Impromper Protocol
The one time I attended prom went off without a hitch. Just.
I’m not one of those assholes who thinks the best part of his life was high school. Given that I’m writing about prom, the ultimate harbinger of douchebag delinquency, I feel like I should issue such a disclaimer.
So you look at this photo, and I’m sure I can read your mind. “Okay, whatever. He went. This is boring as hell. Why’s he writing about prom?”
Just weeks prior to that spiffy shot being taken, my knowledge of the ridiculous, Freemason-level crap surrounding prom was scant. Here’s how I learned it all, in record time, the hard way.
In high school, I maintained an unusual social life, in that I got along with most people across the scale. Having alliances with the athletes and the artists may seem like the best of all worlds; for the most part, I had no complaints. Alas, when you please everybody, you please nobody, and the burden of not swearing an oath to a social circle would come to rear its head.
Over those four years, I didn’t date anyone, for better or for worse. The “classic” prom experience, when I became eligible in junior year, was out of bounds. Fine, I’ll just ask someone who isn’t in the dating game, as a friend. Problem solved.
What I was not privy to: the art of the prom pact (here we go with the Freemason bullshit). Allow me to explain.
Months and months prior to the big night, the majority of those who don’t have a “better half” on hand will make a vow to go with a fellow single. Maybe a girl is dating someone in college, or private school shenanigans throw a wrench into the gears of a gent’s prom machine. Or, most likely, a guy and a gal realize that they don’t want to fret when the time is near.
Starting a couple of months in advance, I began my exercises in futility. A dozen girls later, I was getting immune to the standard response: “I’d love to! I just made a promise to go with my friend, like, a year ago…” Through no fault of my own, I found myself behind the 8 ball, screwed.
Just how screwed became apparent during a moment in my U.S. History class. It came up that one of my friends (whom I had asked to go) had plans to attend prom with an exchange student from Spain. While I harbored no ill will against either of them, I grew irritated at the damning truth: between me and a guy only here for a few months, it was the Spaniard who would have the privilege of taking part.
Wait! Another friend had an idea. She knew plenty of sophomores, who otherwise could not attend. She’d hook me up with one of them. Job done.
Really? I could only pray that this last-minute, hastily-thought-of solution would amount to anything.
The weeks leading up to prom were a woozy blur. For starters, I got put in touch with Ms. Mystery, someone named Marley McCarthy. Truly, reader, I had no idea who this person was. Look through my phone’s contacts today, and you’ll find her name listed as “Marley McCarthy (this is it),” the original title I punched in. Tells you how little faith I had in this whole arrangement.
After completing the humiliation ritual that is the prom-posal (see above), we went out to dinner, for the simple reason that I didn’t want to go out with someone I had no information on. Imagine my surprise when Marley turned out to be a wonderful person! “Thank the lord,” I thought, “this could very well work out.”
A day or two later, a girl in the grade above me expressed her approval at my choice in prom date. Looking back, said girl had to be the most popular one I’d befriended in high school, and she was tight with Marley. Teenage guys have a knack for turning everything into a metaphorical dick-swinging contest, so I chalked up the endorsement as a plus.
The week before the big evening presented ups and downs, including a sickness I shook off in time (mild fever, maybe?) and repeat listens to songs from Faith No More’s King for a Day…Fool for a Lifetime record. Tracks like “King for a Day” and “Just a Man” seemed apt.
Pre-prom, and prom itself, didn’t produce any outstanding anecdotes to rattle off here. Everything just went smooth. Being a non-drinker at the time, I skipped any post-prom debauchery, instead opting to going home and indulge in my unlikely success.
Marley and I ended up becoming good friends afterwards (hi!), and I’m so thankful I met her. We never dated, but our two “dates” put most of the ones I’ve had subsequently to shame. Prom 2019 could not have been topped, and, due to a sick bat in China, no attempt was made.
Most people have prom stories which involve some calamity: cheating, vomiting, a drunken car accident, or all three. The one I’m able to share is remarkable for having none of those.
Love this piece! That night was a special one.