it but its right there drawing my eyes toward it, showing my old self how much of a moron I used to be. But I dealt with it for school pride, as others did even though the amount of shit each of us got from non Mitty friends was piling up. More and more pictures from everyone came every day and I began to look forward to see who found what pictures stashed away, under the guest bed waiting for a reason to pull them out. This continued for two weeks, it felt like a good precursor to the reunion. Getting the figurative juices flowing, and then it hit me that we should have a pre party to get the actual juices flowing, to lessen the anxiety that most people get when they attend these things. Then Sue hit’s me up. “Were all staying at the Moorpark Hotel, you going to get a room there…they have a bar.” She says. But I don’t need enticing, I have a great idea

How to accidentally plan a party

I hang up with the Moorpark Hotel after reserving my room for the weekend. Sue had told me that She, Misty, Kristin and April were rooming together and that a lot of us were getting rooms there. I am excited to see that nobody has started talk about a pre party before the reunion, because I wanted to set up a good old fashioned “Aparicio” party It’s Tuesday, a week before the reunion, I leave at lunchtime to go to the Moorpark to check it out and check out the bar Sue told me about. I leave the freeway at Saratoga Ave and am sent back to a time when if I hit this exit seven minutes to 8 am, I could still make it to class on time, barring no speed traps on Moorpark itself. It’s been years since I’ve driven this way, there’s a hotel where there wasn’t one and no pizza place where there should be. I turn right onto Moorpark at the intersection where I got hit by a car on my bike one Saturday in 1982, then pull into the parking lot of the Moorpark. I get out of my truck and look back at the intersection and remember the speeding Camaro hitting me at full “make the light” speed, sending me over his roof then onto the ground. I shake my head trying to figure out how I didn’t die that day then laugh to myself saying, “It wasn’t in God’s plans,” knowing how ridiculous I sound. Wood, wood and more wood, hotels are using it these days like Formica was used in the 70’s, trying to make the patron feel comfortable which is exactly what the Moorpark Hotel had done. Beautiful wood outlays with comfortable furniture and non-threatening artwork, nothing too glitzy or expensive, just comfortable…with a fire in the fire place. I walk up reception and glance up to see an open second floor balcony with a pool table, I am pleased with this little bit of risqué architecture and ask the receptionist for the manager. Lucy walks me down the hall and opens the door to the bar. I stand there and have a staring contest with this cookie cutter of a hotel bar, nothing special, booze put away, chairs on tables and I can barely see the pool through the 1” wide lattice that surrounds the pool. “Is everything alright?” Lucy asks. “Fine, Fine.” I say, remembering that at times the setting is important, but the landscape can only set the mood, it’s what you sprinkle it with is what you remember. Like an ice cream sundae, of course the ice cream is key, but it would just be ice cream without the hot fudge, whipped cream, nuts and cherries, not a sundae. That’s how I feel about parties, sure a nice hotel or extravagant bar is always nice, but without the right people sprinkled on it, it’s just a nice place, not a party. You add the right cross section of people and you have your hot fudge people, your whipped cream people, your cherries and of course your nuts. This bar was vanilla, it just needed some toppings. “What time do you open?” I say laughing inside about my private joke. “We open at 6pm.” She says. “Ok, ok.” I say not wanting to get too deep into structuring now. I get back to the office and my mind begins to roll. I call back Lucy an hour later and ask her if they can open it early on that Saturday at 3pm, then keep it open until close that night. “We’ll have to charge you by the hour for the time before, but we can’t keep it open after 11pm due to neighborhood noise restriction. I try to convince her that we won’t make that much noise, after I told her it was a reunion for Mitty, which more than likely sealed the no deal for the after party. I update everyone about the pre party plans at the Moorpark, not asking for money because they have given me so much entertainment at my old parties. I owed them for passing out on my lawn, for jumping off my roof into the pool, for breaking expensive stuff that I had to lie about and for all the countless hook ups and inappropriate make out sessions that made you do a double take, then go tell your best friend. It was my final present to them for giving me the building blocks to understanding the human psyche and how it sometimes short circuits. Needless to say, everyone is happy to have a place to go, not unlike that errant house on a Friday night that nobody knows about because their parents didn’t tell them they were going away for the weekend until they left…like my parents did. Suddenly the reunion had a face, a beginning, a cliff you would have to jump off if you wanted to swim. It jolted a lot of people into getting rooms and making plans, which made Facebook alive with action and excitement, albeit with more of those horrid forgotten class pictures. I fret all Friday trying to look for a hall or maybe another hotel for the after party. I crack my skull open all day picking out pieces of memory, trying to remember what is close to Mitty. After work I head to my local bar for a couple of pops and during my third “two & two”, I slap myself in the head. “I’ll just find a bar.” I say out loud. Janae just looks at me from across the bar with a quizzical look on her face. “Looks like you found one I’d say.” She says in perfect sarcastic confusion. “Just game another two & two.” I say with my hands using slang for my Budweiser and Cherry Bomb combo stealing Chuck Woolery’s famous commercial sign off of “We’ll be back in two minutes and two seconds.” It doesn’t make sense but my bartenders understand it I wake up the next morning almost rethinking my little trek I had planned today. I lift my head off the pillow and open my eyes to see another “clothes explosion”, which is like a “stupid bomb”, when you wake up missing your car, car keys, wallet, phone and glasses. Instead a “clothes explosion” is when you wake up and see a shoe is on the television, the other one is rolled up in your jeans under your pillow, pants over the lamp and your shirt is just plain gone to be found if and when you move out of your house. I am showered, shaved and shialeboeuf’d by the time the bars open. I hit the all too familiar 280 to Saratoga Ave to the first and closest bar to the hotel. I step out of the Mercedes, I ache but the wind in my face has lessened the hangover. The Redi Room is directly across the street from the Moorpark Hotel and first on my Saturday tour. It is dark and smells like ammonia, but I sit anyway, totally committed to finding the after party place. The bartender comes out of the bathroom as soon as the front door closes. “Sorry about the smell, the cleaning guys didn’t come this morning.” She says. “You want to watch something in particular.” She finishes. She is in her early 20’s with a white tank top, no bra and the tightest jeans I’ve ever seen. “What’ll you have?” She asks. “Two n...just a bud thanks.” I say forgetting where I am. She places my beer in front of me and I can see her hand tattoo of vines crawling up her pinky. She leaves to turn on the rest of the televisions at the back of the bar, standing on her tippy toes, her long brunette hair almost covers her tramp stamp on her lower back. It’s going to take a lot to leave this bar. Avalon and I, I think it was her stage name, drink for an hour before we were interrupted by the usual old men that came in to ogle her…which is what this old man had been doing. The usual wreck our ‘affair’, so I say my goodbye and leave The Decembrists’ “Rake” rips through the morning air as I race towards the “Final Score”, my next stop. I pull in and already there are drunk people outside smoking. “Hey, that’s a pretty nice car, what year is it?” The first drunk says. “1980.” I say and walk past them, not wanting to talk to them. I can hear him talking behind me as I cross into the bar. “Mine was a 62, lost it in my divorce…his voice trails off. Redi Room was small, but I could see fitting some people in there, this place was small with a capital “S”. I had been here before, but only with buddy Kevin when I wasn’t thinking of a party, this place was completely wrong, but since I was here might as well have a drink. More televisions behind the bar, showing me all the meaningless college football games. My bartender was male, my age with poor eyesight, a complete change from Avalon, but the Bud and shot were the same. My two friends from outside finish their cigarettes so before I got into a conversation with them about college football, I quickly downed my drinks, said thanks and made my escape My car remembers the way to what I used to call my Saturday bar, it even knows what music to play, but I felt like it was going to be a loss because this bar burnt down two years ago, but I was in the mood to drive, so I did. I am almost resigned to have the after party at the Redi Room as I tool down Williams Rd. I remember going to a party on this street maybe in 84 or 85, I think and then there it is. Park Lane Lounge, new & open for business is what the sign said. I park and open the new doors and walk inside. Seeing the old bar in my eyes, I am confused as soon as I walk in because things aren’t where they’re supposed to be. It looks bigger, a lot bigger and shinier and swankier. Then I look closer and my old bartender Tiffany wasn’t there. I stand at the door for what seemed a long time, looking at the new televisions, new bar stools, new bar. “Can I help you?” The new bartender says. “Yea, vodka and side.” I say half bewildered, then… “Chris!” A voice breaks over the televisions, and I see a familiar face but for the life of me I cannot remember this girl’s name. “Hey, girlie, long time no see.” I say, racking my brain for her name. “What the hell happened to this place?” I ask my old bar buddy Dianne…’Dianne!’ I scream in my head. “Nothing, Frank got it redone right this time.” “No shit.” I say as we break into stories about the olden days and our very brief relationship. She breaks out old names that I can remember, fights that happened that I don’t remember, but I nod my head and drink my drink. The three guys at the end of the bar Dianne was sitting with look out of place in this new Lounge. “What are you doing here?” She asks. “I’m setting up my after party for my 25th high school reunion.” I say. “Cool, what high school?” She asks. “I went to Mitty.” I say. “Fuck, so did Frank, Julie, go get Frank.” Dianne orders the bartender. “Who’s Frank?” I say. “The owner, dummy.” She says. Julie dutifully does what Dianne asks and soon a slightly older, shorter man walks out from the back. We drink a couple and bullshit about the “new” school. We’re amazed that we never met before and an hour later, he leaves me his numbers and says to call him if I needed anything for that night. As he walks away I yell at him and as he turns I point my finger at Julie. “I need Julie for that Saturday.” I say, trying to be cool. “You got it, buddy.” He says, then disappears back into the back room.

