Greg leaned against the door frame, the
remains (mostly water, now) of an hour-old bourbon (with rocks)
in his hand. Middle-aged people milled around him. He didn't recognize
any of them. None of them seemed to recognize him, either.
This was a dumb idea, he told himself for the twentieth
time that evening. But that wasn't a new thought from the past
couple hours. It had seemed a dumb idea before he left home; it
had seemed just as dumb five years earlier, and five years before
that when he and Gin (well, mostly he) had decided at the last
minute not to come. (They were so close that time that he ended
up forfeiting a $50 registration fee.) Curse you, Mother-Dear
and Father-Dear, for living in the same house in the same town
all these years so that these unknown fifty-something people could
keep finding me, and badgering me until my resistance had flown
out the window!
But he knew he wasn't being fair. True, the first contact
(five years after graduation) had occurred because his parents
were the recipients of a "care of/please forward" invitation.
After that, though, it had all been his doing. He himself had
returned the "yes, I am interested" cards every five
years, with his current address, what he was doing now, how many
kids he had, etc., etc. Truth to tell, he enjoyed skimming through
the little "year books" provided with each reunion,
even though he seldom found references to anyone he had ever really
known or cared about. So, every five years he corresponded with
these unknown people back here in his parents' town.
* * *
"Do I know you?" asked a still pretty, still apparently
more-or-less naturally blond woman with bright-colored dangly
earrings and a matching bright-colored necklace.
He smiled, and extended his hand. "Greg Thomas," he
introduced himself.
Her hand moved from her side almost to his fingers, but then withdrew.
"No, I don't think so," she said, more to herself than
to him, as she turned away.
And you are...? Greg mouthed at the back of her head. Well,
if she didn't know me, I probably didn't know her. She was probably
a cheerleader. He was certain he hadn't known any cheerleaders.
* * *
Actually, there was no reason any of these people should know
him. In a way, he hadn't existed until his first day of college
in an upstate town, a college with a total student body smaller
than his graduating high school class. After twelve school years
of being Tom, Thomas, and various versions and mispronounciations
of Descartes (which, actually and unfortunately, was his given
name, even if it was an obvious last name... Another curse
on you, Mom and Pop), he had become Greg. Descartes Thomas
was 150 miles south, and probably wasn't anywhere in the three
or four month intervals between visits to his parents' town.
Why Greg? He couldn't remember, anymore. He might have read it
in a novel (Greg Thomas, mild mannered man-about-town, who in
reality...), or seen it in a movie (Indiana Greg, heroic adventurer...).
What happened was, on his first day at his new school, someone
asked him his name, and Descartes just disappeared. New town,
new school, new people, new... Greg.
Of course, the question "why Greg?" raised another one:
why had Greg Thomas--who'd never been in this town before--crashed
the 35-year reunion of Descartes Thomas' high school class? There
seemed no good answer to that one, either.
* * *
A man with a fringe of medium-long gray hair around an otherwise
bald head had looked over at Greg several times. Greg had met
his eyes once, and now scrutinized him again. No bells, no recognition.
The pretty blond woman had almost certainly been a cheerleader,
but there was no categorizing Gray-fringe. He could have been
an athlete or a chess-player. Greg (aka Descartes) hadn't
been either one.
* * *
School for Greg (oops; I mean Descartes) had been twelve years
of insecurity and embarrassment. Six years, anyway. He had been
shy, skinny, and smart the first few years--not a great combination,
but in K thru 5 there was some prestige in being academically
gifted. From 7th Grade on (there had been no 6th; he was too smart
for the teachers, so they skipped him right through), he had been
shy, skinny, younger than everybody else, and suddenly not smarter
than anybody--even dumb on some subjects for which basic training
had apparently occurred in the 6th Grade he never saw (Thanks
again, folks!).
