(A true story I wrote, seen through the eyes of a teenager, which was published by the "Oregon Alliance of Senior and Health Services" Creative Writing Contest).
I walked toward the door, feeling much like a game show contestant who had been asked to choose a door and claim her prize. But there was only one front door in our Nashville parsonage, and I already knew that the prize awaiting me behind that door was my blind date for the evening. Why oh why had I ever agreed to this? I knew that my over-developed accomodating nature was surely to blame. Don, the youngest member of Daddy's church Board of Trustees, and his wife, Emilou, had said that they had this friend. .. And now I had this blind date!
It wasn't like we were going any place special. Tonight was the church's annual Youth Banquet, given for all the teenagers on the night of our Junior-Senior Prom, supposedly to compensate for our not being allowed to dance or even attend this highlight of the school year. We were "allowed" to attend the Youth Banquet all four years of high school. Even with my imagination, it was difficult to envision how sitting in a restaurant, with a bunch of long-faced teenagers, eating chicken-ala-king, rinsed down with the strongest drinks available-- tea and coffee-- could possibly in a million millenniums replace Prom Night. But I had not been given a choice.
Opening the door, I found Edgar to be just about as bad as I had expected. A mature 24, Edgar was what those of my rather irreverent ilk called a "J.T." or a "Junior Theolog." This title described "older" guys who had come to our local southern church college to become preachers. Usually attired in traditional suits and ties, they attended all of their classes, Bibles snug under their arms, and purportedly even liked the daily chapel requirements.
Edgar towered a good foot over me, the top of my head barely reaching his more than prominent Adam's apple. Horned rim glasses arched his ample nose, and the smell of Old Spice formed an aura around him. I politely stretched out my hand and met five cool, bony fingers.
Looking through the doorway beyond Edgar, I spotted Don and Emilou waiting in their new '50 Chevy. Don had just become full-professor at Murfreesboro State Teachers' College and was feeling affluent. Since I was trained as a P.K. (preacher's kid) to worry about other people's happiness, I wondered how Don felt about marrying a slender, pretty, and rather shy little gal right out of high school, and then watching her as she "let herself go", probably doubling her weight, plus her over-compensating transformation into an incessant talker. I thought about checking under the back of her blouse to see if there was a wind-up key. Deciding that my years were too tender to delve any deeper into life's many injustices, I took a deep breath, grabbed my purse, smiled warmly at my prize, and suggested that we join Don and Emilou.
Settling into the back seat, the Old Spice seemed to have gained in potency. Maybe it was the combination of the spicy musk with the greasy goop that formed Edgar's hair into a skull-cap.
Glancing toward the floor, I was sure I had never before seen such large pointed feet! Guys my age wore loafers, certainly never such monstrously long, oxblood, wing-tips. Luckily Don hadn't puchased a small sports car.
The thought of loafers reminded me of Corky. But then, everything reminded me of Corky. I thought how I would give the world to be going out with him. I could just picture him in his pegged pants and loafers. Corky with his intricately styled flat-top, just a little longer in the front, slanting down toward the crown, a perfect lid above those gorgeous brown eyes. Corky, just enough taller than I, so that if I stretched up on my tip-toes, our lips could just . .
"What would you like to do when you finish high school?" Edgar's words jarred me back from my warm tingly thoughts. I entertained the idea of telling him what I'd like to do-- and how-- and where-- with Corky. But decided against it. I risked a quick glance toward Edgar. I swear he looked like a guy who would carry Kleenex.
Later at the restaurant, watching Emilou butter her third roll, and listening to the constant hum of conversation around us, I vowed to myself that if I ever got married, I would stay just as desirable for my husband as I was the day he married me.
Of course, that train of thought carried me directly to Corky again. How wonderful if I could marry him, or even go to a Prom with him. He would pick me up in his Dad's T-Bird, looking like a tanned Frankie Avalon. Wearing a white dinner jacket. he'd bring me camellias and I'd wear them on my wrist since my off-the-shoulder gown would be much too low-cut to accomodate a corsage. (I'd have to slip a jacket around my shoulders until I got out of Daddy's sight). I'd sit as close as a T-Bird front seat allowed, and rest my flowered wrist on his thigh, not too high-- just high enough.
