Chapter 26: Class of 1990

At Vincent Massey, I had plenty of friends, so it wasn’t like I had a grudge against the place.  But academically?  I was sinking faster than a lead balloon.  It wasn’t that I was dumb—just hopelessly outclassed by the whole studying thing. With crunch time looming, the idea of spending another two years in high school was about as appealing as a root canal.  I had to graduate, plain and simple.

That’s when I decided to jump ship to Crocus Plains High.  The place had a reputation for, let’s say, simplifying things.  It catered to the average, which made it a perfect fit for my ambition to blend in with mediocrity.  Plus, Charles and some other buddies were already there, so it seemed like a solid plan.

For once, I got my act together early and snagged a locker.  While most students had to share, my newfound foresight meant I had the thing all to myself.  At least, that’s what I thought…

Knock Knock.

It’s a quiet evening and I’m alone in my apartment.  I’m also not expecting anyone, since I’m wearing my karate-gi and had just spent the last hour practicing kata in my living room.  My guess it that Charles or Nathan were stopping by, so I open the door.

Tamara?

I’m standing there looking like I just finished an honor-duel in Chinatown.  I’m unshaven, glistening in sweat and wearing an open karate-jacket.  Indeed, Tamara was gifted with her very own discount Ralph Macchio centerfold.  In retrospect, she should be grateful I was wearing pants.  Tamara takes it with a smile because if it’s one thing John was known for, it was being just a little nutty.

“I hear you’re going to Crocus Plains now,” she says, obviously using every ounce of self-control to keep from throwing herself at me.  Chicks dig martial-arts guys.

“Uh, yeah.  All booked up and ready to go.”

She’s still smiling in the doorway but continues, “Do you have a locker partner?”

Tamara graduated the year before, so I didn’t make any connection to what she was driving at.

“No.  Managed to get one all for myse…”

“We’re locker partners,” she cuts in.

“We’re locker partners,” I said.  I hear the Force has an strong influence on the weak-minded.

I pause for a second to give a playful wink.  “Want to come in and seal the deal?”  Evidently I had developed a flirtatious sense of humor the past year.  Her eyes go wide and she breaks down laughing.  I correctly assume that’s a ‘no’.

“See you there!”  She walks down the apartment hall and leaves.  The entire interaction took maybe three minutes and I close the door wondering what the heckity-heck just happened.

Tamara, as it turned out, was a master of stealth; a bona-fide ninja.  Not once did I ever see her at our locker.  Books moved, so either my locker was possessed or she was occasionally there.  Maybe she was suspended from the ceiling and waited for me to grab my things and leave.  She did exist though, as I would see her in Art class but we never really interacted that much.  She was just accumulating a few more credits and had graduated the year before.  But other than that, if she were any more invisible I would have suspected she’d found Sauron’s ring.

Unfortunately, a few months into school, I decided to do an unspeakable crime.  A sin so heinous that even to this day I get sick when I think about it.  I have hid this truth whenever possible, but I cannot continue this story without confession.  May the Good Lord have pity on my immortal soul and I humbly beg the forgiveness of friends and family.

I grew a mustache.

Not just any mustache.  Far from being a peach-fuzz teenager, I had stubble like a gorilla.  So that mustache was as full and bold as Tom Selleck’s.  Sadly, it lacked even one iota of his legendary sex-appeal and instead was closer to Weird Al Yankovic.  Whatever badassery the earing provided was instantly nullified.

I figured the thing gave me an illusion of looking older and as such, more mature.  Instead I looked like a budget porn star.  I keep destroying pictures as they surface from that time period, but like cockroaches I just can’t seem to eliminate the source.

Tamara had noticed, of course. “Cheesy,” she called it, in that playful way that women sometimes use when they’re trying to tell you something important without outright saying it.  I, being oblivious, thought she was just joking.  But no, she was warning me.  That mustache stuck around for months.  If you’re reading this, let me offer some sage advice—always consult the tribal elders before committing to facial hair.

I never really connected on a larger scale with a lot of people since the school was just so dang huge.  It was easy to get lost in the shuffle and I didn’t make a huge effort.  I had Charles, Cory and Chris as friends.  Tamara was sort of an invisible friend like Pete’s Dragon, so I figured 3.5 friends were a good deal.  But the primary mission was to graduate, and 8 months later it was mission accomplished.  I remember seeing my final grades and feeling a rush of relief.  The grades were pathetic, but a pass was a pass.  It was finally over, and I could get on with my life.

When the time came to clean out my locker, I only had a few personal effects taped to the inside.  Women tend to take over the aesthetics of a place.  I remember one item that was hers, a Cure poster that looked like it was copied on a cheap Xerox.  Before locker cleanup, I left her a rose and a card wishing her well.  Nothing romantic ( yikes…learned that lesson! ), just a way of wishing her all the best.  She leaves me the poster with the words, “Goodbye sweet John, Goodbye.”  It was a sobering reminder that life, and people, move on.

NEXT – Chapter 27: Get it in Writing