May, 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.
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.
Memory Bits 
