I wondered what it might be like to break down on that hot June day---predicted to get to 106--as we drove across the New Mexico desert on two-lane U.S. 285. Ken had expressed confidence that his 20 year old '59 Plymouth Duster could make the trip, even though the odometer read 61,000 on its third time around. Such were the finances of someone who had been working on a Ph.D. for six years. There was not a sign of human life for miles, just endless desert, and it looked like even the cactus was sagging.
We chatted about my plans to go into private practice as a psychologist within two years. I was working for the state of Texas at the time. He asked if I would ever go for a Ph.D., but I told him an M.A. was all that was necessary for counseling. Ken's specialty was applied mathematics. He was going to an institute in Boulder where he could use a very powerful computer for his research.
"You know," I said, "this friend I'm going to see, Sam, is very bright. He's the only person I've kept in touch with from college, just like you're about the only one I've kept up with from high school. I was thinking. He made an 800 on the verbal part of his SAT and you had an 800 in math, so I guess I've been smart to keep hanging around you guys. Maybe some of it'll rub off."
He asked, "So what does Sam normally do?" I had told him earlier that Sam was presently unemployed.
"He got a B.A. in journalism at Stanford and then had some jobs with newspapers but never for very long. I think the longest he's ever been in one place was at the Daily Cal while his ex-wife was getting her Ph.D. at Berkeley. Then right after she finished, she asked him for a divorce. He hasn't been able to get it together since, suffered quite a bit from depression, and hasn't had a job to speak of."
"Sounds like some of your good counseling could help."
"His wife wasn't very kind during the divorce. She got custody of their daughter to whom he was pretty close, but he's got to make more of an effort to get over it. I may prod him a little to look harder for a job. We're very honest with each other. I think he'd agree that I probably know him better than any other person in his life right now."
"Looks like we'll make it into Denver by midnight."
"You can stay at Sam's overnight but you'll have to sleep on the floor. He hardly has any furniture. I brought a sleeping bag for myself."
"That may be a good idea. It could be another hour or more to Boulder." We skirted Santa Fe, kept going by Espanola and Alamosa, and eventually came out of the mountains west of Denver. By 11:30 I knocked on Sam's door.
"Come in." Sam was sitting on a mattress placed against a wall in the living room, dressed only in his briefs.
"Hey, Sam," I greeted him. He smiled at us.
"I just finished beating my meat," Sam said. "It felt good."
"This is Ken, the friend from high school I told you about." They exchanged greetings but neither one reached out a hand to shake.
"Well, the place isn't much but you're welcome to stay, Ken. The carpet is actually pretty soft," Sam said. We talked a few minutes and told Sam about the trip up.
"I think I'll go ahead and go to Boulder tonight," Ken said. "I still feel pretty wide awake, so it shouldn't be a problem. That way I can get an early start tomorrow." I thanked him, paid him for my part of the gas, and he went off.
The next morning I got up early to run on the track in a park nearby. I wanted to beat the heat, which promised to be high again. When I got back, Sam was awake in bed reading a book, Pensieri, by Giacomo Leopardi.
"Ever read Leopardi?" he asked.
"No, never heard of him, I'm sorry to say."
"He talks about the gap between man's dreams and reality. I tried to clean this place as good as I could but watch out about going barefoot. There may be chicken bones."
"Chicken bones?"
"Yea, this roommate that just left last week was something else. He would eat chicken and leave the bones all over the floor. He was very messy."
"He must have definitely had a bad case of the grungies, if someone like you would say that."
"O.K., O.K., I'm a slob but I'm not that bad. I clean up pretty good after I eat." I had to admit that was true. The apartment was mostly disorganized. There were papers all over the living room. It didn't surprise me that there wasn't a chair in the whole apartment. The only furniture was one small bookcase, which was full, and a 9-inch black and white television with a picture that sometimes went black but could be brought back by hitting it on the right side. When I took my shower, I noticed a little yellow puddle, about an inch in diameter, right in front of the middle of the toilet bowl. I was careful not to step in it. It continued to reappear each day.
After we ate breakfast, I told Sam, "I don't want to use up all your food. Maybe we can go buy some groceries a little later."
"I need to get some stuff, too. There's a Safeway about five blocks away and a health food store run by the Moonies down the street on Colfax. You'll like it. There's a lot of food for vegetarians and the price isn't bad." After a pause, he sighed and said, "Shit, I got to try to find a job."
"Hey, don't let me get in your way. I can take care of myself all right if you want to go out and interview for a job. I wasn't planning anything special when I came. Just some change of scenery and relax. I'll be happy to stay here and read if nothing else."
"How long you planning to stay?"
"I've got three weeks coming. I don't know, I may stay the whole time, if it's O.K. with you."
"Yea, I guess it's O.K. As long as I don't start getting bummed out and being too much of a fucking drag."
"You still getting depressed bad? You look all right to me."
"Yea, but I'm taking medication for it. It helps . . . ."
"But not completely."
"No."
