Tag: driving

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The Banquet: Part Two

BigDate1977bMay, 1977 – Wheaton, IL. It’s prom night (the Junior/Senior Banquet as they call it in our school). I just got my driver’s license this morning. I don’t remember how to get to my date’s house since I’ve never driven there before. I’m lost.

Thank goodness I gave myself an extra half hour to get there. I use it all before I pull into Gayle’s driveway. I’m not late. Not really. Gingerly, I park the green Plymouth Fury III next to her family’s Cadillac Seville. Her younger brother Brad is in the garage, getting their motorcycles ready for summer. They have a boat in there, too, and a private plane parked at the local airport.

I am so far out of my social league, I can’t even see it from here, but Gayle agreed to go with me to the banquet. I take a deep breath and get out of the car. I’m wearing an ill-fitting blue tuxedo, white tube socks and dress shoes.

Brad stands up and wipes his hands on a rag. “May I help you with something, sir?”

“Uh, yes, I’m here to pick up a Miss…Gayle?” I say, trying to match his easygoing gallantry. Not even close.

“Mark,” he says. “Hold out your hand.”

I do. It’s shaking like a leaf.

“She’s just a girl, Mark.”

“I know,” I say, not that knowing it makes any difference. I show him the little box from the florist. “What do I do with this?” I ask. I have no clue.

“Give her the whole thing,” he says. “She’ll know what to do with it.”

I make it to the front door. Gayle’s mom opens it and ushers me in. She announces my presence to the foyer and my date arrives in a pale blue dress. I say stuff like “wow, you look great” and “here’s the corsage” and “okay, you want me to stand where?” as photos are taken in front of the grand piano. Just like that, I get a cameo in the family history.

I escort Gayle to the car, open the door for her, close it without catching her dress in it, walk around to the driver’s side and get in. I back out of the driveway as gingerly as I pulled in. Transmission in Drive. Turn signal. Mirror check. We’re off.

Moments later, I’m lost again. Fortunately, Gayle knows the area. After a few re-directions, we have the banquet hall in sight. I’m thinking about how I will make that left turn into the parking lot when I realize the car in front of me has stopped. I lock all four wheels. My prom date almost hits the windshield. Maybe she actually does, I don’t know, but I apologize profusely as she settles back into her seat and tries not to look ruffled.

No bones broken. No bumper impact. Nerves are shattered, but that is all. We make it to a parking space without further drama.

The banquet is pleasant. I enjoy the musician. I won’t remember the food. I’m glad to be escorting Gayle; she’s nice about it. Friends stop by to chat. As things wind down, a group of us decide to go somewhere after the banquet. Once out of the parking lot, though, I realize I can’t find the place we’re supposed to meet.

That’s it, then. I drive Gayle home. She knows how to get there.

As we drive, I say I had a good time. I say it more than once. Actually, more than three times. At least. She says it was nice. We get to her house and I walk her to the front door.

When I made my reservation a few weeks before, the guys were in shock. “With who? Gayle?! Really? You gonna kiss her good night?”

“No!” I said.

“Idiot!” they cried.

I’m a man of my word. Gayle goes inside; I go back to the car. Lip contact is not involved.

I drive straight home. I walk in the front door and I’m surprised to see my parents sitting in the living room. They’re just as surprised to see me. It’s late for them, but it’s early for a prom night. Really early for a prom night. It’s not even tomorrow yet.

“How was it?” they ask.

“It was fine,” I say. It was. I go to my room and hang up my rented tux. I’m one of the few upperclassmen who gets some sleep that night.

At school a few days later, some guys are comparing notes. They call me over. “What happened? You and Gayle were going to meet with us afterward.”

“I couldn’t find the place, so I took her home.”

“Sure you did! Did you kiss her good night?”

“No!”

“Idiot!”

I’m still glad I went. Thanks for going with me, Gayle. Your graciousness was much appreciated.

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Rite of Passage

May, 1977 – Wheaton, IL. At 17 years old, I’m overripe by Midwestern standards. I still don’t have my license. I’ve taken Drivers Ed. and gotten my learner’s permit, but it comes with a ball and chain: another licensed driver must be in the car with me when I drive.

To make matters worse, the prom is coming up. Worse yet, it’s TONIGHT. My date has a valid driver’s license, but if I am to drive her to the prom without breaking the law, I must do the following:

  1. Drive Dad to my date’s house.
  2. Pick up my date.
  3. Drive Dad and my date back to my house.
  4. Drop off Dad.
  5. Drive my date to the prom.
  6. Drive my date back to my house.
  7. Pick up Dad.
  8. Drive Dad and my date to her house.
  9. Drop off my date, while my dad waits in the car.
  10. Drive Dad back home.

Graciously, my dad has decided against this plan. Though it’s a school day, we drive to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I present my credentials to the authorities. They assign an examiner. We go outside.

I get in my dad’s 1972 Plymouth Fury III with a guy who is missing 1/3 of his lower jaw and about half his tongue. Cancer, he says. He tells me everything slowly, doling out syllables one at a time. I’m nervous, and very glad that I’m taking my driver’s test in suburbia after everyone’s already gone to work and school. The neighborhood is deserted.

The examiner tells me to turn right at the stop sign. I come to a complete stop and check to be sure the road is clear in all directions before I turn right. It is. Utterly.

“You know what I miss the most?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“Beer,” he says. “I can’t drink beer now.”

I’m sympathetic, but too self-conscious to respond properly. The test continues as we wind down one empty, tree-lined street after another.

He tells me to parallel park. You could dock a yacht here–which is good, because that’s essentially what I’m driving. I exaggeratedly turn the wheels “up, up and away” even though the incline is negligible. I put the transmission in Park. All is silent but for the rumble of the idling V-8.

“What did you do wrong?” he asks.

Fear rises like an enemy submarine. I scramble through the possibilities out loud:

“Um, am I too far from the curb? In front of a fire hydrant? A driveway? Should I have checked my mirrors…three times?”

All my questions are answered in the negative. I’m stumped.

“You forgot to use your turn signal,” he says.

I look around. There’s nobody else on the road. Seriously, there’s nobody on the sidewalk.

The examiner reads my mind. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “If you’re going to do anything in a two thousand pound vehicle, let the whole world know!”

Fair enough. It’s my only goof-up on the entire test. I check my mirrors, look over my shoulder, put on my turn signal and drive the examiner back to the DMV. He sits in the passenger seat, filling out paperwork. It takes forever. I just try to appear calm and cool.

When we finally step out of the car, my dad looks worried. I don’t know why. Then it dawns on me: my super-cool deadpan has been misinterpreted. I give him a thumbs up and he exhales a lungful of fatherly concern.

I’m very late for school now, but I can legally drive us straight there, whether or not my passenger has a license. My dad takes over the wheel after I get out. Prom night is saved, but I have one more obstacle: the librarian who doubles as the attendance officer. She is not known for flexibility.

I hand her the handwritten note from my dad: “Please excuse Mark’s tardiness today. He was completing his Drivers Education course by getting his license.”

It’s a stretch, but it’s legit.

Fate smiles upon me. The librarian does not, but she signs the note. I’m excused.

The tale continues. I’ll do the “prequel” and the “sequel” in subsequent posts. Stay tuned.

DriverMay1977

 

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