If you take playing cards seriously, even if no money is involved, egos can be at stake. The situation can be further complicated, if husbands are paired together against their wives.

 

Sometimes more time is spent engaged in a war of words, than playing the game. However, when all is said and done, . . .

 

   

It’s All In The Cards

 

     God! I’m going to be late. Molly’s going to kill me, I thought, as I turned the corner onto our block. I pulled the car into the garage and rushed into the house. As I entered through the door to the kitchen, Josie, our black cocker, greeted me with a yelp and then began licking my shorts covered legs.

     Pulling my handkerchief from my pocket, I attempted to dry them as best I could. I looked up and saw Molly sitting at the kitchen table glaring at me.

     “You do know we’re playing cards at 5:30? And we have to eat dinner before Sherry and Dave get here.”

     “Right, right. But it’s only 4:30. We’ll get it all done. I’m just going to wash up. My legs are all sticky from the kid’s slobber. Then I’ll join you for dinner. By the way what are we having?”

     “I hope you’re joking. I asked you what you wanted this morning and you didn’t give me an answer. So I’m having a bowl of soup. You’re on your own.”

     “No problem. I have a couple of TV dinners in the fridge to choose from.”

     We each prepared our own gourmet delight and chowed down, with little conversation. Molly finished first, stood up, and rattled off a list of chores I needed to complete in the next fifteen minutes before our guests arrived.

     “Wipe off the table, get out the pinochle cards and the cube (that shows the suit we bid in), and find a decent score pad. The one we used on Saturday was too small. Then turn on the music. You forgot to do that Saturday, and the quiet drove me crazy. I’m going to clean myself up. Then I’ll put out the snacks.”

     “Yes, dear,” I replied, in a somewhat snide manner.

     With everything ready, I paced back and forth in our entry hall waiting for Sherry and Dave to arrive. Hearing a car, I peered through the dining room window. The car came to abrupt halt. Dave rolled out of the driver’s side and shuffled around to the passenger side to open the door to let Sherry out. They then came up the path to our front door, arm in arm, as any “young couple” in love would do. Now, both being 79 years old, maybe they were just holding each other up.

     As they approached, I opened the door, bowed down before them, and swung my arm out in a grand gesture encouraging them to come in. At that moment Josie, all twenty pounds of her, came charging out of the kitchen and headed straight for Sherry, who wasn’t aware of the impending danger. I screamed, “Josie, stop girl.” To my amazement, she did.

     Sherry looked at me and grinned. “Thank you for saving my life. I owe you, but not at cards. I came to win.”

     Since we play guys against gals, I looked at Dave and asked, “You ready to win big tonight?”

     “Sure. Been practicing all afternoon. We’ll start slow and let them think they have a chance. Then will just trample them. Remember, you’re the scorekeeper. So you have the power of the pen.”

     I ushered our guests into the kitchen and they took their customary seats at the table. Molly had the margaritas already prepared and placed on coasters next to where she and Sherry would be sitting. Since Dave and I knew we would win if we kept our wits about us, only glasses of ice water graced our places at the table. And Josie cuddled up in her doggie bed in the corner of the room. We were ready to rumble.

     Molly shuffled the cards and slid them toward me to cut. I stared at them without doing anything. “Jim, aren’t you going to cut the cards? Hello, Jim.”

     “Hey, my mind wandered. Okay, they’re cut. Thin to win.”

     “That’s what you think, but you haven’t got a prayer,” Sherry chortled.

     “Don’t make this a religious thing”, Dave bellowed. “You got our signals we worked out on the phone this morning, Jim?”

     “Huh, what signals?”

     Dave looked at me as if I’d lost it. “You’re younger than I am, man.  Concentrate. It’ll come to you.”

     “Oh, those signals—place my hand on my heart, if I want you to call hearts as trump. Parade my ring finger in front of you for diamonds, make believe I’m swinging a baseball bat for clubs, and make a digging motion with my hand for spades. I got it.”

     “Yeah, you certainly do. I’m just not sure what it is,” Molly grimaced, shaking her head.

     “Let’s play already. “You going to make an opening bid or pass, Dave?” I queried.

     “Huh, I thought I dealt.”

     “No, I did.” Sherry stated. “So you start.”

