Read part one here.

Schwarzkopf / Illa D-Murder

By six-thirty almost all the registered guests had arrived. Most of the latecomers’ nametags had been stolen by celebrity impersonators, and so the latecomers were issued blank replacement nametags on which they could write their names in magic marker. The one nametag that remained unclaimed on Marsha Feathers’s table said D. Schwarzkopf. No one could remember who D. Schwarzkopf was. Amy Cavanagh thought D. Schwarzkopf might have been that weird kid with the fedora who always ate lunch alone in the science wing stairwell. Lester Yeomans thought D. Schwarzkopf might have been that Goth chick with the choker collar who seemed to be perpetually smoking on the Chancellor Street lawn. Julie Wang pointed out that if D. Schwarzkopf was a woman, Schwarzkopf could be her husband’s last name, in which case our only clue to her identity would be the mysterious letter D. “Diane Perlmutter!” yelled Paulina Barrios. “No, she was in the class behind us, you’re thinking of her sister Tricia,” said Meg Frampton. “Dahlia Khosropour!” yelled Iris Clausen. “No, her husband’s last name is Lundquist, he owes me seventy-three dollars,” said Ivan Duplass. “Dolores Christiansen!” yelled Gerardo Trujillo. “No, she’s not married, she’s sleeping with my supervisor at Applebee’s,” said Mary-Jo Heidecker. “Deirdre Leech!” yelled Tommy Torango. “No, that’s me,” said Deirdre Leech. D. Schwartzkopf wasn’t the only classmate who had been forgotten. There were so many unfamiliar faces, so many unfamiliar names, so many people who asked us, “Remember me?” to whom we replied yes only out of propriety. Sensing this, the celebrity impersonators who had snatched up our classmates’ nametags began impersonating our classmates, in an attempt to avoid being tossed out by reunion organizers and thereby maintain access to the open bar. A Groucho Marx impersonator became Ian Meyer-Livingston by removing his fake eyebrows and moustache. A Barbra Streisand impersonator became Maria de la Espada by removing her prosthetic nose. A Michael Jackson impersonator was asked to leave by a reunion organizer and said, “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” said a Pee-Wee Herman impersonator. “I am D. Schwartzkopf!” said a man impersonating Carmen Miranda in drag. A JFK impersonator became Travis Drozdowicz by dropping his Boston patrician accent. A Madonna impersonator became Alessandra Sarigianopolous by covering up her cone bra with a makeshift tablecloth shawl.

In addition to the fake celebrities, there was a real celebrity at the reunion. We had known him in high school as Dewayne Smith, but the world now knew him as Illa D-Murder. Illa D-Murder had initially gained fame as a rapper, but more recently he had branched out into acting. He was starring as Sam Spade in the upcoming remake of the remake of The Maltese Falcon. Illa D-Murder’s nametag had been stolen, and so he wrote Illa D-Murder on his replacement nametag with blue magic marker.

We assumed this meant we weren’t supposed to call him Dewayne. A member of Illa D-Murder’s posse ordered a three-ounce Dixie cup of Hennessy from the bar and spotted a Liberace impersonator wearing Illa D-Murder’s nametag. “Yo Illa,” said the posse member. “Want me to beat this fool’s frilly lilywhite ass?” “Nah, it’s cool,” said Dewayne Smith. “Can’t blame a man for wanting to be Illa D-Murder.”

Far and Wide

People came to the reunion from far and wide. Amarillo, Virginia Beach, Toronto, Tucson, Cape Canaveral, the Lesser Antilles. They also came from near and thin. Marcus Lepeska came from Maple Street, a few blocks away. He still lived there with his parents. Todd Lombardo came from Room 213. His apartment was being fumigated.

Rodney Feldmann was one of the caterers—he had forgotten to ask off of work. Rodney wore grey Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and carried a tray of tomato bruschetta. Rodney’s manager allowed Rodney to eat the bruschetta off his tray, as consolation, but Rodney only managed a few measly nibbles. Anyone could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.

