Fourteen Years in the Rearview Mirror - II
Some people don’t know this, but the “prep” in prep school refers to “preparation” for college – not fashion preference. Yet at the age of 14, some of us less advantaged than K.C. Creman took the “prep” thing to heart and came into freshmen year dressing like LL Bean posterboys (more so like Abercrombie these days, but this was 1991 and Abercrombie didn’t exist in our worlds yet). I remember running into one such posterboy in particular during our first fire drill that fall.
His name was Danny, and he had the look mastered – pastel-colored Polo shirt, a patterned tie to match, khaki pants pinch-cuffed like a flood was coming, and requisite Bass loafers – all meticulously matched, tucked, and buttoned. I knew of him from English class, but until this point we really hadn’t talked. You might say he was a “hallway friend” whereby we would say hello or give the nod in the hallway, out of respect for the fact that we did share classes. But I wasn't even sure of his last name - I just knew that for some reason, when I heard it during attendance call it made me crave cookies.
I was not in any way an outgoing person, and so striking up random conversations was not something I often considered doing. Up until this point, I was making acquaintances based on some known mutuality, such as living in a town near mine, or having played little league sports against each other. Danny was from Millburn (sorry, Short Hills) and was a baseball wiz. Millburn (sorry, Short Hills) was a half hour drive from Cedar Grove, and I couldn’t hit a baseball to save my life. For some reason, though, the spirit of gab was upon me that afternoon, and so I started in about our shared love for pinched cuffs and the crazy reading assignment that Mr. Seymour had given us for homework the night before. It was all small talk at the time, meant to kill the boredom of an otherwise uneventful fire drill. Little did I know at the time, however, that this random conversation would serve as a starting point for a lifetime of many.
His name was Danny, and he had the look mastered – pastel-colored Polo shirt, a patterned tie to match, khaki pants pinch-cuffed like a flood was coming, and requisite Bass loafers – all meticulously matched, tucked, and buttoned. I knew of him from English class, but until this point we really hadn’t talked. You might say he was a “hallway friend” whereby we would say hello or give the nod in the hallway, out of respect for the fact that we did share classes. But I wasn't even sure of his last name - I just knew that for some reason, when I heard it during attendance call it made me crave cookies.
I was not in any way an outgoing person, and so striking up random conversations was not something I often considered doing. Up until this point, I was making acquaintances based on some known mutuality, such as living in a town near mine, or having played little league sports against each other. Danny was from Millburn (sorry, Short Hills) and was a baseball wiz. Millburn (sorry, Short Hills) was a half hour drive from Cedar Grove, and I couldn’t hit a baseball to save my life. For some reason, though, the spirit of gab was upon me that afternoon, and so I started in about our shared love for pinched cuffs and the crazy reading assignment that Mr. Seymour had given us for homework the night before. It was all small talk at the time, meant to kill the boredom of an otherwise uneventful fire drill. Little did I know at the time, however, that this random conversation would serve as a starting point for a lifetime of many.
posted by bdonin at
10:39 AM
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