Excerpt: Homecoming: A Comedy of Errands

Jackson sat at the stop sign longer than state driving laws demanded. Three or four minutes longer than required, to be honest, but with nobody on the road behind him, what did it matter? Just him and the stop sign, with its bold clear message of "THOU SHALT NOT PASS WITHOUT AT LEAST PAUSING MOMENTARILY TO ADMIRE MY REDNESS!"

He put a calming hand on his waist. He had no idea why his stomach was so jumpy, but he knew that if he turned onto the main road that headed through town and into the college, it would only get worse. The mixture of high excitement and anxious dread sloshed around his belly, causing his left leg to jitter unceasingly.

It's just homecoming, he thought. Millions of people do it every year. Nothing more than a dog-and-pony show for alumni before the college crudely asked them to empty out their wallets and "give generously". As if repaying student loans wasn't bad enough.

Just homecoming. Just a letter in the mail reminded him that, oh hey, it's been a decade and a half since you've visited, so why not come back to see your classmates? And their big fat checkbooks? Why not compare successes and failures and tummy tucks and house square footage and number of kids? Jackson read the announcement while imagining his mother's voice scolding him for neglect.

I got the last one beat if anyone asks.

A honk startled him out of his daze. The driver of the car behind him flipped him the bird for encouragement, and Jackson reluctantly pulled out onto the street. It didn't help his nerves that his minivan was unnaturally quiet without the chatter, screams and squabbles of the boys. The silence unnerved him so much that he drove with the radio blasting most of the way there, just to simulate the audio chaos he was accustomed to.

A few minutes later, and he passed under the familiar stone arch with the weather-worn inscription of "E. Manning College est. 1906". As if he never left, the campus unfolded before him, nostalgia taking his breath away. A pair of students walked across the quad, the one hooking a thumb under a backpack strap while the other laughed at some unheard joke. The wind whipped up, and fallen leaves of every color swirled up into the air, then settled back down for their long slumber.

Jackson pulled up in front of the administration building and turned off the car.

You never left, his right brain declared. It was all just a dream. Now just get out, go in there, and register for classes.

Dreams don't cause male pattern baldness and put you into a vehicle littered with Cheerios and Kool-Aid stains, his left brain rebutted.

Jackson looked in the rear-view mirror and declared Left Brain a winner. The fringe of scruffy black hair wasn't going to hold back the advances of his shiny hairless noggin for too much longer. Perhaps it was time to shave it all off, just get it done with. He'd been thinking that for months, but couldn't quite bring himself to concede defeat. You never know when the aging process might reverse itself without warning, of course.

The war in his tummy abated. Excitement won out and he bounded up the stairs and through the oak doors. He'd talked to Greg just last week over the phone, and the relief of falling into old patterns of jokes, insults and genuine warmth almost helped to allay any fears about returning. The way they went back and forth for a good hour, as Jackson hunched in his cubicle and pretended to be doing actual work, sparked something inside him that had went dim a long time ago. It was barely an ember, at that, flickering right before being squelched for good.

Yet one phone conversation, and he was surprised to feel his personality thawing, as his brain slowly remembered that it wasn't always like this, with Shelly and the chain gang (as he privately called the kids) competing with work to suck him dry. He wanted this. He needed it. To feel warm again, if just for a weekend.

Inside the foyer, he paused to frown at the directory board. HUGHES, GREG S. - 201 A, it read. Well, he couldn't expect a welcoming committee at the gate. In fact, he had no idea what to expect. You can always try to imagine how something will go, and unfailingly it will refuse to progress according to your mental plan.

Jackson called Greg up on his cell. "I'm here, man! Where are you?"

"I've got a thing, it's going to take me a half hour or so. Can I meet you then?" Greg sounded apologetic. "Work, y'know?"

"Sure," Jackson didn't care; they had all weekend. Maybe he could grab some coffee. He was up to a good eight cups a day, and it was a bad time to go cold turkey. "Meet me at the Tavern?"

"The what?" Greg paused, then laughed. "Oh, man, you haven't been reading your alumni newsletter, have you? They tore the Tavern down six years ago, built a new student union on the same spot. Gleason Recreational Center, but everyone calls it the Glee."

"Sacrilege!"

"Tell me about it. At least it has air hockey and awesome espresso. See you there in 30?"

Jackson agreed and hung up, alone once more with his meddling thoughts. He turned to leave the administration center, when the doors open to admit a gaggle of pimply teens and their parents. He paused, politely waiting for them to pass, when one of the dads with a sticker that said "HI, MY NAME IS TODD" stuck out his hand and said, "Hey, are you the tour guide?"

He blinked, but didn't hesitate. "Yes, yes I am," Jackson lied. "Jackson Price."