***Out In The 2010s Be-Bop Night- A Simple Twist Of Fate-Take Two  

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman, Hullsville High School Class of 1964

As is well-known to readers of these sketches Peter Paul Markin (just Markin hereafter and not that Mayfair swell three name stuff like he was the Duke Of York or something) is my old friend from the days down at the Starlight Ballroom in Hullsville in 1964 when we first met.  We had met there shortly after graduating from our respective high schools at the weekly rock and roll dances held every Friday night. Strangely we met and became friends after pursuing the same girl, some tease who had all the boys chasing her but who at that point had whittled it down to Markin and me. That young woman eventually dumped us both but our friendship outlasted that bout of competition. There would be others, other bouts, especially over one California girl (oops, young woman) who had us ready to go mano y mano , also outlasted. Recently he called me with a bizarre story. A story that he knew would intrigue me, and force me to write about it.  We agreed to meet as usual now that we are both on the East coast and near each other at our favorite watering hole, The Dublin Grille over in Centerville where he laid out the story. And he was right that it would intrigue me although he should have written the thing himself since it involved him, him and his seemingly eternity memory lane longings.

Now you have to know a little bit about Markin, know what makes him tick to appreciate this story. Know about his strongly held-attitudes toward things like mysticism, fate, kismet, the unknown and all of the other New Age stuff to appreciate that he does not truck with any of that stuff. He fancies himself a man of science, or at least of there being rational explanations for things and that if no explanation was readily available that a diligent search would bring up a rational answer. That was why the information that he imparted to me baffled him. Me, I am more agnostic about such things but this one did have me scratching my head a little so I might as well get to it. 

The year 2014 will be a milestone for Markin (and me as well) marking the 50^th anniversary of his (our) graduation from high school, in his case  North Adamsville High School about twenty miles up the road from Hullsville. For a whole number of reasons that should not detain us here Markin had been looking forward to that event for a couple of years in the expectation of going to his class reunion (not me though, looking forward to or going to). He had never gone to any previous reunions before for those whole bunch of reasons that shall not detain us. But over the last several years since his mother died he has made peace with that portion of his past.

Moreover he had actively attempted to put himself into the reunion mix by setting up a class reunion event on Facebook (thus mercy thanks FB because this story could not have developed, could not have been possible, without that social network outlet). What he was trying to do at that point was make an ad hoc out of the blue attempt to enlist fellow classmates to help organize the reunion. He was figuring that with one billion member that site should at least have a few old-timers from his class that could both navigate the Internet (not a given for our generation unlike today’s super-savvy “information super-highway students) and who had a desire to cut up old torches. He got the usual early sparse response from those who have nothing but time and an itchy “click” finger on their hands. Then the response that triggered this sketch.

A woman, Jill Gary, a fellow classmate commented that she was interested in helping out but due to her professional career commitments would not be able to do much. Also she lived up in Maine and since the reunion would be held in Massachusetts that too would be a barrier. In any case Markin, looking to find some kindred help who seemed like they could organize something more than their stockings, began a blizzard of e-mail traffic with her. It seems that this Jill was what they now call “hot” back in the day, a real looker, according to Markin.  And a look at her yearbook photograph that she had forwarded to him and that he had forwarded to me attested to that fact. A fresh dewy girl next door type who wore cashmere sweaters and who by popular opinion was not only “hot” (boys’ locker room after sport’s practice opinion) was unapproachable. In any case Markin had seen her around school but that was about it.           

Well some things change in this wicked old world, some things are not eternally etched in stone and Jill like all of us from the Generation of ’68  had learned a thing or two had been through her share of ups and downs and survived to tell about it. Naturally Markin was all ears to hear about this life if for no other reason that he could say that he had actually talked to her, even at a fifty year remove, for some reason which only Markin is privy to. And so the blizzard of e-mails continued (she almost as crazy as him to write, write, write).

One exchange, the one that matters here, involved the question of where they had gone to elementary school in the old town. She had gone to Adamsville North and assumed that he had too since that was one of the feeder schools to the junior high that fed to North Adamsville High. He responded that no he had grown up in the projects on the other side of town and had gone to Adamsville South. That Adamsville South response by Markin brought out from her the fact that Jill’s mother had been a swimming instructor down at the Adamsville South Beach and had during her career there saved a drowning boy. Jill, nine at the time, had been present at the event and remembered her mother was both quite shaken up about that feat and proud that she had been able to do so.

Markin said he flipped out when he read that e-mail information. See, and I remember him telling me one time about his love of the ocean but fear of it, fear to go too far out when swimming because he had almost drowned when he was about nine down at the Adamsville South Beach one summer. Typical boy story: as the ocean was rising he had spied a log, an abandoned telephone pole, and had grabbed onto it. He drifted out for a while and then, as he said sheepishly, he realized he had gone too far but instead of holding onto the log he decided to try and swim for shore. Not a good swimmer and just too far out he started going down. His brother who was on the shore called for help and the swimming instructor came out and saved him in a nick of time. When he got on shore he thanked the lady, after catching his breath and trying to hide in shame from all the kids on the beach. (He also swore his brother to eternal secrecy which, unless at other times, he actually honored and his parents never found out.)   

So what lesson did Markin draw from that today. Anything about fate, karma, or just plain good luck. Anything to explain how fifty years later the daughter of that swimming instructor reached out to him in cyberspace. Maybe that some off-beat hand was at work. No. He told Jill in that charming way of his that he is capable of around women, interesting women, since they had already “met” maybe they should get together in person and discuss the matter more fully. And guess what, she agreed. Jesus.