My Buddy Butchy
The perfect dress is carefully hanging in the car, and the hair has been cut (well, trimmed). In fact, by the time this posts, I'll be in the car, on my way to my 30 year high school reunion, to "Party Hearty," as we used to say in New Jersey back in the dark ages of 1979.
I seriously don't have any expectations. I just want to have a good time with whomever shows up. My best friend since the very first day of high school can't come. And another good friend I recently reconnected with on Facebook isn't going either.
But, according to the list, a couple of theater kids (yes, I actually just wrote kids), I mean, people, are coming. I was a theater kid, so this is good news. A bunch of the cheerleaders are coming, of course. Maybe I shouldn't say "of course," because after all, I'm going too. But it just seems like an event cheerleaders would flock to.
Cheerleaders were very cool in our high school They could all do crazy gymnastic feats like back-walkovers and splits. And most of them were nice, which really pissed me off. Because if they're going to be pretty, popular, flexible, and smart, it would be a hell of a lot more satisfying not to like them.
But the name I was really excited to see on the list was Butchy. Well, that's not his real name, so that's not what it said. Let's just say it read, "Luther." With a name like that, you can understand why everyone, including his parents, called him "Butchy," or, as he grew older, "Butch."
He was my neighbor across the street from the time I was seven until I moved, right after high school graduation. He was one week younger than me, and we hung out together all the time. He played jump rope and hopscotch with me, and even brought his GI Joe over to my house when I wanted a romantic interest for my Barbie.
We were such good friends that he forgave me when I'd had a bad day at school and he was joking around with me and I tripped and fell and told my mother he pushed me and my father screamed at him really loud and mean in front of the whole block.
We were such good friends that I forgave him when we'd walk to school together every day but he took off and ran ahead when we were about a block away because he didn't want anyone to see that he walked to school with a girl.
We went our separate ways in high school. He started hanging out with a pretty rough crowd. My mother swore he was selling pot right out of his house. Our relationship was relegated to chin-bobbing hello's on the street or in the hallway at school.
His dad died when we were seniors. I remember waiting to catch him outside with his dog so I could tell him how sorry I was. It was somehow really important that I say it to his face. That may have been the last time we spoke. Then we graduated and I moved, and I never saw him again.
But......he's coming to the reunion! I hope he remembers who I am. I guess I'll have to call him "Luther." After all, no one calls a grown man "Butch," right?
Or maybe, I'll just have to see what happens if I do.
I don't know how much internet access I'll have the next few days. Hopefully, there'll be some, but if you don't hear from me, I'll be back by Tuesday!
I seriously don't have any expectations. I just want to have a good time with whomever shows up. My best friend since the very first day of high school can't come. And another good friend I recently reconnected with on Facebook isn't going either.
But, according to the list, a couple of theater kids (yes, I actually just wrote kids), I mean, people, are coming. I was a theater kid, so this is good news. A bunch of the cheerleaders are coming, of course. Maybe I shouldn't say "of course," because after all, I'm going too. But it just seems like an event cheerleaders would flock to.
Cheerleaders were very cool in our high school They could all do crazy gymnastic feats like back-walkovers and splits. And most of them were nice, which really pissed me off. Because if they're going to be pretty, popular, flexible, and smart, it would be a hell of a lot more satisfying not to like them.
But the name I was really excited to see on the list was Butchy. Well, that's not his real name, so that's not what it said. Let's just say it read, "Luther." With a name like that, you can understand why everyone, including his parents, called him "Butchy," or, as he grew older, "Butch."
He was my neighbor across the street from the time I was seven until I moved, right after high school graduation. He was one week younger than me, and we hung out together all the time. He played jump rope and hopscotch with me, and even brought his GI Joe over to my house when I wanted a romantic interest for my Barbie.
We were such good friends that he forgave me when I'd had a bad day at school and he was joking around with me and I tripped and fell and told my mother he pushed me and my father screamed at him really loud and mean in front of the whole block.
We were such good friends that I forgave him when we'd walk to school together every day but he took off and ran ahead when we were about a block away because he didn't want anyone to see that he walked to school with a girl.
We went our separate ways in high school. He started hanging out with a pretty rough crowd. My mother swore he was selling pot right out of his house. Our relationship was relegated to chin-bobbing hello's on the street or in the hallway at school.
His dad died when we were seniors. I remember waiting to catch him outside with his dog so I could tell him how sorry I was. It was somehow really important that I say it to his face. That may have been the last time we spoke. Then we graduated and I moved, and I never saw him again.
But......he's coming to the reunion! I hope he remembers who I am. I guess I'll have to call him "Luther." After all, no one calls a grown man "Butch," right?
Or maybe, I'll just have to see what happens if I do.
I don't know how much internet access I'll have the next few days. Hopefully, there'll be some, but if you don't hear from me, I'll be back by Tuesday!
Have a wonderful time. And there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that Butchy will remember you.
Posted by: LPC | July 17, 2009 at 09:13 AM
Of course he's going to remember you. You would be hard to forget!
Posted by: Jill | July 17, 2009 at 10:49 AM
I'm with LPC - he'll remember you. And I'm willing to bet my next paycheck he'll be thrilled to see you.
Have a safe trip and I hope you have a wonderful time!
Posted by: Jan | July 17, 2009 at 10:50 AM
I hope you have a great time and I agree, I think he'll remember you as well!
Posted by: Kate | July 17, 2009 at 01:18 PM
OMG! I'm on the edge of my bed! I want to see your hair cut. I want to know who else showed up. I want to know what you talked about with Butch and what seeing all your high school peers after 30s years is like. I'm freaking out because in a conversation with my brother yesterday I realized I graduated 6 years ago, making my 10 year graduation 4 years away!! I'm freaking out... The cheerleaders in my school (and the dancers and the athletes and everyone else in those circles) were bitches and jerks. Pardon the ugly language. I wonder if it'll satisfy me to show up just to show them how successful I've continued to be since high school (I opened my own business at 17 and have been on TV since I was 10) just to make them more angry at me. They would always pick on little things like me being the Santa's Enchanted Forest commercial girl.
Ok I'm ranting... Sorry. Just post again soon!
Posted by: GiGi @ Incrementum | July 17, 2009 at 01:25 PM
Have a great time! We here in the blogosphere will be expecting photos of the perfect dress!
:-)
Posted by: Nancy McDonnell | July 17, 2009 at 01:41 PM
I sure hope you're having a terrific time!
Posted by: Joanie M | July 18, 2009 at 04:44 AM
Enjoy! I admire that you're even going! I didn't go to my 20th.
Posted by: Jason | July 19, 2009 at 11:51 PM
"no one calls a grown man 'Butch'"
Well. Yes. They do in Wisconsin. I had a great-uncle Butch. It was not his given name. I have no idea what his given name was. Everyone called him Butch.
The big question: does anyone call a grown man "Buddy?" That seems to be the default nickname for most little boys these days - or at least how they are addressed. How old are they before they are no longer "Buddy?"
And! How old do you have to be before you realize it is not appropriate to call everyone "Dude?"
Posted by: class factotum | July 20, 2009 at 03:39 PM