The High School Reunion by Nexxie Part II Johnny picked up a newspaper and a can of soda at the convenience store, then fished in his pockets for change as he approached the cashier. The teenage boy behind the counter eyed Gage with a bored expression as he plopped down the right amount of coins and waited for his receipt. The fireman drummed his fingers on the counter watching in growing impatience as the clerk handed him the printout and turned to adjust the volume on the radio that already blared from behind him. "Aren't ya even gonna tell me to have a nice day?" Johnny inquired in a voice dripping with sarcasm. The boy shrugged, his expression lethargic as his customer exited the store. Shaking his head in disgust, Gage opened the door to the Rover and slid behind the wheel. "Now, let's see what's out there." He opened the newspaper and glanced at the index at the bottom of the page, then quickly turned to the want ads. The selection was meager to say the least. "Experienced welder...experienced mechanic...experienced die setter...how the heck are you supposed to become experienced if nobody hires you unless you already are?" The image of Johnny's frustrated face reflected in the rearview mirror gave no answer. He read on. "Accountant...Executive Secretary...Office Manager...Stenographer...no, no, no and no." Johnny turned the page folding it savagely in half as he scanned the columns, finally arriving at 'unskilled labor'. That's me, he thought glumly. Uneducated, unskilled...unhireable. How could I have been so stupid? A firefighter can't be anything but...a firefighter! Wait a minute...what about a paramedic? He turned to the medical column. "Nurse's aide...LPN...orderly...That doesn't sound any better than paramedic." In disgust, Johnny started to wad up the newspaper and halted as a boldface ad seemed to jump out at him. "Start your career in retail at the premier store for sporting goods. The End Zone is now hiring associates for fulltime positions at the newest branch opening in Carson in July. No retail experience necessary except for management positions. Knowledge of sports equipment a plus. Apply at ..." Johnny rumpled the paper and then smoothed it out again. "He won't be there," Gage told the guy in the mirror. "But I have to see it for myself." Smiling bitterly, John Gage started the Rover and pulled out onto the highway. He watched for the address as the blocks passed until finally he came to a brightly colored sign that read "The End Zone". After pulling up to a stop directly in front of the front doors, he exited the Rover and entered the sporting goods store, hesitating a moment to whistle softly in appreciation as he took in the interior. Attractive displays and aisles of equipment made a colorful background to a well-lit demonstration area, it's highly polished tile floor reflecting the recessed lighting overhead. Impressed despite himself, Johnny wandered through the store, stopping to touch the soft fabric jersies hanging neatly on a circular rack and run his hand over the hard shiny surface of a bowling ball. He held a catcher's mitt to his face and inhaled the smell of new leather, closing his eyes as the aroma conjured up the image of a fast ball hitting the glove with a THWACK. As the mitt closed around the baseball, the ump yelled "Strike three!" "Good choice, sir." A young man, impeccably dressed in dark slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt approached Johnny from the area of the cashier's counter. The discreet embroidered logo on the pocket of his shirt matched to a tone the solid burgundy tie he wore. McConnike would love this guy's haircut, Johnny thought amused as he gazed at the neatly combed blond hair that would pass muster at any inspection. The guy looks like a walking Brylcreem commercial. "Ah...I was just...ah...browsing. I'd heard about this place and thought I'd stop in... Does Artie Tyler ever come in here?" The young man paled before Johnny's eyes. "M-mr. Tyler is here now, sir. D-did you wish to speak with him?" "No, no!" Gage answered, wondering at the anxious expression that crossed the clerk's face. "In fact, I have to be going..." As he glanced at his watch, pretending to be startled by the time, angry voices erupted from the rear of the store. "If you walk out of here, Sherry, don't bother to come back!" Instinctively Johnny flinched. Even now the sound of Artie's voice had the power to trigger his flight mechanism. He glanced at the sales clerk. The kid was positively white. "Don't worry Mr. Tyler, I won't be back. And I hope the next girl you touch like that calls the cops on you!" Johnny ducked behind a rack of baseball cleats as a young girl, her face a mask of anger, stalked past and shoved open the front door. She exited without looking back. "Weaver!" Artie's angry voice echoed through the store. "Yes, Mr. Tyler?" the young man answered, heading back towards the checkout counter. Gage panicked. The last thing he needed was to face Artie Tyler right now after overhearing the girl's parting words. So Artie still has a problem with his hands. At the sound of approaching footsteps, Johnny quickly ducked into a nearby dressing room and pulled the door shut until it the catch softly clicked. He held his breath and waited for the other man to return to the back of the store. I can't believe I'm twenty-eight years old and still hiding from Artie. Ventilation slats in the dressing room door allowed Johnny a narrow view of the cash register area. He was able to see the clerk, face white and pinched, as he stood respectfully beside the counter. Artie Tyler, though, remained maddeningly out of view, blocked by a stacked pyramid of tennis ball cannisters. "Weaver, Sherry won't be back so you have to close tonight. I have to get home to the old lady. She's got some big shot friend coming over that she insists I meet. Why I ever married that... Anyway, what you overheard earlier you don't repeat. You tell anybody and you're unemployed, got it?" "Y-yes, Mr. Tyler." The clerk gulped and stared nervously in the direction of the mitt display. There was a moment's silence. "There's a car in the parking lot. Weaver, is there somebody else in here?" Artie's voice raised an octave. "A c-customer was here a minute ago looking at ball mitts, sir," Weaver's voice wavered as he answered his boss. Gage kept perfectly still and held his breath, hoping Artie wouldn't investigate. "Well, son, don't keep a customer waiting. See if he needs any help." Tyler's voice became smooth and condescending, fading a bit as he made his way back to the rear of the store. A crooked grin made its appearance on Johnny's face even as he sagged against the dressing room wall. For once Artie is running from me! Good thing he doesn't know who's here. The smile disappeared. Man he hasn't changed at all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Hey, Roy, where's your partner?" Dixie asked as FF/PM DeSoto waited impatiently at the base station. Irritated would be a mild description of his demeanor. Mike Morton emerged from Treatment One deep in conversation with Craig Brice. Roy indicated the twosome with a hand that still held the Handy-Talkie. "Right there," he told the head nurse. She glanced at the two men and looked back at Roy in confusion. "Did something happen to Johnny? He was here a few hours ago. I don't remember hearing you guys get any calls until this head injury." Roy leaned against the desk and lowered his voice. "You remember I told you last shift that something was up with