While food shopping, we caught up on what each of us had been doing and about current social trends and national politics, which we always discussed. Not that we hadn't talked about these things in the two years we hadn't seen each other. We kept in touch through letters and the telephone. Although we both cared about social problems, we still joked and poked fun at many situations and well-known people. As we were coming back, Sam said, "After lunch let's head down to the 'Y' for a swim. I try to go everyday. I have to or else I put on the weight."
"What time does Donahue come on around here?"
"Shit, it's already over. It comes on at 9. I've gotten tired of him. They ought to call it The Original Amateur Man-Bashing Hour."
"Yea, but they still have some good topics. Just try to ignore Donahue's pandering. Hey, wait a minute. You're the guy who used to preach to me about how women were treated so insensitively. I mean, you were the original Mr. Feminist."
"That was partly that my dear little old ex had me brainwashed and intimidated. No, I still believe in all that, but the pendulum could afford to swing back a little now. I simply refuse to take the blame for all of women's problems, particularly my ex's."
"Is she still pushing her High Polygamy movement or whatever it was?"
"I guess, I don't know."
"She needed a goddamn Ph.D. in clinical psychology just to push that. How does she make her money? You said she doesn't have a practice or a job, right?"
"Not as far as I can figure out. I can't get too mad at her about that. She's an unusually horny woman and I'm the opposite. Got too many problems with sex. My only resentment is that she could have let me down more easily."
"Yea. She could have at least avoided your catching her screwing her ex-boyfriend in your own living room, knowing you were trying to sleep in the bedroom."
"Yea."
We took a bus to the YMCA, which was the way we had to travel all the time since Sam didn't have a car. I didn't mind since I think buses are a good idea, and they were in good condition and ran often. We both swam several laps and later sat down beside the pool.
"Maybe tonight we can go over to my friend Sholem's," Sam said. "He's probably my closest friend here in Denver. He's a computer time salesman."
"Whatever happened to Alex, the guy you first lived with here, right? Not this last one."
"He got to be real shitty. Got real hard to live with."
"How come?"
"I guess it was because I couldn't help him with the rent and things. I couldn't find a job for several months after I got here. But he never said anything about it, just acted pissed."
"Do you ever see him?"
"No, he went to Israel."
"It sounds like he was afraid he was going to have to support you indefinitely."
"Yea, I guess. I can't say I blame him."
"You eventually got that job with Kelly Services, right? How come you left?" I was curious and had no intention to reproach.
"I tried to take it, but I just couldn't stand it anymore. Being a file clerk is just deathly boring."
"I imagine you have applications in with the Denver Post and other newspapers around here."
"Yes, but the competition is really tough. I don't want a reporter's job, but it's probably even harder to get a job as a copy editor."
"Why not as a reporter? Don't they expect you to start at the bottom?" He was getting uncomfortable with the questions, I could see.
"Copy editor is pretty much at the bottom. I just don't think I could take the pressure as a reporter. Deadlines all the time."
That night we went with Sholem and his girl friend to eat at Lambretto's, an expensive Italian restaurant. Sholem was very gracious and an easy conversationalist. He called me Jorge although I never used that version of my name. Afterwards, we wanted to go see a movie, but Sam didn't. He seemed to withdraw. Said he was tired and wanted to turn in early. I wanted to go to the movie but decided against leaving him alone so we just went back to the apartment. A week went by that we were content to idle away. We went to swim at the 'Y' every day and often went to the park nearby. I got to know downtown Denver as well as a couple of Sam's other friends. One day we went to a Greek festival that we had to reach by taking a long bus ride and then walking a mile. I mostly enjoyed the baklava.
The next morning he got up and said, "God, I've got to get out and look for some work."
"If I can help in any way, let me know. Maybe I can go with you and be an instant reference right there on the spot. I'll tell them how wonderful and eager you are and how easy you are to get along with."
"You can tell them how bad I need the bread. How I need to at least buy some furniture for my apartment so my friends can have a better place to crash."
"Ken mentioned going to hike in Rocky Mountain National Park on Saturday. Let's work real hard at finding you a job so we can go and have something to celebrate."
"O.K., but I'm not sure I want to go. We'll see. Let me look at the want ads. Maybe there's something there." He thrashed around the clothes, papers, and books that were scattered in the living room. There were Sincerity and Authenticity by Lionel Trilling, The Roots of Treason by E. Fuller Torrey, a biography of Ezra Pound, Mr. Palomar by Italo Calvino, three scattered copies of the Denver Post, two New York Review of Books, the Pareveh News, a Salmagundi, a Massachusetts Review, and a couple of Southwest Reviews.
"It's amazing," I said. "I've finally met someone who reads these literary reviews and isn't an English graduate student or professor."
"Yea, I suppose they ought to give me some sort of award for that."
"You bet."
"I've been spending too much money on books. That's probably my one vice."
"Is your mother still helping you out with money?"
"Yea. She doesn't like it and, of course, my stepfather absolutely hates it."
