It wouldn't be long now.

Sheldon Stein sipped his Fresca. The bubbles tickled his upper lip, as he had always dreamed they would. Sheldon wondered what his recently deceased mother would think of this scene: Sheldon, feet up on his bastard of a father's prized ottoman, swinging soda right from the can while wearing a real turtleneck sweater. (Dickeys were for suckers and Sheldon Stein had turned in his sucker credentials.) It would have killed her. If only the cursed natural causes hadn't gotten her first. But Sheldon had waited thirty years for this moment and was going to savor every delicious sensation. He took another decadent sip and giggled with glee. The Hasbrook Heights Class of 1968 was gathering tonight for its thirtieth high school reunion, unaware of the hurricane poised to wreak havoc upon their tragically ordinary lives. A hurricane named Sheldon Francis Stein.

He smiled as he thumbed through a dog-eared copy of Catcher in the Rye. The Stein's paperboy, Sid, had let Sheldon borrow it some years ago, and in Sid's haste to go to college, become a doctor and have a family, he had foolishly forgotten to retrieve it. Sucker, Sheldon thought to himself. The book had provided a philosophical blueprint for this night's glorious triumph to be. Sheldon made a mental note to send word of his victory to the book's author, J.D. Salinger, just to let him know that at least one person "got it." Besides, he thought, this "Salinger" would probably be thrilled to hear from a fan. Sheldon made a quick list of excuses in case Salinger pursued a meeting upon getting his letter.

Sheldon's mood darkened, however, as he recalled the fateful move his parents made to this torturous community halfway through his senior year. He recalled his torment at the hands of his new classmates, their cruel taunts echoing in his mind.

"Excuse me, your name is Sheldon, right?" "Who do you have for biology, Sheldon?" "Hey, Sheldon, did you hear someone shot Bobby Kennedy?" Tears stung Sheldon's cheeks as he recalled the wretched echo of that name being hurled at him in the hallways of Hasbrook High. Hadn't he cried out for an end to their taunting? Hadn't he insisted on a nickname? Stinky had a nickname. Bubblebutt had a nickname. No, Sheldon was destined to spend his four months at Hasbrook without the renown and camaraderie only a nickname can bestow. But after tonight his chosen moniker would remain forever emblazoned in their minds. Sheldon glanced into his closet at the two T-shirts he had personalized for this glorious occasion. Would he go as the "Avenging Angel of Destruction"? Or would he go as "The Shellster"? Sheldon threw down the last of his Fresca and laughed the laugh of a man about to be born again. And then he coughed, as some of the delicious nectar went down the wrong pipe.