Johnny? That he was acting strange?" Dixie nodded, perplexed. "This morning he seemed okay, but after I mentioned that he ran track..." "...he took off like he was still running," Dixie finished Roy's sentence with a nod of comprehension. "I was wondering about that." As if by unspoken consent, the men of A-Shift elected not to reveal the reason for Gage's absence to his unwelcome replacement. Now, after checking to see that Brice was out of earshot, Roy leaned closer to Dix and spoke in a low voice. "This thing has to go a lot deeper than I thought. Johnny didn't talk all afternoon until we got back to the station after our last run together. Then he found any old excuse to get mad. He was in the kitchen throwing pots and pans around when the Phantom struck." The head nurse lowered her lashes. There were times that it was funny to watch Johnny go off. She had a feeling this wasn't one of them. "How did Johnny react?" she asked, afraid she knew the answer. "Dix, he lost it. When Cap told Kelly to leave the room, he had to make one more smart-alec remark, and Johnny beaned him." "Johnny hit him? With his fist?" Dixie looked, and was, shocked. "No," Roy said, smiling a little, "with a boiled egg. He nailed Chet in the middle of the forehead...hard enough to knock him backwards. He's gonna have a bruise there." Dixie's mouth turned up at the corners a wee bit. "Is Chet all right?" A boiled egg? What next? "Dixie, it sounds funny now, but if you'd seen Johnny's face... Anyway, Cap called him into the office and a few minutes later he stormed out of the station. Captain Stanley muttered something about bringing us all down with his attitude, and then called in the Human Rule Bo..." "Shhh..." Dixie hastened to silence the paramedic as his temporary partner approached the base station, the conversation with Dr. Morton apparently at an end. Roy straighened, quickly hiding a scowl, and turned to face Craig Brice. Hopefully Johnny will cool down and be back next shift. If he doesn't, I may just have to look into a transfer...or maybe try again for a promotion. As maddening as Johnny can be, this time he's really hurting...maybe hurting enough to leave for good. After I wring Kelly's neck, I may need a change of pace. The HT on Roy's wrist came to life, requesting their status. DeSoto raised the HT, depressed the send key and responded, "Squad 51 available." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ His knuckles whitened with strain, John Gage gripped the steering wheel of his Land Rover fighting the feelings that warred within him. It was ten years ago, Gage. You've faced fires and cave-ins, explosions, heights, mudslides. You can face this. They're just people, for crying out loud. They're ten years older and probably outgrew the things you hate them for...did I say hate? I said hate! Johnny stared at the spare tire that reposed on the hood of his vehicle. I should go home, but what's there? There's nothin' in that apartment to go home to. A camera, stereo, some pictures, camping gear...just things. Nobody is waiting for me there. At least Artie has Peggy...and he doesn't even appreciate that. Suddenly, as if his body took control while his mind sat mired in debate, Johnny turned the key in the ignition and backed the Rover out of the parking lot. Artie would stay in the office, he figured, until all danger of being seen by the customer who overheard his employee's accusation had passed. The vehicle headed as though drawn by a magnet through afternoon traffic across the city of Los Angeles. The eastern suburbs beckoned and at the same time their very proximity brought on a palpable increase in tension. Home...or what had been home at one time. Ten years dropped away like dry leaves in autumn and Johnny stood once more looking through the chain link fence that surrounded the playing fields of West Carver Unified High School. He looped his fingers through the fence and leaned his forehead against the mesh, his eyes closed. Crackle, crackle, crackle, crunch. Longer strides, Johnny, stretch it out. Breathe in. It hurts to inhale. Only one more lap to go. Is Peggy watching? Will she come to the finish line and cheer us on? Artie is just two or three strides ahead. Pour it on, Gage, pour it on. Ignore the pain in your lungs. Forget the growing stitch in your side, the cramps starting to burn in your shins. He's closer now. Does he know you're here, right behind him, breathing down his neck? Will he trip you this time? Trying to avoid him will take you out of your lane. Maybe you can put on enough speed to be past him before he knows it. "Go, Johnny!" A voice from trackside pierced his concentration. That was Margie. Gee I wish she hadn't done that; now Artie knows where you are. He's looking over his shoulder. Should you cut back? Coach will know...everybody will know you punked out. Okay here goes. Johnny winced in sympathy with his younger self. The memory of Artie's foot suddenly in his path, of losing his balance, of falling headlong, his hands and knees scraping and skidding along the track, of the cinders, still wet from the recent rain, biting into his flesh. He felt, rather than saw the rest of the field fly by as even the slowest runners passed the 'Galloping Greyhound'. Johnny lay curled up in pain, his white uniform in stark contrast to the black track and the bright red ooze of blood as it seeped from his hands and knees. The sharply painful stitch in his side vied with the pain in his extremities when the cramps that threatened earlier took over. Faces appeared above him as John Gage took in air with short gasps, his lungs refusing to cooperate. The coach shook his head sadly, motioning for two other runners to help his 'star' off the track. "You should be more careful, Pencil Brain!" Artie's sneering gibe followed him off the field, playing itself over and over as he approached the locker room. It was his last race. Artie did warn him, after all, not to run. He should have listened. It seemed he made a career out of not listening. The rigid mesh of the chain link fence left thin red lines on the creases of Johnny's fingers. He shook his hands to restore circulation and crossed to the front of the school. The same low shrubs he cleared like hurdles on his way out of the building each day still graced the neatly trimmed grassy area in front of the school. A familiar figure pushed a small lawnmower in perfect parallel paths. "Hey, keep off the grass!" the handyman's daily cry, still seemed to echo in the afternoon heat. In his mind's eye, the thin figure of a younger Johnny Gage emerged from the double doors like a shot and dashed across the off-limits strip of green with careless disregard for the man's poppies. "Sorry, Pops!" Johnny remembered calling each and every time. Pops is a little more stooped these days, Gage noticed, but otherwise he looks just the same. The man turned off the lawnmower and shuffled over to where Johnny stood staring at the front of the building. "Can I help you, mister?" the old man asked, gazing up at Johnny without recognition. "Ah..no, I just came by to see if the place looks the same. I used to go to school here." Johnny squinted at the building again, raising one hand to protect his eyes from the glare of the bright afternoon sun. Pops stared for a minute then smiled. "The Gage boy! You know, I think you must owe me about two dozen poppies? You were always tearing across my grass hell-bent-for-leather with that Tyler kid chasing you." Johnny stared open-mouthed for a moment. "You remember me?" The chuckle that came from deep inside the man's grizzled body evoked a smile from Johnny as well. "Sure I remember. The Tyler kid was no good, always destroying school property and blaming somebody else. I didn't say much, but I seen plenty." He sobered. "It was a dirty shame what he did to you at that track meet...and at the prom." "You saw that!" Johnny was amazed. "I didn't figure anybody knew about the prom. It wasn't exactly something I wanted known." "Like I said, I seen plenty." He paused to scratch behind one ear. "So, are you back here to remember old times, Johnny Gage?" Johnny's smile immediately faded. "Yeah, I guess I am. Is it okay if I go inside?" He gestured to the front doors. "I don't see no harm in it," Pops replied. "In fact, I'll give you the royal tour." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Cap, you've got to do something about Brice," Roy entered Hank's office without waiting for an invitation. Hank rubbed his eyes as if it would erase all the problems he'd experienced so far this shift. He shot an inquiring look at his senior paramedic. "Roy, I know the guy's a pain in the neck, but can you have a little compassion on your captain and just put up with him? This shift has been tough enough." "I...I suppose so. Cap, he...he's got everybody mad at him already. Even Stoker is ready to deck the guy." The captain's eyes widened in surprise. "What in tarnation did he do to Mike?" He tried to picture his stoic engineer getting angry. The image just wouldn't materialize. "Cap, the guy's a self-proclaimed expert on everything. He was advising Mike on the proper way to back in the rig and how much distance to put between it and the squad when we leave the station. He was even pacing off the distance and tried to get Stoker to pace it off with him. Ya gotta do somethin' Cap, before we all go nuts." There was no denying the earnest plea in Roy's voice, or the rightness of his request. Where did I go wrong? the captain wondered. First Gage has his deep funk about the job. Then he flies off the handle and I have to send him home to cool off. Now everybody's ready to mutiny because that nincompoop Brice has to criticize everything we do. Where did my nice friendly little station go? Roy took a last look at Stanley, his chin resting on his palm, elbow propped on the desk, staring at the wall like he lost his last friend, and decided he'd said enough. Still shaking his head, the paramedic returned to the kitchen and made for the coffee pot. Ah, somebody made a fresh pot. Roy added cream and sugar then took an appreciative sip. His face wrinkled in disgust. "This is terrible. Who made it and what is it?" At DeSoto's inquiring look, Chet Kelly made a broad gesture that pointed in the direction of Roy's temporary partner who sat on the sofa engrossed in the newspaper. Roy walked over and stood in front of the man, waiting to attract his attention. "Brice," he said at last when he figured out that he was being studiously ignored, "what did you do to the coffee?" "It's decaffeinated, DeSoto, a special blend I always carry with me to..." "I don't like decaffeinated coffee. I want the regular coffee back." Roy's patience, already strained to the max, began to disappear. Brice gave a derisive laugh, shaking his head as he began a new lecture, "Well, as a person working in the medical field, DeSoto, you should be more interested in taking care of your own body. Surely you know that caffeine in large doses can cause sleeplessness, anxiety, lack of concentration, even dizziness and..." He broke off as Roy poured the nearly full cup of decaffeinated coffee down the front of his partner's shirt. Craig Brice stared down at the mess, then looked at the back of the retreating paramedic and called out after him, "...and irritability." With a sigh he stood to go change into a clean uniform. Kelly looked at the source of irritation and shook his head. "Man, you should never mess with a man's coffee." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Excuse me," a female voice interrupted Dixie's perusal of the administrator's newest, and most ridiculous policy change to date. "Yes, may I help you?" The woman stood beside a young boy on crutches, a boy that looked very familiar. "I'm Margie Reaver and this is Paulie. He came in the other day with a broken ankle. Dr. Early put a cast on it, but Paulie has managed to ruin the cast. He fell into the swimming pool this morning." The woman's long-suffering glance at her son clued Dixie in that disregarding instructions might be a chronic problem with the boy. One glance at his rebellious face confirmed the hypothesis. "It'll dry, Mom. What's the big deal?" "The big deal is that the cast wasn't made for submersion, young man," Dixie admonished. "Dr. Early isn't going to be a bit happy that all his fine work has to be done over." She shifted her gaze to the mother. "Dr. Early is in surgery at the moment. But if you'll have a seat in the waiting room, Dr. Morton will be with you in a little while." "Thank you, nurse." Margie pointed her son toward the waiting room at the end of the corridor and told him, "Move!" Paulie made a face and turned to obey, albeit reluctantly. As she watched her son make his way down the hall, Margie hesitated. "Do you know if John Gage is working today? I understands he works out of this hospital." The head nurse smiled, "Well, in a manner of speaking. Johnny and his partner work out of Fire Station 51, but they bring us all of their customers. He isn't working today, though. He...um has the day off." I bet this is the woman from Johnny's past...the one that started this whole thing. She looked critically at the woman before her. She doesn't seem to be Johnny's type...but then again, Johnny's type is 'female'. Dixie allowed a tiny smile to form on her lips. "I...see," Margie Reaver replied, her disappointment apparent. "I don't suppose you could give me his phone number?" Dixie shook her head firmly, "Sorry. That's against the rules. But I can tell him you inquired, Mrs...Reaver?" "Yes, Margie Reaver. It will probably be too late. I just wanted to make sure he would be at the High School Reunion this Saturday. He had forgotten all about it when I talked to him." Sure he did, Dixie thought. He forgot about it so much that it's had him depressed for days. She bit her lip, aware she was about to violate one of her own strictly enforced rules. "Say, Margie, what was Johnny like in high school?" Dixie pretended casual interest, although each cell in her ears waited in anticipation of the response. Margie's eyes grew dreamy as she reminisced. "He was sort of my knight in shining armor. Oh, I know it sounds corny, but..." "Not for John Gage," Dixie smiled in genuine amusement. "Go on." "Well, he was kind of shy, not outgoing. He had a crush on Peggy Thurston, she was a cheerleader, but she never knew he existed. He always opened the door for her, picked up pencils, papers, anything she dropped. When he ran track, and she was watching, he would run harder, faster...but she never noticed. She only had eyes for that stupid jock, Artie Tyler. Eventually she married that sap...and they have about four saplings last I heard. I could wish she had paid attention to Johnny, but, well she would have made him miserable. It's better that she's dedicated her life to making Artie miserable...he deserves it." "What about you?" Dixie questioned, her curiosity aroused. "You didn't marry Johnny either. I thought he was your night in shining armor?" Margie smiled this time. "He was. He kept Artie away from me and took me to the prom when Artie's conniving made me the most unpopular girl in school. No, I didn't marry John, I married Paul, and that's thanks to Johnny too." "Miss McCall," Sharon Walters hurried up, her steps just short of a sprint. Would that girl never learn not to run? "What is it, Sharon? And slow down, remember?" Sharon nodded, gulping. "Doctor Morton needs you in Three. He has to operate and..." She didn't finish before the head nurse was off down the hall, Sharon fast on her heels. Margie watched their departure and turned toward the waiting room and her son Paulie who was engaged in doing further damage to the ruined cast...and making a mess of the floor around him. What if she had married Johnny? What would that have been like? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Johnny walked beside the handyman, slowing his long strides to the older, shorter man's limping gait. "So, young fella, what have you been doing with yourself these last few years? I haven't seen you around. Not like some." His voice indicated that he wished the "some" had stayed away. Gage hesitated, wondering how this man would view his career to date. Well, he mentally shrugged, how much can a janitor look down on a fireman? "I ah...I joined the fire department. I've spent the last four years working as a paramedic out of Carson." Johnny waited anxiously for a sign that the man approved or disapproved, unsure why knowing the answer held such importance. "Is that a fact? Huh! A paramedic. I've read about that in the papers. There was an article just last week about how some big shot keeled over in a corporate meeting and the paramedics saved his life. You guys do important work. 'Course in your case, Johnny, I'm not surprised." "You're not?" They entered the gym and Pops pointed toward a set of double doors at the other end which Johnny remembered to be a broom closet. He gulped as the older man pulled a key from his pocket and proceeded to unlock the doors. "Hey, Pencil Brain, it ain't nice to horn in on another guy's action, you know what I mean?" Johnny struggled as two other seniors held him fast while Artie opened the broom closet. His eyes grew wide with apprehension when the bigger boy picked up a coil of extension cord and looked at Johnny, his face contorted by a malevolent grin. "We're gonna have to teach the Lone Ranger here a lesson. Or is it Tonto?" The other boys snickered at Artie's joke. Johnny squeaked, "Wh-what are you gonna do? Artie just leave me alone. Margie was afraid; you scared her. Can't you just stick to Peggy and leave the other girls be?" Artie threw a loop of the cord around Gage's shoulders, twisted it and threw another loop, drawing the cord tight. The makeshift rope bit into Johnny's upper arms and he flinched, giving Artie a pleading look. "This isn't gonna solve anything, Artie. Margie went home. She wouldn't go out with you now if you were the last..." A backhand across the mouth stopped Johnny's sentence before he could finish. "Listen, hero," Artie sneered as he threw yet another coil around Gage's midsection, effectively pinning the boy's arms to his side, "I don't want her to go out with me now. I don't want any girl that's stupid enough to throw me over for a Pencil Brain geek. She's gonna pay for that, but first, I'm gonna teach you to keep your nose out of my business." He continued wrapping the cord around Johnny until he was completely immobilized, pulling each coil tight before he started the next. When he was finished, he checked out the closet again and found a roll of utility tape. "This will keep you quiet, pipsqueak," he said, grinning widely. The other seniors chuckled in appreciation and held Johnny's head still while Artie proceeded to wrap a length of the tape across Gage's mouth and around the back of his head wrapping several times until all of the boy's mouth and chin were covered with the heavy sticky stuff. With nothing available to cut the ends, Artie let the roll dangle down Johnny's back. "There," he patted Gage's shoulders as if appreciating a work of art, "nice and quiet. Oh, one more thing..." He pointed to a hook a little ways up the wall and indicated for the other boys to help him lift their helpless classmate and hang him in place, the hook holding Johnny securely by the loops of cord a good eight inches off the floor. Then the doors closed leaving John Gage in the dark. With Margie gone, no one else knew that Johnny and his date had left the prom followed by Artie and the others. It was Saturday night...there was no likelihood that anyone would find him before sometime Monday. Hanging in the pitch black of the closet, the cords biting into his arms and tightening around his diaphragm, Johnny listened to the music emanating from the cafeteria and wondered if intervening was worth it. At the memory of Margie's terrified face, her large green eyes pleading for help, he sighed and realized he still would have stepped in. But now what? It's getting hard to breathe. "Johnny?" "Huh?" Johnny shook his head and looked at the stooped old man, concern marking his face...and regret. Pops shifted the handle of the wide dustmop to the other hand. "I guess maybe coming to this closet was a pretty bad idea, huh? I mean I guess I didn't think. I just wanted to get started doing something while you look around. You didn't have anything permanent wrong from that night, did you? I mean mental...you know?" "Did you get me down?" Johnny asked, pretty sure of the answer before he asked. At Pops' nod, he continued. "Thanks. I never did know for sure. I just knew when I woke up the school was dark and I was loose laying on the gym floor. How come you never told anybody or called the cops or anything?" The man looked a tad ashamed. "Look, Tyler's old man was a member of the school board. He was pushing to force me to retire even then. I still had bills to pay--I wasn't ready to leave just yet. If I got his kid arrested, made him look bad, I knew I would be out of a job. That man was just plain mean, and not above doing whatever it took to get rid of me. He had a replacement in mind, his wife's down-and-out cousin. I couldn't take the risk." Johnny put his hand on the man's shoulder. "I guess I can understand. You did what you could, and I'm grateful. Johnny shuddered again, looking at the dark interior of the closet. A neatly coiled orange power cord hung from the same hook on the back wall. "Look, Pops', I think I've had enough memories for today. I...thanks for the tour, but I'm gonna leave now." The janitor nodded in sympathy. "Come back any time, John Gage. Oh, and my name is Richard Henning. My friends call me 'Red'." Gage nodded. "I'll see you around, Red." With swift steps, Johnny exited the gym, trying not to run, and burst from the double doors at the front of the school. For a moment he stood on the sidewalk in the shade of the building's narrow overhang and took deep breaths. It's over, remember Johnny? That was ten years ago. Artie isn't here. Ted isn't here. Time to go home. As if by reflex he jogged across the grass and hurdled the low shrubs that edged the drive, narrowly missing the poppies that sat in a red, cheery row in front of them. At one time Artie Tyler or Ted Smithers would have been in hot pursuit, seeking to push me down, knock my books from my hands, or both. It was an everyday thing. Sometimes I got away...most times I didn't. Home? Why not? What else is there? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Paramedic Gil Robinson sauntered toward the base station, intent on re-supplying Squad 44's depleted supplies. "Hey, Dix, what's shakin'?" He pulled a list from his pocket and handed it to the head nurse who proceeded to draw the requested supplies from various drawers and shelves. As she set the items on the counter Dixie brought up the subject that weighed heavily on her mind. "Gil, you went to high school with John Gage, didn't you?" Gil counted the syringes and 4x4s before signing for the supplies. "That's right, West Carver, over on the east side." The paramedic started to signal to his partner when he felt Dixie's hand press his arm. He stopped, aware she wanted to continue the conversation. "Do you have a class reunion this coming weekend?" "Yeah, how did you know? Oh, yeah, Johnny." "Do you know anything about him and some girl named Margie?" Gil looked at Dixie, surprised that she would ask something that could qualify as gossip. But since he saw nothing in her face but genuine concern, he decided to answer. In truth, he wasn't sure how much help he could be. "I think you're probably talking about Margie Freeman, a cute little redhead...big green eyes and freckles? Johnny took her to the prom, I think." Gil shifted uneasily, wondering how far this conversation would go. "That's what she said," Dixie murmured, scratching her chin. "But...why would Johnny not want to go to the reunion?" There, she'd asked a point-blank question. Maybe it would get results. "Dix, I really didn't hang around with Johnny in high school. We were both on the track team, but we didn't see each other beyond that. If I had to guess, I'd say probably he doesn't want to see Artie Tyler." "Margie mentioned that name too. She said Johnny protected her from Artie. What did he do?" "Artie? I don't know for sure. I came in the locker room once and heard them arguing. Sometime after that there were rumors going around the school about Margie. Ugly rumors. Nobody wanted to be seen with her...except Johnny. Pretty soon they started talking about him too. After he fell on the track during the 440 and messed up his knees, people began to wonder about Artie." Dixie looked at the paramedic in confusion. "Why would they wonder about Artie?" "Johnny was passing Artie Tyler when he fell. Some people said they saw Artie trip Gage deliberately. Nobody could be sure, and the coach said to drop it, so we did. With Gage out of the running, so to speak, the coach couldn't afford for his second-best runner to get tossed off the team." "That's terrible. Poor Johnny." As Dixie started to question Gil further, the Handy Talkie demanded his attention. He met up with his partner and Squad 44 left Rampart for another run. Dixie sighed. "I'm starting to get the picture, but I wish somebody would just come out and tell me the whole thing." "Tell you what?" Kel Brackett stood by the counter and watched as Dixie gave a guilty start. "Hmm? Oh, nothing. I'm just a little worried about John Gage, that's all." "What about Johnny? And by the way, I thought he was on shift today. Why is Roy partnered with Brice?" Dixie gathered pencils scattered on the desk and shoved them into a handy drawer before looking up at Kel. "That's something a lot of people would like to know." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Brice, I want to talk to you about that last response." FF/PM Craig Brice hesitated, his hand on the door handle of the squad, the driver's door. "What is there to talk about, DeSoto? The patient signed the refusal slip and we left." "Yes, but you see, that's the problem. You didn't even try to talk her out of it." Roy had little hope that the man would see reason, but for the sake of their patients he had to try. "I saw no reason to try, DeSoto. The woman was fully conscious and capable of making decisions. She chose to refuse treatment and I respected her wishes. It's her right under the law." Roy slapped the roof of the squad in frustration. He'd stayed behind a moment to encourage the woman to see her own doctor. She'd stubbornly refused to listen, glaring at the housekeeper who dared to call the fire department. The woman's fear and distrust of strangers was still evident on her face as Roy exited the large suburban home. "The law! The rules!" Roy made a broad Johnny-esque gesture toward the house, "That woman is ill. She's not thinking straight. She's afraid..." "There's no need to raise your voice," Craig Brice commented as he slid behind the wheel. "She refused to let us treat her and that's the end of it. There are plenty of other people in this county who do want our help." DeSoto clenched his fists before he reached for the mic to call them in as 'available'. Everything in his compassionate nature screamed in silent outrage. Johnny would have smiled at the old girl and flirted until she begged him to start an IV, he thought. That's the difference between my partner and this...this uniformed robot! Johnny cares about people! Craig Brice started the engine and pulled away from the curb. As the squad left the upscale neighborhood, the Dodge's engine began emitting a new clattering sound. After a series of bangs and clanks that resembled a serenade from an out of sync percussion section, there was silence. Brice just managed to steer to the side of the street before they coasted to a halt. "Charlie isn't gonna like this," Roy said dolefully, lifting the mic once again. "L.A., Squad 51." "Squad 51, L.A.," Sam's even voice responded. "L.A., Squad 51 is out of service dute to mechanical failure. Send a maintenance vehicle to..." Roy scanned for landmarks, "...the intersection of Reynolds and Pike." "Reynolds and Pike," Sam repeated, "Squad 51, L.A., 10-4" Roy glanced at his temporary partner. Brice wouldn't even dream of looking under the hood to see if it was something they could fix. Johnny and I have sure done our share of maintenance and repairs. Heck, if Mr. Perfect here was my partner all the time, old Charlie would spend his whole day chasing Squad 51 around just to keep up with the minor adjustments and mechanical glitches. He has no idea how much time and effort we actually save him. Roy glared at Brice who studiously avoided looking at him. As the minutes passed, Roy grew uncomfortable with the attention their situation garnered from passers-by. Even without the siren and lights, the bright red squad's very presence drew a small crowd, mostly made up of children. "Hey, mister," one urchin piped up from the sidewalk, "is somebody hurt?" Brice responded matter-of-factly out the window, "No, we're waiting for repairs." "Honest?" the boy asked. "Ya mean you're stuck here?" Where did all these kids come from, Roy wondered. The two or three that gathered a moment ago had grown to ten rather swiftly. Now a few adults, their curiosity aroused as well, sauntered over. "But what if there's a fire, or somebody's hit by a car or something?" the child persisted. "Are ya just gonna sit here?" Roy wished he could sink out of view. It was just plain humiliating. Johnny would tell the kid to get lost, Roy reflected with new appreciation for his partner--his real partner. "They'll call somebody else," Brice answered the boy in a matter-of-fact tone. The child looked at the stranded vehicle in disgust. "Come on, Pete. These guys can't even fix their own truck." Heads shaking in sorrow for their misplaced hero worship, the children departed for more exciting pursuits. With sympathetic murmers and a few chuckles, the adults left as well. Roy regarded the man behind