I spend the next two hours drinking and bullshitting young Julie, taking pictures and posting them on Facebook. In between the “Daddy” jokes, everyone seemed to be pleased with the location, so my job was done Driving home with my satellite radio tuned to the modern rock oldies, I take the long way home and as my music fights with the air again I imagine that it’s 1984 and I am driving home from someone’s party, full, young and happy.

The Redi Room

The final days before the reunion move like a snail running through molasses almost like father time didn’t want us to experience our well-deserved weekend. I could tell over Facebook that everyone was excited as names and faces from the past “friended” me every day wanting to know where and when the pre and post parties were, and I was more than pleased to give them the information. It almost felt like a Friday afternoon at Mitty as people came up to me and asked if my parents were leaving anywhere for the weekend. The Mitty alum site was posting who was registering for the reunion and maybe I have a skewed view of who was the “party” class from the 80’s, but the RSVP’s seemed to be all from ’85…I liked that, being the all-time party animal from that year. More jokes, more forgotten names and faces popped up in the last couple of days looking for the ultimate party ride and then like that it was Friday and I couldn’t get out of the office fast enough The beginning of the weekend started with a text from Sue stating “Giddy the fuck up!” But I was trapped at work dealing with my demon’s until the Archbishop himself looked down and helped me cross back over the river Styx, letting me leave work early to begin the 3 day extravaganza that would be mine and our 25 year reunion. Even with the “Giddy Up”, I arrived earlier than the girls, they had not checked in yet, but I wasn’t fazed knowing that there was a bar across the street…so I went for my first drink. The Redi Room was almost empty and my buddy Avalon, looking oh so young, was working again. “Hey Chris, how you doing’?” She says, remembering me. “Good, just meeting some old girlfriends.” I say with no intention of it meaning what her young mind thought. Her, jeans are still tight, her hair still doesn’t cover up her tattoo and her braless body is still WAY too young for me, but I sit, again, having no place else to go…I will suffer through the wait and did I mention she’s very young. Four drinks later I’m ready to ask her out. I tell her about the reunion and our plans. “Your how old?” She says with mock shock, knowing that I know I look my age if not older. “Shuddap.” I say. “Here’s one on me, hope you guys have a great time this weekend.” She says vying for a bigger tip. 45 minutes later I get the call, they had gone shoe shopping without me. “Av, I will see you later, thanks.” I say, abandoning her, slamming my drink and heading back across the very dangerous Moorpark Ave

