by Rick Dakan
Looking around, I saw that my fellow classmates fell into two distinct categories: those who’d hardly changed a bit, and those who were scarcely recognizable. Weight gain and hair loss accounted for most of the confusion, followed by facial hair. I myself, with my shaved head and goatee and much larger and stockier frame than I’d had in high school, was definitely among the unrecognizable, and had to keep introducing myself to people who couldn’t quite place my face and were doing double-takes when they read my name tag. I caught up with a few old acquaintances and steadily drained my whiskey glass while listening to stories of middle management jobs at big firms and the births of little munchkins who were all no doubt quite clever and cute. Not that it wasn’t interesting; it was. Just seeing how different people had turned out from what I expected was worth the price of admission, and I’m sure they felt the same way about me. Trying to explain my eclectic writing career in magazines, Web sites, and now counterculture non-fiction topics was always a challenge since my career path doesn’t fall neatly into most people’s preconceptions of what a writer does.
I’d stepped into the bathroom for a minute after listening to Kevin West explaining his research as a biochemistry professor at Northwestern. I washed up and splashed some water on my face and head (got to keep the shaved scalp clean). Talking to Kevin was always interesting, but just like in high school, it made me feel profoundly stupid when it came to matters scientific and mathematical. When I’d gone into the bathroom, my fellow classmates had been spread around the restaurant in little conversational clusters of four or five. As I came out, I saw that they’d all drifted towards the center of the room. Not as if they’d rushed over to see something important or exciting, but rather like there was some strange attractor exerting a gravitational pull on everyone’s attention. Attracted by everyone else’s attention, I stepped up to see what was so interesting.
Shelby and Kym stood in the center of the knot of people, and I could hear his light, infectious laughter from across the room as I approached them. I had to scoot around to one side, finding a space between the crowd and the bar, to get a good look at them. Kym was striking but understated in a simple, close-fitting sea-green sundress that flowed down well below the knee but also exposed plenty of her toned, dark skin at the shoulders and generous neck line. She was indeed as pretty and exotic-looking as Conrad had described. But it was, as always, Shelby who was getting all the attention. He wore a tailored dark suit with green pinstripes. I didn’t even know they made green pinstripes. He had an iridescent purple shirt and a sort of “tie” that was actually a collection of green strings hanging down, almost like a miniature beaded curtain. It occurred to me, in my Lovecraftian state of mind, that these were probably meant to represent tentacles.
But it wasn’t the tie or the suit that made him the center of attention, it was the story he was telling. Even though I’d come into the conversation in media res, I recognized what he was talking about because it was in part my story too. He was talking about the party and the ensuing legal trouble that had driven him out of town, about the commissioner and the man with the knife and the sex and the drugs and everything else. Shelby must have known that everyone here would be wondering if what they’d read in the papers or heard from their parents was true. Rather than leaving it the unacknowledged elephant in the room, he’d apparently embraced his sordid past and seemed well on his way to turning the whole affair into an example of sparkling cocktail party conversation. We all laughed at his impression of the harrumphing judge and some of the others gasped a little when he went into details about disarming the deranged party-crasher.
“I saw Rick and Conrad had sort of cornered this madman by a palm tree and so I rushed over there, naked as the day I was born.”
“Naked?” asked a woman in the circle whom I didn’t recognize, probably a classmate’s wife.
“Well,” he said with a wink. “It was that kind of party. Nudity, dancing, wine, a little wacky tabacky. You know, a good party.” That got them laughing in appreciation.
“So I just come up to this party crasher and say, ‘Hey, what’s wrong man? Why the drama?’” Shelby gave an embarrassed smile worthy of a stage performer. “I know, pretty lame right? But he lunges at me with the knife and, well, my subconscious just took over. It knew better than me what to do next. Time seemed to slow down as he came towards me and I just smiled and stepped to the side. I swear to you it was like a cartoon. I just stuck my foot out like Bugs Bunny or something and the guy tripped over it. He does this beautiful swan dive through the air — drops the knife — and lands on his face. Bam!” Shelby slapped his hands together for emphasis. “A big old belly flop! And the party-crasher’s out cold, just like that.”
“And then what happened,” another person from the crowd asked. I was wondering the same thing myself. That wasn’t how I remembered things going down. Not even close. But the real story was much uglier and not the sort of thing you shared at a reunion with old classmates who’re now strangers. I kept the truth to myself and watched Shelby the skilled dissimulator in action. I noticed that he’d changed the reality of the drunken rapist with a knife into the much more benign sounding “party-crasher.”
“That sound right to you?” A voice whispered in my ear.
Surprised, I recoiled from the hot breath and turned to see Conrad. He’d snuck in while I was caught up in Shelby’s tale. I saw Lauren behind him at the check-in table, collecting their name tags. “Hey, Conrad,” I said, shaking his hand. I noticed he’d thought to wear a suit as well. Was there a memo I missed somewhere? “No, Shelby’s got his own little version of history he’s spinning.”
“Well, they seem to be eating it up,” Conrad said. “He’s winning them over, isn’t he?”
“He’s already won them,” I replied.
