Lee Geiger

Buddy, you’re an old man, poor man
Pleading with your eyes, gonna make you some peace someday
You got mud on your face, big disgrace
Somebody better put you back into your place

Queen, “We Will Rock You” (1978)

 

Traffic sucks. Ninety-minutes in and I’m just now scratching the Morgan Hill city limits. Google Maps says the last fifty-mile slog to Monterey will take another hour-and-a-half. The app suggests Highway 152 will take almost as long but is a lot bluer than the blood red death march along Highway 101 through Gilroy. Why not?

Who knew Watsonville had a wine region? I guess you’re never too old to take the road less traveled.

I pull into the Embassy Suites parking lot. A husky voice in the distance shouts, “Hey, there’s Lee Geiger!” I’m not surprised to hear someone call out my name. After all, tonight is the 45^th reunion of the Carmel High School Class of 1978, and the cocktail hour has already started. For some it started yesterday. It’s Steve, arguably the best athlete from our class. He played baseball in college. Steve’s always been an over-the-top guy, starting with the sporty Mustang he drove in school. He looks amazing; tanned and ripped, Steve could suit up at fullback tomorrow night against Pacific Grove. Steve’s brought a guest, a pretty young thang who flew in from out of town. Of course, he did. He’s Steve.

Along with a shaving kit and a change of underwear, my backpack includes a bottle of red wine and some leftover whiskey. This isn’t my first reunion rodeo. I can still recall our 20^th at Quail Lodge, where Kristin and Stanley locked lips while an impromptu after-party raged in my hotel room. Funny that I’ve never seen that movie on the Hallmark Channel.

I nearly bagged out of tonight’s festivities. But Belle is bringing some artwork I’ve commissioned her to create and I want to thank her in person. I also need to pay her. If she wants, I can play the professional card and write Belle a check. Or I can slip an envelope full of cash into her purse like she’s a Manhattan madam. She smiles and gleefully opts for the latter. I love Belle. And now, if necessary, she has bail money.

Where to begin? There is one person on my MUST-SEE list; Paul. Paul and I were good buddies back in the day, and we played a lot of tennis and one-on-one basketball together. We even double-dated to the Senior Prom in my parent’s blue Chevy Laguna with the landau roof. At our last reunion, Paul and I met at the bar and he said he wanted to talk to me later on about something. I sensed it may have been kind of important. But I never saw him the rest of the night. Fortunately, I spot Paul almost as soon as I arrive. Wire-rim glasses paired with a burgundy sweater and trim gray beard give Paul the appearance of a laid-back college professor, the kind who teaches philosophy instead of physics. He looks and sounds great, and I’m thrilled to finally spend some time with him. After going thru the perfunctory job/kids/retirement checklist, Paul describes his recent battle with cancer. I’m all ears. Everyone in this room is at that age where the word “cancer” takes your breath away, and you don’t need the lovely memorial created by Carrie dedicated to our fallen classmates to remind you that now, more than ever, health is everything.

Pete, another good friend, stops by to share a hug and mentions that he too has battled cancer. “Were you scared?” I ask them both. Interestingly, both said no. We’re soon surrounded by a flock of former jocks and my inquisition comes to a close. It’s time to relive high school.

I’m happy to say that we all look pretty good for a bunch of senior citizens soon to be on Medicare. A few actually look better today than they did as teenagers. One is Cheri. Recently retired from the UN, Cheri splits her time between the chic environs of Vienna, Austria and Montecito, CA. Look up “elegant” in the dictionary and you’ll find Cheri’s picture, dressed to the nines and posing in front of some European Chateau d’ Expensive. She was once even married to a prince. I’d bet my lunch money Cheri owns a Birkin bag. Maybe two.

Debbie and Ron were high school sweethearts who managed to stay crazy all these years. They own and operate a full-service gas station/garage at the mouth of Carmel Valley, considered one of the finest in Monterey County, and reports indicate tiger-mom Debbie runs a pretty tight ship. I follow Debbie on social media, where along with uber-cute snippets of her grandkids are photos of Ron tackling some of California’s fiercest wildfires. Needless to say, Ron’s been a bit busy on that front these last few years. I’m honored to shake his hand, but what I really want to do is buy him a steak.

