Slowly the Chevy backed out and started to leave, but as soon as it did, a black Porsche roared around the corner and stole the parking space.
Behind the wheel of the Porsche was a businessman in a suit. And a smirk on his face.
Shouting a string of obscenities, Deborah exploded, slammed her accelerator to the floor and aimed the front of her car for the back of his ass!
Steve was depressed. Up until six months ago — that’s when it started — the feeling had been foreign to him.
An outgoing, up-beat, aggressive man, he’d enjoyed a damn near perfect life. Nurturing and supportive parents, attending the best schools, more friends than he knew what to do with... Steve seemed blessed from birth. After graduating from college, he had married the prettiest woman on campus, and landed a good job with an insurance company.
Now, fifteen years later, walking out of that company into a cold, gray, overcast day, Steve felt the jaws of depression tighten their grip, pulling him down, down, into a dark abyss out of which he could see no possible escape.
He got into his black Porsche, kicking a small handgun that had slid out from under the front seat; he had bought the weapon last year when there was a rash of smash-and-grab car thieves terrorizing the city.
That’s all he needed, he thought, was to shoot himself in the goddamn foot. Shaking his head, he tucked the gun back under the seat, started the car and roared off, catching the south-bound freeway that would head him toward the city to an apartment where he lived alone.
But traffic was snarled, at a near stand-still, giving Steve nothing to do but think. And finally, he allowed something that had been eating away inside of him to gnaw its way out...
It was last May when Steve went back to his hometown for his twenty-fifth high school class reunion. His wife, Kathleen, decided not to go; their three kids were busy with their own activities, and she would be needed. And besides, Kathleen had said with a smile, he’d have more fun by himself.
Steve hadn’t been back to Iowa since he graduated from high school. Over the years, the tenth, fifteenth, then twentieth class reunion forms found their way to him as he moved around the country for his company. And each time he sat down at his desk and filled out the paper — until he came to the part that asked his occupation. Insurance salesman. Not very befitting to the boy voted most likely to succeed. No, he told himself, until he could write that he was president of the company, he wouldn’t attend.
But this time Steve made an exception. He was now a vice-president, with the presidency certain to be his.
The night before he left, he dug out his old high-school yearbook and pored over it, so he would remember his classmates. Then he got out the booklet that came with his banquet ticket; it told what everyone was presently doing. He studied it, as if there would be an exam, smiling as he did so, until he reached the last page. Fifteen names filled a memorial page. It upset him to know that these people were dead...
Yet, it would be great to see old friends. Especially Rob. He grinned, thinking of all the rebellious scrapes he and his best friend had gotten into.
Steve shook his head, his smile fading. How could he have lost touch with Rob? They were like brothers, for Christ’s sake! He made a promise to himself that at the reunion he would renew that friendship. After all, he thought, looking again at the memorial page, life was just too damn short.
Steve thumbed back through the booklet, and noticed that his old girlfriend, Melissa, listed no spouse...
Okay, so he envisioned making it with Melissa. So what. Like no married woman ever had thoughts about another man. It was just a harmless fantasy that helped pass the time on his long drive back to Iowa. Yes, he knew he had a great job, a wonderful wife, and three terrific kids. He wasn’t stupid. And yet, memories of Melissa — a love almost consummated — seemed more and more like unfinished business in his mind.
After arriving in town, Steve checked in to a hotel, taking a suite — in case anyone might want to come back and party. Then he showered and shaved, and carefully combed his recently dyed hair. He put on tight, white Bermuda shorts and a pale yellow polo shirt that showed off his spa-tanned skin. A leather Rolex was strapped to his wrist.
He stood at the mirror — looking more like a thirty-three than forty-three year old man — and, satisfied with his appearance, he left the room, and went out to his Porsche.
Indianola was a small town in a rural community with a population of about ten thousand. Driving around the downtown, which was built in a square around a quaint little park, Steve thought things hadn’t changed much in twenty-five years. Oh, sure, there were some new shops, but the old, gothic theater with its great marquee, and Pasquale’s Pizzeria — where everyone hung out — took him zooming back in time.
Steve felt a lump in his throat.
He turned down a side street and pulled his Porsche into a parking lot next to a big, three-story brown brick building, which was the old YMCA where they used to have sock-hops. Vacant for some time, the reunion committee re-opened it for this Friday night dance — for old time’s sake.
Steve parked his car and got out.
As he opened the door to the building, loud talking and laughter floated down from the second floor parlor. He smiled as he climbed the short flight of steps, nervous in a way he hadn’t felt since high school.
But when he entered the parlor, he became confused and disoriented, like a kid who’d wandered into the wrong classroom. Looking out over the sea of faces he recognized no one. He must be at the wrong reunion; these people were old. And yet, some reached out and grabbed at him and called his name. With a frozen smile he moved through the crowd, as if in a slow motion picture.
Then behind him he heard a low, soft voice.
Melissa.
He sighed, relieved to know someone, and grinning, he turned.
But the grin collapsed like a fat lady in a folding chair, for Melissa was short and dumpy. Beneath curly gray hair lay a wrinkled face where here and there skin-tags clung like tiny particles of forgotten food. The bright orange dress she wore (Christ on a crutch, why would she want to draw attention to herself?) was shaped like a tent.
Steve’s thoughts must have registered on his face, because Melissa had a hurt look on hers. Quickly he turned on the charm and told her how nice it was to see her again and how pretty she looked.
She perked up, and latched onto him, and launched into her life’s history since high school... which was a nightmare. Listening to her babble on and on, Steve never realized it before, but the woman had the IQ of a gerbil! When she started to show him pictures of ugly grandchildren, he got away from her, and moved to the other side of the room.
What happened? he thought. Was this the generation that was going to change the world? It didn’t seem possible! Had they just given the fuck up? Turned into their parents — but worse?
Was this old man in plaid polyester pants, now boring him to death with talk of aluminum siding, the same Rob from high school? Steve stared at his old friend.
Hello! Hello! Is anybody in there?
Steve fled the parlor, hurrying up a flight of wide, wooden steps that creaked and moaned with their age, and went into the gymnasium where the dance was being held.
It was dark in there — mercifully — the only source of light coming from the band on stage, and a large glittering ball that revolved on the ceiling; the ball sent a million white spots swirling around, making it look like the room had some contagious disease. The gym itself was small, just the size of a basketball court with no room for bleachers. Crepe paper hung from corner to corner, while a hundred balloons clung to the walls.