Prom Night

Prom night must be upon us here in north Florida.

Last night during my evening stroll I detected the smell of hair spray, styling gel, perfume, spray starch, blings, fear and hormones in the air…..and that’s just the boys.
There are no students in our neighborhood but an elite private club (called Rooster’s Rundown by some) is only a quarter of a mile down the road so the wind must have been blowing just right. Private school parents who own stock in the club or know someone who does book it for prom night. Limos line each side of the two-lane highway and use BASF’s haul truck road as a turn-around.

This annual rite of passage requires a large degree of deeply-colored hair, strange bangs, piercings and an Atlanta’s Belle Watling hussy wardrobe. It hangs right up there with serious social rituals like weddings, funerals, art shows, tractor pulls, gambling, bar mitzvahs, illegal dog fights and noodling.

I remember my prom fondly. I wore a yellow strapless semi-formal and three crinoline slips. Imagine sitting down. Egos are like airplanes, some are the size of a Piper Cub and some are the size of a 727. You can guess my size. My wrap was a green winter coat with a purple velvet collar which Mama coaxed my 11 year-old brother, Broward to wear on very cold winter days. The coat, that is. Broward refused but on occasion wore my green pullover sweater which at first opportunity he ‘accidentally’ discarded in Grandmother Ada Lee’s two-holer privie.

My escort wore police-issue black shoes, kahki pants and a navy blue workshirt with “Standard Oil” embroidered in red above the left hand pocket. Chewing on a cigar he talked in a detached manner about keg parties, corn fields, sinkholes and young folks caught doing what they’re not supposed to be doing would be handcuffed in the back seat of a police car.
He believed my senior class conformed to teenage standard in matters of conduct by sipping nighttime sneezing-coughing-sniffling-so you can dance medicine. He whined a lot about missing the CBS Evening News with Walter.

My limo was a dusty red 1950 Dodge pick-up truck with a short wheel base chock full of gasoline pump innards, locked tool boxes and wrenches. Ranger, a young German puppy was perched on a box crammed against the back of the cab barking at zig-zagging traffic and pedestrians on both sides. A loaded hog leg pistol rode up front between the seats.

Exiting the truck at the school’s north entrance without dragging my crinolines thru the curb muck was difficult but not impossible. I had ample time to check as I walked up the concrete path leading to the auditorium. The Dodge’s taillights had turned the corner of Copeland and Call streets two blocks away before I got the door open.

Promptly at 11:00 pm curfew the Dodge truck was four-wheel parked on the school sidewalk surrounded by dense fog. Ranger waited patiently in the front seat.My Step-father may have been asleep at the wheel but he was a punctual.