The Reunion

When my wife asks me about Meakin Webb, about what he was like, I tell her he was quiet. The kind of teenager who wasn’t comfortable looking adults in the eyes. When she asks if I knew him, I say a little. Which is true, more or less. We had the same free period our junior year, and so we spent long stretches of time together in the library, although I can’t for the life of me remember what we talked about, if we talked at all.

When she asks if I’m going to talk with him tomorrow, I say maybe, maybe, I don’t know.

Tomorrow is my ten year high school reunion. My wife isn’t coming, can’t come, which is disappointing. She would have no trouble introducing herself to someone like Meakin Webb. We took personality quizzes once, for fun, and she was an E-something. “A Doer.” I don’t remember the exact appellation the quiz assigned me, but it wasn’t that.

Still, I know I will be fine. My anxiety is garden-variety, non-literary. Which is to say, manageable. Besides, I liked high school. I liked high school and I have no reason for embarrassment. As my wife reminds me before I leave, I’ve done okay for myself.

I first learned about Meakin’s ascent a year or so ago. An old classmate had shared an article about him: Meakin Webb: Media Mogul in the Making? The thumbnail image was him posing, faux-defiant, in a slim blue suit. Above the headline, my classmate’s take: Oh shit… used to know this dude!

I clicked on the link. The profile was poorly written, one of those fill-in-the-blank hagiographies common to business publications. Still, I read all of it. Apparently, Meakin had dropped out of college to found a “new age” digital media company specializing in “provocative, unconventional content.” The company had since grown to over 200 employees, and was now headquartered in a converted knitting factory in Brooklyn. According to one industry analyst, he was “changing the game.”

As I read, I could sense my understanding of things, of how the world works, shifting slightly but irrevocably. I tried to recall if Meakin had been an especially brilliant student, if there had been any portents of eventual success. Nothing came to mind.

Once I finished the article, I Googled his net worth. The number left me feeling unsteady.

The reunion is taking place at a hotel. I am wearing my own blue suit. According to my wife, the color compliments my eyes.

I arrive and find my group. Give and return compliments, ribbings. The mood is expectant.

Do you think he’s coming? someone asks.

Well, he RSVP’ed.

The last year has not been kind to Meakin. In June, a New York Times story broke, detailing “a pattern of unprofessional workplace behavior.” Two months later, there was an altercation of some sort at a company party. Details were sparse but unflattering. According to Bloomberg, investors were “spooked.”

Did you hear about the house? I had, in fact, heard about the house. I had set up a Google alert for just such news stories, but of course I do not admit this.

It’s in Malibu. Right on the beach. I read that it cost 10.5.

Holy shit.

I know, right?

The night continues. We drink and eat and relive our own minor discretions.

Meakin arrives at 9 or so. He is driving some sort of exotic sports car. I do not actually see the car, but news of it spreads through the event. “He just rolled up in a Ferrari,” says Dave Hollins, who used to play baseball and is now an accountant. John Andretti, whose dad did something for the county, I can’t remember what, corrects him. “No. A Maybach.”

I text my wife. He’s here. Very fancy sports car, apparently.

Ask him for a job for me! she responds, followed by a smiley face.

I catch sight of him a few minutes later. He is at the center of a large group. The social and the shameless, I think, before chastising myself: don’t be bitter. Regardless, the idea of approaching him is now unthinkable, a child’s fantasy.

I go to the bar and order another drink, make small talk with the server. I remark how funny it is — not haha funny, but funny — that you never forget the social hierarchy of high school. How it is forever ingrained. The reminiscence bump, most likely.

When I glance back over at the group, Meakin is gone.

I run into him by accident, towards the end of the night. Only later will I learn about the incident in the bathroom, how he was caught doing blow with someone’s girlfriend, or maybe fiance — the story is not clear on that point — and the ensuing confrontation: the congeries of self-righteous shouting, the woman sobbing “I’m sorry” over and over again to no one in particular, and Meakin at the center of it all, sullen-looking, refusing to engage.

For now, however, I am unaware of any of that, having ducked outside to smoke my first cigarette in many years — an attempt, admittedly lame, at recapturing a teenage impulsivity I doubt I ever possessed in the first place.

I am leaning against the hotel’s loading dock when he approaches.

“You got another one of those?”

He is flushed, a less handsome version of his photographed self.

“Sorry, man. All out.”

I speak casually, as if I were normally in possession of spare cigarettes.

“Ah.” He teeters forward, catches himself. “It’s all good.”

For a moment, neither of us say anything. I look out at over a sea of empty beer cans and butts, a palimpsest of earlier parties, and grasp at an opening. But he speaks first.

“You know, I think I recognize you. We had English together, right? You were, like, always joking and shit.”

It is clear that he has mistaken me for someone else, but I do not bother correcting him. Instead, I tell him my name.

“Damn.” He slaps me on the back. “Good to see you, dude.”

Yeah, I tell him. Definitely.

He nods his head.

“I can tell. You’re one of the good ones. I can tell these things. In there, though?” He gestures at the hotel, and I realize with a stab that he will remember none of this. “No small amount of fakeness.”

He carries on. He asks nothing more of me than the occasional affirmative grunt. Which is fine. I am half-drunk myself, and the thread of his complaint is difficult to follow.

“It’s just like in the office, man. The quote unquote corporate world…. I mean, it’s all about politics, and all politics is local.”

My mind wonders. I think about old teachers, old crushes. I think about dropping a wide open touchdown — a “God-damned gimme” according to Coach Demato — on the opening drive of the JV season. I can still recreate the exact details of the play, the coruscating shame of its aftermath.

“Sometimes I just want to be, like, ‘fuck it’ and bounce…”

Meakin did not play football. He did not, as far as I can recall, do much of anything.

“I’ll bounce and we’ll see what they do then.”

The memory of him that does surface is from tenth grade driver’s ed. The two of us had it during the same period, right after lunch. It was a numbing class up until the final week, when our instructor screened several hours of “Red Asphalt,” a graphic montage of car wreckage meant, I suppose, to deter dangerous driving.

Watching the video was optional — anyone could elect to wait out the period in the library — but terrible as it was, none of the boys wanted to risk appearing weak. We all stayed.

Meakin made it about fifteen minutes before, betrayed by his stomach or disposition or both, he rushed out of the room to a chorus of snickers.

What a pussy, someone whispered, and I nodded along. What a pussy.

Meakin — the current Meakin, the Meakin who is very rich and very drunk, who, according to the latest rumors, is dating a New York fashion model — this Meakin stops talking. Perhaps he can sense that I am no longer paying attention.

“Hey, it was good catching up…” he struggles to think of my name and then abandons the effort. “I’ll see you later.”

I watch him walk back inside. I wonder, briefly, if I should be disappointed in myself. Perhaps I should have corrected his memory of me? Offered up some tough talk, tell him he was rambling? Aren’t rich people always secretly hoping for that?

But no. No. I am not his friend, not his keeper. We just happened to attend the same school a decade ago. Pure cosmic randomness.

I drop my long-extinguished cigarette onto the loading dock and pull out my phone, compose a message for my wife.

You won’t believe what just happened, it reads.

I press send and wait for a response.