My 50th high school reunion is happening this month. A flock of once-cool kids will gather at a local watering hole in Chicago to drink and laugh and reminisce. I can already hear the demented cackling of one kid I used to hang with.
He and I ran in the same circles for a while. I bowed out of that clan before we were old enough to drive. But I do remember a few misadventures while we were still on foot.
On Friday nights we would walk over to Burger King. It was a big treat that we looked forward to. We’d gaze at the overhead menu as if making up our minds. A kid named Mike (names changed) would ooze with devotion to the flame broiled flavor of the Whopper.
I’d get whatever. And there would be Benny, sulking in a booth, away from the counter. Someone would ask what’s up.
He wouldn’t order anything because he couldn’t. Without fail, he didn’t have any money. But he would lash out indignantly.
“Why didn’t you TELL ME we were going to Burger King? If you TOLD ME we were going to Burger King, I’d have brought some money.”
His story was always the same, even after many trips to Burger King.
The truth was, Benny was broke. His family was destitute. Whatever loose change the kids might accumulate, I’m guessing, would be confiscated and applied to the electric bill.
At one point, Mike had had enough. I remember his exact words. “Just bring money!” he shouted. “It’s not a burden to carry money!”
I was irritated and amused, hearing Benny’s absurd complaint yet again, about our failure to disclose dinner plans. Who could take it seriously?
Well apparently Mikek could, as he responded in kind. That was the funny part. Did he not see through Benny’s transparent story weeks ago?
Usually someone would break down and buy Benny something to eat.
I bailed out of that group, considering them all idiots. I believe they’ll all be at the reunion later this month—some have said so on social media.
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I graduated to a better class of friends: my fellow distance runners on the track and cross country teams.
The runners were decent students and not drinkers or druggies. Some went on to college with athletic scholarships.
We’d meet up for nightly fun runs in the summer. I wrote about our wholesome high school habits two years ago when our beloved coach died at 85.
Meanwhile the idiots were always in trouble. With the cops, with their cars, with school administrators, or with weed or alcohol.
Once I was lured back into a rendezvous with the old rat pack. They were cutting school and heading downtown for a Cubs game. It was like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
We did it but I didn’t feel good about it, standing in the Wrigley Field bleachers for the seventh inning stretch. Cutting school was not my style.
I announced that I was leaving, heading back to the suburbs. Why would I do that? I still had time to get back to school for track practice.
Mike was incredulous. You’d trade a day of fun and freedom for pain and personal responsibility? Sheepishly I said yes and headed for the turnstiles.
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Few if any of the class of ’74 runners will be at the reunion. Most have left Chicago. I’m in touch with only one and he knows of no one who is going.
As for the ne’er do wells, I hold no grudges. Maybe they had the right idea about high school, out having fun while the runners sweated their butts off down at Swan Pond.
Maybe there was a shortage of good role models. President Nixon resigned in August 1974, weeks after our graduation, declaring “I’m not a crook.”
I’d find it odd to reunite with guys I didn’t especially like 50 years ago. The runners would be better company.
They say we are the “average” of the five people we associate most with. If so, I definitely chose wisely in our formative freshman year.
Our graduating class was a few hundred kids. Maybe the others would generate some entertainment at the reunion.
But at this point I’m not planning to go. I’ll just go out for a run and then maybe grab a Whopper.