We all have memories from high school. As the years go by the memories and the stories that accompany them morph into a hodge-podge of fact and fiction. Below is such a story.
Tomorrow was the day, the day the class of 1990 was finally
going to graduate. I remember looking forward
to the day with great earnest. I so
wanted out of the small rural community in which I resided. For me graduation was the day I could finally
get away and could see the rest of world.
No longer would I be under the thumb of my parents, forced into the
slave labor of farm life.
I had already joined the Army National Guard. A week after graduation I would be boarding a
plane to the all too real Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. The stories I had heard from friends that had
attended boot camp gave it mythical quality. Every time we talked about it, I was anxious,
excited, and determined. I was told to
be prepared for long, hot days; with many sleepless nights. The drill sergeants were mean and would screw
with a new recruit whenever possible.
Food was a privilege, not a right.
So when I had access to it, I was to shovel it in and worry about
tasting it later. The greatest warning
was given to the bugs, especially the spiders.
The brown recluse was to be feared.
Even though I had never seen one, I was to avoid it at all costs. I was told that some dude lost his arm to one
as it had laid eggs under his skin.
Google had yet to be invented, without it, there was no way I could fact
check this tale?
To get to graduation I needed to survive this night. Tonight the class was having a
baccalaureate and a party afterwards. The baccalaureate was nothing more than
a glorified supper with a sermon from one of the local vicars. The meal consisted of rubber chicken, instant
potatoes, wilted lettuce, and for dessert cherry bars. Crepe paper table cloths covered the
graffiti, gouges and gum of the sway back tables. Plastic stemware would contain the clearest,
most sparking tap water. School officials
took this event seriously, which meant we were to do the same. But, we knew that within twenty four hours
they no longer had power over us.
Their magic was weak and the evening was a compromise of power. Both sides hoped for a short sermon.
As the sermon droned on, the only thing the group of us
could talk about was the party later.
Did we have enough beer? How many
people were going to be there? Did
everyone remember how to get there? For
us, the party was the important event of the night. It was going to be our last big blowout; the final epic event for the class of 1990. Finally, the speech meant to inspire us,
ground to a halt. Before being released
to the booze that awaited us, we were given one final warning. We all were told that if any of us were
picked up for ANY type of illegal activity, it would jeopardize our
graduation. Laughing at the notion of
being caught, we hopped into the cars and sped off.
Had we grown up in a large community I doubt if our
graduating group of young men would have been in same social circle. It was crazy that the jocks, nerds, band geeks,
and the socially awkward could all breathe the same air and in turn be at the
same parties. But this group had one
common thread; we all wanted to get away.
We were getting away, or at least that’s what we told each other. We couldn’t stand the life of the small
town. It was too boring, stifling, and
allowed no privacy. All of us were
determined to spread our wings, to see and do things we could never do locally. None of us had aspirations of serving a
higher purpose, like so many youth do now.
We only wanted to have fun, as long as it wasn’t here.
The future plans were as varied as the social labels affixed
to us. Two guys were heading to LA to
form a rock band. We secretly
thought that only one of them had a chance, the other couldn’t imagine a life
without the first. One was headed to
become an airline pilot. We thought
this was cool, but wondered if he had the money necessary to complete the
training. Several were heading to
different State colleges to learn a trade.
All of us agreed that these jobs wouldn’t be sexy, but they would
provide the skills necessary to have a successful life. Several were like me, heading to the
military. The remaining was determined
to get the hell out of town, do some drugs, find a woman, and do whatever the
hell they wanted. Secretly I envied the last
group the most. They absolutely refused
to be encumbered by anyone else’s expectations.
They truly wanted to live fast and die young.
We stood there drinking and bragging of all the sneaky shit
we had done growing up. All of us were
laughing at the absurdity of the stories.
Like the time the cops showed up to a huge bonfire we were having. One of the guys got so scared he ran through
a barbed-wire fence and continued running the five miles back to town. As we were telling the stories of the past,
we didn’t realize we soon were going to be part of a story that lingers to this
day. Our party took place in a farm
Quonset. A Quonset is a steel building
that houses farm implements. This one
had a dirt floor and a super-sized automatic garage door, which rose twelve
feet in the air. This type of building
is common all over rural America. What isn’t common is what happened that night.