     “Okay. I pass,” Dave said.

     “I’ll pass and help my partner,” Sherry chanted.

     I stared at my cards and said, “I’ll open, twenty-five.”

     Molly looked at her cards, then at me, and sputtered, “Twenty-six.”

     I went to twenty-seven and she followed with a bid of twenty-eight. This went on until I let her have the bid for thirty-four. “So, what suit are you calling?” I asked.

     She smiled and said, “Hearts.”

     Sherry had a glum look on her face as she passed her four cards. “You’re not going to be very happy,” she moaned.

     Molly picked up the top card and yelled, “That’s the one.” Grinning at Dave and me, she laid down her run—fifteen points.

     I looked at Dave and shook my head. “We’re never that lucky, are we?” I grumbled. “Can you say that’s the one?”

     “How can I? You never pass me the right cards,” he replied.

     Molly shouted, “We’re so good. Just so talented.”

     “Aw, come on. It’s all in the cards. If you don’t have them, you can’t pass them. You girls are just luckier than we are—not better,” Dave groaned. “So you can stop gloating.”

     “And you guys don’t gloat when you make a hand?” Molly stated.

     “No, we’re gentlemen. We never rub it in,” I replied.

     “Oh, you’re so full of it,” Molly yelled.

     “Is this the way the whole evening is going to go?” I asked.

     “It all depends,” Sherry said.    

     “Depends on what?” Dave queried.

     “How nice you are to us.” Sherry replied in very snooty manner.

     “Let’s stop this discussion and play the game,” I said, a bit annoyed. “The evening has just begun and we’ve spent more time talking about nothing than playing.”

     “Yeah, and all the hot air is coming from your direction,” Molly quipped.

     “Cut that out. Let’s play. What suit was called?” I asked.

     “Just look at the cube, Sherry blurted.”

     “How can I? Nobody turned it to the suit called,” I responded.

     “And you can’t do it? You have hands, don’t you?” Molly asked in a very sarcastic manner.

     “Well I could, and I would, if I remembered what the suit was in the first place.”

     The cube sat on the table between Sherry and me. She sat there staring at it. Then she said, “I’ll turn the cube.” But she did nothing.

     “Well what are you waiting for?” Dave inquired. “You said you’d turn the cube, so do it. Or can’t you remember the suit?”

     “Don’t be funny, mister, or you’re going to be sleeping on the hammock in the backyard tonight,” Sherry snapped.

     “So? We’re waiting, “Dave insisted.

     Sherry looked embarrassed. “Well, no, I don’t remember what the suit was, or I would,” she uttered.

     The rest of the evening didn’t get any better. If we didn’t forget the suit chosen or who dealt the cards, the girls would make fun of the guys. And the guys, being perfect gentleman, would accept these jabs without comment. We had to. We needed a decent place to sleep tonight and someone to make breakfast for us in the morning.

     In spite of the friendly bickering, we had a great evening. At least the girls did. They won four games to our two.

     As we walked Sherry and Dave to the door, Dave turned toward me and spouted, “We had quite an evening—won all the games.”

     With her eyes, Sherry shot daggers at Dave’s heart. “You what?” she screamed. 

     “Sure was a good evening, maybe next time the cards will favor you girls. However, I guess we’re just too good,” I proclaimed.

     “Molly glared at me and declared, “In your dreams.”

     As Sherry ushered Dave out the door, she turned toward me with a glint in her eye and teased, “If there is a next time.”

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

As you are aware, I am Coordinator of the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest. The theme of this year’s contest was “Seeing Is Believing Through Poetry.” One hundred four (104) poets entered the contest from 66 cities in 14 states and five (5) countries. Twenty-seven (27) winning poets will have their poems published in our chapbook of winning poetry.

 

Each year, to introduce the five contest categories and the winning poems, I write a poem. It is my pleasure to share with you this year’s poem . . . 

 

 

 

 

Navigating through life can be confusing. Past and present may collide.

 

Reality can become a mystery, as becomes evident in . . .

 

 His Lost World

 

Early Monday morning, Tommy rolled out of bed in the room he shared with his three-year-old brother, Josh, and rambled down the long hallway of his parents’ western style ranch house, entered the kitchen, and plopped himself down on a large wooden chair at the table.

