I went to my high school reunion. Well, I actually went to the debriefing of the reunion. That's when the alumni ditch the polite reacquaintings in the cafeteria and head to a pub to drink 28 beers and call each other fag. I went to all-boys, Catholic prep school so the "fag" thing is obviously a joke.
When I arrived at PJ O'Shaunessey's, most of the bloated faces were pretty startled. I hadn't seen most of these men since they were old boys. In the years since, they carved out careers in law and finance, moved into neighborhoods I can only crash in, and adopted diminutive nicknames for themselves: James is now Jimmy, Peter insists on Peetie.
After ten minutes of exchanging startled handshakes and hugs with my old friends, I moved up to the bar and ordered some drinks. The helium of all the great-to-see-yous made me forget my legs and I knocked over a bar stool. Strange. I've spent the past eight years protecting myself from these guys' expectations and I felt so immediately puffed by their enthusiasm.
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