"Well, if you get your ass in gear maybe you can find something today."
"O.K., O.K. I'm going." Sam made a few phone calls later that morning inquiring about work. I was sure he realized that I was not sympathetic to his staying unemployed indefinitely. My main worry was that his mother would cut him off eventually. He was lucky she was giving him anything. When he stayed with her right after his divorce, he had definitely needed psychiatric care because of a deep depression. Even now he was going to see a psychiatrist regularly, but she refused to agree that it was serious even though she herself was a psychiatric social worker.
That night as we were coming back from visiting Sholem and went to cross Colfax Avenue, there was this black woman standing there waiting for the light. She had short shorts and high heels and as we got closer, I noticed what a fantastic figure she had. Sam noticed me staring intently as we approached but ignored it and kept talking. We came to the edge of the sidewalk and stood several feet to her right. As I stared at her, she turned and gave me a big, friendly smile. Her sudden friendliness surprised me, but I smiled back and still managed to notice her full blouse. By then the light had changed and Sam hurriedly started to cross. I followed. She stood where she had been for a couple of seconds and then started walking slowly. I felt like she wanted me to start a conversation with her, but it was obvious Sam was uncomfortable. After we got out of hearing distance, I said, "Goddamn, did you see that? What a body? And I think she may have liked me. She flashed me a friendly smile. When I came up from behind, I felt so much like putting my . . ."
"She's a hooker, dummy," Sam said uninterested.
I hadn't imagined. "You think so? This area doesn't look like it would have hookers."
"There aren't many, but they're around."
I put on my imitation big black man's voice, "Sheeeit, man. You're just a motherfuckin,' racist honky who thinks every beautiful black sister on the street is a hooker."
"No, that's not it. George, you're just a hick who doesn't know what's coming down in the big city."
Back at his apartment, I kept talking about her, on purpose. I wouldn't have done anything if I'd had the chance, but I did feel that Sam was being a real stick in the mud, withdrawing again. "God, she had a good body. I can't stop thinking about her. So what if she was a whore? Would you let me bring her here?"
"I can't say I'd like it. I don't like to condone exploitation. Boy, it sounds like you're problem is that you haven't gotten laid in a long time. I can't believe an up-and-coming yuppie like you doesn't get laid all the time?"
"It's not that easy meeting women, or at least half-way intelligent ones that you can talk to for more than a half-hour. There's some cute clerks in my department, but they all seem to be married or hungup on young jerks who all they know is 'party all the time, dude' and never even have a job. Oops, didn't mean to knock the unemployed."
"That's all right. I know the world hates all us slackers."
"Those girls at the office don't seem to mind slackers."
"Maybe you should take me back with you."
"Sorry, but they don't go too much for guys with beards and a paunch. You'd have to smoke pot and maybe do some crack, own a Camaro with a $2,000 sound system."
"I guess I'll pass."
We were sitting in our customary positions, Sam on his mattress, back against the wall, with me on the carpet half-way across the room, partly lying on my side. We reminisced about the past as we often did, bringing up the same episodes we had discussed many times before, partly for the enjoyment of going back to relive them in our minds and partly to examine them carefully to find, I suppose, what the perspective of the passing years could illuminate for us. They were sometimes pleasant experiences and sometimes bittersweet.
"I was thinking the other day about working at the Faculty Club," he said. That was where we had first met at Stanford while working as student waiters. "I remember how much food had to be thrown out. Before then I never realized how much waste there was in restaurants."
"Yea, they can't risk having the food spoil."
"Then there was all the food left on plates that people just didn't eat. Like I imagine a lot of the ones on diets ended up leaving most of their steaks and baked potatoes. It was actually fun working there most of the time. There were some fine looking women that worked there. I remember Chris Viggers had a great body and so did Lucy Dewell. You went out with both of them."
"Lucy had the most beautiful face I've ever seen--all the movie stars included. Nothing developed because i was hung up on Sharon Winslow, but she was infatuated with some young black guy in prison. She was the bleeding heart social worker type." I went on to point out, "You seemed fairly happy then."
"You seemed fairly happy then."
"I have to piss." We were revved up in our conversation so I followed him to the restroom and stood in the doorway. "Yea, I was happy for the most part," he continued. "I'd just gotten married. I was definitely better than I've been since then."
"Unlike me, you actually enjoyed school," I said. "Hey, now I realize where that little puddle comes from."
"What?"
"You like to stand pretty far away from the pot, don't you?"
He looked around puzzled, "Uh, I do? I never noticed." I was sure he was not going to be insulted. We often talked about private matters. He was the one who first started that. At first I was taken aback but later realized friends should be more relaxed about that.
"Look, when a man pees there's sometimes a little drip that falls straight down. You can see it now." I said. He looked and saw the dripping. "The day after I got here I was wondering how that little puddle got there and now we see. You need to stand closer to the bowl. Hadn't you ever noticed that?"
"No, I guess I didn't."