 

He stared at the room, as if waiting for some mystical creature to appear before him and grant his every wish, but nobody came. He became antsy, twisting and turning in the chair, in a way that made it wobble like an elderly man trying to maintain stability in his march down the corridor of an assisted living facility.

 

Tommy knew he would be late for school if someone did not come soon to make the breakfast he needed to provide him with the energy necessary to get through the day. He wondered where the woman who brought him into this world lingered. He hoped she had not been distracted by his younger brother, and that he remained number one in her eyes and heart.

 

He grew very restless, almost irrational, and moaned, as he pictured himself in a different room—one small, with only a twin bed, an oversized leather recliner, a tiny dining table with two metal folding chairs, and a miniature refrigerator in the far corner. He despised his living quarters for restricting his freedom. With door locked, it was a home he could not leave on his own.

 

But then he realized, at eighty he had become five again, and he waited for the mystical creature to grant his wish and unlock the door to the world he had lost.

 

 

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Believing in God was not always easy for me. I questioned His existence on many occasions.

 

At one point in my life, I even walked away from Him, attempting to navigate life’s paths on my own. However, as I matured, I realized I had been . . .

 

 

 Growing With God

 

In my youth, I confided in Him and shared my innermost thoughts. Sometimes I feared what He might do to me, but I needed to take the risk in order to grow. I trusted Him and hoped He would stand by me and not let me down. At times, I thought He had, and I must admit it made me quite angry.

 

I often wondered if He did exist, for I couldn’t reach out and touch Him. I questioned this when I erred in making decisions and believed I had to face the consequences alone. The many obstacles I thought He placed before me on life’s road frustrated and confused me. It made my existence pretty rough and caused me pain I felt I didn’t deserve.

 

But as I became stronger, I realized His reasons for making me jump over life’s hurdles. It enabled me to set and achieve many goals that helped me to become the person I am today. But as new stumbling blocks appear in my travels through life as I age, I need His assistance in making my way. I haven’t asked for His guidance and support for a long time, but I have to ask now.

 

Life has become complicated as I’ve aged, and things don’t always make sense to me. I don’t expect Him to find solutions for the uncertainty that confronts me. All I want is His support in giving me the strength to find my way—to be my partner, to walk with me, and give me the courage to stand alone.

 

 

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

 

To make it in today’s world, we have to focus on the opportunities before us. We have to recognize when a door opens, allowing us to pursue the next phase of our journey.

 

Heed the signs along the path. And look at the world . . .

 

 

With Eyes Wide Open

 

Rose petals fell about them, as they recited their vows. Four years later, their 

     three-year-old son, holding his diaper in hand, screamed, “Mommy, Daddy, 

     I’m potty trained”—Love Is All Around Us.

Their teenage daughter volunteered at an assisted living home. As she smiled 

     and chatted with the elderly residents, their faces glowed—Love Is All               

     Around Us.

 

The Dean chanted to the throng of students before him, “I now confer the  

     Bachelor of Arts Degree upon you.” The message received, “You are 

     a success and Dreams Do Come True.”

The telethon host implored viewers to donate in support of cancer research. 

     The phones rang off the hook and lights flashed above the sign indicating 

     the goal had been reached—Dreams Do Come True.

 

He walked down his street greeting neighbors working in their gardens 

     and reading the Sunday paper on their porches and it seemed to him there 

     was no place better to be than On The Street Where I Live.

Three kids sped up and down the sidewalk on their scooters in front of 

     her house, while two others tossed a football back and forth. She marveled 

     at all the youthful energy and felt she had been given a wonderful gift—

     watching children play On The Street Where I Live.

 

A great man was laid to rest today—a loving husband and father of 

     two children, an architect of note, and a community leader and fundraiser.         

     Thoughtful and caring, he was loved by all—Gone But Not Forgotten.

Sold to the highest bidder, her childhood home demolished, taking away 

     the landmark commemorating her youth—a special time in her life—Gone 

     But Not Forgotten. 

 

She was the girl of his dreams. He loved her and she him, but she went to  

     college 3,000 miles away and their lives separated. Now ten years later, 

     at their high school reunion, the opportunity arose to give love . . . A  

     Second Chance.

