Happy Birthday to Me

by Brian Rowe

  It’s so ironic. I’m looking out at all these seniors. But I’m the only real senior here. I’m the first true senior to ever attend his own senior prom!

  There were at least five people in front of me signing their names in the big, brown book.

  “Hey, could we hurry it up a little?” I asked, stumbling over my words. “This night isn’t gonna last forever you know!”

  The black-haired girl in front of me—I think her name was Stacy—turned around and glared at me with quiet disapproval.

  The brunette in front of her—I had no idea what her name was—didn’t look at me with animosity; instead, she smiled. “Hi Cameron.”

  I winked back. “Hello, pretty lady.”

  “Where’s your date?”

  I laughed, not in a subtle manner, but with the high-pitched zeal of an overexcited orangutan. “I’m going stag, baby. You want to change that for me?”

  I pushed past Stacy and wrapped my arm around the girl—let’s call her Lola—and leaned in to kiss her. She ducked her head in horror and started running in the other direction.

  “Fine!” I shouted down the hall. “Be that way!”

  I waited another minute until deciding to pass on the sign-in book.

  Trust me. People will remember I was here.

  The old lady at the photo booth, a short and portly woman with misshapen breasts and an obvious blonde wig, smiled at me as I walked up to her.

  “Hello,” she said. “Are you one of the chaperones?”

  This woman clearly hadn’t heard about my condition, which I figured by now was news that had swept through all of Reno. Funny enough she assumed I was nothing more ordinary than a fragile old man.

  “Uhh… sure, I am.”

  “Wonderful. How can I help you?”

  “I would like a picture, please.”

  She stared at me, confused, her lips pursed. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “I’d like a picture in the photo booth.”

  She glanced at the booth as if it were an extra-terrestrial. She turned back to me and opened her mouth wide before speaking. “I’m sorry, Sir. The booth is for students only.”

  “Well… see… technically… I am a student.”

  “No, you’re a chaperone.”

  “Please,” I said, trying not to scream in the old lady’s face. “It would really mean a lot to me.”

  She looked behind me to see that there were no students waiting.

  “Well, all right. But it’s a bit strange if you ask me.”

  I made my way into the booth, which had a cheesy Hawaiian surf theme as a backdrop. I put my thumbs up in the air, widening my smile to the point of absurdity, as she took two photos of me.

  “Thank you,” I said, making my way out of the booth. “Was that so hard?”

  I turned to my right and bashed my knee into a small table. I let out a scream as I tumbled down against the carpet.

  “Oh my!” the lady shouted. “Sir, are you all right?”

  A few weeks ago I would’ve jumped right back up to my feet and roared with laughter at my clumsiness. But as I lay on the ground, the shooting pain starting at my legs and creeping all the way to my upper back, I found nothing to laugh about.

  “Damn it,” I said.

  “Let me help you.”

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  I pushed her hand away. I was bound and determined to get up on my own, but it was more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I had to support both my hands on the table beside me before making my way up to my feet, my legs wobbling enough to make me wonder if I’d be crashing any moment back against the ground.

  “Thank you,” I said, standing up straight. “Now I better go chaperone those kids for all they’re worth, right, honey bunch?”

  The old woman didn’t answer back. She just glared at me before turning around and making her way back to the photo booth.

  That picture’s gonna be so great of me. Mom and Dad are gonna be so proud.

  I stepped carefully into the dance room, making sure not to fall over again. By now almost everyone had made their way inside, and I could see myself surrounded by hundreds of students. There were a few adult chaperones standing off to the side, but before me were mostly juniors and seniors, all waiting to get through this over-hyped party so they could go home and really get the party started.

  Beat you all to it!

  I took a swig from my flask, filled with the strongest vodka I could find, and started stumbling toward the right side of the room. My first goal tonight was to find the punch bowl. In every movie I’d seen with a prom, there was always that big punch bowl filled with red, watery goop. I had to see if such a thing existed. I looked for it for a minute or two, but didn’t see anything.

  Then I turned around to see a big HD camera jammed in my face.

  “Cameron! You made it!”

  Wesley stood before me, looking sharp in a blue-and-black tuxedo, his curly hair in a ponytail.

  “Hey buddy!” I shouted.

  I pushed past the camera and gave Wesley a big hug that he clearly wasn’t expecting.

  “Whoa! Watch it! Don’t touch the camera!”

  “I’m sorry, I know,” I said, taking a step back but keeping my right hand on his shoulder. “It’s like a daughter to you, isn’t it? I wouldn’t dare lay a finger on it.”

  I laughed and started coughing.

  “Whoa, Cameron, are you… are you drunk?”

  Wesley caught on quickly, despite the loud talking and even louder music blasting against our ears on all sides.

  “Where’s your date?” Wesley asked.

  “She stood me up.”

  “She what?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I went to her apartment. Didn’t show. I guess she just didn’t want to be seen at the prom with a ninety-year-old.”

  “Cam, you’re not ninety.”

  “Yeah, well I’m getting there.”

  “You look good! I’ve never seen you in a tux before. Seriously, this is the best you’ve ever looked!”

