That night, in 2009, when I ceased to be confident

Memories of a 20-year high school reunion, part 2

On a pleasant summer evening in August 2009, I donned some suitably semi-formal clothes (namely, a button-up shirt, corduroy jacket, and my trusty all-purpose khakis), printed off copies of Mapquest directions (my “go to” prior to the availability of GPS), and set forth to attend my 20-year high school anniversary.

For weeks prior, I had anticipated the likely events of the evening. I wasn't sure whom I would chance to meet, but then again there was no one I particularly looked forward to seeing, nor was there anyone from my graduating class whom I especially dreaded the notion of running into after two long, eventful decades apart.

The Paideia High class of ’89 was, truth be told, a notably nondescript bunch, for the most part. Both the class which immediately preceded us (’88) and the one just after us (’90) featured many more of the sort of personalities who exuded what today gets called "main character energy." In that sense, my graduating class was something like a mini-microcosm of Generation X, in that we escaped notice compared with the ones which came before us (the "boomers") and those who came after us ("Millennials").

The fact that I had no particular eagerness, nor any especial dread, about the notion of coming into contact with anyone, given the general laid-back identity of the class of '89, was surely a selling point for me in making arrangements to attend the reunion. It was not a choice that I would normally have made, as I am habitually antisocial, but here the prospect of leaving my comfort zone held great appeal, especially since the stakes were relatively low. What was the worst thing that could happen? Perhaps I would find myself perhaps engaged in a few awkward conversations, and perhaps I would not have a particularly good time. Even if so, no harm done. Certainly no psyche-wrecking trauma was in the offing.

As I drew close to the location, I realized that the reunion was being held at somebody's actual house. That was something I hadn't really reckoned on. I had supposed, rather, that the event would take place in some public setting: perhaps a hotel ballroom or a banquet hall. But a private home? Granted, our class size was relatively small, but just how "intimate" was this gathering going to be, exactly? My mind began to race. Was it possible, in fact, that only a few were attending, and that those few were more than likely people who had maintained friendships with one another through the years?

If such were indeed the case, it would account for the reunion being held at someone's house, as the alumnus playing host would feel comfortable having his friends over, and on the other hand, would probably expect few outliers, i.e., alumni whom he or she hadn't seen for twenty years, i.e., (more or less) total strangers…

My thesis was as yet untested and unproven, but it filled me with sudden apprehension just the same: would I find myself walking into another "Cynthia's birthday" situation, where my "invitation" hadn't in fact been sincerely offered, but instead had only been proffered to me as a technicality?

Of course, in the case of Cynthia's birthday, that invitation had at least been motivated by pity, whereas here it would be something far more impersonal. If my suppositions were correct, the invitation addressed to me (and to everyone else they barely knew and didn't expect to actually show) would have been dashed off in the spirit of, "Yeah we need to invite everyone else who graduated in 1989, because technically this is a reunion, but we really don't expect anyone to attend besides our tight circle of friends.."

I passed the house in question. The porch lights were on, illuminating a few figures stood in the front yard, apparently chatting. I drove another couple of blocks, so as to remain inconspicuous, then parked, attempting to nerve myself to get out and walk up to the reunion site. It felt incredibly dismaying, even disgraceful, to be assailed with the exact same social anxiety that I thought I had outgrown, the panic that frequently engulfed me as a teenager. I slapped my face a couple of times, earnestly imploring myself to stop being such a pussy. Finally I pushed the door open and walked in the direction of the house, while remaining on the opposite side of the street. My plan, I suppose, was to ease myself into things slowly, after the fashion of one creeping slowly into a freezing cold swimming pool.

As I approached the house again, this time on foot, I chanced to look up for a moment. There was a man now standing nearby on the lawn, just across the street from me. Our eyes met for a moment. I recognized him. He was no one who had any particular significance to me, but I nevertheless for some reason remembered him, even his name. I could have yelled it out at that moment, but I didn't. Why not?

Because I could tell, from his utterly blank expression, that he did not recognize me at all. I was just some guy walking down the street, not a fellow member of his graduating class.

What would have happened if I had crossed the street, waved, and called him by his name, then drawn closer and told him who I was? Perhaps he would have said he remembered me now, but perhaps he would be lying, and things would get brutally awkward. Or perhaps he would welcome me in with a friendly smile before inviting me to meet a few of our other classmates, and my evening would have progressed pleasantly from ther.

Endless scenarios are possible, but I shall never know what would have happened, because in the twinkling of an eye, I had made up my mind to abort this dubious mission. It was that look of complete unfamiliarity in my former classmate's eyes which truly sealed the deal for me; it seemed, rightly or wrongly, to communicate portentously that I was unwelcome here, that I had didn’t belong among these people, that my presence at this gathering would only cause consternation and distress.

I kept walking to avoid the appearance of being some kind of weird lurker, then turned an abrupt 180 and walked back to my car. I halfway feared that someone would shout something out to me, but nobody did, and when I was driving home I wondered again what would have happened if I had actually been recognized, and yelled out to me. Would I have turned around, sheepishly regretting my prior cowardice, and advanced towards the gathering? Or would I have just pretended not to hear, and raced all the faster to my waiting automobile before speeding away into the night?

(to be continued)

Andy Nowicki is the author of several books, most recently The Insurrectionist and Muze. Visit his Youtube channel.