“That’s screwed up. He’s making it into just some funny anecdote. It belittles what happened,” Conrad said. The tightness around his lips, a kind of half-pursing, was a sure sign he really was angry.
“You seem really pissed off about it.”
“I am. It’s like he never did anything wrong. He’s just totally getting away with it. Running away in disgrace is now a joke.”
“What else would you expect him to do? That’s all anyone here would’ve been thinking about. The elephant in the room that loomed over every conversation he had tonight.”
“He could take responsibility. Or leave it alone. Take it seriously. If he can’t at least face up to that, then maybe he shouldn’t have come at all.”
“You’re not serious.”
“No. Yes. I’m glad to see him, sure. He’s my friend. But he never quite pays the price for his actions does he? I guess this is just the first time in my adult life he’s not taking responsibility for something I was involved in, and so I’m sort of personally offended.” Lauren joined us then, and we all moved away from Shelby’s oration and flagged down the bartender to get a round of drinks. Lauren and I made small talk, mostly local politics stuff as usual, while Conrad stood by and watched Shelby at work. After ten minutes or so Shelby finished his story and the smiling crowd spun off into smaller cliques again. I noticed that Kym and Shelby separated as well, each of them drawn into their own conversations with other party-goers. Conrad and Lauren started to make the rounds too, catching up with many of the same people I’d spent the last hour or so chatting with. I got drawn back into a conversation with Kevin, who had gone to undergrad up in the Boston area. I asked him if he’d ever read Lovecraft’s “Pickman’s Model,” which featured ghouls living in the city’s sewers and subways, but he hadn’t. He did, however, tell me a few interesting things about the neurology of rat whiskers before excusing himself to talk with Peter Collins across the room.
Then Shelby was upon us, having worked his way clockwise around the room. As he said hi, I glanced over to see Kym still working her way counterclockwise, but hung up in a conversation with Julie Kraswolski.
“Hey guys,” Shelby said with a smile.
“Just like old times, eh?”
“Not quite like old times,” Conrad said. “Although Rick is still here without a girlfriend.”
“Ha!” I replied, laughing on the outside anyway.
Shelby pressed on, acknowledging the joke with a brief chuckle. “I’m sure you both heard me relating a version of our shared past that bears little resemblance to what you remember.”
“I did notice you’d taken some liberties,” said Conrad.
“I hope you don’t mind. Practically the first words out of Chris Hewitt’s mouth were a crack about me getting us kicked out of the restaurant. I needed to put everyone at ease about my sordid little past, otherwise that’s all they’d be thinking about when they talked to me.”
“Your secret’s safe with us,” Conrad said. I think it probably eased his outrage some slight bit that pudgy, loud-mouthed Chris Hewitt had apparently instigated Shelby’s revised version. I know deflating his obnoxiousness seemed a good and just cause to me.
Shelby raised both arms and clapped both Conrad and me on the shoulder. “I know it is.” He paused, looking us both over with intensely probing eyes. “It’s so good to see you two again. Together. The three of us eh?”
“Plus your lovely new lady friend,” I said. “I still haven’t met her.”
“That’s right! How inconsiderate of me. Come on over, I’ll introduce you two.”
I followed Shelby over to where Kym and Julie were talking, Conrad following along behind us. They made an odd pair — Kym tall and lithe in her flowing dress, Julie shorter and plumper in her business appropriate skirt-and-blazer combo. But they seemed deeply engaged in conversation about something, and as we got closer I was surprised to hear them speaking in what sounded like Arabic. Kym was slowly pronouncing some word and Julie stopped and corrected her. They both laughed as Kym stumbled over the word before finally seeming to get it right. Only then did they notice Shelby, Conrad, and me standing there.
Kym turned to Shelby and said, “Julie’s studied Arabic too. Much more than I have.”
“I worked as a consultant in the oil businesses for five years,” Julie explained. “I lived in Dubai and Saudi Arabia before moving back here when Seth was born.” Then, to Kym, “You were doing great, though. You just need a little practice.”
“I’m mostly learning to read it, not speak it, so I don’t have much experience with conversational Arabic,” Kym explained to me and Conrad.
“Why are you studying Arabic?” Conrad asked.
“I’m entirely entranced by the stories and history. Ancient manuscripts and dusty old books set my blood pumping. And it’s all always best in the original tongue.” Kym’s own tongue peaked out as she said this, moistening her lips.
Shelby slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close beside him. “She’s got quite a head for foreign languages. I’m hopeless with anything but English, but my sweet Kym here is a natural polyglot.”
How could my first thought, hearing all this, not be about the Necronomicon? The fabled Al Azif, written by the Mad Arab Abdul Al-Hazred, that features so prominently in Lovecraft’s stories. I wanted to ask Kym if that was why she was learning Arabic, but couldn’t figure out a way to do so that didn’t sound silly or insulting. Why would one learn real Arabic to read a book that never actually existed? Then Shelby broke my line of thought by finally introducing me. “Kym, I want you to meet one of my oldest friends, Rick Dakan.”
Kym held out her hand and I shook it. “So nice to finally put a body to all the stories Shelby’s told me about you,” she said. Her grip was firm and cool, her hands a little rough.
“Great to finally meet you as well.”