The wind blew through her hair as she awaited the sound of the starter’s gun 

     to begin the 100-meter championship race—the same race she lost last 

     year. Her heart beat out of control as she embraced the good fortune she 

     had received. And “With Eyes Wide Open,” she knew she had been 

     given . . . A Second Chance.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Moving from the East Coast to the West Coast can create some unexpected language problems. At times, it felt as if I’d entered a foreign land.

 

When you make the move, you have to learn how to adjust. How I attempted to do this is explained in . . .

 

 

Tawk To Me

 

Introduction 

     Earlier this year, March 2, 2020, to be exact, I met a couple, Julia and John, up at the Orchard Creek Lodge in Sun City Lincoln Hills—our active adult community. As we chatted, Julia commented, “It doesn’t sound like you’re from California. Are you from the East Coast?” she asked. “Maybe Boston. Guess you haven’t been here long, since you have such a strong accent.”

     I cringed when she said, “Boston,” and replied, “I’m from New York, born and raised there. I came to California when I was twenty and have lived here for over fifty-five years.”

     “That’s surprising,” she said. “You’d think your accent wouldn’t be as prominent by now.”

     “Well, if you have a few minutes, I can tell you why it is.” She turned and looked at John, who didn’t appear very interested.

     “I’m going to go look at some books in the library area, but you can stay,” he said. “However, make it quick. I don’t want to eat lunch too late.” Then, without acknowledging me, he left.

     “Sometimes I wish he’d take a greater interest in the people we meet,” Julia said. “He’s a good guy, but likes to keep to himself. Enough about him. I want to hear your story.”

     “Okay, let’s sit over there.” We went over to two soft, comfortable chairs and plopped down. She leaned back, and I began . . .

 

My Story

     I was born in the Bronx, New York, and raised on Long Gisland—the “s” is silent and, yes, it starts with a “G.” Since my friends, family, and teachers were all from the same “country,” New York, they understood me when I tawked.

     It was not until age 14 that I realized my perfect diction might not be understood beyond my country’s borders. That summer, my parents sent me to an overnight camp on the New York-Massachusetts state line. Many of the campers came from Massachusetts.

     I decided to try out for a play and was delighted to get a role. To my surprise, I had the opening line in the show. The line was, “Hark! The mail train is on time again.” The audience was composed of campers and their parents from both New York and Massachusetts. I stood erect, at the front of the stage, extended my right arm, pointed up in the air, and shouted, “Hawk! The mail train is on time again.” As far as I know, to this day, many audience members are still looking for that elusive bird.

     Did this experience prepare me for life in California? Not quite. One of the first people I met when I arrived here introduced himself to me as Berry. I looked at him and said, “That’s a strange name for a guy.”

     He seemed confused by my remark. “My mother named me after Berry Goldwater,” he said. “It’s a common name.”

     “Oh, you mean, Barry.”

     “Isn’t that what I said?”

     During my first year in graduate school at UCLA, I worked as a teaching assistant in an Educational Psychology class. I got a call from Dr. Jones early one morning. “Alan, I’m not feeling very well,” she said. “Can you teach the class this afternoon?”

     “Yes, I’d be happy to. However, I’m a little uneasy, since I’ve never done it before,” I responded.

     “You’ll do fine”, she assured me. “The subject is the ‘Hawthorne Effect.’”

     “That afternoon, about 150 students poured into the large lecture hall. I stood before them and smiled. “Please take your seats. The subject of today’s session is the “Horthorne Effect.” Students began to look at one another, somewhat confused.

     So I wrote the words on the blackboard, and a student yelled out, “Oh, you mean the . . . ‘Hawthorne Effect.’” Everything was right with the world.

     After that experience, I thought the appropriate thing to do was to learn how to speak “Californian.” I tried hard, but still would say such things as, “I have an ‘idear’ I’d like to share with you,” and, “My sister’s name is ‘Ritar.'”

     Two years later, I was hired as a Psychology instructor at Moorpark College, a community college in Southern California. My students seemed enthusiastic, but had trouble understanding some of the things I was saying—not the concepts, but how I pronounced my words. And to be honest, I had trouble understanding them.

