It’s prom time again. Some of the high schools have already held their big spring formal dances, but lessons in dating terror still lie ahead for a number of teens out there.
When we went to the prom, the idea of parents renting hotel rooms for us students or even staying out all night was something that couldn’t even be comprehended. Times have changed I guess.
Memories of my high school prom seem almost laughable today, but they were serious then. A date to the prom probably was the most formally attired dinner and dance I’d ever ask a girl to share, and it needed to be special.
My steady girlfriend had just broken off our year-long romance, so the list of women who I was somewhat friendly with was a short one; the girl who sat in front of me in Social Studies did laugh at my jokes though…
“Uhhh, Linda?” I asked one day when the teacher was distracted on the other side of the room, “Have you got a date to the prom yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well,” I continued, “could I have the honor of escorting you to the gala affair?” (While at the time, I thought I was being suave, I look back at it now as prime nerd behavior.)
Once I had my date lined up, I’d next need to rent a tux, order flowers, make restaurant reservations and trade my Mom a month’s worth of hard Saturday labor for the use of her new car.
When I walked into the local tuxedo rental shop, I was greeted by a skinny, balding, 50ish, little ol’ man who had a cloth tape measure looped around his neck.
“Hello,” he said, “HowcanIhelpyou?” Then he asked, “Wannarentanicetux?”
“Ahhh, yeah,” I finally blurted.
“Goin’ at da prom up at the high school?”
“Yeah.”
“Look around, that rack over there’s got all the rental’s on it. Take your time. We’ll fix ya up real good.”
While he was busy fussing with a mannequin, I looked through the rack and decided I didn’t want just the plain white jacket/black trouser combination. (Remember, this was the 1960s.) They had some iridescent coats that caught my eye and I picked out an electric-blue model that would have done any Motown singing group proud.
I look back today and wonder: What was going through my mind?
When the day itself finally arrived, I showered, needlessly shaved and doused myself with cologne ’til I reeked. I kept thinking of the ceremonial dressing of a matador before he met the horns of the bull.
My father looked at his 17-year-old kid dressed in an incandescent jacket and offered just to bits of advice: “Remember, that car’s no play-toy,” and “Don’t order Roquefort salad dressing.”
I looked at him quizzically.
“Garlic-breath,” he explained. We shook hands and I started off on my date.
Linda looked great in her new formal. After I had presented her with her flowers she turned to her Mom to have the corsage pinned on. It was then that I heard her father tell her mother as she helped Linda with the flowers, “You better pin those deep, something’s gotta hold that dress up.”
After we’d gone through the mandatory round of snapshots for the relatives, I finally got Linda into the Plymouth and we headed towards one of the fanciest restaurants in town. I remembered the salad-dressing warning, but you can’t just act as if nothing unusual is happening when you’re wearing clothes that glow.
“Gary,” Linda asked as I drove on to the dance, “back at the house -- when you were waiting for me to come downstairs -- did my father show you his gun?”
“Uhh, no,” I replied. Why did she ask me that I wondered?
“Good, he usually shows it to all my dates and he seemed to be looking at you a little strangely.”
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