"Hey! What happened to you? Whatever happened to me? What became of the people we used to be?" -- "Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads?" by Snuff

Maybe it was the gin and juice. Or just the almost unlimited time to reflect, recline and relax. The past was flowing strong this week, buffered by bouts of occasional concentration or other recreational activities, but moving through my head nonetheless.

They used to have names attached. And many had clearer faces and bodies and voices, but these days everything starts to run together. And, when I think about it, who cares if I remember everything? Just that I remember something, that there was a time, not so long ago, when these things happened. I had a different body back then. I had a different look. I had a different mind. So, I was a different person. Separating that person from today is easy. I can do it just like...

We used to go to Lubbock, Texas, for lots of rock shows. This was the closest place for us small town kids to go. The coliseum (or basketball stadium or whatever) was just off the highway, hardly into the city at all. Barely drive into town, take the exit and there you go. A small city of boys wearing black t-shirts (most from the last concert that went through town) and torn up jeans. Girls wearing the tightest of tight clothes (yep, little girls slutted up even Before Britney). Hair as high as you could get it, long as you could get it, rat-tails and mullets everywhere you looked.

I don't remember which shows or what exact time of high school I started meeting the girl at these concerts. I don't remember what show we met at first, but it seems like I was in tenth grade. And by the time I was a senior, well, we'd both found someone who didn't live two hours away. It was the first approximation of sexual closeness in my young life. Although, if we actually kissed, I don't really remember.

When I went to these shows, I felt like I was a different guy than when I was home. I had no past and no future, so I could do what I wanted. I was young and small for my age, and she was even shorter (although I think she was slightly older) than me. But for a few concerts, we stood back from the crush, watched the spectacle and held each other. She wrote me a couple of letters, and I wrote her back. And then, sometime later, we both moved on.

Memory is tricky. It is coated with a glaze of self-importance and a need to fix the past. Sometimes I convince myself of one past, when I know, way in the back, that I'm just trying to make myself feel better.

I was ready to graduate from high school--the school part anyway. And I was definitely ready to rebel. I hadn't really done any good rebelling before I graduated. I think I drank a couple of beers plus a bit of liquor my parents had around (they didn't keep much in the house) during all of high school. I'd snuck out of the house a few times and roamed the neighborhood in the dead of night with a couple of friends. But school-wise, I was the straightest of the arrows. I got called in for skipping once because I was the Student Rotarian for the week (and received a free lunch from those folks) and my teacher turned my name in as absent. I wanted to be a bad boy, but I didn't want to fuck up.

When I got my fake diploma (we got the real ones after the ceremony) during graduation, they noted that I graduated with honors. The guy (and I can't remember who this was either--it was a member of the community who, apparently, wanted to stand up on stage for an hour and give out fake diplomas) looked at me with my burgeoning glam rock doo (almost beneath my shoulders!) and said, "With honors? I'm surprised."

At least that's what I told everyone he said. And if you look at the photo of me getting my fake diploma, it looks like I've just been slapped in the face. So I had this proof. I was fooling them, you see. I was a hooligan, but smart at the same time!

What he really said was, "With honors? I'm impressed."

In the last few months I've gotten e-mails from random people I went to school with. And I don't remember their names a lot of the time. I have to look them up in the yearbooks and sometimes they're not there. Of course, sometimes they are. Not a ton of people, but it seems like the incidences are increasing. Like everyone my age is hitting a reflective time. Maybe they're getting divorced, having a kid, getting fired, getting a new job, or are somehow miserable enough to reach out and touch something from the past.

I'm nice. I explain my situation, my job, my writing and tell them to write back if they want. Most don't. It's like they just wanted to point at a distant star and wonder if someone is thinking about them there.

Matt Worley would have some words with his former self if they ever met on the street.