Setback / Rematch

At six forty-five the reunion suffered its first major setback when the bartender ran out of Dixie cups. Indignation rippled through the crowd. “Unforgivable,” said Laurie Baumgartner to Felicia Walgenbach. “How do they expect us to make it through this thing sober?” Of course, many of us were not sober. And even more of us were resourceful. Kylie LaChance, for instance, drank malt liquor out of a hotel flowerpot. Mark Varese drank Jamaican rum out of a shoe. Glenn Van Sicklen did body shots of tequila off of Daisy Rosenbloom. “Alcohol is alcohol,” said Darren Schnellenburger, who chugged Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. Among the ranks of the intoxicated were the prom and homecoming queens, and their runners-up. The runners-up were intoxicated enough to challenge the queens to a rematch, and the queens were intoxicated enough to accept. The runners-up knew they would never win another popularity contest, and so they demanded that the rematch involve a series of physical challenges. The queens knew they would never win a series of physical challenges, and so they demanded that the rematch also involve a battle of wits. After a brief argument and sporadic profanity both sides agreed to each other’s terms, and former class president Isaac Zeichner was selected as moderator. The first physical challenge was a mile run. Isaac Zeichner borrowed the DJ’s microphone and asked if anyone had a tape measure. Bull Jaworski said he had a metric ruler in the trunk of his car, and Isaac Zeichner said that would do.

The Vegetarian Option / Lake House

At seven o’clock dinner was served. The caterers carried their trays of appetizers to the prep room and reemerged with our main courses slung over their shoulders: rabbit, grouse, squirrel, beaver, turtle, alligator, baby deer. We were horrified. A caterer in blue velour panties deposited a baby deer on one of the circular dining tables, and a small child began to cry. “But what about the vegetarian option?” protested Nyla Zeffirelli. A caterer in plain white Fruit of the Looms said, “Just one minute,” and returned with an armful of pinecones. This was the last straw for Darlayne Kleinhoffer. She angrily swept the pinecones off of her plate and demanded to speak to the caterers’ manager. A caterer in flannel boxers said, “Just one minute,” and returned with a moustache drawn on his face with magic marker. “Oui, bonjour, I am the manager,” said the caterer with a French accent. “Food is food,” said Darren Schnellenburger, who carved himself a healthy hunk of a beaver’s tail.

As we stared perplexedly at our dinner, Jacob Stenzler’s cremation urn was passed from table to table. He was photographed with Joe Lutnick and his new wife Pam; Marian Casales and her two children, Harper and Joelle; Vince Strickland and a woman named Brandi Vince had met at the regional airport. Oksana Gaznayev cried while posing with Jacob’s ashes. She had been Jacob’s prom date, senior year. She and Jacob had never formally dated, but they had shared one magical night together at Jacob’s family’s summer lake house. Oksana still remembered every little detail about that night, except for the name of the lake. All she remembered was that it was an Indian name she had never been able to spell or pronounce.

Mile Run

With no one eating dinner, except for Darren Schnellenburger, who was going to town on an alligator, we headed to the parking lot to watch the queens and almost-queens compete in the mile run. Bull Jaworski had tried to measure out a mile with his metric ruler but then quickly realized he had no idea how many meters were in a mile, and so it was agreed by all four participants that ten times around the parking lot was close enough. Isaac Zeichner, the moderator, provided the starting signal.

The signal was Isaac Zeicher saying, “Go!” even though Bull Jaworski had said that if Isaac wanted the race started properly there was a pistol in the trunk of his car. We sat in the parking lot, on traffic islands and on the hoods of cars, and watched the queens and almost-queens run. They ran barefoot, as the only shoes they had were three-inch heels. Carl Finkelstein said that you could get worms by running barefoot. Wally Mulrooney called Carl a liar.

“No, really, they can burrow into your skin in between your toes,” said Carl Finkelstein. “Then they travel through your bloodstream to your lungs. And then they end up in your intestines.” “Bullshit,” said Wally Mulrooney. “Let’s settle this with a fight.” “You can’t settle science with a fight,” said Carl Finkelstein, and Wally Mulrooney popped him in the jaw.