  “That’s nice of you, Wes. But I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Would I lie in front of my camera?”

  He brought the camera back up to my eye level and started filming me. “So tell me, Cameron. How does it feel to be at your senior prom?”

  I sighed and turned around. “Not now, Wes. Can we do this later?”

  Where’s the punch?

  I spent the next five minutes covering most of the room, searching far and wide for the mysterious drink.

  And then I saw it. The punch bowl sat on a table near the emergency exit doors in the back. Four students stood in front of it, while an older female chaperone hovered nearby.

  “Move it or lose it, people,” I said, making my way to the punch bowl as if the famous Hawaiian drink inside of it was the answer to regaining my lost youth. I dunked the ladle into the punch and poured it into a small paper cup. I drank it slowly and smacked my lips together.

  “Mmm,” I said in a loud voice. “Could use a little rum, but not bad!”

  “Hello Mr. Martin.”

  Oh, no. I recognize that voice.

  “Mrs. Gordon.”

  She wore a sparkly silver dress, her hair up in a bun, her cheeks sporting a pound or two of rouge. She looked different than usual, not exactly better, but different.

  “Having a good time tonight?” she asked.

  “No, not really. My date stood me up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

  She cleared her throat, clearly not appreciative of my tone. “I’m one of the chaperones, Mr. Martin. I chaperone the senior prom every year.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can keep an eye on all the students, naturally.”

  “Yeah? Why do you care? I mean, you’re a librarian. Shouldn’t you be at home reading a book or something? It seems like this would be the last place you’d want to b
e.”

  “Well that’s not true, Cameron. That’s not true at all.”

  I stopped and stared at her, at a loss for words. “I’m sorry. I just need to take in this moment.” I scratched my chin before crossing my arms forcefully. “Did you just call me, Cameron?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “In four years, you’ve never called me anything but Mr. Martin.”

  “Oh,” she said with a laugh. “Must’ve slipped out.”

  “Yeah, must’ve. I didn’t think you even knew my first—” I knocked my right leg against the table, and almost lost my balance again.

  She took a step closer to me. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I took another sip of the punch.

  “Mr. Martin, I hate to ask…”

  “What?”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Of course not.”

  I turned around. I needed to get away from her. The more I talked to the old broad, the more I thought she was developing some kind of unnatural crush on me.

  “Well, I better get back,” I said, not waiting for a response.

  I headed back toward Wes and his beloved camera. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him rocking out on the dance floor, jumping all around with an adorable African-American girl in the center of the dance floor.

  I smiled for the first time in the last hour or so, but the happiness dissipated in a matter of seconds when I saw who was dancing to the left of Wesley.

  Charisma and Ryan, grinding up against each other so close they looked like a singular human body, were already sweaty from dancing. Worse, they were French kissing.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Charisma and I had talked about this night. She was always meant to be here with me. And now here she was, perfectly happy with another guy, acting as if I and all the months we spent together had been completely erased from her short-term memory.

  I meant to only think it, but the following ended up escaping my mouth before I could stop it: “CHEERS TO THE GREATEST NIGHT OF OUR LIVES, RIGHT, CHARISMA?”

  I pulled out my flask and took another swig. I tried to look macho, but the burn in my throat made me rest my hands on my knees and start coughing again.

  By the time I looked up, Charisma and Ryan had stopped dancing. I was more than a little surprised to see my ex-girlfriend making her way over to me.

  “Cameron? Is that you?”

  I took a step closer to her. “Baby.” I put my hands out to touch her. I didn’t have feelings for her any longer—I made that assessment weeks ago—but in my drunken state now I would’ve touched any attractive young female that moved.

  She slapped my hands away. “You’re so old,” she said, staring at me with both amazement and antipathy. “You’re sick, Cam. You need help. You shouldn’t be here.”

  I tried to rub my hands on her shoulders, when Ryan pulled her away. “As the lady said. Go home.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Am I interrupting your pleasant evening? You know, Charisma, the one we were supposed to spend together?”

  I knew in my heart this was the last time I was going to speak to her. I didn’t need to hold anything back.

  “Cameron, don’t. You’re drunk. Go home.”

  “I’m not drunk!” I shouted. “And even if I was, it’d be perfectly legal. I’m in my sixties, after all!”

  Charisma shook her head. “We just saw you drink vodka from that flask. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  At this point everyone in the room had stopped dancing, deciding my newsworthy run-in with my ex was worthy of a first-row viewing. “It’s just water. I swear.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Would a drunk man do this?”

  I turned to my right and pulled Aaron, standing front and center in the crowd, up to my face. He looked sharp in his tux, wearing a funny yellow bow tie.

  “Cam, hello—”

  I planted a big, wet kiss on him. When I pulled away, Aaron backed up in a daze, his confused lips slowly forming into a giant smile.

  “That doesn’t disprove you’re drunk!” Charisma shouted. “That just proves you’re gay!”

  “No. Look at you. It proves I can still make you jealous.”

  She shook her head and started marching away. “No. It’s over. Forever. Do you read my lips? Forever!”

