Page 86 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

I waved at Misty, and she and Carl joined Alex and me on the buffet line. Then the four of us found a booth and had a nice relaxing dinner without any pressure to dredge up stories of the good old days.

At seven thirty Duff took center stage. He waited for the crowd to settle down, and then he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the Class of 1998.”

I stood up, and much to my surprise, the room filled with the ruffles and flourishes of drums and bugles, and the United States Marine Band played “Hail to the Chief.” Duff Logan thought of everything.

I walked to the front, and he handed me the mic. I stood there and stared at the crowd. I cocked my head from side to side and slowly scanned my classmates. The room grew silent as they waited, and it was a good fifteen seconds before I finally spoke.

“Jesus, you fuckers got old.”

It brought the house down, just as Lizzie had promised me it would when she came up with the bit that morning. I flashed her a thumbs-up, and she waved at me from the bar.

I quickly thanked everyone for coming, and half a minute later I turned the show back over to Duff, returned to my seat, took Alex’s hand, and sat back to watch the culmination of a crazy idea I’d had twenty-five years earlier.

FIFTY

The time capsule was wheeled out, and Duff banged on the steel top with a hammer. “All these years,” he said, “and it’s still tighter than Principal Drucker’s sphincter.”

The TV monitors in the bar sprang to life, and the screens lit up with a live-stream video image of the keg. A man wearing a hard hat and safety goggles walked out, revved up a power tool, and the DJ blasted Metallica’s “Seek and Destroy” to rev up the audience.

Sparks flew, and a minute later the top was off.

Duff pulled out a manila envelope, opened it, and the camera zoomed in on a photo of Mr. Conti, everyone’s least favorite gym teacher. The anonymous donor had taken a Magic Marker, added the classic cock and balls graffiti, and scrawled Mr. Cunty on the man’s forehead.

Duff invited the artist to stand up and take a bow, but there were no takers. “Well, that concludes the sophisticated portion of our program,” he said, and the crowd hooted, thrilled to be transported back to our teenage worldview and our sophomoric sense of humor.

Not everything that emerged from the keg was inspired, but it didn’t matter. Duff was a natural-born showman, keeping us laughing as he pulled out Randy Berman’s three-sentence book report with a big red F at the top, a Wu-Tang Clan T-shirt, a petrified package of Fruit Stripe gum, a menu from the cafeteria, a hall pass, a faded copy of the school literary magazine, and the biggest laugh of the night, a lock of Joey Morgan’s hair, which immediately got him to stand up, rub his bald pate, and yell, “I knew it was worth saving.”

It took about half an hour to get to the bottom of the time capsule, and Duff was ready with a big finish. “Back then,” he said, “I asked you each for a picture of theone thingthat got you through your senior year.” He paused, and then added, “I personally took a picture of my right hand.”

The room roared.

“All the pictures were stored in a separate envelope, which I opened this morning. Here they are.”

Waiters wheeled out four large standing bulletin boards and lined them up against one wall.

“Enjoy the show,” Duff said and walked off to a standing ovation.

One by one, people stood up and headed for the display—some eagerly, some reluctantly. Lizzie joined Alex and me, and Misty and Carl were right behind us.

Everyone’s yearbook photo was pinned to the board, along with the picture of what their teenage self credited as the one thing that got them through their senior year.

There were lots of pictures ofthings, some lighthearted, some touching, all telling—a bong, a Bible, a case of Budweiser, an Alanis Morissette album, a wad of cash, a basketball court, a Chevy pickup truck, aPenthousemagazine, a box of condoms, and the leg braces and metal crutches that had been getting Chris Trowbridge through school since the day he started kindergarten. But more than half of the pictures were pictures of family members—moms, dads, grandparents, siblings, dogs, cats, and Aubrey Crandall’s horse, Spirit.

The display was organized alphabetically, and when I got to theM’s I stood there and smiled at what I had submitted. On one side was my yearbook photo—Maggie McCormick, Class President. Voted Most Likely to Kill Somebody to Get What She Wants. On the other side was a picture of me, Lizzie, my father, and my grandfather.

“Sweet,” Alex said.

“Great minds think alike,” Misty said.

I looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“I did exactly what you did.”

I felt my stomach wrench. I couldn’t believe after what her father had done, she could say that her family got her through her senior year. But who was I to judge? Maybe the memory of her mother and brother sustained her over that horrible period after their death.

We leftMand made our way throughN,O,P,Q, andRuntil we got toS. There next to the headshot of the young, beautiful Misty Sinclair was a picture of a happy family gathered around a Christmas tree.

But it wasn’t her family. It was mine.

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