The Reunion

A few years-ago, I wrote this story under the pen name MrTwisted2112. I stepped away from writing for a few years as life occurred, but recently again sat down at the keyboard to again tell a story or three. In preparation for publishing a follow-on story, I've edited this piece to correct several spelling and grammatic errors that occurred, when I first wrote it.

I hope you enjoy it and I look forward to soon sharing part two of Michael and Sharon's story.

The Reunion

Michael...

He knew reunions were supposed to be happy times. A chance to meet former classmates, friends from a bygone era (that era being the late 1970's). To catch-up on all the 'old times' (which he couldn't remember anything particularly good about them), reunite with old friends (he had none that he could clearly recall), reminisce about the old school (the only high school in his hometown at the time). These thoughts ran repeatedly through Michael's mind as he rode the elevator from his floor to the lobby of the Sheraton Executives Suites that was near the center of the city that had grown from the town he had escaped, upon graduating from Cloverville High School, in 1978. Stepping into the lobby, he followed the sounds of loud music. Personally, if he had never set foot in Cloverville, Indiana again, he felt it would have been no great loss; however, this was something he had promised his wife he would do.

As he neared the noise and commotion of the ballroom, a smile crossed his lips. Rebecca, 'Becca as he affectionately called her, would have been right home here, she'd loved parties. Rounding a corner, he located the entrance to the cavernous ballroom with the sounds of Boston, Journey, Foreigner, and several rock groups from the late 1970's and early 80's pumping from it like a firehose turned on full. The double door were decorated in the colors of green and gold and four-leaf clovers were plastered everywhere. Cloverville high's mascot was a muscular leprechaun, and the sports teams were known as the 'Lucky Charms'. If one wasn't familiar with these facts, you would have thought St. Patrick's Day had been moved to October.

His grey eyes scanned the room and all around him old people -- several hundred of them were laughing and seemed to be having a good time. He had acquired the knack of putting names with faces in the Navy and it had also been very useful in his second career, as an asset manager with the large investment house he had eventually became a senior partner of. He was at a loss here though, as none of these people had been important to him in high school and he didn't recognize a single one now.

"What's your name, champ," asked a grinning overweight woman, sitting behind a table adorned with green and gold streamers and balloons to his left. Her hair was more salt than pepper and was worn at shoulder length. The nametag she wore on the lapel of the jacket read, "Tracy Smith" in bold type and was accompanied by a picture of a pretty, seventeen-year-old, who was about 100-pounds lighter, had long black hair and was wearing a cheerleader's uniform.

Michael smiled warmly and said in a cheerful baritone, "Hi, Tracy. Mike Richards." He preferred Michael but knew most people automatically used the shortened version.

Tracy carefully scanned the nametags that were laid out on the reception table before her. She repeated Mike's name over and she followed her finger looking at the names. When she found it, she gleefully exclaimed, "Found it," and held it up to compare the likeness on the badge to the graduate who was forty-years older that was standing before her.

"Oh, my God," she exclaimed, "Mikey Richards! You sure have changed!"

Michael looked at the younger picture of himself and inwardly winched. He was gangly and pimple-faced, had a pronounced overbite and wore glasses. The quintessential geek. In the politically incorrect 1970's, he had been repeatedly bullied by the jocks, laughed at and scorned by Tracy and her cheerleader friends, as well as just about everyone else in the student body.

He quickly glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but in the din of classic rock and the shouted conversations, no one seemed to take notice.

"Why, thank you," he said cheerfully, pinning the nametag to the lapel of his sports coat. Adding politely, "You haven't changed a bit."

Tracy blushed and said, "You're very kind," and commenced explaining that the bar was non-host, which she was against, that there were no snacks and that you could order from the restaurant. He courteously listened and thanked her. As he moved into the room, Tracy repeated her introduction to others coming in behind him.

Parties had been 'Becca's thing, not his. "God, I wish you were here," he muttered.

