DIANE MAKAR MURPHY Search for old classmates reveals some surprises

I have this strange hobby of tracking down old friends, acquaintances, classmates, boyfriends, relatives ... as far as free Internet searches will take me. Since I've lived in 10 different cities since I graduated high school, it's kind of fun. Once in a while, a name pops up on my computer screen, and I get to read an article about an old crush or pal.
Recently, I visited a site for high school searches and checked out the students of my graduating class.
For free, I could see their occupations, whether they owned a pet or not, where they lived, and a comment. Maybe even a picture would be available.
For a small fee, I COULD go a step further and read exhaustive surveys filled out by my classmates. But that would be bordering on psychotic stalker behavior, don't you think? (Sort of like the link to the $29.95 "Complete Background Check" with employment history, arrest record, and public records search, also available on the site.)
Besides, like I said, it's a free hobby the way I do it.
Close pals
First, I checked for all of my close high school pals. Two were listed. One, I discovered, had become a psychologist, earned a doctorate and hadn't married -- at least she hadn't changed her last name. Another had enrolled with the site but hadn't left any data.
I checked out Tony Koken (all names are changed to protect the innocent), a fellow I dated after graduation. He was a really nice guy who studied computers before anyone knew how popular they would become. In response to the prompt, "What would your old classmates be surprised to hear about you?" Tony had written, "I'm a big, fat white guy now." Great.
Finally, I put in my graduation year and started scrolling through the names. Our graduating class had 500 students, and I would have guessed I knew most of them. But I would have been wrong. As I scrolled through the list, I wondered, "Who in the heck ARE all these people? Am I looking at the right year?"
Then and now
Then I saw the name Joey Mekers. It was vaguely familiar. Oh yeah! Joey Mekers! He dated a friend of mine in middle school, but that wasn't why I remembered him. The annotation read: "Politics: Conservative. Major: Education."
My, how the times have changed.
The last time I saw Joey, he was standing on a tailgate at an impromptu pre-game pep rally in the nearly abandoned Garfield Park. My friends and I had a bottle of Southern Comfort hidden in somebody's coat -- the first, last, and only bottle of Southern Comfort I have ever had the sickeningly sweet experience of drinking from. Also, the first, last, and only time I drank liquor in a public park.
Others in the band of 100 or so teens had other illegal things, but Joey outdid us all. I can picture him rising above the front of the crowd. With a freckled face and a raised arm, clutching his drug of choice, he shouted joyfully, "I've got _____, who wants some?"
I genuinely don't remember what it was he said or had. But it was something worse than marijuana. LSD? Heroin? What did bad Blue Collar teens have in the '70s? I don't know. But that's not the point anymore, is it? The guy's pushing 50 now, has two kids, a dog, a house in the suburbs of Cleveland, voted for President Bush, and is probably teaching school. Who'd a thought?
A vision
Then I saw the name Alison Cossi. Oh my goodness! Alison was the most shy and lovely girl I'd ever met. She was as fragile as a piece in a glass menagerie, to steal Tennessee William's allegory.
Her hair was nearly white and hung down in thin, wavy curls past her shoulders, which were slim and forever clad in a soft cotton dress. She had some kind of problem with her legs. It made her gait like that of a newborn doe. She was beautiful in a way no teen-age boy would ever recognize.
On the high school site, I read that Alison is married, has at least one dog and one cat, and works full time. Happy ending.
I also noticed, on the left side of the page, that 20 people had clicked on MY profile. But no one had ever e-mailed me; to do that they'd need the Gold Service.
I wonder who they were. Obviously, like me, cheap and not stalkers.
murphy@vindy.com