Tensions

There were tensions at the reunion. Tenzin Tonpa wouldn’t speak to that self- righteous asshole Donny Bloomfield. Zoe Wesenburg wouldn’t speak to that uppity bitch queen Michelle Kay. Jamaal Gaines wouldn’t speak to that ten-cent ho Latisha Jackson. Latisha Jackson wouldn’t speak to that worthless fuckstick Jamaal Gaines.

Some tensions were old; others were new. The old tensions stretched back as far as twenty years—name-calling at recess, birthday party invitation snubs, amphibians stuffed inside the waistbands of pants—while the new tensions originated as recently as Tuesday. Backstabbing, double-dealing, cheating, slandering, blackmailing, thieving. “Don’t believe the smiles in the class graduation photos,” Eric Stamos said to Daphne Herbstreit. “What?” Daphne Herbstreit said. There were subtler tensions, too, of course. Rick Douglas and his wife Susan bickered intermittently about their high-speed internet provider. Carla Sheffield fished out a cigarette after catching her boyfriend Randy staring at Carol Potemkin’s ass. Cole McCanna and Robbie Savage both went out of their way to not acknowledge the one magical night they had shared after the cast party for The Music Man. Instead they spoke to each other very amicably about the weather and professional sports. It was agreed by both that the goddamn Brewers had fucked themselves again. All-Cheese The homecoming queen runner-up won the mile run, and everyone went back inside to the Chandler Room. Darren Schnellenburger was still there, tearing apart a squirrel carcass with his hands. “Have some respect for yourself,” Dana Stratmeyer said to Darren. “Mmgh ghhm grhmmm mrh grhmhmm,” said Darren. Darren’s mouth was full of squirrel. Since no one except Darren was touching the dinner, Illa D-Murder offered to order everyone pizza. We said no, that’s okay, but Illa D-Murder insisted. “Ain’t no thang,” he said. “How do fitty large half-pepperoni, half-sausage sound?” “But what about the vegetarian option?” said Nyla Zeffirelli. “And twenty all-cheese, for my sexy veggie mamas,” said Illa D-Murder, although it was assumed that men and unsexy women would be allowed to eat the all- cheese pizzas as well.

Julia Cranshaw

While we waited for the pizzas to arrive, the caterers took turns posing with Jacob Stenzler’s ashes. Some thought this was in poor taste, as the caterers weren’t wearing any pants, but Doug Weisenhut said it’s what Jacob would have wanted. Rodney Feldmann, the caterer and alumnus who had forgotten to ask off of work, had played on the varsity football team with Jacob. They had never won a game, but they had still done well with girls. “Look, Ruth van der Waal’s here,” said Rodney Feldmann to Jacob’s ashes. “And Kaki Klauss. And Mandy Fitzgibbon. And . . . is that Julia Cranshaw?” Rodney remembered the one magical night he had shared with Julia Cranshaw, in a Dairy Queen he had broken into after closing, and started to cry. Doug Weisenhut snapped his picture. “Perfect,” Doug said, handing Rodney a tissue. “Just what Jacob would have wanted.”

Condiments

After the queens and almost-queens had hydrated themselves following their mile run, it was time for the second physical challenge. The second physical challenge was originally going to be Jell-O wrestling, but Nadia Jasmani protested that Jell-O wrestling was sexist. “How about, instead of Jell-O, romaine lettuce?” suggested Isaac Zeichner. Nadia Jasmani said romaine lettuce would be okay, and the caterers carpeted the Chandler Room floor with Caesar salad. “Where was the Caesar salad during dinner?” Samantha Schulz-Singer asked the caterers. The caterers shrugged and sprinkled the four contestants with croutons and parmesan cheese.

The queens and almost-queens were still in their little black dresses, and were extremely sweaty. Their faces were red, their feet bloody, their hair disheveled, their thoughts consumed with victory. “Hey, I never agreed to condiments!” said Nadia Jasmani as the caterers doused the contestants with Caesar dressing, but it was too late, the queens and almost-queens were already oiled up from head to toe. “Go!” said Isaac Zeichner. Bull Jaworski shook his head. He had a wrestling bell in the trunk of his car.

To be concluded in Part Three