I leave the elevator and I can already hear them, their voices filling the area with air freshened memories, they are the same and very distinct. The tone, the resonance, the pitch, I can almost tell what their moods are, so I follow them to an open door, peek inside and then knock. The scene is priceless…clothes, shoes and other assorted grisliness is strewn about the room, along with a big bottle of vodka…my kind of girls. April, Kristin, Misty and Sue are in mid debate about something that happened long ago when I interrupted them. So warm, so kind, so mature are the hello’s I get lost and don’t know how to react, then Kristin saves me. “Here, have a drink.” She says, handing me vodka, straight up. “It is so good to see you guys again.” I say, leaving my panic at the door. We drink as they unpack milling over our yearbooks, laughing at our photos and what we wrote to each other. This is the way I bullshit with my old drinking buddies at the bar I think to myself then that is broken by the one who saved me at the door. “Here guys, some brie and crackers.” She says. We begin to laugh until “Mom” Kristin shows up and makes us eat. “Not only is it good, but good for you…now eat!” And with that they slowly turn back into my girlie friends finishing it off with refusing to use the mixes in the refrigerator because of the price. So as they go off to find a cheaper mix for the big bottle of vodka, I check in to my room the room is a room is a room just like any other room, so I set up my laptop and let everyone know the eagle has landed. The best part is that I’m right next door to my friends. Unbelievably as soon as I finish posting I hear the girls burst into the room, giggling, laughing, and chattering like they were at some long forgotten party. I bang on the wall and the chipmunk chatter stops. I can hear them whisper, again like high school, like they had just gotten busted which put a smile on my face. I wait it out and I can slowly hear the whispers turn into chatter, then into the bustle of normalcy before I head over. “Jeez, did you hear that guy next door.” I say. “Yea…Chris is next door to us Mist.” They are a lot quicker than most of the people I know. We mix our drinks with the fantastically economical mixes, eat Kristin’s brie and crackers and talk about a lot of faded memories. I feel like one of the girls as we jump into the “Dating Game”, brought on by the prom pictures on Facebook. “I went out with him too.” Was said more than once…and not by me. “Who else did you date?!” Said with shock usually followed. Slowly we adopted Sue’s very eloquent tagline ‘You can fuck right off’, which made us all laugh every time it was said. An hour of ‘fuck right offs’ and memories being jolted back to life like a cardiac arrest victim being defibrillated and we were ready for our Friday night out. We cross the street buzzed heading towards the Redi Room, I have been here more in the last 6 days than in the last 20 years, but with the 4 women in tow it almost seems to be a brand new bar. The bright red letters of the name sign floating the fuzzy haze of twilight makes me feel like a piece of the world, albeit a worked over world but a piece nonetheless, like it always has. I smile and open the door for my girls and we walk in like royalty. The bar stops when they see the girls, then continues when they see me. Avalon is still working and glances at me with a secret thumbs up. I smile not knowing how to react to her gesture The bar is dark, as per usual, lit only by the televisions and neon beer signs, but that’s not what gets me…it’s the smell. It’s not a bad smell, it’s the conglomeration of scent and feeling, not everyone can smell it…but I can, and it smells good. We sit smack dab in the middle of the bar as all the patrons eye the girls trying to figure out our intent. “My treat ladies.” I say and gather their drink orders. Surprisingly they order Blue Moon Beer, except for Misty, who isn’t a slacker. “Nice.” Avalon says to me up at the bar in reference to my friend harem. “You their pimp?” A drunk asks me as Av gets our drinks. “No…and I wouldn’t let them hear you say that either.” I say non-threateningly then look back at them to see if they heard, worrying my drunken friend. They don’t hear, they just sit patiently waiting for their drinks creating a glow in the middle of the bar. I return with the drinks in mid conversation again but then, before I sit, I am riddled with a barrage of questions about who I dated in high school. “I didn’t think I kept that a secret.” I say sitting down, remembering all my failed romances that were very public. “Who did you date before Sue?” April asks. “Keri…no, Susan…nook…” And I stumble into confusion, my usually reliable memory stepping out for a bit “I didn’t start dating Sue until after I broke my ankle in ’84…that was like November…I don’t remember.” I say. “I guess there was nobody else before Sue that made such an impression on me.” I say like an asshole flirt. “Oh, you can fuck right off!” Sue says to my bullshit. “Ungh, this vodka tastes funny.” Misty says after laughing at Sue. “Here, lemma taste…I don’t know Mist.” She says after a beat. “I’ll get you another.” I say, stepping in to save the day, not knowing that this was going to continue for 3 more Vodka’s. My little temporary stroll down Alzheimer’s lane set off another foray into the “who else did you date” game. The womanly intensity these 4 use to talk about their past relationships they had 25 to 30 years ago is matched only by their girlish coquettishness and what they really thought of us “boys” back then. I can say nothing to defend my brethren or offer any insights on the teenage female because back then I was a cad, admittedly, and didn’t care whether the girl liked me or not Another hour, another set of OMG moments like a confession about prom night and Aprils dress and I realize that we’ve only taken one picture. Sue immediately stands up and grabs one of the younger patrons, the bar is full of them now, to take our picture. With the dart board behind us, Sue, like a zoo keeper, begins to bark at this guy. “No, move up…move back…move over.” She is in charge and he’s lucky there is no whip around. “No, no, no.” She says and leaves our little coven of ‘85ers to position this poor drunk exactly where she wants him. The rest of us laugh until she looks back at us, not wanting to get reprimanded. Pictures are taken by more than one of the patrons by the time we had our fill…they want pizza now, forgoing Sue’s need for Jack in the Box Back at the hotel we order a pizza, something I’ve never done before, and have a night cap, something I have done before, and wait for the food. Smiles are nonstop and we give each other shit for the shit we did and laugh. The pizza comes and I go to pay but I can’t find my wallet. “Oh, shit…I lost my wallet.” I say drunkenly. I don’t feel bad because I lost my wallet but because I can’t take care of my girls so I take a piece and go next door to see if it fell out of me head or something. I search for 4 seconds before I found it in my pocket. “Found it!” I yell through the wall. “It was in my pocket…it’s always the last place you look.” I say, using my favorite drunk joke as I walk back into their room. I don’t realize it but it simply looks like I just didn’t want to pay, but I am drunk and am an idiot. The pizza hits the belly and sleepy time begins. “I’m going for a smoke girls.” I say and turn and head down stairs. The hotel is quiet and our “night” out has gotten us all the way to 9:30pm. I sit on a luggage rack, smoke my smoke and reflect on our first night. I am joined by the girls five minutes later and for some reason my reflections make me feel guilty, makes me want to confess to someone who might understand me before I was me, so I do. I tell them about how heinous a human I can be towards others when they get in my way, how I can hurt and destroy without regard if I am pressed. I also tell them about the ultimate price I may have to pay for this latest infraction. They are silent so I continue. I tell them that seeing them again remind me of a time before I was me, before I was like this and in my melancholy I cry. But my tears aren’t for anyone but me

This was a good start to what should be a great weekend and I apologize for my confession. I will not let my selfishness get in the way of anyone’s weekend. We walk upstairs, past the still lit fire, past the nice artwork, up the elevator and past the pool table. I say my goodnights to the girls and as I lay down in bed I fall asleep reliving our conversations, hearing their laughs and forget about all the bad things I’ve done since I saw them last.