  “Yeah? Who needs you! As soon as I started changing, you ditched me for these leftover scraps!”

  Ryan pushed me back with an unfriendly shove. “That’s enough, old man. Get out of here if you know what’s good for you. I’m serious.”

  I could see Wesley creeping toward me with his camera, which was blinking that seizure-inducing red light. I turned to him and started shaking my head. Don’t, Wes.

  “Ryan, listen to me carefully,” I said, taking a few steps back, “if you push me one more time, you’re gonna be sorry.”

  Ryan started shaking his hands, mocking me. “Ooooh, I’m really scared. Guys who look like my great-grandfather really intimidate the hell out of me.” He pushed me again, this time even harder. “Take your best shot, old man. Let’s see what ya got.”

  “Shut up, Ryan!” I shouted.

  “No.”

  “Shut up, you dumb shit!”

  Ryan laughed. “Better than a dumb shit than an old shit. Shouldn’t you be dead by now?”

  I couldn’t stop myself. I punched Ryan in the face. It hurt like hell, my hand screaming in pain.

  Ryan stumbled back but didn’t fall.

  “Stop it!” Charisma shouted. “The two of you, stop it right now!”

  I didn’t have time to think as Ryan charged toward me. He put his arms out and pushed against my frail body with all of his body weight, like I was on his same level, and not a man with bones near the breaking point.

  I had no time to dodge his hit. He dragged me a few yards, all the way toward the table with the punch bowl. He released me with one last mighty push.

  I fell awkwardly against the bowl, the sharp edges of it grinding up against my back. The table fell out from underneath me, and my body crashed against the hardwood floor, the Hawaiian punch splashing against my tux, red enough for many to assume it was my blood.

  The pain was excruciating. I didn’t think I had broken anything, but I hurt all over.

  Worse, I didn’t think I could get back up this time.

  And even worse than that, I saw Wesley lunging toward me with his camera, clearly excited that he had just caught a full-blown action sequence on film.

  Don’t you dare, Wes.

  He pushed it toward my face.

  Don’t!

  He stopped right in front of me.

  “Get that damn thing out of my face!”

  I punched the camera just like I had punched Ryan. When it smashed against the hardwood floor, the lens shattered into a dozen pieces.

  “No. Oh no no no. Not again!”

  Wesley kneeled down and started tending to his wounded camera.

  I gawked at the lens in horror, and I was about to apologize when two strong hands hoisted me up from behind.

  “All right. Come with me. Come with me, Cameron.”

  The voice sounded familiar.

  You, again. Why can’t you just leave me alone?

  She pulled me into a side hallway that led to the bathrooms and side exit gate and sat me down on a low wooden bench that was barely big enough to sit two people. My head was spinning by this point, so much so that I saw three of Mrs. Gordon, which was, no doubt about it, three too many. I didn’t know what would make me feel better at this point—throwing up or passing out.

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Cameron,” Mrs. Gordon said, hovering over me in a scary, threatening manner. “You are above this behavior.”

  “I’m not interested in your opinion—”

  “Well, you should be. You just brought alcohol t
o a school function! I can take you straight to the school administrators! Do you understand me? I can have you expelled!”

  “Then expel me, damn it!” I shouted. “I don’t have much time left on this planet, anyway.”

  She leaned down and slapped me in the face. Despite all my pain elsewhere, the slap actually hurt a great deal.

  “Oww!” I shouted. “What was that for!”

  “Don’t you talk like that, Cameron! Don’t you ever talk like that. You can’t give up! You have to keep going, you understand me?”

  “What do you care?” I asked, trying not to slump over and fall to the floor.

  “I care about all the students at Caughlin Ranch High.”

  “No you don’t. You only care about making them suffer.”

  “I make you suffer?”

  “No,” I said, my headache worsening. “You just drive me crazy.”

  “Really?” I sensed a smile forming on her alien face. “Well I’m glad.”

  She sat next to me, and if I weren’t in so much pain, I might’ve tried to push her away, or, at least, question her previous statement.

  “You have so much to offer, Cameron. So, so much, it’s ridiculous.”

  Cameron, again. What the hell alternate universe have I found myself in?

  “You have to listen to me,” she continued. “I think you need to reevaluate your situation and realize how much you have to look forward to.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I couldn’t help but laugh at that one. “I’m sixty-four years old today, Mrs. Gordon. Just what exactly do I have to look forward to? I mean, I’m almost your age.”

  “I’m fifty-eight,” she said.

  “Same difference.”

  The headache was evolving into a migraine. I started massaging my sweaty forehead with my pinkies and leaned forward.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No… no, I’m not.”

  “Here,” she said. “Take my hand. I have no choice but to get you some help.”

  I figured she was taking me to a medical wing in the building, but a minute later I felt the cool, crisp night air smash against my sweat-stained face.

  A minute after that she started helping me into her Volkswagen Beetle.

  Where the hell is she taking me?

  ---

  I think I managed to sleep during the entire car ride because when I came to, I was being promptly escorted into a warm, old-timey home that, like the car, I had never laid eyes on before.