He had always suffered the humiliation of being one of the
last picked for any team sport--and even then, grudgingly (shy,
skinny kids the world over have always been victimized that way),
but now there was the extra burden of not being good at anything.
One more problem: his were the only hormones in his entire
class that weren't beginning to "hormone-ize" (you're
a riot, Greg!), which made him even more of a left-out misfit.
(He didn't even benefit from boys' gym locker room-type sex education
because he was still too young and naive to know that he should
be interested in the then undecipherable words and gestures used
by the "big boys.")
The result of all the above was that he couldn't remember having
any friends--or any times worth remembering--for six long years.
* * *
An Oriental couple acknowledged him as they walked by, but didn't
offer any "don't I know you." Their passing, though,
did remind him that he had made one friend some time in the 10th
Grade--well, not a friend, maybe, but at least an acquaintance,
and possibly the first schoolmate he had exchanged real words
with since the beginning of 7th Grade. She was a Negro. (Well,
they were Negroes in the '50s, and in his school of equal
parts Negro, Oriental and white, he couldn't remember any discrimination--except
against Jews, but then they were different. He couldn't
remember why, anymore. He also suspected now that there was a
whole lot more bad feeling between the races than his naive immaturity
had picked up on.) Anyway, she sat in front of him in French class,
and somehow during the second semester he got up the nerve to
tug on her long, straightened black hair. In retrospect, it was
more a junior high gesture than a high school icebreaker but,
hey, by age he was junior high. In any event, it did the trick,
and they always had a word or two for each other before French
class began.
Maybe that's the way it started for the Greg-who-was-to-be. From
a few words regularly exchanged with a "friend," he
went on to learn that he was good at a few things (French and
English, for sure, and basketball, although certainly not in a
competitive way); that he could be shyly funny and make somebody
laugh; and that he could talk to more and more people. He found
that girls' pretty faces made him feel good, and that he liked
walking home from school and later hiking in the hills with other
introverted, nice, fun boys who seemed to like him, too. He could
even laugh (sort of, anyway) when a teacher tried to call him
Tom Decart!
* * *
"You're Descartes Thomas, aren't you?"
For a minute, Greg thought he was still daydreaming, and had only
wistfully thought that someone had spoken to him. He glanced up
to see a man and a woman, the woman eyeing him with only the slightest
trace of uncertainty.
"It is you!" she exclaimed, all tentativeness now gone.
"I was right, Jerry!" Jerry seemed marginally interested,
at best. "Descartes," she pronounced it again, flawlessly--the
first time had not been a fluke! "I'm..."
"Phyllis," he said, without hesitation.
* * *
Phyllis. He remembered her as one of the prettiest girls in high
school. No cheerleader, but still too neat to be in his league
(his league being pretty small, no matter how you looked at it.)
He had said "hi" to her regularly (and now found himself
rather belatedly and unexplainably hoping that he had smiled,
too, although smiling was not his forte in those days). He didn't
think they'd ever had a conversation (that definitely had not
been his forte!). On a whim, he'd asked her to sign his yearbook
at graduation. Next to her class picture she had written, "I
really wish I'd gotten to know you better." Not the standard
"good luck, have a great summer" message. Years after
graduation, he'd looked at that autograph and mused about the
wording. Had there been just the merest suggestion there that
faint heart might not have had to become too emboldened to have
won fair lady? Oh, well.
* * *
They shook hands after summarizing some 45 years of separate lives
in 5 minutes. She kept her hand in his just a moment longer than
his mind told him was necessary.
"How did you recognize me so quickly?" she asked.
Greg smiled, and shrugged. Silent translation: It wasn't just
a few times that I looked at your photo and message. "How
did you know me?"
She raised her eyebrows, and he wanted to believe her eyes softened
a little more. "Oh, you just look like you."