the wheel with disgust. Johnny would have at least tried to fix it. Now we just come across as the impotent wonders. "Hey! Help!" Roy recognized the housekeeper from the last response. Her arms waving, face red with exertion, the woman hurried toward the squad. "Call in a still alarm," Roy called over his shoulder to Brice as he sprang from the cab and jerked at the side compartment doors. Locked! The idiot! With a muffled curse, Roy DeSoto reached for the key to access the equipment. He felt the woman tugging frantically at his sleeve. "Please, you must come back! She needs help!" Hands full with the drug box and biophone, Roy jogged with the woman back to the house they had left moments ago. "I think it's her heart," the woman said between gasping breaths. Plump and fifty-ish, the housekeeper nonetheless managed to talk on the run. "She called, 'Get help!' and then passed out on the bedroom floor. I saw your truck parked over across the way and ran to fetch you. Is she going to be all right?" Roy sat the drug box down on the floor and unsnapped the lid, quickly reaching for the stethoscope. He checked for a pulse and found it weak and rapid. Brice, shaking his head, stood watching mutely from inside the door. "We can't treat her, DeSoto, she signed the refusal slip." FF/PM DeSoto allowed himself to emit a snort of disgust, the only outward sign that he would like to throttle the man still standing in the doorway. "Did you call in the still alarm?" "I didn't see the need, DeSoto. The woman has already..." Roy stood and came toe to toe with the other paramedic. In a low voice that was all angry authority, he instructed, "Call it in now. Until you do, we're still available." "But..." "Do it! And request an ambulance." Cowed, Brice made the call and then reached for the biophone to contact Rampart. Almost grudgingly, he assisted the other paramedic, returning to the disabled squad for the rest of the equipment. As they loaded the patient into the back of the ambulance, Roy placed one finger on Brice's chest. "Brice, this isn't over. I'm riding in with the patient, you wait for Charlie. We'll talk about this later." "But DeSoto, she signed the..." Roy climbed into the ambulance and turned once more to the stubborn man. "When you called in the still alarm, it became a different rescue...not covered by the same MICU form." With a sigh, the senior paramedic turned to the patient and rechecked the vitals then reported to Rampart. As the ambulance sped on its way, Roy mentally reviewed the rescue. I wouldn't have had to explain to Johnny. He would have been running to the victim while I called in the still alarm. Where are you, partner? What are you thinking? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Margie Reaver kissed her young son good night and returned to the living room where Paul, her husband, relaxed on the sofa with a book. She sank into the cushions at the far end after a pointed look prompted her husband to make room. They sat for a while in companionable silence until, conscious of his wife's unfocused stare which seemed to take in the everything and nothing, Paul lowered his book and gave her his full attention. "So, did you see him again?" "Hmm?" His words startled Margie from her private thoughts. "John Gage. Did you see him again today when you took Paulie in to get the cast fixed?" The petite redhead perceived a slight frown on her husband's face and interpreted it rightly. "He wasn't working today. And I was only wondering whether he would be at the reunion." Paul sat up, shifting his gaze to the thick-pile white carpeting at his feet. "Do you wonder what might have been? What would have happened if you'd chosen John instead of me?" There was a vulnerability in the man's posture. Margie scooted down to put her arms around her husband. "There was never any risk of that, Paul. Johnny is just someone that I knew in high school, a very special boy and a very special friend." Her eyes took on a faraway look. "What was so special about him?" her husband persisted, still uneasy about his pretty wife meeting up with an old flame. Margie hesitated. The story might come out at the reunion, and it would be best if Paul heard it from her. "Back in our senior year," she began, her eyes focused on the floor, hands moving nervously over the sofa cushions, "Artie Tyler had a fight with Peggy Thurston. They broke up. It was big news--those two had been dating since ninth grade. I happened to be sitting at the same table in the cafeteria and heard the whole argument. When Peggy threw Artie's friendship ring at him, he picked it up and said it was no big deal, that he could have any girl he wanted. He saw me watching and chose to use me to punish Peggy. When I got up to leave, Artie held out the ring to me and asked if I wanted to go steady. I walked away without answering." Paul leaned forward and grasped Margie's nervous hand. After six years of marriage he could read her pretty well and knew telling this, for some reason, upset her. Margie looked gratefully into her husband's eyes and continued, less nervous now. He would still love her, no matter what. "I could hear some of the guys laughing at Artie as I left, making jokes about him being turned down twice in ten minutes. Johnny was watching too. He walked out of the lunch room with me, and I guess that made Artie even madder." Paul looked confused. "Why? Were he and Johnny rivals or something?" "In a way. At least Johnny bested him on the track, but there was something else, something I still don't know about. Johnny was kind of skinny and not very popular. He was quiet and shy...and he had a crush on Peggy Thurston. Artie knew it, but figured Peggy would never look at Johnny. Anyway, now Artie was mad at both of us." "So what did he do?" Artie sounded like the kind to exact retribution, it would follow that he took action. Paul Reaver waited, a little tense, to find out what this boy had done to his wife. Margie took a deep breath. "A couple of days later the rumors started. I didn't know at first what was going on, but everybody looked at me real funny. People started avoiding me, the room would suddenly go silent when I entered. It took some time before I found out why." Paul watched his wife as she gathered her courage to continue the tale. From outside the sound of the neighbors stereo drifted in with the muted strains of soft rock music. A slight breeze stirred the sheer curtains, soundlessly creating the only movement in the room. Whatever Margie has to say must be pretty bad. She stared unseeingly at Paulie's picture on the wall above the hall table and twisted her wedding band in agitation. After what seemed a lifetime she continued. "Somebody, nothing will ever convince me it wasn't Artie Tyler, spread the rumor that I had a disease...a social disease. I was dating Chad Willis at the time. He broke our date for the p-prom without even asking if it was true. I was so shocked and miserable when I found out what they were saying. Everybody believed the ugly story...everybody, that is, except Johnny. He was the one that told me what people were saying." Her eyes drifted out of focus and Paul knew she was reliving the tale as she told it. Johnny sat down beside Margie on the lowest row of the bleachers. On the green field inside the cinder track the football team worked on various drills while the cheerleading squad practiced their cheers in the endzone. For once he did not watch Peggy Thurston. Instead his troubled eyes focused on the tear-stained face of