Hello. Just thought I'd throw in a little trip down memory lane for our favorite black-suited NSA agent. Admittedly, I don't know what John Casey's actual age is, but I figured he's a high schooler of the 80's. Hope you like it. Feel free to leave plenty of comments.

CHUCK VS. THE COUGARS - DRIFTING BACK TO THE 80'S

St. Rita High School
September 17, 2005
8:15 PM

Casey wasn't sure how he ended up with such a quirk in his schedule that he would be in town for this. The work had been quite steady of late, and he anticipated being somewhere in Eastern Europe right now shaking down informants. But his bosses have been insisting on more down time lately. Their excuse was a new policy handed down by the head of the agency that requires field agents to actually use their vacation days. Letting them go wasted wasn't even an option anymore. But Casey knew that they were not happy he blew that op in Prague last month. He hoped one day to get another shot at that arrogant red-headed bitch. Next time, he'd get her naked and leave her stranded.

Perhaps going to his 20-year reunion wouldn't be so bad. He missed his tenth, but being in the thick of the action in Kosovo was certainly a valid excuse. He wondered if it would be like that Grosse Pointe Blank movie, where everyone had swelled. Looking around the gymnasium, adorned in the school colors of red and silver, that point could certainly be argued about more than a few people. Thank God he was in good shape for a 38-year-old. He was simply older, that's all.

He hoped to meet a couple of his old teachers, especially Mrs. Crawley. She was a tough-as-nails mathematics teacher, but the benefit of experience made him realize that she was preparing the students for the harsh realities of life. Technically, the same could be said about Coach Daniels, who taught Phys. Ed. and coached wrestling, but somehow he managed to be more sadistic about it, happily torturing the "cheesedicks" as Casey and a few of his cohorts from the Glee Club were called. Casey wouldn't mind seeing him tonight. It is safe to say that he could intimidate the hell out of Daniels now.

There they are. They don't look any different.

One of the advantages of being an NSA agent was doing research on anybody you want. Casey already knew everything that has happened with his buddies in the last 20 years. The "Tone Deaf Trojans," as they mockingly called themselves, were far from it. The four of them, including Casey, won a few local singing competitions against other high schools back in the day. They were the objects of ridicule and scorn from certain members of the football team, but they had enough good times to survive. Jake McConnell, who swapped lead singing duties with Casey while the other was being the tenor, was a history professor at Ball State, and a very popular one. Roland Garrett was the baritone and the joker of the group. He finally got married three years ago after a couple of attempts, and he owned an upstart computer company in San Jose. Brian Van Brocklin was their bass, although his skinny frame would make you think he couldn't hit notes that low. Then again, you wouldn't expect him to be one of the most successful cadets who ever graduated West Point and was likely to take over the running of Fort Bragg within the next year. It was one of the few times politics were shoved aside for practicality in the upper echelons of the Army, but sometimes you do whatever it takes to keep such a talented individual in the fold.

Looking across the gym, Jake spots Casey first.

"Uh-oh! It's time to get on the CASE!"

The three run up to Casey, overjoyed to see him.

"Jake, Roller, BeeVee! Looking good!" Casey is shouting as well in a rare display of positive emotion for him. The four exchange hugs and handshakes.

"How the hell have you been, Case?" Roland still had that smile that made him the group's official ladies' man in the day. That may explain all the girlfriends over the years.

"Doing well. Lots of work trying to upgrade the national grid. You know how that goes. Get power companies to try and invest in the infrastructure while making sure their executives don't lose their fat golden parachutes."

"Ugh, I hear that," Brian replies.

"Who needs?" Casey asks the group. A chorus of "I'm good" and "No thanks" follow. Casey makes his way to the bar, a little annoyed that he would have to have his stogey outside. Perhaps he'd save that for later.

As he goes to the bartender to get a scotch, he catches a glimpse of Mrs. Crawley surrounded by a half-dozen students. Judging by the smiles on everyone's faces, they shared Casey's opinion of her that they were better off with her toughness back in the day. He'd come back later to say hi. By the edge of the bar, Coach Daniels appeared to be on his 5th or 6th drink. Casey slowly approaches him. Daniels looks up in an alcoholic haze, but he still recognizes one of the kids he not-so-affectionately referred to as a cheesedick.

"Wow, Casey. You certainly turned out OK. Damn, you look like you could kill for a living."

Even beyond the fact that Daniels got Casey's actual career right, Casey already felt like he got his payback from the fat bastard who tortured him for four years in high school.

"Good to see you too, Coach," was all Casey said. It was all he needed to say. That alone made the night worth the effort.

He heads back towards Jake, Roland, and Brian. A rather overweight man with a disheveled look was standing near them, and the three looked a bit uncomfortable.

Oh, this should be fun.

Casey did his homework on Martin Blake as well. The quarterback of the football team who decided he liked shoving the four Glee Club members inside of lockers throughout the whole of their high school careers. His reward for doing all of this was to be working for a construction company that he could only get through his dad's political connections. Judging by the reactions of Jake, Roland, and Brian, it would appear that Martin thought he could still pull the same crap 20 years later.

Casey walks up behind Blake, who was clearly three sheets to the wind at this early hour.

"Blake."

Blake turns around, stumbling in place in the process. "Johnny Boy! How the hell are you, you little turd muffin!" Blake swings his arm, possibly to throw a punch or possibly just to clap Casey's shoulder. This was never answered as Casey's instincts took over, grabbing the wrist of the offending arm and twisting it. Blake falls to the ground. The look in Casey's eyes makes him crawl away across the gym floor, only attempting to get up again at least halfway across the court.

"Thanks, Case. He's still the biggest prick on the planet," Brian said.

"Not a problem, gentlemen."

"Case, Roland's got a 5 AM flight back to San Jose in the morning, so he has to cut out soon," Jake says. "What do you say to one quick song before he has to go?"

Casey hems and haws over the thought. It's been too many years. The job he had now really didn't mix well with four-part harmony. "I don't know, fellas. It's been too many years."

"Oh, come on. You know our song. It was geeky then, but we had it right. It's legendary now and you know we can kill at it."

Casey couldn't argue that. They could sing that song, and it was a Hall of Fame song.

"OK. Brian, you or me on the lead?"

"It's all yours, buddy."

Casey clears his throat a few times and hums his voice to the right octave.

Oh when the sun beats down and burns the tar up on the roof

And your shoes get so hot you wish your tired feet were fireproof

Under the boardwalk, down by the seeeeeeeaaaaaaa, yeah

On a blanket with my baby, that's where I'll be

The guys join in.

(Under the boardwalk) Out of the sun

(Under the boardwalk) We'll be havin' some fun

(Under the boardwalk) People walkin' above

(Under the boardwalk) We'll be makin' love

Under the boardwalk, BOARDWALK!

The people nearby applaud and shout for more. Casey was forced to smile. He never thought of what his job in the NSA meant. But if he could keep the planet running long enough for everyone's kids and grandkids to have their 20-year reunions, then he could certainly say it was worth the effort.