     One of the best examples of our inability to communicate was with the words, “Mary, merry, and marry,” which flowed from their mouths as, “Merry, merry, and merry.” I impressed upon them that they better be careful, because in an effort to befriend Mary and make merry, they may end up having to marry her.

     Well, no matter how hard I tried, in their ears, I still spoke a foreign language. And for me, I found it had one great advantage. Since they often didn’t understand me, they had to pay attention and ask me to clarify what I had said. This seemed far better then becoming fluent in their language.

     Today, over fifty years since this incident, I’m much more a Californian than a New Yorker. But when I open my mouth, it’s obvious one thing has never changed.

 

Conclusion

     “Wow! I enjoyed the story. The decision you made to keep your accent makes perfect sense. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

     “No, thank you for listening.”

     She smiled and said, “I better go find John.” As she walked away, she looked back at me and said, “You mentioned you were a writer. Why don’t you write the story? I think others would find it interesting.”

     And so I did.

 

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

What was your life like in high school? Were you a part of the in-crowd?

 

Or did you stand on the sidelines wondering what it would be like to be one of the social elite. Then, after many years, you attend your high school reunion and find that . . .

 

 

 Time Takes Its Revenge

 

     “Hey! You’re choking me. Get your arm off my neck. I can’t breathe.”    

     “Shut your face, dweeb. Give me your lunch money. Now!”

     “No way!” 

     “I said, now!”

      “What are you doing? Those are my glasses. Give them back to me. I can’t see a thing.”

     “Give me the money or I’ll step on them, you little twerp.”

     I wasn’t about to give in. Without my glasses, the world looked like one big fuzz ball. All of a sudden, I spun around two or three times and fell to the ground. I could hear the quarters I had grasped in my hand go plink, plink, plink, plink, as they hit the tile floor. Then the bell sounded ending the lunch hour. My now empty hand rested on my glasses. I grabbed them and pushed them back into place on my face. I looked around and saw nobody. Otto Krenshaw, the jerk who tormented me, had absconded with my lunch money.

     Forty-four years have passed since the incident in the Granite Oaks High School cafeteria. As a fourteen-year-old freshman, a self-identified bookworm, I didn’t possess the ability to fight the bullies who tormented me.

     Why think about this now, while lounging in my living room in the beige recliner, with my computer in my lap, at eight thirty on a Wednesday evening in the middle of March? Well, I received an invitation on my laptop to attend my fortieth high school reunion. Nice? I’m not so sure, given my history at the school.

     I did graduate second in my class. However, the honor didn’t mean I had been the second most popular student in the class. Jocks, like Otto, cheerleaders, and others who thought of themselves as important and popular rejected me. My girlfriend in my senior year came from Valley High, twelve miles from our town, where my reputation didn’t precede me.

     I muttered, “Why would I want to put myself through a hellish reunion with those asses who made a mockery of my high school life?”

     My wife, Michelle, sprawled out on the brown leather couch, immersed in the latest Dean Koontz novel, looked up. “What are you mumbling about?”

     “Oh, I got an invitation to my fortieth class reunion.”

     “So? You never go to those. What’s the problem?”

     “Maybe this time I should. You know, face the demons of my past.”

     “Come on, now. We have a nice life. You make good money as a sales executive. We have a son who’s a lawyer and daughter who’s a chiropractor. You’re on the city council. What do you have to prove to anyone?”

     “Nothing I guess, but . . . ”

     “But what?”

     “That I was as good then as I am now and they should’ve accepted me for being me.”

     “How do you propose to do that, my sweet?”

     “I haven’t a clue.”

     “Well, let’s sleep on it. You don’t need to make a decision tonight.”

     “Guess not. The email gave the date of the reunion dinner—June 8, 2016. It said more details would follow.”

     We closed up the house and made our way down the hall to the master bedroom. Once in bed, I rolled over and gave Michelle a not so passionate kiss.

     “Can’t you do better than that?” she groaned. “Are you still dwelling on the reunion?”

     “Yeah, I can’t get it out of my head. I never told you about the most demeaning thing that happened to me in high school. It was too embarrassing.”

     “Something worse than the lunch money crap you told me a guy named Otto put you through.”

     “Much worse.”

     “Okay, I’m listening. But make it quick. My energy level is falling fast.”