Margie Freeman. "Hey, Margie, don't cry. Heck! I know it's a lie--I even said so to Artie's face. If ya want me to, I'll go tell Chad it's just..." "No, Johnny," she interrupted, "Chad should know better. He just doesn't want to be seen with me." "Well, do ya already have a dress and everything? For the prom, I mean," Johnny elaborated at Margie's questioning look. Sniffing and weeping, she nodded miserably. Johnny hesitated then squared his shoulders as if summoning up courage. "Well, wouldja go with me? I mean, I'm not popular or anything. I'm not a hunk like Chad, but if you need a date...I'm available." He tipped Margie's face until she was forced to look into his chocolate brown eyes, then he flashed her a crooked grin. Hmm, Margie thought, taking in the hopeful expression in her friend's face, he's not bad looking when he smiles. In fact, he's kind of cute. And...he's awful nice. "Johnny," she said, making up her mind, "I'd love to go to the prom with you." Looking both ways to see if they were being watched, Johnny leaned in and kissed Margie on the cheek, then stood up and held out his hand. "Walk you home?" That grin came out again--it really was irresistable. Margie Freeman put her hand in Johnny Gage's and allowed him to help her to her feet. She didn't complain when he held it all the way to her house. "See ya tomorrow, Margie." She heard him whistle as he walked back out to the street, sauntering toward the corner with a rangy grace and a slightly jaunty air to his gait. "Is it possible that John Gage started the rumor himself just so he could play hero and ask you to the prom?" Paul hated to ask, but the possibility came to mind about the time the first ugly pangs of jealousy began nibbling at his peace of mind. Margie looked startled, that thought never having occured to her, then relaxed. "You don't know John Gage," she said, her tone completely confident. "He would never do anything that low down. That's more Artie's style." "So what happened at the prom?" Paul asked, mollified. "I don't know all of it," his wife admitted. "I left about halfway through. But what I do know is ugly enough." Paul Reaver leanded back against the cushions of the sofa, prepared to hear further tales of the great John Gage, fairly confident that before the night was over he would want to punch out one Chester Arthur Tyler. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The rage that sent Johnny home from work subsided to be replaced with a kind of hopeless emptiness. After returning to his apartment he paced restlessly, picking up a record album only to put it down, grabbing a Pepsi from the fridge, then putting it back. He wandered into the bedroom. The laundry sat folded neatly on his dresser, ready to put away. The memory it engendered of the two women in the laundromat rekindled the anger a bit. He picked up a pair of rolled socks and threw it against the wall with all his might. PNFFFFF. The sound didn't satisfy. It fizzled and muffled and died too soon...unlike the sound of egg breaking against the Phantom's forehead. That seemed to resonate. Yep, almost as satisfying as the startled expressions on the faces of 51's crew when Chet sat down with egg on his face. A satisfied smirk twitched the corners of Johnny's mouth--it wasn't quite a grin. With a loud sigh, Gage spread both arms wide and launched himself backward. He hit the waterbed with a THUD...a sound much more satisfying than the socks had made. The mattress waved and rolled, tossing Johnny's relaxed form with its crests and troughs, lifting first his head, then his feet in a rocking motion until it subsided. Childish? Yes, but there was a sense of being cradled, and soothed. Maybe that was the attraction. Or maybe it was the similarity to another activity...don't go there, Johnny. Activity! Something to wear me out...but what? Restless eyes scanned the contents of his bedroom, stopping to rest on the backpack slumping against the far wall, still packed from the last excursion in the San Gabriels. He rolled off the bed in a fluid motion and began rooting through the pack. "La da da...da da daaaa...da da da---don't need climbing stuff!" Out came ropes and harness, carabiners, pitons. The pack weighed less. "La da da...da da--phewww, when did you get washed last?" Two rolled up dirty socks hit the closet door followed by an odiferous T-shirt and handkerchief. "Ugh! This whole pack needs attention." He dumped the contents on the floor and ran to the bathroom for a can of disinfectant. After thoroughly spraying the inside of the pack, he gave a couple of spritzes to the dirty clothes on the floor as well. "That should hold you 'til I get back. La da da...da da daaa...da da daaaaaaaaaa...there! Now...flashlight, bedroll, canteen...which needs rinsed out with bleach water." He set it aside. "...da da daaa...da--matches, pocket knife, clean shorts, ya never know, da da daaa...extra shirt, first aid kit, coffee cup... Aww, gross, what's growin' in there? Yuck. Hmm hmm hmmmmmm. There!" Johnny hefted the pack over one shoulder and carried it to the living room then went back for the offending cup and canteen. After a thorough washing he added the items to his pack and threw in some granola bars from his stash, a couple of apples, a quickly constructed peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a small jar of instant coffee. He hefted it experimentally, shrugged into the straps and reached for his keys. After a last look around the apartment, Johnny shut the door and made his way down the three flights of stairs to the front door. The day still had a few hours of light left...plenty of time to reach his favorite spot. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Roy sat his coffee cup on the kitchen table and watched dispassionately as Chet rattled various cooking utensils, busily preparing the evening meal. The paramedic idly wondered if it would be edible this time. When he stuck to old family recipes Chet's cooking ranged from tolerable to downright tasty. It was his forays into self-expression and creativity that often sent Johnny and Roy on a mercy mission--picking up a generous supply of hamburgers on the way back from a supply run to Rampart. The first time it happened, Cap caught them handing out the purchased food to Stoker and Lopez. After a lecture on respect and good sportsmanship, Hank bribed Johnny for one of his cheeseburgers and had been a secret member of the Society for Maintenance of Healthy Digestion and Preservation of Life, as Roy called it, ever since. Marco breezed in whistling and poured himself a cup of coffee. After a cursory inspection of the counter and range top, he smiled in satisfaction and took a seat near Roy. "What's the matter, amigo?" he asked, noting the less than happy expression on DeSoto's face. With a sigh, Roy gave the other firefighter a sardonic glance. "Do you really need to ask?" His comment was more statement than question. Marco toyed with the condiments in the middle of the table, rearranging the salt and pepper to line up neatly in front of the ketchup and mustard. "Well," he began, "you could be upset about Brice..." Lopez watched Roy's expression. When there was no obvious reaction, he continued, "Or you could be upset with Johnny." BINGO! Roy's head swiveled toward him, his expression set. "You know he could have talked to me about this instead of just blowing up and storming out. He could have told me what was bugging him." "I thought he did," Marco said, surprised. "He's upset about this job and those