May, 1977 – Wheaton, IL. I have to go to the Junior/Senior Banquet. That’s what we call the prom at my high school where I’m one of 196 students. That’s not just my Junior class: that’s the whole high school. It’s a fishbowl in which we’re all staring at each other.
Not going to the banquet would be a serious social blunder. I have to go. Fortunately, I already have my tux. Like all the other guys in the choir, I had to have one for the Spring Concert next week. This means that a dozen of us will show up at the banquet with either the red or the blue version of the same ill-fitting tuxedo. Still, that’s one thing off the list.
What I don’t have is a date. Somehow, I have to find a willing female among the dwindling ranks of those still available. The feeding frenzy has gone on for weeks already. Friends have been telling me I’d better hurry. None of my carefully calibrated casual conversations with girls has gotten me any closer to actually securing a date.
Too late. The school day’s over and the deadline for reservations is tomorrow. Now I’ll have to call someone from home. I don’t even have any phone numbers. I’m toast.
I drag myself onto the school bus with my big ol’ guitar case and slump into a window seat. I’m maybe the third person on the bus. I don’t have the heart to wander the parking lot for a final Hail Mary. I can’t imagine who hasn’t already been asked. I stare out the window.
“Is this seat taken?”
Barely registering the question, my brain reviews the facts. The bus is virtually empty and I have a guitar here but this is, technically, a free seat.
I’m vaguely curious who’s asking. I turn to look. It takes me a couple of rapidly accelerating heartbeats to believe my eyes.
Gayle is a Senior. We’re both in choir and we have some of the same friends. She’s nice to everyone. She’s a cheerleader. She’s musically talented. She’s leading the senior class academically. She’s gorgeous.
She’s wondering if the seat next to me is taken.
My mouth doesn’t work.
“Sure, I mean, no, I mean, yeah, you can sit here.” I move my bulky guitar case and Gayle sits next to me. We exchange a few pleasantries. Nothing memorable. I’m still in a fog. She asks me if something’s bothering me. Am I that transparent?
“Oh, it’s this whole banquet thing,” I say.
No, no, no. Why does my mouth suddenly work now when I want it to stop?
“I haven’t got a date yet,” I say.
Do stop. Please. Please stop. My mouth finally stops.
“Neither have I,” says Gayle.
Okay, now my brain won’t work! This does not compute. The highly talented, highly popular, highly intelligent, soon-to-be-valedictorian-who-also-happens-to-be-stunningly-beautiful Gayle does not have a date to the banquet? Impossible.
“You don’t?” I blurt. It’s all the eloquence I can muster under the circumstances.
“No,” she says, looking at me.
The mind boggles. I try to make sense of this information. Gayle doesn’t have a date. She doesn’t. No one has invited Gayle to the banquet. This is SO UNLIKELY as to be inconceivable. I’m still stuck at “Gayle doesn’t have a date.” She’s sitting here with me. With. Me.
She waits.
Slowly, the light dawns. I do the math: it works.
My mouth starts to function again.
“How about if I fix that for you?” I ask. How dashingly suave.
“Really?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “How about if you and I go together? That fixes it for both of us. What do you think?”
“Deal!” she says.
I’m overjoyed! It’s a deal! We shake on it. Literally. We actually shake hands.
Giddy with relief, I chat with her all the way to her stop. She says goodbye and gets off the bus. Gayle. My date to the banquet. Just got off the bus. After sitting next to me. I’m stunned.
A few stops later, I float off the school bus, not bothering to use the steps because my feet won’t stay on the ground anyway. I float into the house. My mom looks up at the ceiling where I am blissfully drifting past the light fixtures.
“What’s with you?” she asks.
“I’m going to the banquet with Gayle,” I say.
“With whom?”
“Gayle,” I confirm.
Eyebrows are raised in surprise. From up here, I don’t care.
I don’t even need to pick out a tux. Now I just have to get a driver’s license.
September, 1998. As noted in 
September, 1998. Having done some overnight backpacking trips with friends has inspired me to take on a three-day solo trip. I’m ready. My recently initiated REI backpack is loaded to capacity with undeniably heavy stuff of dubious practicality. Outside the pack hangs a small plastic cooler with my food, another case with my camera, and two dangling containers of water, one of which is actually a gallon-size milk jug (thoroughly cleaned, yes). I look like a medieval peddler.
Memory Bits 