Be at AP

Morning comes early, like it has done for the past so many years and hangover or not I get up. I am embarrassed about my break down from last night, I seem to be doing that a lot more since, well, since I turned 40 with nothing to show except some sidewalks and a good head of hair. But I remember Lucy saying something about a continental breakfast and although I don’t usually have breakfast I felt today would be a good day to break precedence and have a cup while waiting for the girls to get up It’s 6am and the sun is just starting to put color on the drapes, I check the posts to see if anyone was listening. I see that I posted the picture that I took from last night catching the ladies with beautiful big smiles with comments from some who say they wish they could have made it. I brush my teeth and brush my hair, which really doesn’t do anything. I finish with deodorant and head downstairs looking like a werewolf with fresh breath. I don’t expect to see anybody, but as I exit the elevator I see Misty and April beating me to the punch. “What the hell are you guys doing up?” I say as I try to fix my hair. “It’s already 9am for me.” Misty says as I forget she lives in Florida. “Misty woke me up bumping around the room.” April says. The sunrise is in full swing now peeking over our eastern boarder of mountains that protect us from absolutely nothing but damn us to a watery grave if the San Andreas Fault ever decides to slide us into the pacific. So I sit with my coffee and croissant in front of the fire on those coffee chairs feeling very continental. The 3 of us sit and laugh about Kristin’s brie and Sue’s picture and my wallet. I decide to scratch some notes from last night as April and Misty talk about family and almost missing California. “Is this what time old people get up?” Kristin asks from the second floor balcony. “Yep.” I say simply. She joins us and we ask her if she wants some brie with her coffee. They continue their conversations of palatable things like family and future as I just scribble on my pad when…click. A stealth attack picture from above…Sue is up. I smoke a couple of cigarettes while that girls chatter on about going to Sue’s kids baseball game somewhere to pass the time until 3pm, which is when the pre-party starts. “The Pre-Party starts today.” I say out loud. “We’ll be back by then.” Sue says thinking I’m yelling at them. But I’m not, everything seemed so familiar I just got lost thinking it was just another day, but it’s not. “Yea, yea, not yelling at you, that’s just the way my brain works.” I say using another one of my favorite lines. “Hit, the reunion is today too.” I say as my synapses take the morning off. “What is wrong with you?” Sue asks. “What are you going to do?” Misty asks. “I’m 43…I’ll eat, watch television and take a nap, easy as cake.” I say with a big smile. They laugh and agree a nap would be necessary later I vie for one more smoke before I head upstairs and Sue joins me. While I’m smoking outside talking about tonight a truck pulls up and I can hear the music before it pulls up to us. I hadn’t heard Lover boy, a band from the early 80’s, in years. A song from their first album is blaring from the cockpit and as soon as the driver smiles I can see it’s a Mitty Alum. “Johnny, what’s up brother…still rocking’ Lover boy, huh? I say as we shake hands. “Yea, man…just getting’ in the mood.” He says. Then the awkward silence that I recognize as a “who is this” moment. “Hit, you remember Sue?” I say, not remembering if they knew each other or not. “OH, yea…Sue, how’s it going?” Johnny says, reminding me that not everyone knew everyone when we were in high school. Even the yearbook talked openly about our Hard Rock, Academic, Jock, Social, Mod & Surfer cliques. But with my cigarette done, Johnny checking in and Sue going to see her family I was off to Togo’s and blockbuster. Driving down Lawrence Expressway to the old West Gate shopping mall, reminds me of the 1000 time’s I did after I got my license. Touring Saratoga with our clique that included all cliques who were Bob, Jim, Eric, John, Karen, Michele, Kara, Jill, Sean, Heather, Sara, Candy, Scott and other assorted classmates here and there, terrorizing places like Burger King and Merlin’s Castle. But now it’s all changed, El Paseo is a different animal as is West Gate, all I see are ghosts of buildings and memories of streets. I pick up my turkey and Swiss from Togo’s and my Star Trek from blockbuster and 45 minutes later I am full and asleep with the T.V. on waiting for the party to start Just like before my next door neighbors burst in their room like banshee’s, laughing and giggling like school girls, which wakes me up. I get up and bang on the wall like before, this time they bang back. It’s 1pm and since I’m the silent host to this pre-party shindig I get up and get ready to shower. A knock on the door, a warning that they will be taking naps now and a request to wake them up an hour before happens before I can get the nap crust out of my eyes. I check Facebook again to see if anyone need directions, but all I see are a bunch of posts saying they were on their way…this is going to be a good party. I am showered and dressed and downstairs smoking in an hour and a half. Sporting my black Italian shirt, my Camelhair sport coat…and my Jeans and Adidas Samba’s I finish my smoke. Mark is pulling up when I put it out, we weren’t that close in school, but now it’s just as nice to see him as anybody else The Bar is open, the bartender is stocking the bar and Nell’s younger Nathan is already sitting at the bar…got to give it up to the underclassman. “What’s up brother?” I say, realizing that I say that too much. “Hey, Chris, nice shoes.” He says giving me shit about my indoor soccer shoes. Damnit Man, now I can’t say I was the first one here.” I say. “Hey, how’s it going, are you Chris?” Jeff the bartender says. “Yep, that’s me.” I say "Hey, thanks for the extra work.” He says, referring about the extra 3 hours of overtime he’s getting paid for today. No problem, but just a warning, if my classmates still drink like they used to, you’d better be on your toes.” I say with a smile. You got it boss, what’ll you have?” He says. “Start things rolling with a vodka side please.” I say. “Fair enough.” He says and in 2 seconds I have a drink. He may survive the day yet, I think to myself. 3pm, the start of the pre-party comes and goes and still it’s just Nathan and I, I begin to get worried thinking that maybe nobody remembers my “Be at Ap’s” parties. I see Mark and Johnny again, going up to their rooms to get ready. Nathan and I are on our 3rd drink, I can hear my modern rock channel playing low under our conversation and I begin to wonder if I had made a mistake setting this thing up, maybe nobody drinks like me anymore, they all have families and responsibilities and… shit. They don’t take a Saturday going to bars to find the right one, they don’t ogle and try to pick up girls half their age, and they don’t pride themselves for being a drunk and recovering drug addict. Shit, I bet none of them even smoke on a regular basis anymore. But just as I finish my thought, Johnny comes down and orders a drink followed by Mark, Juliana and Monique, followed by Shelly her husband, then Ava, Brian and Joel and that's when the floodgates opened. By 4:15pm the bar is full and I can’t keep track of who’s coming in, especially because Brian, Joel and I are smoking on the terrace. I can see more and more friends pour into the place, usually with looks of shock on their faces. To come into a bar full of people you haven’t seen in years would have to be daunting at best. The girls aren’t down yet, so we send Monique up to get them who promptly gets sucked into their vortex of lateness. It’s 5pm and hour to go before the actual reunion starts, but to me it feels like it already has. Seeing all my old friends laughing, reminiscing and sometimes slapping their heads in remembrance makes me feel like…well, like I used to, and I can’t stop smiling. Karen, Kara, Sara and Michele pop their heads in to shrieks of enjoyment. I walk to them and give them all hugs hello, it is more than good to see part of our old crew. They move into the crowd wading through hugs and handshakes, I stand outside the bar and watch the wake of friends close in behind them. I see trepidation as I walk out in some people’s eyes before they walk in, but as soon as someone says hello it all goes away. Claire, Sara make it over the hill to join us and when I say “hi” to them I see Matt, Ryan, Mike and Mark in the corner laughing and joking along with the rest of us. Monique comes down and warns me that they are ready and coming down, then, finally, the girls make their entrance, looking beautiful, standing 4 across. “Your party ma dams.” I say, and bow them in. “You didn’t wake us up.” Sue says with a sarcastic smile. Another wave of hello’s and I need to go out front for a smoke. I am overwhelmed, as is Jeff the bartender, with this old party. I’ve walked into bars where everyone knew me…but not like this. The last hour fly’s by so fast it feels like I didn’t talk to anyone and now I’m out of smokes. It’s 10 till 6 and everyone is slowly getting into cabs and cars and heading over to the reunion. Groups of people leave the party laughing and buzzing, thoroughly ready to meet the rest of our classmates, who I’m sure will wish they were here tonight. I am the last at the party, talking to Jeff, making sure he had a good night…he just looks at me smiles and says after a beat...“…a very good night.” I sit for 1 last drink and think about the successful pre-party, the old “Be at Ap’s” party, a phrase coined by Bob, who said he couldn’t make it but will see me at the reunion I think back to all those parties I had and think I’ve hosted this scene before, met these people before, I’ve drank, dated, danced and diffused fights with and between these people before and now, while waiting for a cab I am glad that I spent my short youth with them