* * *
Another hour passed, during which he drank the last quarter-inch
of melted ice in his glass, walked across the hall to sit in another
folding chair against a different wall, and failed to see anybody
else he knew. None of his long-lost high school hiking buddies
showed up. But he hadn't expected them. They'd dropped off the
alumni list--and off the face of the earth, for all he knew--even
before the first five year reunion. Dead or alive; married, single,
divorced, or widowed; gay or straight; he had no idea. He didn't
know if he'd lost them, or they'd lost him. The end result was
probably the same.
* * *
One friend had reappeared a few years back; at least, her name
had shown up in the class five-year book after being missing for
40 years. She had been the girl friend of a boy friend, and had
always been nice to him in a friendly, teasing sort of way. He'd
asked her to go on a hike once--when she was no longer "attached"--but
she couldn't go, she said, because she got poison oak easily and
severely. The local parks were rife with it, so the excuse was
certainly credible. He hadn't taken it personally. There hadn't
been any subsequent opportunity for any other kind of "date."
When he saw her name in the book, he was in the midst of a "Roots"
crisis. (Was that why he was here, now?) He had written her a
short letter ("my life in three paragraphs"), thanking
her for being a friend, and expressing the hope that she'd had
a good life. She never wrote back. He'd wondered a time or two
since then if he sent the letter from Descartes or Greg. It might
have made a difference.
* * *
Someone sat down in the chair next to him. "What do you think?
Is it all you dreamed it would be?"
Greg turned to the newcomer. The man was scanning the now-dwindling
crowd, but held out his hand. "I'm Ted Cassidy."
"I remember the name," said Greg, taking the offered
hand. Surprisingly, he did remember. He looked at his new neighbor
a little more closely. "I remember playing basketball with
you. I'm Greg Thomas."
There was a hint of recognition, but then it faded into mild uncertainty.
"I remember you, too, once I take in the effects of 45 years
on hair, waist, etc." He shook his head. "But the name
isn't right."
Greg laughed. "No. Sorry. I've called myself Greg for so
many years, sometimes I forget I was somebody else in high school.
How about Descartes?"
Ted nodded. "Yep, that's it, although I think our gym teacher
called you Tom. You were skinny, I remember, but you were a darn
good basketball player."
They watched the alumni and their significant others for awhile.
"Have you been to many of these?" Ted inquired.
Greg shook his head. "My first."
"Why?"
Greg thought about that for a moment. "Why my first, or why
at all?"
"Which is relevant?"
"My wife died." Greg hadn't meant to say that; he didn't
even know he'd been thinking it just then.
"Sorry to hear it. Did she go to school with us?"
Greg shook his head; his eyes felt moist. "No. I met her
years later. But maybe she is the reason I'm here tonight. I think
maybe I had a subconscious or semi-conscious idea that there was
something here that could fill up part of the empty hole left
in me when she died."
"And has it worked? Have you found some of your lost life
tonight?"
Greg grimaced, but then found himself chuckling. "Not by
a long shot. Gin would have loved this. Every five years when
we didn't come, I'd tell her what a disaster it would have been,
and how lucky we were not to be here, being ignored by several
hundred people we didn't know and didn't want to know. It's lived
up to all my expectations!"
Ted laughed. "You're saying your hopes weren't really very
high?"
"I don't know. I guess... Well, I got what I expected,
but I guess I hoped for something else."
"Like what?"
Greg hesitated. Do I really want to go into this with a total
stranger? On the other hand, the compulsion was growing to
tell somebody something. "I guess I've felt cheated
most of my life, like I've missed a lot--almost like I was robbed
of my identity."
"How so?"
"Like, my parents gave me a name that almost guaranteed that
people wouldn't know who I was. Then, skipping me through school
so that I lost all my friends and lost my one claim to fame, being
smart. Then, not showing any understanding of how serious all
this was to me, and letting me go through it pretty much all on
my own."
Ted asked for details, and for some reason Greg gave them to him.
"What's happened since high school?" Ted asked, after
Greg had finished his recitation.
"What do you mean?"