     “Well, almost two years later, during my junior year, at the annual homecoming dance in late October, I fell prey to the very worst trick one could imagine. I didn’t have a date and didn’t plan to go to the dance. I got a call less than a week before the Friday night extravaganza. Can you guess who called?”

     “You don’t mean, Otto?”

     “You’re quite sharp, aren’t you?”

     “Well, you did marry me for my brains, didn’t you? Although, I am very beautiful.”

     “Yes, you are. I’m fortunate you gave me a chance to prove myself to you.”

     “Come on. What’s the rest of the story? What’d Otto say?”

     “He said Ellen, one of the in-group, needed a date for the dance. The college guy she planned to go with had his mid-term rescheduled and he had to study for it. He told me he owed me for the way he treated me over the years. So he suggested to her I take her.”

     “And she jumped at the chance, I suppose.”

     “Not exactly. The word he said she used was . . . ‘whatever.’”

     “So, what did you say?” Michelle asked.

     “Not being the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree with regard to social things, I replied, ‘I’d love to go.’ And then it all went down hill from there.”

     “Okay, keep going. I’m wide awake now.”

     “When I got off the phone, I had to make some quick decisions. I needed to decide what I’d wear and how I’d get us to the dance, since I didn’t have my driver’s license yet.”

     “Wow! This is getting interesting.”

     “We lived in a small town. Had only one tux shop—Krenshaw Formal Wear. Otto, working as his dad’s salesperson, said all they had left was a striped, seersucker tuxedo with a polka dot bow tie and matching cummerbund. I had no choice, so I took it.”

     “You wore it to the dance?” she questioned in utter disbelief.

      “Yes. But an even greater obstacle stood before me—transportation to the affair at the Veteran’s Hall.”

     “Well, how did you get there?”

     “Uh, my mother drove us. Ellen had a weird grin on her face as we began the six-mile drive. But then, without warning, she broke out in uncontrollable laughter. I didn’t think she would ever stop. However, as we rolled up to the hall, she did.”

     “Okay, so what happened at the dance?”

     “The beginning of the evening was uneventful. We had a nice tossed salad and a good tasting steak and rice pilaf entree. Nobody spoke much to me. I ate and listened to the conversation. Ellen and I even danced a couple of fast dances. I sorta asked her for a slow dance, but she ignored me. And then . . .

     “The room became quiet as the class president, Ronald Ball, moved to the microphone on the stage. The band played a crescendo and then the music disappeared behind Ronald. In a strong melodic voice, he announced the selection of the Homecoming King. After the king, Mark Lewis, said a few words, Ronald announced the Homecoming Queen choice. To my surprise, he called Ellen Fortunado, my date, to the stage. Then, my world fell apart.”

     “What do you mean, fell apart?”

     “Ellen thanked the nominating committee for her selection. To my surprise, she asked me to stand. So, being naïve, I did. She pointed to me and introduced me as her date—the guy dressed in the clown suit, whose mother chauffeured us to the dance. Didn’t even mention my name. Hysterical laughter broke out. It became overwhelming. I bowed my head in shame, hoping I would disappear.

     “It could’ve been worse. But the quick-thinking bandleader got the band in motion and blasted out a fast tune. People started to move toward the dance floor and the excruciating moment drifted into the past for those gathered, but not for me.

     “A week later, I found out I’d been set up, not just with the date, but also to be humiliated in a way that still hurts today. And Otto had planned the whole thing.”

     “Then why do you want to go to the reunion?” Michelle murmured.

     “To finally stand up for myself. Maybe get revenge.”

     “But, how?”

     “I need to think about it a couple of days. Let’s get some sleep.”

     Three days passed. I received a follow-up email about the reunion. “Oh my, it’s going to be a ‘sock hop’ and we’re encouraged to come in costume,” I muttered. My eyes opened wide as I realized what I had to do. I began to develop a plan for my ultimate revenge. I sat at my desk in my home office, with a large grin on my face, when Michelle entered.

     “Why do you look so pleased?” she asked.

     I smiled. “We’re going to the reunion.”

     “How did you come to that conclusion?”

     “The reunion has a theme. It’s going to be a ‘sock hop’ . . . a costume affair. You’ll wear a poodle skirt, a white blouse, and a scarf around your neck. You’ll look great.”