The Reunion

Everyone is gone by the time my cab shows up, my mind is still awash in the beginning of the night to feel it’s minor cool nibble at my face. I am pleased with myself as I am taxied down Moorpark that everything went off without a hitch. I sit in the back of the cab, smile and remember. The front of the school is as it was when I was a freshman, sitting on the steps waiting for my Mom, Dad or one of his employee’s to pick me up after school, looking at all the other scared freshman and checking out their parents cars. We turn into the familiar parking lot, look to the left and see what looks like a postmodern mansion, superbly lit with well-balanced shrubbery accenting its angle points. My eyes don’t see the full parking lot, they are entranced on the new Mitty buildings wondering how these new kids deal with this kind of opulence. The cab leaves and now I head towards where the old cafeteria used to be. Its cocktail hour still, so I go up to get my nametag to find it gone already, somebody stole my nametag. The guy doesn’t seem to care so I float off into the crowd, seeing everyone, remembering everyone…Maureen, Jennifer, Mary, Bob, Bobby, Tom, Ben. Keeping in the back of my mind that someone is impersonating me. My meandering leads me to the bar in the corner, so I get a vodka side and begin to head back towards the opposite corner. The ghost of the old cafeteria slowly fills my eyes and I can see the fold up tables, I can hear the first period rustle and I can smell the bourbon in my big gulp. Those mornings senior year after Kairos, before I was expelled were some of the most memorable, my utter discontent and growing ennui for a lot of things connected to the school was matched only by my utter disobedience and egomaniacal bravado. I can see me stumble through the cafeteria, hoping no teachers were there to stop me, but kind of wishing they were. That was the beginning of my life as we know it…I think about leaving and going to the Park Lane early then I run into him. “Hello.” The priest says. “OH, Hi…Father.” I say stunned. “You’re Mr. Aparicio, right?” He says with an altruistic smile on his face. “Yes I am.” I say, wondering how I could have gotten in trouble already. “I thought so, your friend Brian has your nametag.” He says, again with a smile. A-ha, that where it went, thanks Father.” I say, hoping I’m not saying anything wrong. “How are doing tonight?” He continues. And I stop and think, should I tell him what I was just thinking or lie and say I’m fine. “I was just looking at some ghosts.” I say, trying to be a mature smart ass. “Yes, things have changed quite a bit since you’ve been here.” He says, getting it, and surprising me. “Boy, it sure has Father.” I say suddenly feeling the urge to confess. “Well, you have a nice night son.” He says, shakes my hand and leaves. “I think I will, Father.” I say, thinking this is the most I’ve said Father ever. I find Brian, smiling his head off. “Hey Chris, you look different.” I say to Brian. “Here, you can have this back, I don’t want to be you, and your shoes are too big.” He says smiling. I smile back and assume my identity. We mingle for another 20 minutes finding Selina, Gina, Mija, Mike and Margret & Lauren and I think I should have let Brian keep my nametag just to see the confusion in everyone’s eyes, that would have been fun We are released to the Gym for dinner and dancing, it seems that I am last again but luckily someone is saving a table for us, right in front of the video monitor that has a slideshow clicking through pictures of us. I roll through underclassmen to find the bar and order another vodka side, heading back to my seat I take a second to look around. I stand still and can smell and feel the old gym, the times I spent in this building were the most memorable. I remember Huey Lewis in the boy’s bathroom being a rock star and I also remember missing his concert because of a girl and a place called the “boneyard”. I remember the dance when all the girls from our crew yelled at me for dating more than one of them at a time. I remember dancing in front of a school assembly with nothing but my shorts and a bag over my head, I also remember Bob, John & Eric alongside with me and being called the Unknowns. I remember Saturday night indoor soccer with Coach Cheech and Musonic watching videos of the Cosmo’s at the end the night and I remember the last time I ever left that gym after losing to Saint Francis in the playoff’s slipping on the wet floor with my crutches and cursing the freshman’s name that took over for me when I went down. I’ve had a 1000 kisses, 100 heartbreaks and too many teenage regrets than I care to remember in this place, but I still love the smell of memories that permeate my nose. "Chris!” My name is yelled by Bob, waking me up from my little memoric fugue. His wife is with him, another underclassman, looking like she did last millennia. We talk for a bit, but then dinner is served, I quickly head back to the table to see everyone else already in line. I head up to the end of the line saying hello to Matt, Mimi and Karen again, waving at other assorted classmates. Dinner would have been fantastic if I could have paid more attention to it, but too many stories where being thrown around after we all got back to the table. With that and trying to watch the slideshow behind me, after I caught myself on it, was almost impossible. Dinner finished and getting tired of waiting for my mug to be back on the slide show I go outside for a smoker. I walk out to see a beautiful statue of a Monarch, but more than that I see a picture being taken with Sue, Misty and Kristin straddling the poor Lion, pulling on its ears. “What are you guy’s doing?!” I yell from the door. “Taking a picture, shut up.” Sue yells back at me. The rest of the night is spent outside smoking, and smoking, and smoking. I can hear music and yelling from time to time but outside is my place, outside in the smoking area is my domain. I look around after giving Sue more shit and I see a weight room, bandstands, pool and other assorted pompousness thrown around like it should have been when we were going here. I begin to get angry, but then what we had is what made us the private/public class that we were and mostly why we were made fun of and what gave us our thick skin

The night moves on, not unlike the world and I stay outside, taking pictures with Mike and others who come outside to straddle the friggen Monarch. My old crew finally comes outside to talk to me and I light up a smoke. “Why aren’t you inside dancing?” Michele asks. “You remember the way I used to dance…it wasn’t good, add weight and a fucked up equilibrium and you have your answer.” I say in a roundabout way. “You’re just a pussy.” Karen says. “WHAT?!” I scream. “Yea, Chris…why don’t you dance…at least one.” Kara says. You guys go dance for me.” I say not wanting to show them that I had perfected the “Madison” since school. They go in and I am met with a new bunch of friends. Mike and Mary come outside, Mary immediately mounting the Monarch while Mike slowly backs away and watches. I stand next to Mike for a picture as my eye’s readjust from the flash I look down the sidewalk and see…Jody, an underclassman and one of my favorite people at Mitty. I slowly walk towards her, making sure I don’t stumble and give her a big bear hug. "How you doing’ chicken?” I say. “Good, hope you don’t mind me crashing.” She says. Before I can give her a good line, the rest of everyone sees her…screeches ensue, and I am left in the wake, evidently I wasn’t the only one she knew from ’85, which is not really a surprise but kind of still is. Another couple of smokes and we are yapping like teenagers at lunch again. I take 2 minutes from my smoking to get another drink and then hurry back outside for more conversations hoping I didn’t miss anything. This is exactly what I used to do at parties, leave the meat and eat the vegetables, which means talk to the people who aren’t at the main party, the meat takes care of itself and vegetable conversations are always more interesting The mid October night was now making itself known, instead of staying outside most of my classmates were opting to go inside and tryout the dance floor, so I walked out into the parking lot and reminisced about the little piece of property I had ignored when I first got here. So many events happened here and as I thought about them I tested my emotions. This place is where we used to mess with opposing teams busses before they got out of the locker room. It was a place to hide out in your car while cutting the first couple of periods either to make out or to just listen to KQAK with Alex Bennett. This was a place where you could dump your best friend out of your jeep and not only would he not be mad at you but he would be smiling as he picked up his unskilled beer. It was a place where teachers would bust you for doing donuts, and cops would bust you for having beer in your car at dances. It was a place that I said goodbye to a lot of people in a lot of different ways under a lot of different circumstances. I relive each event that I could remember laughing, crying, frowning and smiling, and I know that I had mentally tamed this little piece of asphalt scream from the Monarch’s roost and I am turned around and heading back toward the party. It seems that I had missed something important because everyone is now outside smoking, laughing and drinking. I am swept up in the whirlwind of the moment when somebody asks if we should head over to the after party. I look at my watch and it says it’s 10:30pm…I wonder how long was I wandering around in the parking lot, once again lost in my head. “Misty, call us a cab.” I order. “All five of us, right?” She says, bypassing the old joke and calling us cabs. Our cab is one of many that show up to drive the old drunken Monarchs to the next party. Sue, April, Misty and I are in the cab for about five minutes before we notice that Kristin isn’t around. I turn around to see if I can see her, just in time to see her cross to the bathrooms. “Quick, yell at her Mist!” I demand, but she was too late. “I’ll go get her.” She says. “No, just call her.” Sue says, proving that she is not only the smartest of us but also the laziest of us too. “She’s not answering.” Misty says. I look back again and I see her again crossing the opposite way. “There she goes!” I say. “I’ll go get her.” Misty says again, then her phone rings. “We’re outside.” Misty says. “There she is!” I yell seeing her looking around the Monarch. We’re down here!” Misty yells forgetting she was still on the phone with Kristin. Kristin does her turn around surprise smile that was completely her own move and begins to walk down towards us. Misty gets in the cab and we scoot over to make room for Kristin. What’re you guys doing?” She says. We’re waiting for you.” We all say together. I brought my car, I’m driving back you dorks.” She says. “OH, that’s right.” They say. “That’s 10 minutes I’m never getting back.” I say. “Shut up.” They say in unison again. I smile. The girls scoot back over and we slowly take off. I love my old high school with its mesmeric smells, its haunted halls and its tamed memories, I look out the side window until I can’t see it anymore and quietly say goodbye.