"For instance, did you go to college?"
"Yes."
"How did you do?"
"Good. Well, excellent in my major, I guess, and enough to
get by in everything else."
"Successful in your career?"
"Yes."
"Highly successful?"
Greg paused before answering. "Yes, I guess so. I've had
a lot of good assignments. I've written a couple books, and am
well recognized in my field."
"You obviously were happily married. Any kids?"
Greg smiled. "Yes, very happy," he replied to the first
comment. "The kids are off on their own, now. They're doing
well."
"Do you have friends?"
"A few; not a lot of close ones."
"But some good ones?"
"Oh, yes."
Ted had been rapid-firing his questions, hardly waiting for the
answers. Now, he paused. "So?"
Greg looked at him. "So, what?"
"So, I don't know much about you, but it seems to me that,
despite having some pretty tough curve balls thrown at you, you've
come out of it pretty well--at lot better, maybe, than a lot of
people who had a better start."
Greg was beginning to feel sorry they'd got into all this. He
wasn't getting much support, and certainly no pity. Oh lord,
did I say "pity?" Is that what I want?
"Look," continued Ted, "It all depends on your
perspective. You make thousands of choices every day. Tuna salad
or ham-on-rye, "American Idol" or "CSI." Small
choices, big choices. Your parents made some big ones for you,
like giving you a name you didn't like, and allowing the teachers
to skip you through the 6th Grade. No question, their decisions
affected your life, and you've been seeing them as negative effects.
But what if they'd named you 'Bill?' What if they'd left you with
your age group in school? Is it certain your life would have turned
out better?"
Greg tried to think about those things, but Ted continued. "What
if you hadn't gone to college? What if... For instance, did you
ever quit a job?"
"Yes."
"What if you hadn't? What if you hadn't married, or hadn't
married that particular person at that particular time? What if
you hadn't decided to call yourself 'Greg?'" He paused. "Do
you see my point? You missed a lot, but since you can only
make one choice at a time... "
"Unless you're schizophrenic," Greg interjected. This
is getting heavy!
Ted chuckled. "Unless you're schizophrenic, right. But
most people can only make one choice at a time, so you
either missed almost everything--all the choices you didn't make--or
else you missed nothing."
Greg nodded. "I get what you're saying, but it all seems
a little... I don't know... Eastern religion, kismet, fate--at
the whim of the gods."
"Well, to a certain extent, life is like that. You know the
old cautionary tale: man strives all his life to become President,
he makes it, and at his swearing in he dies of a heart attack.
Was it just the gods having fun? Often, we never know, but sometimes
we can trace things back to decisions made and paths taken. Stress,
bad eating habits, lack of exercise, too many smoke-filled rooms...
any of them might have contributed to the end of the story.
But, then again, a 30 year old woman who never had any of those
particular stresses or made those particular decisions dies of
a heart attack, too. So....
"Look, this seems to be the bottom line for me: we can't
control everything--some of it probably really is in the
proverbial laps of the gods. And we do need to remember that all
actions have consequences, whether we're thinking in a moral or
legal sense, or just talking about basic science--for every action,
there is a reaction. Therefore, we wisely refrain from robbing
banks, investing all our savings in a get-rich-quick scheme, running
off with our secretary (in most cases, at least)... Well, you
get the idea. We just do the best we can, and move on. Nobody
can really do more."
Greg nodded again.
"I don't think you missed anything," said Ted.
* * *
Greg stayed another half-hour after Ted left, watching as more
and more people headed for the door. Some left in groups; some
left alone or as couples, after hugs all around and noisy goodbyes;
some clearly were leaving as alone as they had arrived. Greg left
alone, but if there weren't handshakes, backslaps or kisses, maybe
he was a little more together with himself.
Maybe I didn't miss anything, he said to himself. Then,
he thought of Phyllis: after all these years, she had remembered
both his face and his name.
He smiled.
Maybe I did.