35th Class Reunion Letter (1990)

HlCKEY'S SUCKERS
San Francisco Type Candy
The Bathhouse Mall at Fisherman's Wharf
San Francisco, California

Summer, 1990

Dear Classmates:

Another five years gone by! I just re-read my letter in the yearbook from our
30th reunion, and there has been a lot of changes and turmoil in the Hickey
household since then, mostly for the worse, but some for the better, as you shall
see.

My naval career went to hell, or more literally, to Davy Jones' locker, as we
used to say in the Navy. While I was the officer in command of the Land 0 Lakes
Naval Research Station, I came up with an idea for a stealth aircraft carrier to base
the Navy version of the stealth fighter aircraft. We had billions for research at
Land 0 Lakes and we pumped most of it into "Project Columbia" during my watch.
(I called the project "Columbia" both out of fond memories for my school, and also
because the carrier, named "Columbia", was to be the gem of the ocean.) Four
years and $55,000,000,000 later, the Columbia steamed out of the dry dock in
Terhensha, Wisconsin, down the Kraft River into the Great Lakes, through the St.
Lawrence River, and the Bay of Fundy into the Atlantic Ocean on a shakedown
cruise with 6 pre-production versions of the F-55 Stealth Fighter aircraft aboard.
It was a top-secret operation, but hardly anyone saw us go because it is so hard to
notice a Stealth anything. Anyway, when we were in Canadian waters about 52
nautical miles off the coast of Newfoundland, being escorted by a Canadian
Frigate, the HMS Meech Lake, out of Quebec, when we launched the six F-55
aircraft to test the whole weapons system out. The crew of the Meech Lake didn't
know we were there, incidentally, because we were a Stealth ship, and they couldn't
see us or pick us up on their radar. Anyway, we launched the aircraft and that
went o.k., but the trouble began when we tried to land them back on the deck of
the Columbia. At that point, we realized the fallacy of the whole concept. The
aircraft couldn't find the carrier. The pilots couldn't see it because it is so well
camouflaged, and they couldn't pick it up on their radar, because anything Stealth
is invisible to radar. Likewise, the carrier couldn't find the Stealth aircraft. The
good news was that the F-55's gave up looking for the carrier and safely landed
at the Montreal Internal Airport (where they weren't noticed because they are
Stealth). The bad news was that the Columbia was accidentally rammed by the
Meech Lake, which couldn't see it because it was Stealth. Both ships went down \
with all hands. The U.S. government never publicly said anything about the loss
of the Columbia because it was so top secret, but the Canadians said plenty about
Meech Lake going down. They didn't know who was at fault, and I think that they
officially I blamed a fishing boat from Labrador or Newfoundland. Please don't
mention this to anyone, because it is still highly classified. Anyway, my boss,
Admiral "Bull" Halsey, said some very unkind things to me, like that I was an F_
Up and probably couldn't get sex in a whorehouse. [See below] There was a Board
of Inquiry, which concluded that the whole thing was a "hair-brained scheme", and
. recommended that I retire, which I did, with my rank of Captain and my pension
intact. I am writing a book on my naval career, and I plan to send the manuscript
to Dave McCullough at Book-of-the-Month Club if I can come up with a catchy
title.

After leaving the Navy, I moved back to San Francisco, a city which I grew to
love during my college days at UCLA (Los Gatos Campus). I decided to start an
entirely new career, and opened a lollypop factory and store, called "Hickey's
Suckers". If any of you come to San Francisco, please come by the store to see
me. It is in the tourist area, in the mall at the old Fisherman's Wharf bathhouse.
It is sort of a childhood dream come true; not much money, but a lot of enjoyment.
(Fulfillment is probably a better word.)

On the home front, things didn't go well. My second wife, Peggy-Marge,
became hooked on aerobics and physical fitness. She spent hours and hours at it
every day. Soon she became lanky and flat-chested, her hooters having all but
disappeared. Her hair lost its curl and her face became drawn, her complexion
sallow. She was always humming the damned background music from the Jane
Fonda workout tape, which half drove me crazy, and in the middle of the Columbia
mess, she just left and went to open an aerobics studio in Hanoi. I loved PeggyMarge
once, but as far as I am concerned, she can stay there with the damned
commies! (I apologize for this outburst. I am not anti-women, but I just can't take
broads that get too muscular and are always sweaty, and then just pick up and trot
off to Asia without even a by-your-leave. I hope it never happens to you.)

On a brighter note, I want to share with you that I have come out of the closet
and found (or more precisely, admitted) my true sexual orientation. I know that
this will come as a startling revelation to many of you, particularly the girls I dated
from the Manor, and those fellow members of the J.V. basketball team. I can
understand and appreciate your disbelief. "Not Wilston Hickeyl" you are probably
saying to yourselves. I know that some of you girls in high school thought that I
was a real stud. Actually, I tried to be, but I always had these peculiar feelings
about the guys on the team. Nothing ever happened then, but I used to spend a lot
of time watching the soapy bubbles travel down the glistening bodies of my
teammates during the post-game showers, and thinking strange and disturbing
thoughts. [Parenthetically, my psychiatrist thinks that my feelings about PeggyMarge
may be tied into this whole thing I had about the guys on the team - and the
coach.] I know that this news may cause some of you girls that I dated to have
eerie (or is it Erie) feelings, but in looking back I know that I really did enjoy
necking and groping around with some of you girls at the Auto-Vision. (Who
knows, I might enjoy it again.   Is the Auto-Vision still there?) With the name
"Hickey", I felt a certain obligation to leave my mark on my dates. I remember
bringing one of you home after a drive-in date. (I won't embarrass her by giving
her name, but she was a dark-haired girl of German extraction from the Manor).
Her mother took one look at her neck and sarcastically asked if she had been
attacked by the Auto Vac down at Hoffman's Car Wash. She wouldn't go out
with me anymore. Ah, we were young and tender then. Now, 35 years later,
there probably isn't one of you who would get a spot that would show through
your pancake makeup if you spent 30 minutes hooked up to an industrial-grade
Hoover.

I wish I were able to be with you, but I definitely will come to the 40th reunion.
Enclosed is a fairly recent picture taken at a party given by my sweet friend, Clive.

Yours, always

Wilston Hickey
(Captain, USN, Ret.)