After Parties and the Big Long Goodbye

A little pang in my heart tells me I will probably never see that school again, for any reason…it was an excellent goodbye and a fond farewell. The girls are chattering like usual so they don’t notice a small tear in my eye so I quickly wipe it away and get ready for yet another party. We pull up to the glowing end of the Park Lane Lounge and almost frantically exit the taxi, the blacked out windows from the daytime are now see through portals of activity ebbing and flowing to a low musical beat. I can picture everyone down by the couches and pool tables but as we enter we almost have to shove our way into the place pushing my “Unknowns” brother Eric and his wife out of the way. I apologize and hug as does everyone else and then we see that the whole end of the bar, far away from where I thought we’d be, is the Mitty clan. Already the four round tables are full of glasses and bottles, as is the north end of the bar. I see my bartender working the opposite side of the bar, but I go down and say my hellos

What a sight I see when I head back to the Mitty corner of the bar it looked like the party I had for homecoming senior year, a controlled chaos, milling and mingling, yelling and laughing, drinking, duding, doting…and shots. I make it past the first couple of tables before I am thrown a shot of tequila, I slam it before it stops moving like some kind of gunslinger. I tip my hat to Joel when I see another one coming, I handle this one with my left hand the same way and thank the lord above that he made me ambidextrous. I point my trigger finger to Brian when a flash goes off to the right of me. I turn to see who took the picture…Maureen, all she gets is me pointing at nonsensical things and laughing my fool head off. I almost make it back to my starting point when I see the Pirate in the corner, larger than life, smiling and looking at the bartenders…with the same facial hair as me. I sit next to Jody and have another shot of tequila, but I buy 5 shots for no reason. The pirate mocks me and my order because it’s not rum and I begin to hate the pirate, rum or not. I hand out the shots and order 5 more, they sit in front of me as I talk to Eric about the “Unknowns” and other parties from the past. “You going to drink those, or you want me to pass them out?” Julia, the other bartender, asks. “No, I’ll take care of it.” I say looking at her beautiful tattoos that cover most of her sleeveless arms. But I have no time for her tonight, tonight is a kind of final, final for me, to close the books on high school, forget about the past and concentrate on the future, to…“Hey Julia, you look great tonight!” I say, forgetting about what I just thought. I hand out all 3 shots that I had ordered and drink somebody’s beer, it was probably Jody’s, but if it was, why would she put it in front of me? I am drunk and happy, so I take Jody’s next drink with me and stand next to my mocking friend, showing him I am not afraid of him. Eric, Joel and Misty are all looking the same way for some reason as I look down the bar. I see Shelly and point at her when a flash blinds my right eye…great, another pointing shot. The night rolls through the chaos and the tequila squishing it into small doses of responsibility. I am drunk and it seems I’m saying goodbye every other drink. Jody, Mike and Rose, Matt and Monica, Dorea and Ryan, Mark and Tom, Gina, Sue, April, Shelly, Ava, Benny and Joyce, Jennifer, Karen and Brian, Joel and Maureen, Brendan and Selina, Eric, Monique and Juliana along with a whole bunch of assorted wives, husbands and partners and forgotten classmates. “It’s Time to go.” Misty says. “Did I call a cab yet?”I say. "No, Tom and Gina are driving us back.” She says laughing at me. “Ok.” I say. Morning is upon us, it’s almost damp outside and the street is quiet, except for us. “Wait, wait…I got to go say goodbye to Sara…or whatever her name is.” I whisper into Misty’s ear. “Hurry up.” She says. I go back into the bar and say my goodbye’s to my bartenders, I kiss them both on the check and as I walk out it almost seems like the north end of the bar is sloping down from all the Mitty weight that was on it tonight, I laugh at my stupid inside joke and climb in Tom’s SUV

From here to there is a blur and the next thing I know I’m up in somebody’s room drinking bourbon from a coffee cup. I think its Mike’s room but I can’t be sure. They begin to play one of my favorite games “Famous Names” where you say a famous name and the Beginning letter of the last name has to be the beginning letter of the next first name. I can play this game blind, which I am…this is my final, final and I am too polluted to even mentally be a part of it

3am comes and the game ends, I say my drunken goodbyes and my handler, Misty, ushers me back to the room. The whole wobbly way, banging against the walls Misty would shush me. “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I’d counter…every time, until she learned that not shushing me would keep me quieter. We get to the door and she gently pushes me in, hoping I wouldn’t tumble forward and out the damned window. I make it to the bed and pass right the fuck out the next morning I wake up, sit on the side of the bed and rub my joints to get rid of my arthritis. 4 Advil and a quick shower and I am feeling good, but the only reason is because I was still drunk. I pack up my computer and my clothes and begin to walk out but the mirror catches my eye. A thank you message written in lipstick from the girls is on the mirror. I think to myself on how they got in and I ponder this for what seems like an hour, then I slap my drunken head. 4 girls, 1 bathroom, that wouldn’t work, so yesterday I let them borrow mine. I get my A-ha moment for the morning out of the way and go next door, knock on the door to say goodbyes and once again it looks like a clothing store exploded. I laugh in my head again then give them hugs and kisses goodbye, luckily I’m drunk otherwise this old fart might get melancholic again But I do get melancholic again. In the car on the way to get rid of my oncoming hangover, it hits me. With all that has happened either over the last 6 months or the last 30 years I try to sit there and process it at 80 mph. But I don’t have any answers, no more than I did before. And at this point I've even forgotten the questions I

People said this would be cathartic, and it is was to a point, but not really. I say I’ve changed, but I really haven’t. All this thinking, all this planning, all this wonder and worry about who I am and who I was really had no effect on anything or anyone. As it turns out I just have closure to a time that didn’t really need it. These people were my friends, my enemy’s, my teachers and my toadstools. I slow down and try harder to process the finality of this project. This time is over now. I will miss the people I don’t ever see again but I will always remember my high school classmates.

Epilogue

Not knowing what was said, and being closest to the ref, I asked a simple question. Why did you kick out my Coach and Priest?” I say in my most non-confrontational way. Never have you minded, young man.” He says, not even looking at me. I watch the rest of the team leave the field. What’ll we do for subs?” I ask innocently. You have no subs.” He curtly says. Biting my tongue, I turn around and get ready for kick off, knowing that anything I say now will get me kicked out too. Father Jim exits into the Queen of Apostles parking lot I can hear him scream words of encouragement. I stand there and smile as the rest of the team leaves the field. I giggle and say to Scott. Can you believe that, the ref red carded Father Jim?” I think that’s a sin.” He says back to me giggling. A couple of players from the other team hear us and begin to laugh. We are a team whose only support is being screamed from the parking lot…but that was support enough. The other team scores almost immediately, putting them up by 1. “Don’t give up, guys, don’t give up!” I can hear Father Jim over Coach Musonic. He sun was trying to fight through the overcast skies and that fight along with nobody on our sideline gave the game and eerie feeling, almost like we weren’t supposed to be playing at all. It catches me off guard and I wake up with a pass going over my head. Get your fuckin’ head in the game!” I yell at myself and I track down the ball and slide kick it out, making sure I don’t hit the player…like I usually do. They throw it in and cross it toward the goal, I watch it in the air and I pray that Matt can save it…which he does. “Scottie, we got to get it together.” I say to him since he’s our center. “Start telling people what to do.” I finish, knowing he is more charismatic than I am. He does and our friends begin to catch on, we begin to coach ourselves and within 5 minutes of our self-realization we score an easy goal. The parking lot goes wild and I look at the ref for any kind of reaction. He sees me and looks away. He next 30 minutes are a battle, but we have played together for 4 years and we know each other’s strong and weak points. Suddenly we get a break away, 1 on 1 with the goalie, our forward tip toes by him and dribbles it in. Now the field is louder than the parking lot we all meet at mid field to celebrate, but all we hear is the ref with his whistle. Offside!” He yells directly at us. Scott starts to complain, our teammates stop him before this asshole ref can kick him out also. We stay at mid field complaining to ourselves for a couple of minutes before the ref gets agitated and whistles us to get going. He gives the other team on last chance to beat us before he blows the whistle. The field is rushed by the rest of our teammates, the ref is rushed by Coach Musonic and Father Jim. It was obvious that he didn’t want us to win, but we held it together long enough to make him look foolish. "Alright you guys did great, you won that game.” Coach says with his big smile on his face. “You never gave up, don’t ever give up, you guys made me proud today, good job!” Father Jim says in his usual hyper way. We walk back to the locker room feeling like kings. We all say goodbye to Father Jim before we head off to whatever party was happening that night with stories of how the stupid ref red carded our priest. That Monday the school was talking about what happened on Saturday and although Father Jim was cool to begin with, he had become a million times cooler.

