by William L. Kutsch
Chapter 1
I suppose the second half of my life began in early May,
2000, when I received an announcement about the twentieth
reunion of my high school graduating class. Ward Melville
High School, my alma mater, the home of the Patriots, was
calling me, Robert Keane, to join their party.
My parents, nearly forty years in the same colonial house
in Setauket, New York, stopped over one day, bringing over
correspondence that had arrived for me. Because I'd lived
a mile away from them, they often paid a quick visit.
The name printed on the front read, "Robert Keane,
1980," followed by my old address. Obviously, the reunion
committee had mailed the announcements using the yearbook's
listing of graduate addresses, despite their staleness.
Meeting the same fate as the invitation to the tenth, this
regal-looking junk mail quickly found itself in the euphemistic
circular file: the kitchen wastebasket.
It never hit the rim.
"Now, why did you just do that?" my mother asked.
"You didn't even read it." She was leaning up
against the countertop, wearing her aqua "Hawaii"
sweatshirt. The one that she'd purchased at the local department
store.
"Ma," I replied, "if I didn't go to the
ten-year, why do you think I'd go to the twentieth? I mean,
who goes to these things anyway? Do you think I care if
Eddie Heinz owns a ski resort on Hunter Mountain and drives
a Hummer? Who wants to listen to how much money these people
say they make and how successful they are? Not me. I don't
think I want to spend a night with a bunch of phonies."
"Why are we standing in the kitchen?" my father
wanted to know.
"Well," she said to me, ignoring his question,
"you're not doing too badly yourself. And how about
giving people the benefit of the doubt? You'd probably have
a great time."
"Hah!" I scoffed. "A great time? I doubt
it," I scoffed. It was an automatic response, flowing
from my mouth as easily as exhaling. "Plus I'm busy
August 19th," I said - a lie.
"Okay. But you won't know unless you go, right?"
I said nothing. I know my mother had a gregarious personality;
it came naturally to her, not to me. I would not describe
myself as a people person, and I take comfort dealing with
others in a manner that affords little in the way of chitchat,
say, like a librarian in a library of mimes.
My dad, wearing a print shirt, chinos, boat shoes and no
socks, stood off to the side. By choice. He smiled to himself
as he witnessed this brief exchange, opting to withhold
his opinion on the subject. As a retired court reporter,
his duty in the courtroom required that he be a silent note-taker.
Every so often, his remaining quiet became an extension
of his profession. He had frequently commented while we
grew up that, "You can learn more by listening than
by talking." No doubt, he'd be learning from this banter.
My father was the tree that this apple never fell far from,
and I'd wager handsomely that he had never attended one
of his own reunions either. Brooklyn Automotive High School,
class of 1946, had they gathered every ten years, would
have done so without my father present. I'd asked him once
whether he'd ever gone to one of his high school reunions.
He replied to me in his own sardonic way that he had grown
up in a rough neighborhood, therefore they had to hold the
reunions in Sing Sing, and he didn't want to drive that
far. He never answered the question and didn't have to.
Thus, I was considering my dismissiveness as carrying on
a family tradition, even if it meant only on my father's
side. However, this attitude of mine was not basic, garden-variety
indifference, but pure, unbridled apathy in its basest form.
"Count me out."
"You're just like your father," my mom commented
as a final rejoinder.
I let her have the last word on the subject out of respect.
In addition, I hadn't felt compelled to respond to her since
I regarded that observation as the perfect compliment. "Hey,
let's go sit in the den and talk about things that are more
important. Surely you didn't come over here to give me that
mail."
"I'll have a diet soda, Bob," my father requested
as he made his way toward my leather recliner. "While
you're up."
"Do you think I'm being too narrow-minded in my thinking?"
I asked him.
"Not at all. Your brother would get me a soda, too."
#
The visit from my parents that day took on a different
light a couple of weeks later when I logged onto the Internet
to retrieve my e-mail.
Interestingly, sometime in late May, my brother Tom, a South
Carolina resident, received an e-mail from someone on the
reunion committee trying to find me. Ms. Heidi Anton, the
bloodhound of the 1980 Ward Melville High School Reunion
Committee, somewhere online had sniffed out my last name
attached to my brother's first name and had inferred some
family connection. Obviously, my preferring to keep my e-mail
address private these last few years had managed to keep
the dogs away. Nevertheless, being a kind brother, he had
obediently forwarded this e-mail, that said in relevant
part:
"If you know Bobby Keane, who graduated from Ward
Melville High School in 1980, kindly please forward this
to him."
Here the message sat on my screen. I was downstairs in my
basement office, online, probably wanting to get the local
weather forecast for the next day to see if it was meant
to be a day for golf.
"Sorry, Heidi. First of all, it's 'Bob,' and second
of all, I refuse to let myself be willingly tracked down
like some bail-jumper," I announced.
"Delete" clicked the mouse.
"Can't anybody get the hint? I'm not interested."
Then the thought occurred to me, Heck, after all, since
I am a single fellow, divorced five years now, I am technically
available again. I mean, this might just be the best chance
to see if any of the lasses that caught my eye during the
Carter Administration are still lookers today.
I quickly dismissed this carrot-on-a-stick mentality, though.
I hadn't the reputation of a boorish gigolo in high school
and wasn't about to become one now. A tiny voice in my head
said: "Grow up please. This is not being advertised
as 'The Dating Game Redux.'"
Also, I felt more at ease looking towards the future than
behind to the days of the Iranian hostage crisis, high interest
rates, and shag carpets. I mean, thinking about it now,
I hadn't even let anyone sign my senior yearbook in which
the printers spelled my last name incorrectly. Nor did anyone
in my class attend a graduation party my folks had thrown
for me. No, I could easily find a ball game on TV to keep
myself amused on August 19th.
Those reasons, plus since I hadn't seen much less spoken
to any alumni since then, led me to the conclusion that
a total lack of interest reigns here and must prevail.
I turned off the computer and went upstairs. I thought
the damp basement was starting to get to me, or maybe I
was simply in a bad mood. Regardless, my mind was made up,
and that was that.
Whew! I'm glad I came to a final decision without losing
any sleep.
Thanks for the DNA, Dad.
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