He had always disliked social functions, even as a naval officer. After the emancipation of being freed from Cloverville High School, he had won a full scholarship to Indiana State University. There he joined the Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps program. Blooming late, he grew an astounding amount during those four-years. He was constantly having to be resized for his uniforms and his parents complained at his requests for money to buy new clothes. The hard, physical exercise bulked his scrawny frame and better defined his features. The Navy paid for some oral surgery and contacts replaced the 'birth control' glasses that had adorned his face for most of his life. Even his parents didn't recognize him at graduation. He was a completely different person.

He wove his way through the people. He was head and shoulders taller than more than 90% of them. Although he was balding, He had a striking profile and a commanding presence. The men would give a nod in greeting, but the women paid more than a casual notice. As he greeted them, he could tell they were not making any pretenses about looking him over. He could also tell they were closely examining his left hand -- particularly his ring finger.

When he reached the bar, he ordered and paid for a Sam Adams, which he saw was on draft. Sadly, what he received was a glass that was more head than it was beer. As he skeptically examined it before taking a sip, a voice to his left that was a little more than merely intoxicated said loudly, "That's bullshit! There they go again, ripping somebody else off, for their drinks!"

A late middle-aged man with wavy blond hair, a beard and mustache under a jagged nose, with a serious beer gut was leaning against the bar and was blearily looking up at him. He wore a blue jacket over a white polo shirt that seemed several sizes too small, faded blue jeans and work boots. His name badge read 'Steve Thompson' and was accompanied by a younger version, fully outfitted in football gear.

Instantly, a memory flashed in his brain. They were standing among lockers with teenagers standing all around. Steve Thompson was facing him, with a scowl of rage on his face. His fists were balled, and he was lunging at him. "I'm going ta fuckin' kill you, ya little piece of shit," he screamed.

He ducked under the swing and came up with a haymaker of his own that connected with Steve's nose, causing blood to explode, and staggering him.

"This piece of shit place is rippin' people off," he pronounced drunkenly and waving a hand at the sheepish young bartender, snapping Michael back to the present. Nudging Michael's arm declared, "Am I right?"

Michael smiled and good-heartedly said, "It's okay," and then exclaimed in feigned surprise, "Why Steve Thompson! How've you been?"

Caught completely off-guard, Steve narrowed his blood-shot eyes to get a clearer look at Michael's face, to help with recollection. He then looked down at Michael's name badge and then back to his face. Michael could clearly see the rusty gears turning in Steve's mind as he tried to recall who was talking to him. Then a light bulb of recognition came on. "Holy shit, Morphydite Mike," he exclaimed as he slapped the bar.

He stopped himself and tried to become as drunkenly serious as he could, "I'm sorry. I should've called you Mike." He held out a rough hand. Michael took it and gave it a firm shake.

"No harm, no foul, Steve," he said with a sincere smile, "Those days are long past."

Steve blurted out, "Ain't that the truth. I was kind of an asshole back then," to which someone overhearing the statement further down the bar shouted, "And you still are," which made everyone nearby burst out in raucous laughter.

Steve good-naturedly took the jibe. Swallowing most of his beer in one gulp, he looked up at Michael and said, "I haven't seen you around town, what happened to you?"

Michael repeated the line that he had practiced when he knew this question would come up, "I served in the Navy and have done a few other things. I settled-down, out west"

At that Steve stood ramrod straight, which brought his full height to just under Michael's chin and saluted with the wrong hand. "Thank you for your service, killing those Commies."

Michael was about to clarify a little what his service was but Steve, leaning against the bar began ranting, "I would have gone into the service, but a football injury kept me out of it." He then went on to check-off his list of woes that amounted to a life of wasted opportunities. All his problems were the fault of someone else.

Just then the D.J. struck up the tune, "Brickhouse," by the Commodores, to the applause of the gathered crowd. Michael had been leaning against the bar listening to Steve's diatribe, when just then it was interrupted by a wolf whistle from a guy standing on the other side of Steve, at the bar. Straightening, Michael turned in the direction of what had caught the guy's attention. Wide-eyed, he recognized the goddess that had just entered the room.

Sharon...

"I can't do this," exclaimed Sharon into her cell phone, in the middle of a full-blown panic attack.

"Mom, you'll be fine," replied a female voice, "Calm down. Breath... In through your nose and out through your mouth."