I sit next to John at dinner. As honest, humble, and gracious a man you’d ever have the pleasure to meet, John and I cover a range of topics, including politics. I was hoping to avoid the whole red/blue thing tonight, but John and I quickly realize we think alike and presently consider ourselves politically homeless. John’s memory about events from way back when is downright stunning, and while discussing my writing he mentions he still has an article I once wrote for the school newspaper about the final game of our varsity basketball team, of which John and his brother were stars. REALLY? I don’t remember ever doing such a thing, but the next day John sends me a picture of the article from his scrapbook. Wow.

What a night. Belle spends much of the evening proudly showing off the scars from her recent ankle-replacement surgery. They’re sexier than a dragon tattoo. Frank, a natural born leader and the charismatic quarterback from our football team, and his band play hits from the 70’s and 80’s. Calling the ensemble a “band” isn’t quite right; it’s a 16-piece orchestra that includes his wife and their two sons. I’m stunned to learn this is only the third time all 16 of them have played together. They are very, very good. Linda, my first girlfriend, arrives late. Linda and my wife, who met each other before the pandemic, have much in common; they are both strong Christians, speak fluent Spanish, and remain very pretty blondes.

The first person I met when I moved to Carmel in 1974 was Jim. He walked up to me one afternoon at a summer baseball camp and said, “Hey S.P,” which were the initial embroidered on my hat and stood for my former Illinois home, Schiller Park. Jim worked at Goldman Sachs after graduating from Harvard Business School, and like me he still toils on Wall Street. Both of us consider ourselves wise old mentors at our respective firms. However, Jim is tall, thin and aging gracefully like Sean Connery. I look like Yoda.

Thankfully, one of my best friends from high school, Dane, crashes the party. Dane and I, along with Jon, formed a strong bond in high school, and how I wish I still had the cassette tapes we recorded just bs-ing upstairs in my bedroom, aimlessly talking about girls, basketball, and how many Tic-Taks there were in a box. Dane and I have drifted apart over the years, and it’s really, really good to see him.

You know you’re getting old when a party like this starts to break-up at 9 o’clock. But just when I thought it was safe to crawl into bed and call it a night, Deanna comes up and whispers, “We’re in Room 1120. Be there!” Yes, ma’am.

I grab my wine and head for trouble. Deanna is sharing a room with Tami and Laura. That explains the empty champagne bottle resting on top of the fridge. We’re joined by Laura #2, the only other person from my class who has a Series 27 license. The four of us get to gabbing, and I’m having a blast being one of the girls. We each take a blood oath at the beginning of this group counseling session that what is said in Room 1120 stays in Room 1120. We spend the next four hours (not a misprint) sharing our experiences about marriage, divorce, kids, grandkids, success, failures, and those unfortunate times when our judgment wasn’t the best. It’s freaky to think that each one of these ladies was my mother’s age while I was in high school. And Mom, bless her heart, never looked this good in high heels and a little black dress.

At one point I run downstairs to retrieve the whiskey while Deanna treks to the vending machine for snacks. I return to find the gals decked out in their finest pajamas. It’s a good night to be me.

Summary

There won’t be many more of these reunions, and there will be less of us who will, or can, attend. We’re on the bell lap of our lives, and being 60-something means we’re deep into the first turn. I call Laura #2 to thank her for being a good Room 1120 soldier, and she sums it up best as to why it was both fun and cathartic to drop our proverbial drawers in front of people we may only see once every five years, but grew up with during a pivotal four years (or more) of our lives; trust. We were all once young and naïve, with hopes and dreams and aspirations. Then came life, filled with equal amounts of sweetness, regret, joy, tragedy, wonder, and some serious punches to the face.  And now, here we are. Each of us has tasted victory and, if we’re lucky, each of us has learned from defeat. And the fact we’re still standing says more than a lot. It says everything.

The drive home is hazy, but I feel surprisingly energized. I don’t know everyone from my high school class, and there are some I’ve never spoken a word to. But I can say this; I love them all.

Go Padres!

p.s. A huge shoutout to all the volunteers on the reunion committee, especially Chris Kelly, who coordinates the event and fronts the money, all from his home in Maryland. Thank you, Chris!