The next morning Sam didn't seem very energetic. He read for several hours. Finally I asked, "What are we going to do today?" He had not done anything about looking for work since the calls he had made a few mornings before.
"I was thinking about going to the Denver Post and seeing the managing editor. It's a good idea to keep in touch. Besides I want to check out a couple of bookstores downtown." He put on some dark slacks that looked clean but a little wrinkled and baggy around the knees, a blue shirt with thin, black and red stripes, and a gray corduroy sport coat that looked well worn.
"These aren't the best clothes for job hunting," he said on our way to catch the bus, "but I'm afraid it's the best I've got for now." He was fidgety and clearly not too eager. At the newspaper office, he went into the office of the editor's secretary very quickly and came back out. "They still don't have any openings. Let's go." He looked relieved. We went to two local bookstores that were well stocked. He was looking for the latest issue of the New York Review of Books and also wound up buying Texasville. I didn't buy anything because I was still trying to get through much of what he had in his apartment. At my request, we went to look at some of the state capitol buildings and then hurried back at 4 so Sam could go for his daily swim.
The next morning Ken came to go on the hike we had planned. We couldn't convince Sam to go, said he wanted to spend the time looking for work. I didn't get the feeling that he didn't like Ken, but he appeared withdrawn, afraid of something. I got in too late to talk to him that night. He usually turned in early.
After some breakfast the next morning, I brought up something I had been thinking about. "I didn't get the chance to clarify to Ken a comment you made the other day."
"What comment?"
"The night we first got here, the first thing you said was not 'hello' or 'how's it going?' or 'welcome' or anything like that. The first thing you said was 'I just finished beating my meat.'"
He broke out laughing, "Well, it was the truth."
"I know, but to someone you're meeting for the first time?" I was laughing, too. Actually his comment that night had not been a complete surprise. Since I had known him, he had always been ingenuously open.
"What do you fuckers expect? I'm proud after finally having been able to do it just a few months ago for the first time in my life." Sam had told me previously that one of the major problems with his marriage had been difficulty in ejaculating. I told him to practice by himself, which was also difficult, but there was eventually a breakthrough. Now he was enjoying it and apparently wanted me to know that my advice had born fruit.
"That's good, but maybe you can restrain yourself long enough to say 'hi' first, especially when meeting a complete stranger. Like maybe you could study your conversational timing a little better? It was like the other day at that Greek festival when we sat and talked with those two blondes. They were friendly, but then you soon made the heavy comment that the fundamental tragedy of human society was that people were basically insulated in their own shells from other individuals and unable to truly reach out to others." He laughed uncontrollably.
"Well, I have to confess. Picking Up Women was a book I never got around to reading."
"Anyway I was wondering what Ken might have thought from that, I mean about our sexual orientation." He burst out with a big guffaw and kept laughing. I continued, "I wanted to clarify matters, but I wanted to do it in a natural way or else he might not have believed it and thought I was lying. But I never felt I had the chance to bring it up."
"Well, fuck him if he's worried about it."
"It's no big thing. He's a pretty cool guy and wouldn't care anyway."
"Shit, he may not have even heard what I said."
"Could be, except that he gave an indication when we were coming that he was going to stay here so he wouldn't have to drive another two hours or so before he got to sleep. But once here, he seemed very sure that he wanted to go on."
He burst out laughing again, "You mean the poor bastard had to drive all tired and sleepy in the middle of the night just because he was afraid he might wake up being buggered?"
"Possibly."
"At least he could have slept in the kitchen and kept his back against the wall all night."
"Well, at least you're making some progress in your sex life, even if you don't have to immediately announce it to every stranger that comes to your door."
"Boy, if only my ex could see me now."
"I remember how it was right after you had gotten married. How you used to leave in a rush when you had finished at the Faculty Club. I imagined you were leaving to go have a great time in bed with your wife."
"Appearances can be deceiving. You know, I used to wonder if she might try to get in your pants. You used to come over enough to where she got to know you pretty well."
"She never made a pass, and if she had, she wouldn't have gotten anywhere. I decided long ago never to let sex get in the way of a good friendship."
"And while you were being a goody-goody, who knows who else was fucking her."
"Yea, maybe. Knowing what I know now, I should have at least gotten one good fuck in. Just one. Would you have minded that?"
"I honestly can't say I would have been thrilled with the prospect, no. But, George, we know you're just too nice to have done that."
Of course, Sam hadn't done much to find a job while I was away mountain climbing with Ken. The day before I was to catch a plane to go back home, he decided to go to some out-of-the-way bookstore to see if he could find a book that he hadn't been able to find at the bookstores that he went to regularly. We had to make a transfer to a second bus and then walk about a mile from the stop. He didn't find the book he was looking for at the bookstore. He seemed very relaxed.
"I don't think I'll do any job searching today? Don't feel like it, besides you're leaving tomorrow." We walked slowly back to the bus stop. We came to a grassy knoll by the sidewalk. "Let's sit down here awhile," he said. "Looks like a peaceful place." We sat down, but I felt I had to say something even if I didn't feel comfortable about it. My philosophy was that if you cared for a friend, you confronted him with unpleasant matters if he needed to know them. Besides, Sam himself had often asked for my opinion on problems he was having.
