Recently, I discovered some unexpected things about myself. For instance, based on what I’ve read, I might have been born without something referred to online as a “mandible muffler.” Because of this troubling deformity, I’ve had to live with an excessively loud chewing mechanism. This explains why family and friends have avoided sitting next to me during meals. I hadn’t noticed it before because I have another internet-identified condition, an “oversized negative-noise silencer.” As a result, many of my bodily sounds and my wife’s verbal requests often go unheard.
Another finding was that some of my assumptions were incorrect. For example, the phrase “Reap What You Sow” wasn’t just a saying from the farm; it was a warning about how our actions have consequences. I wish I had gotten this earlier to avoid the reaping part I am currently experiencing. I also never imagined I would find myself delusional. Yet, that joined “anxious” and “annoying” as traits I didn’t recognize until years after my hair turned white.
I’m not kidding when I say that a late-in-life revelation, which confirmed my delusion, struck me the hardest. It was when I realized I had never been the kind of person I always thought I was. I felt comfortable with my idea of how others perceived me: brilliant yet tortured, gracious but independent, someone who marches to a different drummer, unusually quiet yet thoughtful, witty but not clownish. I could go on, but it wouldn’t matter because it might all have been one big fat lie.
What circumstances could lead to such an upheaval of the past? It’s not as if I stumbled upon a long-lost manuscript written by a childhood friend or received an envelope filled with incriminating photos from an ex-girlfriend. No, it was worse: this epiphany revealed itself at a recent high school class reunion.
I’ll need to explain. My presence at this reunion was significantly preceded by my last appearance in 1999. I had also attended the four previous reunions—every five years—always chasing the highs I experienced from the first. That reunion was filled with shocking surprises and predictable thrills, embodying all seven deadly sins. With generous helpings of envy and lust, it offered over-the-top entertainment. Each reunion since has featured increasingly less of that. After that number twenty-five, I vowed not to return until the 50th. So, I took my reunion break.
Twenty-five years later, I received the invitation but didn’t rush to commit. I told my wife, Stacy, that I might not go. “Weren’t you like class secretary or something?” she asked me.
“I was president of the school.” She gave me a look, “Okay, okay, vice-president. But if something had happened to the president…”
I asked her if she’d come with me if I decided to go. She said, “If you want me to, I will. You will owe me. Big time.”
The truth was, I did. And I didn’t. She only knew maybe ten people in my class, and the few she liked might not be there. As for some of the others, I have no idea how friendly they’d be. I might end up mingling, which is expected behavior at a reunion, and she’d be left alone at a table. She could take care of herself, no doubt. But it wouldn’t be long before even reruns of Big Bang Theory in the hotel room would sound better than being there.
I continued to vacillate about whether to RSVP when I received an email from one of the organizers asking if I would attend the reunion. Another question followed: “Would you be our Master of Ceremonies?” I hadn’t expected that question—again, ever.
I had done it a few times before, most recently—and notably—the 25th above. The same organizers had asked me then to be “like Bob Hope, you know, funny.” But I chose to be more Lenny Bruce because, in my mind, I saw myself as that edgy and controversial guy from high school (after all, I was the first male to run for yearbook queen). Unfortunately, I didn’t have the panache to deliver such harsh humor. I also hadn’t considered what might happen if I encountered those people again. By the time I did, it was too late.
From what I was told, a few spouses found out about nearly long-forgotten episodes, but only a couple got up and left, and as far as I know, only one divorce could be attributed to them. A story or two might have rekindled a few rivalries, making for some awkwardness, but the rumor of a fight in the parking lot was unfounded. I never got hate mail, but I thought we did get fewer Christmas cards.
So, as a redemption, I agreed to MC the 50th Reunion of the Tulare Union Class of 1974. I approached it as I had previously: with the kind of effort I would give if called upon to host the Academy Awards. In other words, I did too much and bit off significantly more than I could keep in my mouth.
One reason was that I was determined this time to give every classmate in attendance at least one positive mention. I scanned pictures from yearbooks and social media to use with a projector to display the images on a screen–all as a prop to enhance the stories I would tell, some of which were true. It was a massive undertaking with a huge downside. What if I got there and the Chinese hacked our power systems, and I didn’t have electricity? Or if climate change accelerated, preventing the sun from going down and the projection from being visible?
Of course, none of that happened. I got through it without any ashtrays thrown my way (that was the 10th) or a loud jeer of “Sit down homo!” (that was the 15th). I was okay with that. One of the organizers mentioned that she heard from people who, in high school, felt overlooked, and they thought it great to be a part of the program tonight. Of course, another suggested I might have too much time on my hands. Still, overall, the reaction was terrific, making all the work worthwhile.
On my way out, a classmate with whom I played football complimented me on taking the MC job. He said nobody wanted to do it, and they had even asked him. He said he told them, “You bet! When pigs fly!”
I told him how surprised I was they’d considered me again since I made so many abusive jokes last time. He laughed, “Twenty-five years ago? These people are old! They can’t remember a joke from twenty-five minutes ago!” He took a long drink of his beer, “You were always so different. Somehow, you were almost cocky, putting yourself out there. Pretty ballsy.”
Later, while sitting on the hotel bed, my wife told me she overheard a female classmate describing how crazy it was that a “weird, snot-nosed kid like Rusty could turn out to be so sure of himself.”
I wondered who the woman was. Then I thought, why? I had always wanted to be someone who didn’t give a shit what others thought. There was no better time to start. Of course, my ego wouldn’t allow it.
I asked Stacy, “Do you care if how you see yourself may not be the same as others?”
“No, but I know you do. I care about security, staying healthy, and why we pay for movies when we already pay for streaming.” She turned off her light. “It’s midnight, past my bedtime. Get some sleep. Night.”
I wondered if I was the only one who cared how cool I was or if anyone even cared that I cared. Is my coolness something I have only thought about? There was a high likelihood that the answer to both questions was yes, considering that the authentic cool person never thinks about it.
It was time to embrace and accept my true self: a strange, cocky, snot-nosed, anxious yet annoying, reaping expert who is a delusionally loud-eater, as well as a weirdly ballsy man with too much time on his hands. I closed my eyes, but they snapped back open, now contemplating another adage, “A stitch in time saves nine.” Was it really just about sewing?
–
Rusty lives in paradise on the Coast of California, enjoying family, friends, and fresh air. He is chancellor of Baywood State University (Get Your BS in BS at BS). He enjoys writing about his aging journey, including published pieces in New Times Magazine, Humans of the World Blog, Nightwriter Review, The Bluebird Word, and The Living Blessings Anthology.
© 2025, Rusty Evans
Halfway Down the Stairs 