Jason Diamond - Searching for John Hughes: Or Everything I Thought I Needed to Know about Life I Learned from Watching 80s Movies

I wasnt paying attention to the people waiting in line for cupcakes; I was just looking up at a night sky dotted with flurries of snow bravely falling onto rooftops and parked cars. Their only purpose in this world was to make things more magical to those queued up for an authentic Magnolia Bakery experience. I thought hard about the short lives of the snowflakes to help me pass the time. I tried to see how many I could count, timing them to see which ones lasted the longest before turning into little streaks running down the glass window of the bookstore across the street, and looking at the faces of people as they stretched their necks upward trying to catch flakes on their tongues, but I just wanted to go home.

Normally I did my job on autopilot. Id see one person walk out, and Id let in another one, maybe two in at a time. I didnt have to talk to anybody if I didnt feel like it; most of the time Id just stand there and get lost in thought. Spending my evenings standing outside of a bakery made popular by a few seconds on a premium cable show about a writer who has a massive apartment, countless pairs of obscenely expensive shoes, and one column that had recently finished its run. Interacting with other humans every now and again helps the time go by, but I would try not to.

This was not one of those shifts; instead, the line was filled with happy people spending their Thanksgiving holidays in New York City, many of them lured to the bakery because they wanted to live that Sex in the City life if even just for a few seconds, with or without the actual sex part ever coming into play; they just wanted to feel as though they were part of their Carrie and Samanthas world, and I guess I couldnt fault them for that since they made the city seem like it was all cocktails and sex and brownstones the size of castles. Many brought their parents whod come from all points north, south, east, and west, ready to celebrate their great lives with their great children, and, oh, how I hated each and every one of them. So, no, I didnt want to make small talk. I didnt have recommendations on where they might spot a celebrity like Nathan Lane or Uma Thurman, or a place where they could drink a wildly overpriced cosmopolitan and say Fabulous among like-minded believers in the New York City dream of living in a huge apartment and buying expensive shoes all by writing one single column for a newspaper. I shrugged whenever a customer asked me which cupcake I thought Sarah Jessica Parker liked. I didnt even bother saying Vanilla top, vanilla bottom. Though I knew that was the one since Id once had to escort a customer out after she threw a punch at another customer for grabbing the last (after repeatedly telling her friend while standing in line she needed a double vanilla since thats the one from the show). I didnt want to be part of these peoples perfect weekends, I wasnt part of the tour, I had nothing in common with the people that dress up like the Statue of Liberty and stand still until some unsuspecting person from Kansas walks past them, or the Naked Cowboy. I just wanted the shift to end so we could count the tip jar that I knew for sure the cashiers were stuffing extra money into.

I was quietly following one snowflakes journey when a voice interrupted my reverie. I squinted, adjusting my glasses. The face looked familiar, but this is New York, where a thousand nameless faces fly past you on the sidewalk but you can barely remember your latest roommates name since you seem to have a new one every few months.

Dude! Dude! Bro! Holy shit! Bro, he shouted as he rushed past the rest of the people waiting in line, many checking their watches as we inched closer to closing time. My professional impulses kicked into gear, and I almost began to deliver my typical warning: There are plenty of cupcakes for everybody, so go back to the end of the line. But I knew who the voice belonged to and I could feel myself begin to shake with rage even though I couldnt place the guys name: it was one of those damn popular preppy kids from my high school, one of the people I hated the most growing up, the type of guy whose only purpose in life it seemed was to make mine miserable, date all the best-looking girls, and go on to be incredibly successful after graduation. Back then those guys didnt even have to do anything; just knowing they were around made me feel terrible about everything.

How the hell are you? His tiny palm slapped my back. I couldnt recall his name for the life of mebut I remember people always whispered about his unusually small hands, which looked like theyd stopped growing around six years old. He was tall and built like a tank, and nobody dared to make fun of him to his face. I always wondered if Id run into you again. Its been forever. Our eyes locked for a second, until a girl walked past and my former classmate fixed his wet-eyed gaze on her slim legs and spike stilettos. Its been forever, he repeated.

I didnt share the sentiment. Id hoped to never see him, or just about anybody I went to high school with, ever again. Thats a big reason you move to a place like New York City: your chances of being known shrink significantly. Running into people from your hometown is not high up on the list of things to worry about once you end up about five hundred miles away from where youre from. Youre supposed to worry about rent, rats biting your ankles, and crazy people pushing you onto the subway tracks, but there we were: two adults in the West Village, my nightmare come to life. He acted like the past was behind us and I just stood there clenching my teeth. For him it was good clean fun and all that jazz, like wed been in the war together and this sidewalk was our VFW hall where we could just reminisce. I just stared at his expensive trucker hat and popped collar polo shirt and thought, You were terrible when we were in high school in 1998, and now in 2003, in New York City, youre being nice to me and I hate you more than ever because of that.

But still I was so taken by the moment and the chance encounter. Maybe people could change? We could both be totally different people now; we werent teenagers anymore. Id grown up, right?

Its so funny youd move to New York, he told me, not really giving any indication as to what, exactly, was so funny. Like, you were always the type. Its like that song.

I shook my head. Was I supposed to just pick any tune from the Great American Songbook? George Gershwin? Perhaps it was some song from the 1990s with lyrics that seemed nonsensical to everybody except this guy who totally got it. No, it was probably Bob Marley. Dudes like him were always quoting Marley, usually missing the meaning of the guys lyrics altogether, like thinking No Woman, No Cry is supposed to be about being fine with not having a girlfriend or something dumb like that. I gave up and asked what song.

He laughed. It came up from the belly. He seemed satisfied that hed stumped me.

Man. Its ironic. He nodded his head in a way that made me think I should agree with his assessment that the moment was like an Alanis Morissette song, even though I didnt want to be that person again who had to explain that this moment, just like a few of the instances in the song Ironic, were really just coincidences and not in fact ironies. And what did he mean by