"Did Don tell you that my missionary-sister will be coming home from Africa, on furlough, next month?" Edgar's question snapped me back to reality. I couldn't imagine what a sister of Edgar's would look like. I didn't even want to try. I had always been scared that God might call me to be a missionary in Africa. In fact, it was my worst fear. I had considered praying to God, asking Him to spare me from ever receiving that calling. But I was afraid to mention it to Him in case He hadn't even thought about it, and it might give Him the idea.
I suspected that if I were a sister of Edgar's, Africa might not be such a bad place to be. I didn't know if Corky had a sister, but if he did, she'd be sure to look like Annette Funicello. Oh geez, just to be sitting in that T-Bird next to Corky, I'm sure he would put his warm hand over mine and gently squeeze my fingers. And I would just die! I know I would.
"I really think acronyms are getting out of hand," Emilou was saying. "With the political campaigns this year, there is just one Special Interest group after another, and all with acronyms for names."
Though no one could get a word in edgewise, we all nodded in agreement as she continued. But my mind was off and running again, wondering what acronym could be used to describe these yearly banquets.
YOUTH UNITED W/CHRISTIAN KINDRED (YUCK).
"You must be having a pleasant thought," Edgar said observing my smile.
"Oh just enjoying myself," I answered.
Emilou's voice droned on like background noise. I felt ashamed for being so judgemental of her, but I felt sorry for Don. He was such a nice man and even looked good compared to my date!
I remembered that Jesus had had women friends. Surely he had noticed how they looked. I could imagine Mary sitting at Jesus' feet, when he visited her and Martha in Bethany. No doubt she had spiffed up for the visit, her dress draping softly over her smooth curves and long shapely legs, as she sat on the floor, her doe-like eyes drinking in every word and nuance from her Lord. He must have noticed the fragrance of her freshly shampooed hair as she leaned closer to hear all that he had to say. Poor Martha, scurrying in the kitchen, mashing avocados for the salad till every single lump was gone, and arranging sprigs of fresh parsley and lemon slices on the platter of fish fillets, didn't stand a chance. I would always stay beautiful for my husband, especially if it was Corky.
"I understand that Cabin Creek Church is chartering a bus for the Billy Graham crusade in Memphis next week. How would you like to go?" Edgar's voice jolted me back to the banquet room. "Oh. ..um. . .well, I'd really love to go," I stammered. "But it's Finals week, and I know that my folks wouldn't approve." (Thank you, God, for parents).
BANQUETS ARE REALLY FUN (BARF).
If only Corky was inviting me to go on a bus trip with him. Anywhere with Corky would be heaven. . . even to a Billy Graham meeting. Or better yet, to the Prom in his T-Bird. Just as we would pull up to the gymnasium where the Prom was taking place, Corky would park the car making no motion to get out. Instead, he'd look over at me, those sexy brown eyes just shining, and he'd smile at me as though he were smiling at Sandra Dee herself. Then without a word, he'd lean over toward me, his white jacket brushing against the ruffles that had slid down off my shoulder. Was he going to kiss me? Oh God, I could see that he was. I might stop breathing. His face coming closer, I could feel his warm breath on my cheek. Our lips slightly parted. . .
"Will it be banana cake or cherry pie for dessert?" The waitress waited for my answer. BANANA-- CHERRY-- WHO CARES? I wanted to cry out! I had almost gone to heaven, and she wanted me to order dessert. "Give mine to Emilou," I blurted out before I could stop myself.
PIETY OBLITERATED OUR PROM. (POOP).
On the way home, Don played the car radio. It was full of political speeches and campaign rhetoric. Dwight Eisenhower was introduced, and there were shouts of "Four More Years. . . Four More Years."
I had survived my first Youth Banquet, but I was only a freshman.
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