chicks at the laundromat." Roy stirred his coffee, hesitating to speak, but needing to talk to someone. "It's more than that. It's got something to do with his high school reunion. There's somebody, or something, he doesn't want to face and it's tearing him apart." Chet wandered over and pulled out a chair next to Marco. "Did you see how he reacted to the question about the End Zone?" Kelly looked keenly at Roy to see if the words held any impact. "The End Zone?" Roy asked, mystified. "Yeah, it's a big chain of sporting goods stores. They're just opening a new one here in Carson." Kelly stroked his mustache in speculation and disarranged the condiments Marco had moments ago realigned. "What does that have to do with Johnny?" Roy questioned. "That's what I'd like to know," Mike Stoker piped up from the kitchen doorway. He opened the cupboard and reached for a coffee cup, then poured the last of the pot, shaking the empty pot for emphasis before plopping it down on the counter. Disgusted, Stoker joined his colleagues, the half cup of coffee in his hand. Marco reached for the ketchup and placed it back behind the salt shaker with a malevolent look at Chet. "Maybe he's looking at getting a job there. You know Johnny and sports." "No, I don't think so," Chet said thoughtfully. "You didn't see his face when I said I'd heard of the place. He looked like somebody just belted him in the stomach." "Besides," Mike added, "why would working in a sporting goods store be a better job than paramedic?" "It just doesn't make sense," Roy admitted. "A sporting goods store, the high school reunion, and being dissatisfied with his job? How does it all tie together? It doesn't add up." "What doesn't add up?" Hank Stanley poked his head into the kitchen and found four of his men seated around the table looking as forlorn as Henry when there were no leftovers. Hank walked over to the counter, picked up the coffee pot and started to fill his cup, drained earlier during his latest bout with paperwork and some confusing new memos. "Oh, for Heaven's sake!" With a disgusted look, Captain Stanley proceeded to make a fresh pot and then turned to face the four pictures of depression at the table. "What doesn't add up?" he repeated. Roy recounted the contents of their recent conversation, pausing to add, "And it all seems to have started when we got the call for the kid with the broken ankle." "What kid?" Chet asked, hoping this would prove to be a fresh clue to Johnny's unexplainable behavior. "It was a routine rescue," Roy shrugged, "normal in every way except for the kid's mother. Johnny took one look at her and then went totally silent. That's when his mood started going downhill. He hasn't been himself ever since." "How come you didn't mention anything about this before, pal?" Cap asked, wondering if this was indeed the key. Roy shook his head. "I didn't see anything specific to talk about," he replied. "I still don't. If he recognized the woman, he didn't say so at the time. She sure recognized him, or thought she did. But then later, at Rampart, he didn't even ask about the kid. Other than that, though, he seemed back to normal...until the next shift." "DeSoto, we're low on D5W. I think we should make a run to Rampart." Craig Brice entered the kitchen and addessed his temporary partner, ignoring the malevolent glances from the other four men at the table. He walked to the range and peered into the pot simmering on the front burner. With raised eyebrows the paramedic lifted a large spoon from the counter nearby and stirred the contents, then raised a small sample to his nose. "It needs a little more pepper," he commented. "It's fine!" Chet Kelly said defensively, rising to snatch the spoon from the critic's hand. "More pepper...are you trying to give Grandma Kelly a heart attack?" Muttering epithets the rest were sure they didn't want to hear, Chet continued to stir the stew and waited until everyone seemed to be looking elsewhere before he surrepticiously shook a little ground pepper into the pot. "I hate it when that little weasel is right," he muttered. Kelly fussed over the stewpot a bit longer, then turned to face the accusing eyes of his shiftmates. "What?" With expressions of disgust, Gage forgotten for the moment, they deserted the kitchen for other parts of the station. Nothing achieved, nothing resolved, each man decided to find something else to occupy his mind. Roy reluctantly followed Brice out into the apparatus bay, hoping that maybe he would find time to talk with Dixie. She had an uncanny way of figuring out things, and people. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peggy Tyler sat before the Queen Anne style vanity and leaned forward toward the mirror to peer more closely at her flawless complexion. Was that a wrinkle? She quickly applied facial cream for a little cosmetic first aid. A rush of air brushed her shoulders, drawing her attention to the room behind her. In the mirror she saw her husband of seven years struggling with his bow tie. She smirked. Artie never could get the thing straight. Early in their marriage she would have hurried to assist, making sure his appearance was as perfect as her own. These days, helping her mate do anything ranked very low on the list of priorities. "Have you gotten many replies to the Reunion invitations?" Artie asked, his chin raised as he continued to fumble with the stubborn tie. "Mmmm hmmm," she affirmed, "we had another yesterday, a Jim Case or something." "Jim Case? I don't remember any Jim Case. Are you sure he went to our high school?" Artie paused and tried to twist the crooked tie into place, finally giving up and starting over. "I don't know why we go to these things. I'm getting tired of formal dinner parties. Why can't we just do backyard barbecues like we used to?" "Perhaps because we don't associate with the same type of people we used to," his wife retorted. "Anyway, I'm sure it was Jim Case...or Cage, something like that. His name was on the list." She paused to frown in concentration, then noticing the creases it made in her brow, relaxed her facial muscles. "He said he was on the track team." Artie paused, his attention arrested. "You don't mean John Gage?" A sparkle of anticipation lit his eyes. "That's it," Peggy nodded. "Didn't I say John Gage?" She carefully applied lip gloss and leaned back a bit to take in the total effect. There was silence across the room. Peggy turned to peruse her husband. He gave her a sardonic glance. "You don't remember John Gage? Old Pencil Brain? The Galloping Greyhound?" At her determinedly blank look he sighed. "He took Margie Freeman to the prom?" Peggy's lips rounded into a perfect 'O'. "The guy who argued with you on the dance floor? Didn't he get hurt at a track meet?" She looked speculatively at her husband. There were rumors that Artie tripped the guy. At the appearance of his nastiest smile she knew the rumors were true. "You tripped him," Peggy stated matter-of-factly. "Nah," Tyler denied, "the guy was a klutz, always falling down. It's a miracle he lasted that long in track." Artie resumed tying his tie, suddenly no longer caring whether or not it ended up straight. The class reunion that promised to be a dreary affair at best suddenly took on new appeal. "Hey, are the Smithers gonna be there tonight?" His calculating smile widened when his wife answered in the affirmative. Good old Ted will be very interested to find out that the geek is going to be at the reunion. 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