"Sam, I know things have been hard for you since your divorce and that when a person is pressed, it gets real difficult to function in any way, but the reality is that you've got to get some money coming in. Your mother is not going to help you forever, and the government is not going to help you even if you are seeing a psychiatrist, especially these days."
"I know all that. I know it," he said in an unusually irate manner. "You think I'm just lazy, don't you?"
"No, I know you can work hard. I've seen you do it, but it may be that you are being a little too easy on yourself. Sometimes one does have to just simply grin and bear it. Just pick yourself up from misfortunes and bad situations. Once you got a job, it would help you keep your mind busy and help overcome your depression."
"It's just not that simple. Believe me," and with that he got up brusquely and started walking. I chose not to say anything for the moment. It was a surprise to see him as angry as he obviously was, and it appeared he didn't even want to talk about it. I did think that he was being a little too self-indulgent in his pickiness about what kind of job to get. At this point, he had to take whatever was there, and he didn't seem to be trying hard enough. Sam was walking slowly on the sidewalk, going back to the bus stop, and I was now walking beside him.
"I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone before," he finally said. "For years I've had these kind of like hallucinations, but the main one I have is this intense fear that I will be responsible for starting a serious earthquake in California. I get visions that the earthquake is happening, and the visions usually take place in San Francisco, at places I'm familiar with. And with the visions, there's this intense feeling of fear. It's so intense, it's paralyzing. I know it's totally irrational and I don't believe the damn visions, but the paralyzing fear is very real."
"When do you get these hallucinations?"
"I can't predict, but they usually come with stressful situations. Like in a job, even a clerk job. It always happens. There's stress and then the hallucinations come on and then I can't perform and as my performance level goes down, I get worried and feel more stress."
"So how long have you had this?"
"It started when I was a teenager, but it seems to have gotten worse in the last five years. That Kelly Services file clerk job wasn't particularly stressful, but the excruciating boredom seemed to bring on the hallucinations. Another thing that I see is a car exploding into a fire that hurts people all around and it's all my fault."
"I couldn't figure out why you weren't trying to get in the newspapers as a reporter, which seems like a logical place to start, but I guess it is a very stressful job." His revelation took me by total surprise.
"That's exactly right. I know it would be the logical place to start, but I know I couldn't last. And then you can imagine how it is just looking for a job. You go into an interview and you're struck with fear and you have to drag yourself in there. Then once you get in there, you can barely pay attention to what the interviewer is saying, and you're struck with fear, and you can't wait to get it over with. It's definitely not a good impression."
"How about back at the Faculty Club? You didn't have that then, did you?"
"Yes, but I was able to control it enough to keep on. And that was part of the problem with sex. When Connie and I used to fuck, I had a special hallucination that I was alone, floating in the air in the dark, and it was the middle of the universe and I was totally alone."
"This is called derealization, but how come you never told me this before?"
"I don't know. It's just been too embarrassing. I've never told anyone. Here I'm supposed to be an intelligent, well-educated, competent person, and yet in reality I can barely stay in control. It's been my little secret all these years."
"Have you told your shrink?"
"Not really. I guess I've hinted about it, but I haven't brought it out. You think I should?"
"Of course. And how about your parents? You usually feel close enough to your father to talk to him?"
"I guess I haven't. Like I said, I've never really even considered it."
The hot, dry August wind was just the way Dave Phillips remembered it in El Seco. It had been at least 10 years since he had been back, but childhood memories were still vivid. As he drove west on the freeway, he could see how the housing subdivisions had spread to the foothills. The city had been one of the fastest growing in the country. He had enjoyed his childhood here, and his parents had chosen to remain even though he had pleaded with them to move where they could be closer to him. They had in turn begged him to come back to El Seco, but it had been out of the question. He had established an excellent reputation as a neurosurgeon in New York, associated with Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. He worked longer hours than he liked but otherwise it was very satisfying to be at the top of his profession. Coming back to El Seco, even as the top surgeon in the city, would simply be out of the question. No matter how much he might enjoy coming back to live closer to his parents and in a place where he had developed early roots with people still around whom he remembered as childhood friends, he knew he wouldn't be happy. There wasn't a laboratory where he could become involved in research, something he thought he might like to do someday.
He wondered how El Seco was for a single man. There was certainly an abundance of women in New York City, but supposedly that wasn't the case here. An old friend had complained about that, but more importantly he said, many women didn't seem very impressed with a professional man. He was a sharp, good-looking accountant working in an established firm.
In spite of all, he still enjoyed coming back to see old friends and he was especially excited about this afternoon. He was driving to Michelino's, an old winery hidden in the hills on the west side of the city, near the Mexican border. The organizers of their 20th year high school reunion thought it would be a good spot to meet. It was supposed to be informal so Dave was wearing a pair of white shorts and a short-sleeved maroon polo shirt. He was looking forward to seeing many of the people from his Coronado High School class of 1970. He had known some of them since grammar school. There had been about 600 graduates, and he probably knew about 400 of them even if only distantly. He had taken out his old yearbooks last night to help him refresh his memory on names and faces.
