The date passed earlier this month without my realizing it: the fortieth anniversary of my high school graduation. The reunion is later this year, and once again I won’t attend. Forty years ago, I was desperate to leave South Florida behind. I’m in no hurry to go back. I’ll mark the occasion the way I have all the previous ones, by rewatching Grosse Pointe Blank (1997). John Cusack’s hitman protagonist ends up at his reunion, and we’re both members of the Class of ’86.
Like all good dorks, I was active in student government back then. It was largely an exercise in résumé padding; we weren’t negotiating trade agreements with rival schools or quelling insurrections among the freshmen. We were there to add another line to our college applications. One of our only real responsibilities was to find a speaker for our commencement ceremony. The standard suggestions were bandied about: the mayor or some city hall functionary, maybe one of the local ministers.
Screw that, I said. We only graduate from this dump once. We need star power. We need a name.
I had one in mind. John Wilson was the area’s most popular news anchor, swiftly acquiring a reputation as “the Walter Cronkite of Tampa Bay.” Understand that cable TV was still relatively new and it was the tail end of the Ron Burgundy era. Seeing a local media personality in the flesh was akin to glimpsing a demigod. You’d talk about it for weeks. You’d call people on your landline phone to let them know the encounter had happened.
We have to get Wilson, I insisted, swatting away all other potential candidates like gnats. I’ll bet no other school has even thought of asking him. Our student government advisor finally tossed up his hands, which was pretty much all he ever did. Knock yourself out, he told me. Just leave time to arrange a back-up once he says no.
Why was I hellbent on being an adolescent Flo Ziegfeld? Maybe because I was a teenager in 1980s Florida who knew who Flo Ziegfeld was. Maybe because I’d scraped together enough financial aid and decent grades to go to college in Boston and I thought playing the impresario before I blew town would be a dazzling preview of my future big-city existence.
I remember how I felt when I received an envelope bearing the local TV station’s logo in response to my impassioned pitch letter, hammered out on the new typewriter I’d use to write every college paper. I remember the look on our student government advisor’s face when I deposited the letter on his desk and told him, “Wilson would be honored to do it.”
There was a buzz in the stands the sweltering night of the ceremony. Word was out about who’d be delivering the commencement address. School officials surrounded Wilson as he walked toward the stage in a phalanx, as if he were a mafia don or a foreign dignitary. After the interminable preliminaries, Wilson finally approached the microphone.
And coughed before apologizing for the terrible condition of his voice. He had come down with laryngitis at the worst possible time.
Out in the sea of soon-to-be graduates, I died a little.
Wilson soldiered on. He listed the many challenges we would face as we entered the wider world, noting that as he considered them, his own problems … didn’t seem so bad.
A sentiment delivered in full, booming, “And now, sports!” voice, all pretense of a throat ailment gone.
Was it hokum? Unquestionably. Expertly delivered hokum, because the stadium erupted in the loudest applause outside of the two consecutive 5A state football championship games it hosted. (We lost both times. Go Falcons.) Wilson went on to kill with the rest of his speech.
After the ceremony, which ended us with us tossing our graduation caps into the air even though we’d been expressly told not to, the principal gave me a double-barreled handshake and thanked me for getting Wilson to come to the school. I made the rounds with my friends that night, all the parents we encountered saying how impressive Wilson was. I didn’t see my own parents until the following morning, when my mother said, “That might have been the best speech I ever heard.”
A review of one of the Renee Patrick Golden Age Hollywood novels I wrote with Rosemarie referred to us as “cheerfully shameless name-droppers.” Guilty as charged. My closest friends have called me a starfucker. I’ll cop to that as well.
But there’s a reason for that behavior, which I’d started to figure out in high school. The world you inhabit is as big as you make it. Not every door will be slammed in your face. You might as well knock on the ones that interest you. (The story of how I lined up a commencement speaker will be the closest I ever come to delivering a commencement address. Don’t boo me.)
I signed on at the college newspaper and became the film critic and correspondent, interviewing artists who’d made an impact on me like Clive Barker and Terry Gilliam. My first adult job was at a trade magazine dedicated to a lucrative but dull industry. Whenever I found a boldfaced name even peripherally attached to the business—for instance, Jim Bouton, baseball pitcher, Yankees World Series hero, author of the greatest sports tell-all book Ball Four (1970), and co-star of the Philip Marlowe film The Long Goodbye (1973)—I sought them out for an interview to add pizzazz to our coverage. I kept it up when I edited Noir City, approaching any luminary who expressed a love for film noir to ask if they’d be open to contributing something. A surprising number said yes, their perspectives illuminating the subject in unexpected ways and drawing more readers to the magazine.
And I’m still at it. The week of my graduation anniversary, Chris Elford and I wrapped up a pivotal stage in A Hell of a Drink, the upcoming collection of Chris’ original horror-movie-inspired cocktails. It’s a bonus that I think will elevate the book, making it something truly special. Because the world of the book is as big as we make it.
John Wilson recently wrote a book about his career as a news anchor; I’d wager his commencement address doesn’t warrant a mention. A fun fact tying this story into A Hell of a Drink again: John is the father of actor Patrick Wilson, the Tony-nominated star of the Insidious and Conjuring movies who’s currently appearing in the TV reboot of Cape Fear, although for my money his best work is in Little Children (2006).
I mentioned to my mother that it had been forty years since I graduated high school. She immediately said, “Do you remember your man’s speech? It was so good.” I went into the archives of the St. Petersburg Times to find their coverage of 1986’s graduation season. I learned that our rich-kid foes at Countryside High landed our congressman for their ceremony. He cancelled and sent an aide to read his speech. I’m sure many remember that evening fondly.
As stated, I loathe Facebook, but it’s perfect for hosting, say, a group dedicated to your high school class. I posted the Times article about our graduation there. It generated dozens of responses. Multiple people mentioned John Wilson’s “laryngitis” gambit. One former classmate wrote, “I still talk about his speech to this day.”
It’s nice when your first production garners good reviews.
This is probably as tangential as could possibly be but, Patrick Wilson is my favorite Elvis impersonator.
Congratulations on your 40th High School reunion! I went to a private school run by Episcopal nuns, so our biggest get was the former Bishop of New York, Hugh Donegan.