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Whataburger at Night

Mark Pearce

    It was late at night outside a 24 hour Whataburger in Texas. I had just returned home from a cross-country trip where one of my plays had been produced in Hollywood. I had dropped in for a quick burger before going back to my house. As I was walking to my car, I was stopped by a man who was sweeping the parking lot. I didn’t remember his name—if I had ever known it—but we had shared a class together in high school.
    He was delighted to run into someone who had known him in his glory days.
    “Remember when I used to sit at the back of the class and say things and everyone would laugh?”
    No. I did remember he was constantly disrupting the class. I had always assumed he was just being a jerk. I didn’t know he was trying to be funny.
    “Remember when I said”—then he quoted a line that was meaningless devoid of any context.
    Yes, I assured him, I remembered a random sentence he had shouted from the back of a classroom ten years earlier.
    “I miss high school,” he said, the first trace of sadness creeping into his voice. “I guess you went to college?”
    I told him I had.
    “I never did get my shit together,” he said.
    He went back to sweeping the parking lot. I told him it had been great seeing him, then got into my car and drove away.
    It was one of those encounters that stays with you. If I had ever given him any thought, I would have disliked him. Now I just felt sorry for him. The high point of his life had been disrupting high school classrooms. Now he made a living sweeping out a parking lot in the middle of the night and dreaming of better days.

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