In school, he had never been one of the popular people nor one of the members of the "in" social groups that came into existence, but he had distinguished himself by making good grades and coming out often on Dean's List. He hadn't been conscious of it at the time, but he had yearned to be popular and held in special esteem. He had thought about it in more recent years and realized how much of a force a feeling of inadequacy had been toward his drive to excel. He remembered how he had daydreamed of going on to be some great success and have everyone he had known in school talk of how great he was. They would tell their friends and remind their relatives that they had known him; it would make them speak proudly of having gone to school with him; the newspapers would refer to him every so often as a great El Secoan who had made a name for himself. At first he had dreamed of being a great baseball player who would be seen on television all the time. That fantasy faded as he found that he could rise to being no more than an average player on the high school baseball team. He found that he could shine in academics and so shifted his goal to becoming a doctor or engineer. His supporting dream of success stayed with him through high school, through college, and even to some extent, after he had already become a doctor.
Dave wondered about two people he remembered in particular. One was Margaret Hawkins who had turned him down when he had asked her to go to the Junior Prom. It had been an upsetting disappointment. It was true that he hadn't known her especially well, but he had been confident that she would accept. She didn't have a boyfriend; it was said she didn't even date very much. He had walked up to her in the hall right after English class and very calmly asked her if she would be his date. She said "no" politely, but curtly. It was immediately clear that she could not be moved to reconsider her firm decision, and she gave no explanation.
She showed up with someone else and he found another date, too. Her date had not been anyone special. Dave didn't think she knew him much better--spent the whole evening trying to figure out why the other guy and not him. His date was a girl he had known for many years from close by in his neighborhood. He had brooded on Margaret's rejection not only that evening but for a long time to come. Dave wondered now whether she had any regrets about that rejection. Lately he had caught himself fantasizing a little on what might happen if she were single like he. He had heard that she was still an extremely beautiful woman and so inevitably not one who would be in any way needy of men who would be interested in her. In fact, she had been so attractive that she had moved to Hollywood soon after graduation to seek a career as an actress.
As he drove up the hill and came within sight of the winery, he could feel nervousness. He had hardly seen any of the people in the intervening 20 years. He could hear music coming from the large, old stone building. Dave said "hi" near the entrance to a guy named Jay who was standing there as if waiting for someone. He was trying to remember his last name but couldn't. He hadn't known Jay very well.
The music was coming from an old jukebox, old songs from the time like "Tracy," by the Cufflinks, and there were already a hundred people. A band was setting up, Lonnie Leroux and the Lancers, made up mainly of graduates from the previous class of 1969. The first person Dave ran into was Fred Farrell. They hadn't seen each other since graduation, and Fred was jubilant. He introduced Dave to his wife who had gone to a high school on the east side of town. Fred was overweight but he had always been stocky. He had played tackle on the junior high football team. Dave had also been on the team but never went on to play in high school. He had always been very thin. They immediately went into exchanging the usual information on what each had been doing since the last time they had seen each other. Fred said he had been in insurance for many years and was impressed with Dave's accomplishments.
As Dave later talked to Mike Gonzalez who had been in American History and other classes with him, he kept looking out of the corner of his eye at different people and noticed Mike was being distracted in the same way. "God, there's a lot of people here I can't remember," Mike said chagrined. "Who's that over there? Is that Jenny Saunders?" Dave wasn't sure who it was, either. They both agreed that it was hard to recognize many of the others.
Dave then spotted Janet Stevens. She looked surprisingly attractive and youthful, about ten years younger. It was not that Janet had been ugly, she had just never looked this good before. It was not her looks, however, that made him eager to talk to her as much as memories that came back to him across the years. He remembered how she always beat him in grades in school. She sat in front of him in both fifth and sixth grades, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get better grades than her. In the early grades he hadn't really cared that much about grades, but he sometimes got it in his mind to beat Janet in a test and it was mainly because she seemed so arrogant. She was often bossy and most of the other kids would pick up on this and taunt her for it. Dave would try to get back at her by doing better in a test because she seemed to take so much pride in being at the top off the class. Sometimes he would get a better grade than her but that was rare. He wondered what her reaction would be when she found out what he was doing now.
As soon as he had the chance in the conversation, he found an excuse to walk to where Janet was talking with some of her former girlfriends. When he had the chance, he tapped her on the shoulder. "Hi, Janet."
"Dave, Dave Phillips," she exclaimed sounding almost ecstatic. "You look great. My God. I haven't seen you in so long. I think it was right after graduation."
"That sounds about right. You're looking great yourself, like about 10 years younger."
