You’re walking across the quads with a girl – strike that, a woman – from your class. And she hands you a stolen bottle of wine that she just lifted from the class dinner. The dinner where, minutes before, you were drunkenly handing the dean one of those ridiculous, oversized checks on behalf of the reunion committee.

Back in college, you were afraid to talk to her because she was entirely too attractive. And frankly, she still is. But earlier tonight, she somehow got you to recite the names of everyone you slept with in college, right at the eight person dinner table. And when you joked that you were looking forward to seeing an old classmate so he could tell you all the ways he’s smarter than you, she asked pointedly “Is he?”

” . . . He’s very smart,” you replied.

And she smiled with piercing eyes that must see right through your skull and said “you’re not answering the question.”

And now dinner is over, and you’re outside, and she’s drinking straight from the bottle. And you pause before raising it to your own lips, and mumble “are you sure?”. And she chuckles, and says “I’m not afraid. You’re good enough for Erin, so you’re good enough for me.” So you take a swig, and hand it back, and try to match her brisk pace toward The Pub for the after dinner reception.

Once there, the doorman wants to see your reunion badges. You show him yours, but she’s not wearing hers, and you say “Really? You’re not gonna let *her* in?” And soon you’re both in the heat of an overstuffed Pub, and backs are being slapped, and jokes are being told. “Some things never change – like Hamilton still doesn’t comb his hair!” And “he’s obviously from Texas, look what he’s wearing for Christ’s sake.” And suddenly you’re twenty-one again. Except cooler. And wiser. And able to speak to women without tripping or falling down a stairwell.

And somebody beat cancer. And somebody else’s divorce went well. And so-and-so has started a non-profit, or worked on the such-and-such campaign, or makes beautiful art, or amazing wine, or fill-in-the-blank. And you’re so happy to know these folks. And while some of your closest friends didn’t come, their absence left space for you to enjoy some of these other folks who might have been drowned out otherwise. And it’s hard to put into words, but you somehow like yourself more for having reconnected with these people.

And the next day you feel the full weight of a night stupidly filled with scotch, wine and beer. “Speaking for Early This Morning Mike, Now Mike and Later Today Mike, I’d like to say: up yours, Last Night Mike.” And you join a buddy for brunch and Bloody Marys. And you go back to the room to nap. And then you go to campus, and see your once proud fraternity house in a horrifying state. You stand at the top of the stairs to the basement, where so many of your fondest memories took place. And an unspeakable smell hits you, as if black mold and stale beer could mate and vomit out a baby. And you descend the steps into the very bowels of a balrog. And you can’t bear it. So you go upstairs, and the brothers show you around the bedrooms, and it’s like those heartbreaking pictures from third world slums. And before you’re even aware of what’s happening, you ask them “how do you *live* in this place?” But it just slipped out, and you instantly regret it. Because housing is expensive, and tuition is even worse. And what kind of asshole comes into somebody’s bedroom and insults it? But they are gracious and respectful of the old timer in their midst. And you remember that you haven’t yet cut the check for the house renovation project. And you curse yourself and vow to get that done.

Then you walk around on campus. And memories flood back, unbidden. And some of the group wants to go to the such-and-such reception. But it’s all somehow too much. So you sneak away, and find some lost part of yourself in the hushed sanctuary that is Harper Memorial Library. Oh, how you have missed this place.

Then it’s time to meet for dinner, which is great. And you all proceed to the IFC sing, which has always been an odd tradition in your view. But you watch your fraternity brothers – old and young alike – compete with rival fraternities and sororities for trophies related to how well they sing. (“Here’s to good old Delta, drink her down, drink her down!”) And if you had just been willing to wear a jacket for a second night in a row, you’d be up there on stage with them, and earning the trophy they would later win. And you marvel at how socially adept, and happy, and healthy, and well-adjusted, and freaking handsome or gorgeous all of these students look. Because when you were here, it was a total nerd school. And you’re not sure how you feel about it.

Then you head to a bar owned by one of your fraternity brothers. And it’s jam packed with beautiful people. And you realize that the knucklehead you went to college with owns the coolest bar in Chicago:

And all manner of hilarity ensues. And at 1:30AM, you make the preposterous decision to drive to El Gallo de Oro, the mythical burrito joint located in an absurdly dangerous part of town. And it is glorious and stupid in equal measure.

And you pass out on the drive home, and begin talking in your sleep. But when asked about it, you stubbornly (and dubiously) protest that you were participating in their conversation – whatever conversation you missed because you were unconscious.

And all too soon it’s morning, and time to get up and get to the airport. And you’re mercifully upgraded to first class, which makes your second hangover in as many days so much more bearable. And the flight feels so brief. And you’re back in Texas in no time at all.

You step into your car and pull away from the airport. And on the highway back to your present life, you reflect on how time travel *is* possible. And how you’re returning from a place you never really left. And you’re momentarily disoriented when the fact that you’re a parent of four children returns to your awareness – which isn’t something you really forgot but also maybe did? And you’re so glad you went, and you’re so glad you’re back, and you’re not sure which of several conflicting emotions to fix in your consciousness. And after driving in a muddled cloud of wistful longing and beaming satisfaction, regret and joy, you pull into your driveway. And you probably should have brought your kids something cooler than the four pairs of free sunglasses you grabbed as an afterthought. And then your son points out that they actually have bottle openers on the ends, and oh my God why didn’t you grab six?!? And now you’re home, and you’re no longer confused, and your name is Daddy.