Old Friends

My twenty year high school reunion is around the corner.

Max regaled me with his tales of his recent love life, and as I sat there pondering his woes, he asked, "Are you working right now?"

"I'm always working," I replied. "Are you worried you'll end up in a book?"

He shook his head. "I'm looking forward to it."

Bold man.  

The thing about a high school reunion is that it always makes you think about the past—that and people you haven't seen in ages come out of the woodwork.

In fact, I'm in Los Angeles visiting one of these woodwork people. Max and I were good friends in high school. We hung out, and his parents used to even sneak us into this Latin club in San Francisco where we used to lambada (the forbidden dance). 

It's been twenty years since I've seen Max. He's the same, and he's different. He still plays soccer and he's still into Duran Duran. His laugh is less carefree, but his smile is still radiates from his heart. He still collects things, the most notable (in my book) being signed soccer jerseys (he has 200) from players he's met (including Beckham* and Ronaldo**). 

There is one strange thing. In his home, he has all these fixtures that you'd find in an airport bathroom. Like soap dispensers, and the kind of faucet where you wave your hand in front of the sensor to get water. What's that about? I haven't asked him yet. I'm wondering if I should just continue to theorize, because the real answer will probably disappoint me with its simplicity, right? 

Am I going to the reunion? I'm leaning toward no. The people I would have wanted to see again aren't going (with the exception of Max). But who knows?

* Note to Julie: I tried to wrangle a meeting with Beck and Posh but their social schedule and mine didn't mesh. Sorry. 

** Note to my sister: I see you wrinkling your nose because you don't like Cristiano Ronaldo. But—dude—you can't deny he's good. Also, I tried to steal Ballack's jersey but Max caught me.