40 Years Later, a Letter to a Classmate
Dear Gary,
Boy, it sure has been awhile since we last talked, hasn’t it?
Kind of hard to believe it’s been 40 years since we donned those gaudy one-size-fits-all red robes, flipped our tassels and tossed our mortarboards into the air to celebrate graduation from high school.
I know you don’t attend our occasional class reunions – but our 40th anniversary gathering is coming up in a few weeks.
I think you’d like these get togethers. You’d be surprised at how the little cliques, the petty jealousies, the little acts of meanness, all seem to fade away and are forgotten when we convene. Works-in-progress 40 years ago, we’re all a lot more comfortable in our own skin these days – just a bunch of people looking to make things work for the remainder of our time on the planet.
But I know you won’t be there.
If you were there, I think you and I would have a good time. I’d probably remind you of how I used to deliberately butcher the pronunciation of your last name every time I saw you, always grinning, of course, when I did it. You always smiled too, knowing I was joking. Deep down you probably were doing a silent “eye roll,” wondering, “Geez, the same old joke. Is this guy ever going to get some new material?” At the reunion, you’d grudgingly confess that, indeed, was what you were thinking, and we would have a good laugh.
We probably also would laugh about the final few days of our senior year, when, in open defiance of our school’s “no facial hair” policy, we both grew mustaches. Over the ensuing summer, yours flourished nicely, like a strong cup of coffee - thick, dark and full-bodied. Mine looked like a basketball scrimmage - five on a side. You’d be surprised to see I’m still trying, and unfortunately, not succeeding very well!
You most assuredly would be surprised to see how I - that skinny-as-a-rail kid you remember from high school – had developed such a prominent middle-aged spread and healthy double chin over the years.
But I know you won’t be there.
We’d probably talk a little about that time after graduation that I stopped in the men’s department of the Sears store in the Crestwood Plaza mall, where you worked selling suits to help pay for college. Remember the time we grabbed lunch for an hour and rambled on about our fun old high school days? I’m glad we took the time to get to know each other a little better that day.
I know you don’t attend these reunions, but someone invariably brings with them a copy of our senior yearbook. We sit around in groups, slowly turning each page, poring over our pictures and laughing at how much styles, and our looks, have changed.
Of course, when we get to your photo, there’s a pause in the laughter. We all smile fondly, but with those smiles comes a faint sigh. Maybe it’s because we’ve seen your photo so often over the years.
It’s the photo we saw on the front page of the newspaper on that awful Sunday morning in November 1980. It’s the photo we see every now and again when a TV station describes how someone – for no damned good reason at all – walked up to your car on that Friday night and fired two bullets inside. And how the murders of you and your friend Ellen, so random, remain unsolved to this day.
I always find it ironic that news reports tell us, “robbery was not a motive in the attack.”
The truth, of course, is that you were robbed.
You were robbed of your life, your future.
You were such a thoughtful, unassuming guy. You were quiet -- letting your dedication to theatre and poetry and photography reveal your creative side. If you could attend our next reunion, you’d tell us about the last 40 years, and relate how your even-keel demeanor produced a life well lived. You’d tell us about your successful career, your marriage, your kids, and their successes. About how much you’re looking forward to retirement in a few years. And we’d laugh as you would tell us how that mustache– just as thick as ever but now as gray as can be – provides such a great source of intrigue for your grandkids, every time you bounce them on your knee.
On that terrible night in November 1980, robbery may not have been the motive. But it certainly was the outcome.
I’m not quite sure why it took 40 years for me to write this letter, buddy. Maybe it’s this: you may not have known it then, and we didn’t either, but the course you were on, and the life you were living before it was cut short, became a model for all of us.
You had it figured out a heck of a lot earlier than the rest of us did. It took time, but I think we all eventually learned the lesson you were living: live a quiet and steady life. Be yourself. Give to others. Listen more than talk. I wish I would have paid more attention back then.
Yours was a blueprint for a happy life. It took a while, but I think we all wound up “getting it.” I think that would make you happy.
Our 40th graduation anniversary is coming up, and I know you won’t be there.
Or perhaps, you will.
Your friend,
Jim
Editor’s note: Gary Consolino and his date Ellen Dooling, were shot and killed by an unknown assailant as they sat in Consolino’s car outside of Dooling’s St. Louis Hills home in November 1980. The case remains unsolved.