Feeling a bit under the weather recently (no, not that), my wife recommended I spend part of a Sunday afternoon in bed resting. As I am wont to do, I soon grew restless and a few minutes later, I was scrolling through my phone. As the technical rabbit hole often goes, I picked up bits of since-forgotten trivia and eventually ended up at a website that compiled old yearbooks from high schools across the country. Curiosity conspired with boredom and I kept digging.
I would describe my sentimentality for high school as limited. I have never purported that those four years under government tutelage were the best of my life. In fact, it wasn’t much fun. It’s not that I was a high school loser and spent my time in tortured humiliation. I wasn’t significant enough to be considered a loser. I was just a cipher; bored in the classroom, stiflingly introverted, and unimpressed with my peers. With those years safely in the rearview mirror, I decided to finally take a peek back.
I attended a large metropolitan school that graduates over a thousand kids each spring, so finding my senior yearbook was not difficult, aged as it is. A few clicks later, I was transported back into a time of boundless opportunity and passive annoyance. Never concerned with popularity or even fitting in, I was able to spend my time comfortably oblivious as I watched a multitude of opportunities drift by while thinking I would find my social moorings prior to graduation and make up for lost time in one memorable semester.
Considering I didn’t find my social moorings until about five years ago, my high school ambitions died on the vine. I walked out into the warm night following an excruciatingly long commencement service already regretting the wasted time. I vowed to do better in college. Despite a protracted stay, this didn’t exactly happen either.
Ankle-deep in meaningless nostalgia, my mind retrieved the names of the girls I never summoned the courage to talk to socially. Those who had carved indelible images in my mind were revisited one by one, anticipation building as I clumsily scrolled through the scanned pages behind a cracked Android screen. Landing on names that once caused my then-flat stomach to flutter, I arrived at the portraits of my nubile classmates that had melted me so many years ago.
The names corresponded with lovely faces, but with an added detail I’d forgotten. These attractive young ladies were helmeted by unruly nests of brittle hair, annealed by aerosol spray and curling irons. The follicle strands extended in various directions, often consuming the entire backdrop. I’ve never been overly concerned with my role in climate change, but after seeing the ozone depletion that went into making those photographs, I think we might have some culpability.
But don’t take my word for it. A pop-up ad offered proof, available in the original handsome, hardbound edition for only $99.95, plus shipping and handling.
While my pleasant memories were being eroded in a noxious haze of Aqua Net, I decided to dig deeper, checking out my own entry in the collection of senior class stylized mugshots. I was curious to find out if my photo was the disaster I remembered it to be. Though I was never a proponent of hair spray (I was partial to a fluorescent follicle glue called LA Looks), I imagined my portrait would perfectly encapsulate my high school career, depicting me with my resting expression of clueless contempt.
It was a peculiar harbinger about life after school, as the senior class was bombarded with commerce. Education was one thing, but there was no dearth of companies lining up to commemorate our last three years in pricey souvenirs. The portfolio of photos was expensive on its own, but there was more. We were tempted with a barrage of books, caps, gowns, tassels, rings, diploma frames, announcements, and t-shirts.
I convinced my mom to buy me the age-appropriate porcelain beer stein. On the front was our school logo; on back was the names of the graduating class. Mine was visible with the aid of moderate magnification, near the bottom of the last column. I don’t know where this souvenir is or if it even still exists. I also purchased a souvenir tassel in the event the beer from the stein eventually caused me to forget which year I graduated.
I’ve never particularly cared for having my photograph taken and throughout school, photo day had never been a big deal. It was like any other ordained activity. I showed up and participated with minimal enthusiasm. My parents knew the photography was inconsistent at best, and expectations were always held in check. My marching orders from home were straightforward. Make sure your hair is combed. Don’t get dirty until after the photo is taken. Try to smile. Invariably, my mother’s final caveat was to avoid looking like somebody she referred to as Ned in the First Reader--ostensibly Joe Shit the Ragbag’s less problematic little brother.
Senior pictures are different. This was such a momentous occasion that it took place off campus. The project had been commissioned to a prestigious portrait studio. This would be quantified later when packages and pricing was discussed. Further, the photos were taken in the summer prior to the senior year. An informational packet explaining everything was delivered late in July. I tried to dismiss it as junk mail, but my dad, Mr. School Spirit, rescued it and was promptly cast into a reflective mood.
By way of reference, I was very familiar with each of my parent’s senior portraits. My mother’s was displayed at my grandmother’s house and had been featured in the local newspaper, for reasons I never fully understood. I believe the photograph won an award of some sort. My mother, as a high school senior, was portrayed in a wooded area wearing a pumpkin-colored, crocheted sweater and supporting a sapling that was growing diagonally.