"Oh, come on now. Don't exaggerate. Do you remember Donna Rains and . . "
He remembered some of the other women vaguely and got reacquainted with them. After 10 minutes of mixed conversation, he had the chance to talk to Janet individually. "So are you in town or living somewhere else?" she asked him.
"I've been out of El Seco since graduation."
"You must have gone away to college?"
"Yes, I did."
"Where did you go?"
"Princeton."
"So what are you doing now?"
"I'm in New York. I'm in neurosurgery."
"Oh, isn't that something. We're both in the medical field. I've been a nurse for 15 years now. I've enjoyed it immensely most of the time, but I'm starting to get a little tired. I may take a few years and stay at home. My husband said it was fine with him. We could manage fine on just his income. What area did you say you were in?" She seemed a little distracted with the noise around.
"Neurosurgery."
"What exactly do you do?"
"I'm a doctor."
"Oh, a doctor. You're one of those. You all think you know so much, but I'll tell you I've trained many a young doctor in my day. Doctors just don't seem to appreciate how important we nurses are."
"I'm afraid you're probably right."
"Aside from all that money you guys get, I sure wouldn't want to be a doctor. Too much pressure, and you don't get the chance to really be personable with the patients. We nurses can do so much more good in that respect. Oh, Emily, Walt, it's great to see you," she turned to meet a couple that had gotten married after being high school sweethearts. A conversation got started with them and Dave sidled away before very long. He had not known the couple very well. He realized how she still felt superior even if she was below him in status.
He walked to the place where the kegs were located and after pouring himself a long-neck noticed Margaret Hawkins. He paused to get a good look at her as she stood talking to two men, who seemed entranced with her. That wasn't surprising. She looked as good as ever as she talked with her arms half-crossed, her left hand held at the side of her face, very composed. He wanted to talk to her but noticed how nervous he felt. He was determined to talk to her so he started walking across the room to where she was. How would she react to him? What were her thoughts now on what had happened back then? He hoped for a chance to talk to her privately, intimately.
"Hey, Dave, how you doing?" a friendly man engaged him in conversation. "Good to see you." The face was definitely familiar, but he couldn't get the name to come back to him. He kept trying to sneak a peek at the man's nametag but couldn't get a good look and didn't want him to notice his straining to see the name. After a couple of minutes, he remembered it was Leo Aceves. They talked for 15 minutes but it started to make Dave uneasy. He worried that Margaret might leave early. He wanted to talk much more to Leo. They had become good friends in chemistry class, but he hoped they could continue the conversation at a later time. Luckily someone else came up and Dave was soon able to excuse himself. Margaret was now surprisingly standing alone.
"Hi, Margaret. How've you been all these years? Remember me?"
"Uh," she hesitated a little. "I think so."
"I heard you had moved out to the West Coast."
"Yes, I've been there all this time. It's great. I love it."
"What are you doing now?"
"I'm afraid I have to confess, vain me. All these years I've been trying to be a star but haven't done much. I have managed to get some bit parts in some television shows recently."
"That's great. Most people don't even get that far no matter how hard they try."
"Yes, I've been thinking lately I ought to be pretty proud of myself, and on top of that, I've raised two nice kids." She stared ahead wistfully as if realizing that a woman approaching 40 couldn't go much further.
"Well, if you haven't made it big yet, it's not because of lack of good looks. It's a rough world out there in Hollywood. I think that's pretty well known by now."
"I hope so. I hope everybody doesn't think I haven't been working at it or that I have no talent because if there is anything I've found out for sure, it's that I am a good actress."
"I remember your being in Senior Play, and everybody thinking you had done real well. What was the play? The Crucible, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I also remember you were just about the prettiest girl in school. All the guys always used to talk about you, including me. Do you remember me asking you to go to the Junior Prom?" David was surprised to find himself getting into the subject he had thought about for so many years. He didn't feel as nervous as he had at first.
"Uh, well, I, huh, think so." She now had a very confused look.
"I remember calling you on either a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Of course, you seemed surprised since you didn't know me very well. I think we only knew each other because of Government class."
"Is that right?"
"I don't know why I thought you might possibly be interested in going with me to the prom. There were so many other guys you knew. What did you think when I called you? You sounded surprised."
"Well, I guess I . . ."
"I know, you probably already had a date."
"To tell you the truth, I've got a terrible memory and I . . ." At that moment an old girlfriend of Margaret's came up and touched her. They both yelled in surprise and hugged. They apparently hadn't seen each other for many years. They went on to a long conversation. Dave was not included and eventually faded away.
As he walked away, he felt disappointment. He felt the conversation had been going in the right direction. She seemed attentive and very sincere, but it was disappointing that they had not been able to go any further. He soon ran into a guy he had known since junior high and they started reminiscing.
As they were talking, Dave noticed Ricky Inman standing across the room. If there was anyone he was more curious about than even Margaret Hawkins, it was Ricky Inman. He hadn't changed that much except for a decided expansion of the breadbasket. Actually Dave could see, from the beer Ricky was holding in his hand, that it would more properly be called a "beerbasket." His face was still very recognizable.