That Saturday was the last time I saw him, 25 years ago. I am startled again by some sort of Catholic thing and with the good people side looking at me I stand up and head out towards the field. I get outside and am stopped by 2 people I didn’t expect to see here. Two people from two different parts of my life were talking to each other at Father Jim’s funeral. Dave I knew from jail and Paul I knew from a bar across town. I sat there and said hello with my furrowed brow trying to figure out what the hell they were doing there. They tell me that they both knew Father Jim from Queen of Apostles and other programs that he was involved with. “Boy, he sure knew how to get around.” I say and give them both a hug goodbye. But my night isn’t over. I walk through the grass out to the old soccer field. My shoes are wet by the time I get there, like always and the familiar pine smell makes me think of Father Jim. I sit on the bandstands and light a cigarette. “Father Jim, if I said I was sorry for the things I’ve done, would I be forgiven?” I say and listen for an answer. “Would you forgive me? Or do I have to save myself?” I finish, not expecting an answer. I sit there and remember that one day he got a red card, laugh and cry. My goodbye is finished and I begin to walk back across the field to the school.

Its shadow reminds me of the times I belonged here along with the times I stood up against my accusers to protect my friends with my only reward being exile. I lost my faith and future to be a martyr. But the romance of being a martyr has faded away over the last 25 years and now it just seems like loss. I can blame nobody but myself for the choices I made, I stand by them right or wrong, they are me…maybe I’ll get some answers at the Reunion. End of the Line - This is the end of a larger unfinished story, most of the setting is in a hospital as cancer eats me away. Can you guess which town I'm talking about? The wake was still going strong. It was a fantastic turnout for being so far away from everyone he knew. I could hear the music and voices fade as I walked away, down the silent snow covered Main Street of this nondescript small mountain town. The wind bit at my exposed parts as I trailed off aimlessly toward the other bar in town. It was a bright oasis in a place that rolls up its sidewalks at nine o’clock at night. I just wanted to say goodbye with no distractions.

I look down at my watch and it shows me six o’clock, I look back up at the presenters. We had just won something for being the only Co-ed team, but something else is scratching at the back of my skull. I take another sip from my now watered-down drink and … “Shit, this is taking too long.” I say leaning over to my teammate.” I got to Concert to…”, now things start clicking in my useless brain.” I got to go, I’m late.” I say loudly, startling everyone around me.

A quick cold shower to sober up my head and tighten up my sags and I was in my car and off to Campbell to see some old friends. “Shit! I’m way late.” I say to myself, remembering that I was supposed to meet everyone at Sonoma Chicken Coop at four o’clock. “Dammit.” I end my internal discussion and turn on the radio. My rush is gone, I’m now mellow driving to the venue. My satellite radio is pumping out what they call “Modern Rock Classics” which is a name I don’t like. The music from Howard Jones, OMD and Modern English float through my car forcing me to remember the old Winchester Drive In, which I can feel is close. All those times, every time we went there had a different level of what being a teenager was supposed to be crammed into every nook and cranny of our memories. I smile and watch my cigarette almost light itself.

The sun is setting over the Santa Cruz Mountains as I get to where I thought the place was. I turn here and turn there, looking over the place where the drive in used to be. I turn again…and again…and again and when I hit Winchester I begin to worry. My head seems more muddled now, as my cigarette puts itself out. I try to remember the streets that I haven’t been on in a dog’s age, but a day of drinking in the sun has poisoned my memory. Sunny oaks, Camden, White Oaks, Camden again finally finding myself on McGlincy, which I know isn’t right.

Bus as always, stopping for directions is not an option so like the group Suicidal Tendencies once sang “Leave me alone and I’ll figure it out by myself” I tried exactly that. The pleasant night is now a little colder, my cigarette a little more harsh, my water a little less sweet, I fumble around my stupid Blackberry trying to get the navigator app to work, forgetting completely about map quest, but my brain functions are soaking in a day of drinking and golf…so I give up.

“Doing this old school.” I say after a couple of minutes of just sitting there. And like the days I recall with the people I’m trying to find I head out on an old fashioned “Drive and Find”. That’s when we would get into our cars and just hit every street until we found the party. 30 minutes later I find the place, park and finish my smoke.” I can’t believe that worked.” I say to myself.

Walking up the VFW my head clears, thinking of some of the FBRSVP’s, so I stop at the entrance and light another smoke trying to put names to faces so I don’t make a complete ass out of myself. Night had arrived yet I wasn’t cold, going through the names and faces seemed to keep me warm. This group was started with under classmen a year after I was gone and as I sat and looked out over the full parking lot, I tried to think of what it was like for them to be seniors, what it was like to rule the world. After 84 left I forgot about most of them and I wondered if 86 had done the same to us.

I finish my smoke and walk in, not really looking for anyone, just trying to find the bar, but as I weave my way through the crowd I see and old friend on stage, playing guitar…and he was good.

I try to remember if I’d ever seen him play, but for the life of me I couldn’t. Was I really that self-absorbed for the 2 years I knew him that I couldn’t remember? So, I guiltily stand and watch his magic. I set through one of his songs then decide to continue my drinking. The hall, being dark with everyone’s attention focused toward the stage I didn’t really see or recognize anyone, but as I hit the lighted up bar area, I suddenly see everyone. With every wave and every hug, I quickly try to remember our relationship and if I should apologize or not, knowing what kind of an asshole I was sometimes. So, being me, I apologized my way up to the bar with 2 very good old friends. We stop here and there to say hello to people we recognize, but as we do, I become aware that I’m looking at these assorted friends like they were still those young underclassmen. It struck me as silly to do so because in the gist of things they were only a year younger, some less than that. But with all my trying I couldn’t get past that huge difference that a class made in High School.

After we waited and bullshitted our way to one drink, we exited the bar, passing more people we knew, again only seeing the kids that always wanted to come to the parties, and not the adults they had become. We find our seats and hold court, reminiscing mostly about the teenager things we used to do, the trouble we used to get in and the people that made our clicks. I sit and think about all the people that were going to kick their own asses when they find out what a great turn out this Concert had.

The main group had start but we could hear them just as good out on the porch, so we stayed and continued our trip down memory lane. The cloves, the coolers, the cars, everything was classic including trying to remember the places we could buy beer underage. It all seemed so far away before, but now as I looked over the perk ponds and the reflecting lights of Hwy 17 I could almost taste the California Wine Coolers, smell the Jakarta Cloves, see my old Mustang and hear the fantastically awful music that used to escape its windows.

The waitress interrupts my thoughts so I order 4 shots and 3 beers, not asking my company if they wanted anything, just assuming they do. We are joined sporadically by everyone else who makes the trip to the bar, I have picked the best seat again, making sure we were right in eye shot of the door, not wanting to miss anyone.

Pictures are taken every couple of minutes interrupting my drinking but not my drunk and by the time everyone is done, I was done too. It is late and I had been up for a long time, once again testing the limits of my body and mind.