“Rick helped us out with our recent acquisitions,” Shelby said.
“I remember,” said Kym. “Thanks very much for that as well, Rick. We’re really pleased with them.”
“So,” said Conrad, “you guys settled into the new place yet? Power and phones and all that hooked up?”
“We’re getting there,” said Kym. “We’ll have to have both of you over again for dinner sometime soon.”
“Absolutely,” said Shelby. “We’ll really reminisce about old times where we can be ourselves and not worry about offending the sensibilities of others.” He glanced around the room with a meaningful nod towards the corner where Chris Hewitt stood gabbing away about whatever.
“I’ll bring Lauren along,” said Conrad. “So let’s not get too crazy, OK?”
“I’ll do my best,” Shelby said. “But no promises.”
“And be forewarned,” Kym added. “Shelby’s definition of ‘not too crazy’ may be very different from yours or mine. Or at least from yours.” Shelby laughed hard at her comment and the rest of us chuckled politely. Remembering Conrad’s description of his last meal with the two of them, I was both repelled and intrigued by the idea of experiencing their hospitality myself at some point.
Julie, who’d been just standing there and watching the conversation unfold around her, took the brief awkward lull to take over. Looking at her watch she said, “It’s just about time for dinner to be served. We should probably find our seats.”
There were three long tables, each seating a dozen people. Shelby and Kym were at the first table, along with Julie and her husband and even Chris Hewitt and his wife, whom Shelby seemed to keep in stitches throughout the meal. I found myself with Lauren and Conrad at the farthest table back, which was only about three quarters full. Sitting at the far end from us was a woman whose blue dress I’d seen out of the corner of my eye several times in the past half hour but not quite focused upon while Shelby and Kym were dominating my attention. Even as I sat down I thought she was some classmate’s wife at first. The hair was different, the body not rail-thin like it had been in school, but rather pleasantly filled out. But the laugh was the same, and so was the smile. It was Cara McMillan.
Cara was my first kiss and my first serious high school crush. OK, it wasn’t much of a kiss and she’d done it on a total whim. We used to hang out during study hall together my freshman year, where she and I were particularly adept at avoiding doing anything resembling studying. One time I mentioned to her that I’d never kissed a girl before. So she’d just leaned forward and kissed me, just so she could be my first. That was it for me in the freshman-year romance department, but Cara and I did actually date briefly my senior year. It only lasted a couple weeks before we both decided it wasn’t really working. Which is to say, I thought she wasn’t very interested in me, so I pretended not to be very interested in her, and thus we pushed each other away. Then she and Conrad had dated for an equally brief period of time, although I think it was the constant guilt trip I laid on Conrad for poaching “my ex” that poisoned that relationship. Kids are so dumb about that shit.
“Cara!” I said down the length of the table. “I didn’t even see you come in.”
“Rick? Oh my God, I don’t even recognize you! How are you?” She seemed genuinely pleased to see me, and I was surprisingly happy to see her. I’d all but forgotten about her, that mild crush I’d had overshadowed by more mortifying romantic entanglements since. But now that she was four seats down the dinner table from me, I was excited. She looked great and seemed just like the vivacious, interesting person I remembered from high school. I was now a lot less interested in Shelby and everyone else at the reunion and much more curious about what she’d been up to all these years. But before we could get past more than a few more introductory pleasantries, the plates started arriving, more people sat down, and yelling across the table would have been rude.
After the main course, Julie and some of the other organizers got up to say a few words of thanks and raise a toast to our beloved class of 1990. Then, as the waiters started laying pieces of cheesecake in front of us, Julie said that someone else wanted to say a few quick words. She motioned to her left and Shelby stood up beside her. His face looked a little flushed, as if he’d had more than his share of the wine, and his tentacle tie was askew.
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“I just had a couple things I wanted to say. First of all, I think it’s wonderful and heartwarming that all of us have grown into such amazing and interesting people. People who have really fulfilled the promises of our youth and expressed the full potential of our prodigious intellects. Here’s to being the smartest kids in the room!” He raised his glass and, after a moment, so did everyone else. The truth was, and everyone here knew it, very few of us had lived up to our full potential or really justified all the promises of our prodigious intellects. Sure, we’d mostly done well for ourselves, but no one in this room was changing the world. I couldn’t have been the only person in the room who was wondering if Shelby was making fun of us.
“Next, if I may be a little self-serving, I’d like to invite you all to a pair of parties. First of all, after this evening’s lovely dinner, Kym and I are heading over to upstairs at the Palmetto Club, and you’re all invited. Drinks on me.” This announcement met with noises of approval and Shelby smiled. “But my real announcement is the second party, to be held on March twenty-third. The event is a gallery opening to be held in a special location prepared just for the occasion and featuring art from around the world. I’m sure you’ll see more about it soon, as we get the word out over the next few weeks, but I encourage all of you to come as my guests.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a stack of black, glossy business cards, fanning them out like a magician displaying his trick deck. “I’ll leave these here and have more on me if you’re interested, so please just ask. I can’t tell you many of the details about the exhibition, except to promise you that you’ll have quite a time. And on that note, let’s have one more toast. To good times!”