She was sitting on her king size bed, dressed in a black silk bathrobe. She closed her eyes and with the phone still pressed against her ear, followed the voice's instructions. She inhaled several times through her nose, holding it for several seconds and then exhaling in a whoosh. She patted her chest with her free left hand, as the voice said brightly, "There, you see it works every time!"

The voice then instructed, "Mom, remember what we talked about. This is your only 'lifeline' call. You're on your own after this."

"I know what we agreed on, Sheri," whined her mother dejectedly, "I was hoping my daughter would be more compassionate."

"Tough love," came Sheri's jovial response and continued by saying, "You'll be hot in that outfit."

"I was wanting to speak with you about that," said Sharon interjected, "You don't think it too... clingy?" As she said this, she looked over at a dark-grey silk dress that was draped over the chair of the room's desk.

"Mom, it's a cocktail dress, not a burka. It's supposed to be clingy," said Sheri, laughing.

"I guess you're right," admitted Sharon. She then reached down to her feet and picked-up a pink and white striped shopping bag and asked, "What's with the Soma Intimate Apparels bag," letting it dangle from her index finger.

"Honey," continued Sharon, almost embarrassed talking to her daughter over the phone about this, "I have underwear." Setting the bag down, she opened it with her free hand and looked inside. She lifted out a sheer, black lace thong and strapless bra.

"What the hell is this," she exclaimed, "A thong! They make me feel like I'm getting a wedgie."

"Mom, you have to look nice," said Sheri and finished by saying, "There's no lines and you'll feel great. I have several pairs and David loves to see me in them."

"Well, thanks for sharing the details of your sex life," Sharon derisively retorted.

"Oh mom, you know what I mean," her exasperated daughter said, continued with, "You're not some prude. You and dad had fun, real fun! You dressed sassy and sexy, and you didn't care what anyone else, but dad thought."

There was silence on the line for several seconds. Sharon knew that her daughter was stifling tears and they also began to well-up in her eyes as well.

"Mom," began Sheri, "It's time to throw away the sackcloth and ashes and begin living again." She then asked her mom, "You remember why you're going to this, right?"

"Yes, and your right," admitted Sharon. Changing the subject, she asked, "Is my grandson there?"

"He is," said Sheri. Speaking off the phone Sharon could hear her calling a little boy named Jimmy to the phone.

After several seconds there was heavy breathing into the mike and then a quizzical, "Hello."

"Hi Jimmy, it's Nana," said Sharon brightly.

"Hi Nana," was his bright response, recognizing her voice.

He then launched into a blow-by-blow account of all the things he had been doing and Sharon agreed with him on every point and exclaimed how proud she was of him. He finished by saying, "Bye Nana. Mommy and Daddy said you need to kick-butt and get laid."

Sharon could hear his cackling laughter as the young boy ran away and an embarrassed Sheri admonished him. Sharon also began laughing. She fell back on the bed, holding her stomach with the hand still clutching the underwear and tears of mirth streamed down her cheeks. She realized it had been years since she had truly laughed this hard.

Finally, Sheri came on the phone again and said, "Sorry about that mom. I guess Jimmy has been listening to some adult conversations."

Wiping her eyes and regaining her composure, Sharon said, "Don't apologize, sweetie. I guess it's true what Art Linkletter used to say, 'Kids say the darndest things!'"

"Mom," said Sheri, "I've gotta run," then commanded by finishing, "Your doctor is ordering you to have fun. Got it."

"I love you, honey," said Sharon. She finished the call by saying, "Give David and Jimmy a hug for me."

As she stood to begin getting ready for the reunion, her daughter's statement rang in her mind like a church bell, 'You remember why you're going to this, right'. She was curious to see if a certain boy, who had stood up for her in school would be there.

She was Sharon O'Hara then. Terms like 'wallflower' or ugly duckling' were very appropriate in describing her then. Tall and skinny, as well as shy and withdrawn, she barely spoke at all in her classes. She was raised by an alcoholic, single father. Gossip around Cloverville had it that he had beaten his wife to death, but that hadn't been true.