My father not only still had his senior portrait, but had managed to hold on to all of his high school yearbooks. They were stored at my grandmother’s house where I would peruse them from time to time for the entertainment value. To his credit, my dad was very dapper in a blue and white pinstriped suit, his blond hair pushed to the side like Glen Campbell. The result looked like Malibu Ken portraying Atticus Finch.
As it was clear that I was not getting out of this photo shoot, I read through the letter and accompanying brochure to get a better idea of just how bad it was going to be. I would sit for a staid portrait that would be used for the yearbook. Beyond that, I would be given the opportunity to express myself in a series of photographs. This might entail bringing props or a change of clothes. If I really wanted to get carried away, I could venture offsite for a series of nature shots at an area park.
The brochure samples showed an attractive girl posed in her cheerleading uniform while flanked by pompoms and a megaphone. A young man was shown holding a BMX helmet under one arm and a hunting rifle slung across the opposite shoulder. Yet another young lady had traveled to a nearby desert and was posed contemplatively beneath a Saguaro while holding a heavily dogeared Edith Wharton novel.
Creativity aside, I had other problems that were more pressing. This was not a t-shirt affair, which meant I’d need to borrow something more formal from my father. August in Oklahoma is the last time you want to put on a coat and tie, but that was the edict. My wardrobe at the time had no semblance of formal. I had a white button-up shirt I got for Easter one year. My lone neck tie had been handed down from my father. It was a maroon knit number that was somewhat trendy at the time. He rejected it as unprofessional and queer-looking so I gladly snatched it up and added it to my walk-in closet of miscellany where it resided alongside with my collection of old periodicals and discarded license plates.
My dad’s work clothes were about as adventurous as ham and cheese on white, giving me few options in the way of variety. I knew that whatever I chose, I’d arrive at the studio smelling of Winston kings and Polo Green and looking like an accounting prodigy.
The afternoon of my appointment, my mother left work to take me, for no other reason than to make sure I actually showed up. My dad, after raving about the importance of senior portraits, couldn’t be bothered. My sister tagged along, presumably because she has always taken a sadistic satisfaction from watching her brother squirm.
When we arrived at the studio, I was treated like a celebrity. A minor celebrity, but still a person of measured importance. An effeminate, energetic assistant did his best to make me comfortable prior to being called into the studio. I was offered refreshments while I waited in the spacious, tastefully furnished waiting area. For my part, I behaved like a minor celebrity--brooding, glowering, and annoyed by the attention I was receiving.
“Did you bring any props?” He asked.
I played dumb.
“Am I making a presentation?”
“It’s just that most, or a lot of the seniors, like props and clothing changes,” he said.
“Nah,” I said. “I’m hoping to wrap this up before Divorce Court.”
The studio was vast, dimly lit and generously air conditioned. The photographer met me at the door and ushered me in.
“Where are your props?” he asked.
I was seated on an adjustable stool in front of a backdrop and surrounded by intense lights. We went through a series of warm-up shots in an effort to get me comfortable with the camera. The initial setup was to get a portrait for the yearbook, which is all I cared about, though only vaguely. After a few minutes, he got several shots he thought would work. At that point, I was ready to go. However, we weren’t finished.
“Alright,” said the photographer. “Now, let’s have some fun.”
“O-kay,” I said with an uncomfortable smirk and arched eyebrows.
My only desire was to leave. To shed the coat and tie, to go home and put on shorts and a Spud McKenzie t-shirt and rot the waning days of summer on the sofa soaking up syndicated television programming. I thought I was being helpful by offering the photographer a few minutes to rest prior to the next truck pulled up and starting loading in for the next appointment.
However, the photographer was insistent. Actually, I believe he was contractually obligated. Whatever the case, it became clear that I was not leaving until we produced a kicked-back counterpart to my formal headshot.
I could see the photographer’s wheels turning. I came with no props and no change of clothing. By being low maintenance--or more accurately, hostilely apathetic--I was turning out to be the most challenging sitting of the day. After a few moments of contemplation, the photographer raised his index finger and announced that he had it.
I was instructed to take off my tie and unbutton my shirt. My jacket was tossed casually over my shoulder and I was led over to a glowing Coke machine where I was instructed to lean against it. We did several variations on this theme, including one with my foot on the machine and another with it propped on a wooden block, Captain Morgan style. My expression was mysterious. Seductive.
Wilson, Steven C. Shot 12B: Chester the Molester
“Don’t worry girls, I may be graduating, but I’ll still be on campus. Frequently!”
It was contrived and silly and there was no way my mother was going to pay for such pap, but the obligation had been met and I was dismissed. A few weeks later, I was called in to view the proofs which provided an equally awkward experience. I selected my yearbook photo by closing my eyes and pointing at the sheet. I never saw it again.
Until now. As I’d gone to the trouble, I scrolled on to see if I’d remembered myself accurately. I felt a nervous anticipation as I scanned the names and photographs until I found myself as a high school senior. Page 119, The Redskin: On Our Way, it was high school me.
Glaring with clueless contempt.