     “And you? What are you going to wear?”

     “Not wear . . . be.”

     “Okay, be. What are you going to be?”

     “A nerd.”

     “That’s absurd!” she screamed.

     “Why?”

     “It sounds ridiculous. Why recreate the painful time you had in high school? You’re not a nerdy kid anymore. You don’t even wear glasses. You got contacts years ago. You’re a successful businessman. Pretty good-looking, too. Why not show the creeps they’re no better than you are?”

     “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” But, to be honest, I had no idea why I decided to reinvent the nerd I used to be. Over the next couple of weeks, this plagued me.

     Then one night, it dawned on me. At a convenient point in the evening, I would disappear into the restroom, take off my nerd attire and return dressed as the handsome, savvy man of fifty-eight I am today. I would then strut and flaunt my greatness in front of those who had gotten enjoyment at my expense in high school. They would applaud what I’d become.

     This all seemed so right. I sent my RSVP to the reunion coordinator, a pretty high school cheerleader, as I recall. Then, I began to surf the net for “sock hop nerd” photos.

     My costume began to come together. Attired in black, horn-rimmed glasses with tape on the bridge over my nose; hair parted in the middle and slicked down; a black bowtie affixed to a white, striped shirt; and plaid pants rolled high to expose my white sox and black shoes, I would look like a geek to the nth degree. Just call me “super nerd.” I’d be every girl’s nightmare.

     I didn’t share my attire with Michelle until the night of the reunion. I dressed in the guest bedroom, strolled down the hall to the living room, and stood in front of Michelle, who sat on the couch. She was speechless. “Are you ready to go?” I asked.

     “I see you are,” she replied. “And you look amazing. So take my arm and escort me to our chariot. This is going to be quite an evening.”

     Michelle and I took the one and a half hour trip down Lakeshore Highway to the Lakeport Inn, the site of my “coming back party.” The Lakeport Inn, an exclusive country club in the plush community of Lakeport, sat at the base of a lush green hillside. We pulled our late-model, silver Subaru up to the valet parking area in front of the hotel. A polite attendant, dressed in a red plaid vest and matching red tie, sporting a picture of the inn, opened the door and directed us to the ballroom for the reunion event. We arrived right on time for my grand entrance.

     I didn’t know what to expect, as we made our way through the beautiful lobby, with its elegant carpeting and pricy artwork, down a long hallway toward the ballroom. We approached the reception table in front of the tall, gold ballroom doors. The sign posted beside the table read, “Welcome to the Granite Oaks High School, Class of 1976, 40^th Reunion.”

     The woman sitting behind the reception table was “well rounded,” to say the least. She wore cheerleading garb and Sarah Palin-like glasses. Her nametag read, “Marci Garber, Cheerleading Captain.”   

     “I’m Rob Tucker and this is my wife Michelle,” I stated with conviction. Super nerd checked in, dressed to the hilt. To my surprise, she gave me a wonderful welcome.

     “Rob, thank you for coming. You look great. You’re at Table Two. By the way, there is someone who is very anxious to reunite with you.”

     I looked puzzled. Who did she think she was kidding when she said I looked great?

     “Who wants to see me?” I asked.

     “Otto Krenshaw,” she replied.

     “Otto Krenshaw wants to see me?” Unbelievable, I thought.

     “He asked to sit at your table.”

     As we proceeded into the ballroom, I thought this must be another set-up, a scheme to embarrass the campus geek one more time—a plan forty years in the making. Michelle grabbed my arm as we walked toward our table. My eyes scanned the group gathered in the room—many of them out of shape, overweight, bespectacled, middle-aged men and women. They all looked like me, but I dressed in costume. They tried to look “sock hop cool.”

     When I arrived at the table, a man, about six feet tall, balding, and at least one hundred pounds overweight, wearing black horn-rimmed glasses and a blue letterman’s sweater, stood before me. This wasn’t the same buff jock who bullied me in high school. I began to make a sarcastic comment, but had second thoughts and held my tongue.

     Smiling, he exclaimed, “Rob, it’s me, Otto. It’s so great to see you.”

     Any thought of payback disappeared from my mind. Time had taken its revenge. I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Hello, Otto. It’s so nice to see you, too, after all these years.”

 

 

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