Once again, as we walk toward the exit, we have to stop every couple of feet to say hello to someone we missed, but that doesn’t take long and soon we were outside. The night was still pleasant and as I make it down the stairs without tripping all I can think about is my bed when I hear, “Let’s go to Bravo!” …the late-night eatery that should only be eaten late night. I couldn’t resist.

All roads lead to the “Brav”, at least that’s what it seemed like. No matter where the party was in the South Bay, the battle cry of the drunken teenager was always “Let’s go to the Brav!” And we always did.

I was 16 the first time, driving my idiot friends around, trying to wrangle the drunker ones so they wouldn’t open the door on my Lincoln Continental whale of a car. We had been to no party, it seemed everyone was grounded that weekend, but we did have access to someone’s parent’s liquor. Secretly we slipped it out of the house and used the sleepover trick to stay out all night and cruise. Trying to stay on interior streets got harder and harder with every sip, we didn’t want to venture out into the maelstrom of popular byways and the possibility of being pulled over by the cops. Everything’s eventual so like a hungry gopher we popped our heads out onto Bascom Avenue. I head north trying to find Dry Creek Road and safe passage to a maze of streets in Willow Glen, but instead I see a huge yellow sign with bright red letters that said “TACO BRAVO”. I realize as soon as I see it that we’ve gone the wrong way, I begin to panic when from the depths of the Lincolns monstrous back seat I hear the first drunken request shouted into my ear…” BRAVO!” I pull my 22-foot car into the 20-foot parking lot and turn off the engine. I look into my rearview mirror and see people milling about like you’d think an insane asylum’s front lawn would look like. Of course, when my friends exit, a beer bottle rolls out the door and clunks its all too familiar clunk on the pavement, not breaking but making everyone in the area turn around. The rolling bottle echoed throughout the parking lot off the back fence into the corner of Der Weinerschitzel.

What a sight we must have been, four 16-year old’s, driving a tank, dropping beer bottles at two in the morning, but after the bottle stopped rolling everyone went right back to milling about like nothing had happened. I am buzzed, trying to be responsible like my dad had requested me to be only 1 month previous, but this was a new experience and I had to live it to the fullest. Bascom was alive with action. Cars, lights, people, everything was moving. The honks and cat calls that almost every car that passed made didn’t scare me anymore, not like it used to when I was a kid, now it was kind of fun so as we approach the front of the building, we let out a little cat call of our own aimed towards some older girls in a car…they yell back at us. It was amazing, but then I turned the corner and was blinded by the brightest fluorescent lights I had ever seen. Maybe it was from being in the car all night, maybe because I was buzzed or maybe because they were ‘the’ brightest lights I had ever seen. I usher my friends to one of the round concrete tables, blink my eyes until my focus returns and order for all of us. I turn around and notice again the milling around factor. There is no line to pick up the food, but there are people standing there, sitting there, walking over there, they all look so old, they must be in their thirty’s.

We sit and look at the lost old people, yell at cars and start in on our food. Before the first bite was swallowed, I could see in my friends’ eyes that this was the best thing of the night. Then we put the sauce on and it got 10 times better. We ravaged through the first round, moving on the second, and resting on the third. Being young with brand new freedom, 4 good friends, crisp morning air and a new found place we can eat at almost whenever we want was a very powerful feeling. We mill back to the car, put in the Cars “Candy O” 8- track and meander off into the night yelling “BRAVO!” all the way down Bascom.

I wake up from my little nighttime daydream as we hit the driveway of Taco Bravo and like 27 years ago there were people hither and thither, some with food, some waiting for food, and some just walking around in the cool bright night. I have no idea what time it is, I lost track back on the porch at the VFW talking my fool head off, but from the amount of people in at the Brav it’s got to be after 2 in the morning. We park and make our way up the familiar side of the building, everything looks the same. Even the bright fluorescent lights are as bright as they used to be. I get ushered out to the table now as the girls (women) order me a taco. I look out onto Bascom with my drunken eyes and see the same movement although some of the lights have changed. I turn around and take another look at this South Bay staple and like the others in the area, Vuko’s Liquor, 3 Flames & Gunther’s Deli, I feel good that I can walk in and tell the person behind the counter that I’ve been coming here since I was a kid, it gives me a sense of belonging. My eyes lower to see my friends walking back with the brown folding boxes filled with tacos, burritos and sauce…that wonderful sauce. They sit and we continue court, I am no longer 16, but I eat my taco like one and as I do, I look around at all the other drunken messes, they look so young and I wonder if they’re parents know they’re out causing trouble. We finish our food and walk toward their car but before we get to it a beer bottle hits the pavement, not breaking but making that distinctive clunk teleporting me back to a place I was before.

I can hear someone ask for my address, but I’m too busy walking around El Paso, trying to find Wizards Arcade. A hand on my shoulder and the question repeats but I’m way too busy playing Vanguard at 7-11 on Moorpark to turn around and see who it is.

Finally, I am woken up by the ladies who are driving me home, and my mind rewinds through the night, trying to figure out how I got here. After my mental assessment I finally, somehow, get them to my house. We say our goodbyes and I am left to figure out how to get into my house. I sit in my backyard after trying to find my hidden keys, remembering that the one under the mat is in my car and the other was given to a particular someone who doesn’t talk to me anymore. I sit back down and remember parts of the night with everyone, which was fun as it always was until the end when like always, I got too drunk. That reminds me of something that was sent to me recently by an old friend who thought it might give me something to think about. I wanted to impress people, like everyone does, show them I was as old as I was supposed to be, but like the scorpion, who stings his ride across the river to drown along with him just because it was in his nature is what I did…what I do. I sulk for a little bit but then “In my nature” hits me a different way. It’s not my nature to lock the sliding glass window. I walk up to it, open it and walk in. I wake up late to a room that looks like a clothes explosion went off in it. I sit on the edge of my bed and curse at myself for driving home again…I need a cigarette. I stumble out to my car to retrieve them but the sun is so bright, I can’t see my car…but then I realize my car isn’t there. My mind goes blank, where is my car, I wonder if I had gone to another bar after the concert last night, then I burp and remember “Taco Bravo”.

I hobble upstairs to my computer to ask if anybody has seen my car and as soon as Facebook loads all I see are pictures from the concert, everyone’s pictures, and fantastic pictures. I scroll through them seeing people I didn’t know were there or don’t remember seeing. They all look so mature, not that they weren’t last night, just that I was looking through my bourbon filter eyes only seeing the memories of them, but now the pictures are tremendous. I scroll through picture after picture, laughing up until I come across my red eyed, yellow toothed grill…I cringe, close the pics and ask if anyone knows where my car is. 2 seconds later I get my answer.

The cab ride back to the VFW is incredibly horrible. Not only am I hung over, but there is Bravo in my belly, not the belly of a young person but the belly of an older person and with every burp I curse the “Brav” and its fantastic sauce.

I don’t know who smells worse, me or the cab driver, but he rolls down his window first, the air is refreshing, I guess for the both of us. We make it to my car, which is parked in front. I owe 28 bucks, but in my pocket, I only find my keys and my empty wallet, which proves to me that I don’t take cabs enough.

After a panic attack which I think the driver notices, he offers that I can pay with my card, which puts me at ease and lets the hangover creep back into my head. I ride back home with my window down and radio off, just thinking about my classmates. I don’t know what it was like with other people and their schools but the amount of camaraderie that my classmates show whether they’ve been separated for a couple of weeks or a couple of decades was heartwarming. Given all our young peccadillo’s & idiosyncrasy’s when had when we were young to see us as adults reminiscing with no festering tribulations or rivalry’s is what Mitty was trying to do as they taught us. I pull into my driveway and I think to myself that Mitty produced some of my best friends. I will always jump at the chance to see them again.