The air felt hot, dry, and dirty as we stepped out of the car into the claustrophobic parking lot. A small marquee declared, “YCHS 1993 20 YEAR REUNION” in vinyl squares almost toy-like in their tininess. I glanced back at my partner, Charles. He looked slightly green. I understood. I was sure I was too.
We were a few minutes late, but some of the first to walk inside. I located my name tag. On it was a scanned image of my yearbook photo. How very Grosse Pointe Blank.
Then glory be, it was time for grub. As I filled my plate with zucchini cooked in rancid grease and salad that still contained a hint of pesticide, I watched the other attendees file into the room, fill plates, and sit down. The odors of cheap food and nervous sweat settled over the throng of 38 year olds like eau de school cafeteria, and our evening’s entertainment began.
to hand out a prize for breeding in a town full of Mormons? What a contest!
Trivia followed, all of us straining to remember what exactly was going on in the entertainment world in that fantastic year for art, 1993. As I’m not really a joiner, I stayed silent, enjoying the enthusiastic yells of “Beverly Hills 90210!” “Paula Abdul!” and more. Soon enough, many were sporting extraordinary brown and gold memorabilia, and the bad 90s pop music began to blare once again, giving everyone permission to seek out more booze.