86 kicks ass.
Someone wrote that in my yearbook, more than one someone, several someones. Somewhere on every page someones using black and blue indelible ink reinforced the sentiment as if overstatement made the mantra true.
Eighty-six, to be or not to be kicking ass, that is the question. That’s what I’m considering as I flip through my senior yearbook.
Last weekend my high school senior class reunited. It’s been 25 years since we stood, corralled herd-members of doe-eyed idealists, waiting for some faculty-rancher to lift our gate and whoop, “Hey-ya!”
Stampeding into the open, we tramped our way where angus-angels feared to tread. I wondered who’d survived the wild rush and who was grilled into a nice sirloin, topped with onions and served with wild rice.
That’s why I was excited about getting back together with my classroom-moo-mates. I wanted to know what happened after we’d hit the ground running, never looking back, like a Bruce Springsteen scrawled note in a Bob Seger yearbook.
Bob,
In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream!
At night we ride through the mansions of glory in suicide machines!
Stay cool,
Bruce
Bru-bro!
The secrets that we shared!
The mountains that we moved!
Caught like a wildfire out of control 'til there was nothing left to burn and nothing left to prove.
Better to burn out or fade away!
The Bobster!
I wanted to know who’d burned out and who’d faded away.
86 Kicks ass!
Bruce Springsteen didn’t write that. Tim Mathews did—on the inner cover of my senior yearbook. Bruce Santos wrote next to it, “I’ll always remember you as the guy who shot a fire extinguisher in class!!!” The triple exclamation point made it sound so real. I couldn’t wait to catch up with Bruce Santos.
“Hey Bruce!”
“Hey….uh…Roberboy?”
“No, Robert. Robert Boyd. They misspelled my nametag.”
“Robert Boyd? Oh, yeah! You’re the guy who wet himself in third grade!”
“No, that was Robbie Kilpatrick. I’m the guy who shot the fire extinguisher.”
“Really? A fire extinguisher? I don’t remember that.”
“Yeah. In Mr. Mac’s? Look, It’s right here in my yearbook.”
“Uhm…ok—Oh look! It’s Danny Martinez! He lit a cockroach on fire. Hey Danny!”
We’re all remembered for our infamous antics. That’s how high school reunions go. I wasn’t worried. Bruce would remember me. So would everybody else. The question was, would they remember me for who I was or see me for who I am?
“Yeah, that’s Rob Boyd over there.”
“I know. Kinda sad, huh? He peaked in third grade when he peed himself.”
“…downhill from there.”
Senior year was the year we all vowed to be rockstars with a capitol “Stars” in our eyes. “Rockstar” meant different things to each of us: some wanted to be the next Sly Fox, others wanted to be the next Andrew McCarthy; I didn’t want to be either. I wanted to be the next mysterious cumulonimbus of cool. I didn’t know what I was going to do after school but it was going to be big. I was going to be the most awesome Rob I could.
In 25 years had I succeeded? How could I know if I’d achieved cumulonimbus of cool rockstar? The answer was a weekend away.
High school reunion.
Like any other test, this was on a comparative scale. No, I wouldn’t be compared to my peers. I’d be compared against myself by my peers. If I could get them to believe I’d come far, it must be true.
86 kicks ass!
Friday, my queen and I would drive away from the sunny horizon toward the foreground of my past. Saturday, we’d reunite with my classmates. This reunion I would thunder! If for no other reason than my sexy fiancé!
Robert Freakin’ Boyd kicks ass! (Insert thunder and flash lightening here.)
Robert Freakin’ Boyd never made it to his 25 year high school reunion.
Friday morning my Queen rolled over and said, “I don’t feel so good.”
“It’s ok,” I replied, hopping out of bed and throwing the overnight bag on the blankets warming her shivering legs. “You’ll feel better. It’s just a cold. You can sleep in the back of the car. I’ll get you some NyQuil. You’ll never know the difference. Could you hold still? Your shivering is moving my bag.” I’m tossing underwear and socks into the case. Gotta get ready!
She didn’t feel better. In fact, by noon, she felt worse. She sounded worse too. “Baby, I don tink I can make it. You go wit’out me.”
Inconceivable!
I couldn’t go “wit’out” her. Who would make me look good? Even more important: who would stay to look after her?
The fist of importance and priorities struck me in the forehead. There was a right thing to do here, and I needed to do it. I slumped down in my corner of the couch, took a breath and made the calls I needed to make. The reunion would go on without me.
Success is a matter of perspective
“Hey look, Rob Boyd’s nametag is still on the table.”
“He must have wet himself on the way here.”
Saturday night my queen even felt worse yet. We huddled on the couch watching bad sci-fi. She likes bad sci-fi. It’s Pirate Queen comfort food. To her, a Skywalker, Baggins sofa roll-up is better than a vat of chicken noodle. Me, I enjoy those movies, but watching once every few years is plenty for me. She’s the sick one though, and whatever it takes to relieve her pain is what we’ll do. My weekend is now all about her.
We’re lolling on the couch. I’ve got my arm wrapped around the PQ. On TV, the rebel forces try to take planet Muppet. My Queen leans against my chest, hot breath billowing down, lapping my bulging belly in steamy heat bursts. Snot or drool seeps into my shirt, matting my chest hairs together.
My mind says: It’s drool. It’s drool. It’s drool…
I rub her back and look at the clock: it’s 8:30 p.m. This is not the reunion buffet I was looking for.
During a commercial my queen looks up, “I wub you.”
I smile back. That’s all the affirmation I need. I don’t need a reunion of peers to tell me: I am a rockstar. So says my Pirate Queen.
m the age of first chances.