He had first known Ricky Inman in the fifth grade and suffered perhaps the most traumatic experience in his life because of him. It had left a deep-felt impression that still remained in his consciousness. He hardly knew Ricky at the time. He was in another class and didn't live in his neighborhood. One day while in the schoolyard during lunch, Ricky came up and said some boys told him that Dave was the one who had taken the air out of his bicycle tires. Dave immediately protested that he hadn't done such a thing, but Ricky wouldn't listen and instead threw him on the ground and started slugging him hard. He was mad. He was also 20 pounds heavier than Dave. He yelled, trying to tell Ricky that he didn't even know what his bike looked like but Ricky went on to push Dave's face into the ground as he lay on top of him. The ground had been covered with gravel that now cut sharply into his face. The bell rang and Ricky finally got off.
In the classroom, Dave sat numbly. He could hear the teacher talking in what seemed a faint distance but he wasn't listening. His face was burning from the gravel cuts, and his body was aching. Worst of all was the mixture of humiliation and anger that seemed to override all his senses at the moment. It was an experience that he had never forgotten. For several weeks, his mind kept returning obsessively to the incident, replaying every painful detail. He thought about revenge and started studying how to become a better fighter, but the chance never came for a rematch. Years later in high school, Ricky was still a tough guy, running around with a hard crowd, but Dave had been able to overcome most of the bitterness. He eventually realized that it was this incident that probably started the fantasy of becoming a great success. He wondered how Ricky was doing now. Ricky had never distinguished himself in school in any way. He hadn't heard anything about him after graduation. Dave thought about he would go over to talk to Ricky. He wondered whether to bring up the time Ricky had beat him up in fifth grade.
Dave went to get another beer as he thought about the approach he would take. After talking to Jeff Solaroff briefly, he walked over to Ricky.
"Hi, Ricky. How you been? Remember me?" Ricky looked at him quizzically but was friendly. Dave noticed that his nametag said, "Richard Inman."
"Uh . . ."
"Dave Phillips."
"Oh, O.K."
"We met in fifth grade. We weren't in the same class, but I remember knowing you."
"Fifth grade? I don't know I remember anything that far back," he said with a chuckle.
"We used to play in the playground sometimes. Then in high school you used to hang around with Jimmy Perez who lived a couple of blocks from me."
"Oh, yea, good ole Jimmy. I see him every once in a while. He still hasn't changed much."
"Remember Jimmy used to give me a ride to school sometimes?"
Ricky wrinkled his brow, "I'm really sorry, but I just can't place you, and, hey, you're not the only one. There's already been a couple of other people who said they knew me but I couldn't remember them. Lucky I didn't have to admit it to them." He laughed. Dave was impressed with how gentle and sincere he seemed. "So what kind of work are you in?" he asked Dave.
"I'm a doctor."
"Sounds great. I've been doing pretty good as a truck driver. The only bad thing is I have to be on the road away from home so much, but my wife is very understanding. Do you know Terry?" he asked as he turned to her sitting down next to him. She smiled as she and Dave exchanged greetings. They had never met, but Dave was surprised that it was Terry Owens, one of the most beautiful girls in the class behind them. He had admired her in high school. He now remembered hearing that they had gotten married soon after high school. "The money's unbelievably good," he continued. "I made $60,000 last year, and I like getting out there on the road. Wouldn't trade anything in the world for it. No offense, but I wouldn't want to be a doctor. Too much hassle, and you have to be cooped up inside all the time. I've got to be out. Yeah, we've done real well." They talked a little longer then someone Richard knew came up to greet him, and Dave quietly walked away.
He felt frustrated and confused. He hadn't gotten the feeling that Richard was trying to put him down in any way. He seemed completely sincere and straightforward. He liked Richard now. It had been like getting acquainted with a complete stranger.
As Dave gathered a few finger sandwiches and salad items on his plate, a friendly woman started talking to him. She seemed very jovial. He didn't remember her at all. After they filled their plates, they stepped aside and kept talking.
"My name's Cindy, Cindy Waltermire." Dave strained to remember her but couldn't. He told her his name, and before he could say much else, she said, "If you can't remember me, don't worry. Hardly anybody else does and I don't remember you. As a matter of fact, I'm sure I never knew you. You see I moved to the Coronado area in the middle of senior year and hardly got to know anybody. I knew there wouldn't be much use in coming, but I decided to anyway. I figured there was really nothing to lose."
"Hey, I think it was a great idea. Even if you don't know that many people, you still have a lot in common with us." Dave actually felt relieved that they didn't know each other.
"I've met some great people and had a lot of fun. How long did you live in the area?"
"Oh, I've known some of the people here since third grade."
"Oh, my. Listen, don't let me hold you up. You must have a lot of people you have to talk to. You better go on and stop wasting your time with me."
"Hey, don't worry. You're fun to talk to. Besides I'm bored trying to talk to my old friends." Dave and Cindy talked for a very long time and got to know each other.
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