As the beer flowed and music blared we became more convinced
of our invincibility. It was getting warm and dusty so
someone decided to open the Quonset door. As the door slowly ascended, someone grabbed
the bottom of the door and held on. We all
stood there in awe, as he slowly rose.
When his feet got about four feet off the ground, he let go, landed
clumsily, and started laughing hysterically at what he had just done. We lifted our beers in honor of his
achievement. Immediately everyone
started bragging how they were going to go higher. I am deathly afraid of
heights, so I used the best deflection techniques possible to avoid taking a
turn. The next person to go grabbed hold
and was lifted, the whole party cheering.
He went up about two feet, let go and landed on his feet. He was booed, chants of “You’re a pussy”, could
be heard. The next riders went up in a
pair. Not wanting to be called “pussies”
they set a new record of six feet. Upon
landing they stumbled, and fell into each other but hopped back up, dusted
themselves off and continued drinking.
The last group to ride the cold gray beast was a
threesome. The door creaked up, taking
with it the load of the drunk, laughing classmates. Chants of higher, higher, higher were
screamed. The first rider let go at the
four foot mark, he was booed. The next
rider let go at the six foot mark. The
last rider feeling cocky and his decision greatly affected by the amount of
booze he had consumed, had decided to ride while holding his beer. With one hand clinging to the garage door he
ascended into the night sky. The party was
cheering wildly as he made the nine foot mark.
He was screaming “You’re all pussies; I’m the best; FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU”. He started kicking his legs as the ten foot
mark approached.
A muted thud was heard as his face hit the dirt first. A small cloud of dust rose. Beer shot in
one direction while blood splattered in the other. The wild cheering stopped and was replaced
with a synchronized gasp. The rider made
no noise nor did he move. He was knocked
out cold. Several of us ran over to him
and slowly turned him over. Looking down
we all saw the grotesque mess. Blood and dirt were smeared across his face and his nose was
lying flat against his cheek. Screams arose as more people saw the hideous
mess. He slowly regained consciousness.
Holy shit, what were we going to do? We discussed the different options. He needed to go a hospital but we were worried about getting in trouble. We figured his nose was broken. Maybe, we could push it back into place.
Someone suggested that he had a concussion, or possibly a skull fracture? We asked him what he wanted. His garbled response was to get him another
beer. Finally, someone said “This is
bullshit, he needs to go to the emergency room, I’ll take’m". “Help me get him loaded, but don’t get blood
on my new jeans”. Makeshift towels and a pillow were
made from jean jackets and long sleeved shirts.
We did our best to get him loaded into the car. Two classmates drove him to the emergency
room.
The party was very subdued after this. We talked about what we thought might
happen. Were the cops going to be
called? Were his parents going to be
pissed about having to get him from the ER?
Was he going to need surgery for his nose? No one had cell phones back then, so we had
no idea what was happening to our friends.
This talk continued long into the night.
The next day, at the graduation ceremony, I found out what
had happened at the hospital. It seemed
that parents don’t like being called in the middle of the night to get their
son from the ER. In fact, his parents
were so pissed they wouldn’t let the doctors set his broken nose. They screamed at their son for being nothing
but trouble and said they were happy he was graduating, as they were kicking
him out of the house. They screamed at
the two guys that drove him to the hospital.
Basically, they just screamed at everyone and everything. They refused to pay the bill, telling the
hospital to put it in their son’s name.
As all of this was being told to me, I remember thinking; no way his parents
were that big of assholes. Surely they
let the doctors set his nose, I mean think of the damage they were causing.
He walked in, sunglasses on, trying to conceal the
damage. He was grinning, but as I think
about it now, it was actually more of a grimace.
He took the sunglasses off to reveal two swollen, black eyes. The tip of his nose was almost touching his
cheek. The bridge of the nose was an S
shape. He had cuts and scrapes all over
his forehead. He confirmed the story I
heard minutes earlier. His only reply
when asked what he was going to do; “I’m leaving for Denver tonight”. His parents told him to have his nose fixed
when he’s sober, so it would hurt more.
I haven’t seen many of my classmates since graduation. But
as I look at my class graduation picture the evidence of that night
exists. He has two black eyes, a
misshapen nose, cuts and bruises on his face.
He is smiling like the rest of us, knowing that he will finally be
free. I wonder what happened to him and
my classmates. I hope all of them have
had the life they wanted. More
importantly, I really hope he got his nose fixed.