Her father suffered from what would later be classified as post-traumatic stress disorder. He had served bravely in the US Army in the Korean War, becoming hooked on the bottle, to cope with the nightmares that continued to haunt him. Her mom had tried to care for him as best she could, but in her exasperation fled central Indiana, wanting a better life.

Sharon always wore second and third-hand clothing and occasionally came to school sporting a black eye or other bruises. In tenth grade, he had gone on a real bender and had beaten her severely, which had resulted in Child Protective Services and the state of Indiana stepping in. Her father had been committed to a state hospital and she had become a ward of the state. She was placed with a foster family, who did their level best to improve her standard of living, as the state looked for relatives who would be willing to take her in.

All the 'in crowd' of Cloverville High School knew her as 'Skank'. A wide variety of practical jokes were played on her. They all blurred together, but one day in the spring of her senior year, just before graduation this one boy, Mike Richards stood up to Steve Thompson and his main squeeze, Tracy Smith. He told them he was tired of seeing them push her around and belittle her. Like David and Goliath, Mike stood up to the bully. When Steve swung on him, Mike had ducked and then came up and bloodied the football player's nose, causing him to stagger back into the lockers of the school's hallway. Up until that point in her life, it was the nicest thing that someone had ever been done for her.

She never got the chance to thank him for his bravery. School officials stepped-in and broke the fight up. Both the boys got detention and soon graduation was taking place.

She never officially graduated from Cloverville. The state had finally located relatives who could raise her and just before her eighteenth birthday, she was put on a plane bound for Los Angeles, to live with an aunt and uncle. Her diploma was subsequently mailed to her.

Being replanted in the good ground of southern California was a welcome fresh start for her. There she blossomed and thrived. Her uncle Tony was an attorney and encouraged her to pursue her education and passions. He also helped her come to grips with her tragic childhood. He shared with her about her father's service in the Army, which helped her to see that he was as much a victim as she was.

Coming from the foster system, she wanted to help other kids and attained several degrees in child development, while she did modeling gigs to pay her college expenses. At the same time, she had fun. She loved the beach and that's where she met a young lawyer named Edward Marsh. They hit it off and before she knew it, they were married.

Ed adored her, and she passionately loved him. He became quite successful in his practice and in his investing. This allowed her to stay at home and raise their two kids -- a daughter, Sheri and son, Kevin -- and continue to pursue her dreams. She started a series of non-profits and supported a wide range of other charities that helped less fortunate children and teens.

Her and Ed loved living together. As a family they traveled extensively and when the kids became old enough to survive on their own, they enjoyed a second, third and fourth honeymoon. They were the life of every party. Ed was jovial and gregarious. He always complimented her by saying she had the best genes he ever seen and like a fine wine, got better with age. California had matured this shy Midwest ugly duckling into a refined and fetching swan, who still turned heads at 58 and made women half her age green with jealousy.

She was a full head taller than Ed at 5'11" with auburn hair and jade green eyes. She wore her hair boyishly short with long bangs that she had to brush from her eyes with an elegant hand. Two rounds of golf a week and tennis on Wednesdays had left her fit and tanned. Her perfect hourglass figure was highlighted by well-defined breasts that were still defying gravity's pull and tight buns that she knew were admired by her passersby.

Sadly, her life had changed five-years previously, when Ed was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. They made one more trip, this time a cruise to the Greek islands and the Mediterranean, before his condition and health went into a tailspin. He had passed away a little over one-year ago and despite her attempts to deny the fact, she missed him desperately. To the casual observer, she appeared to be the vivacious and sexy grandma, but if you looked closely at her eyes, you could see they were filled with a deep sadness.

A few months ago, someone on the reunion committee had been able to track her down and sent her an invitation to the event. Sheri had seen the unopened letter on her coffee table one day and asked her about it. Sharon broke her silence about her bad-old-days in high school and about what Mike Richards had done. Sheri had told she needed to go, not just should. And here she was.

With her musings done, she shook her head and heaved a loud sigh. Standing, she shed her robe. She walked over to the vanity and took a tube of lotion and rubbed her body down. She slipped on the under garments and not surprisingly, found her daughter had been right. They felt nice and walking over to the mirror she looked at herself and was impressed.