Sticky
Certain memories have a kind of stickiness, frequently coming to mind, evoking familiar feelings, and easily connecting to other life experiences. Others not so much.
Since graduating, I only attended one high school reunion. My twentieth. Dennis approached as everyone was just sitting down for dinner, shouting from across the room, “Scott! Scott!”
Making his way through the crowd to my table, I stood to greet him. As I extended my hand, he pulled me in, holding tight and slapping my back the way guys do.
“I can go home now,” he said, his voice giddy with excitement. “You are the one person I wanted to see!”
Pulling a chair from an adjacent table, he sat and with a laugh asked, “So, what have you been up to in the last two decades?”
I gave the abbreviated version, as one does in such circumstances – each revelation meeting with deep nods of acknowledgement and an occasional, “Wow.” Married. One kid. Living in Chicago. Working as a psychologist.
After filling me in about his life post-graduation, he began reminiscing.
“Remember when we did the Soupy Sales skit in fourth grade?” Leaning forward and slapping me on the leg, “We couldn’t get any whip cream for the ‘pie-in-the face,’ so we used shaving cream? I couldn’t get that taste outta my mouth for a week!”
Growing up, I loved watching the Soupy Sales show – his puppets, White Fang, the meanest dog in Detroit, and Black Tooth, who was constantly kissing Sales on the mouth.
On a roll, Dennis continued before I could reply.
“And the .22’s? Took ‘em from my dad’s stash of bullets. I told you they were like firecrackers and threw them in the fireplace. You were so scared, you ran off!”
Incidentally, that same year, Santa brought me and my brother our own .22 rifles – their bolts and any ammunition kept locked away except on days our father took us out to shoot.
More memories followed. Swimming in Dennis’ above-ground pool. Riding our bikes into town. Our tearful goodbye and promises to call each other when he and his family temporarily relocated when his father changed jobs.
“We never did call each other, did we?”
“I don’t remember talking, no …,” I replied – a statement that was only partially accurate. True, I didn’t recall talking with Dennis after he moved. To be completely honest, however, I did not remember Dennis. At all. Nothing. Not him, nor any of the stories he told.
“So glad we were able to see each other,” I said as Dennis stood and began walking back to his table.
That’s when I caught the eye of Laurie Tillinghast. Her I remembered, along with Beth Klaus, her constant sidekick through elementary, junior and high school. Laurie looked as I remembered. Shoulder length, rusty red hair, a smattering of freckles crossing her face from ear to ear, and wide, warm smile. Always, a smile. I didn’t see Beth and couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her – tall with angular features and deep blue eyes.
The three of us had never been “best friends.” We’d always greet one another if we happen to pass in the hall but didn’t run in the same circle of friends. Beyond that, and for reasons that remain unclear to me to this day, both hold a secure spot in my memory, one that is as vivid today as has been for more than 50 years.
Sixth grade. After school. The three of us are standing together on the path that runs alongside Beth’s home at the corner of Valencia and Bennett Avenue.
“Were you able to get them?” Laurie asks.
“Yeah … ” Beth begins.
Filled with a mixture of anticipation and fear, I watch as she then reaches into the pocket of her yellow, cable-knit sweater.
“But only one,” she continues, “‘cause there were only a few left in my dad’s pack.”
Beth lit and took the first drag of the cigarette. Laurie and I followed, both of us coughing and sputtering in response. As the second round was about to begin, I reached for my books, and without saying a word, bolted.
From start to finish, the entire episode lasted no more than 5 minutes, probably less. I didn’t ask Laurie about it at the reunion. Rather, as we had done ever since that memorable moment in the sixth grade, each of us smiled and said, “Hello” as we passed by one another.