Paul's Prom Story:

This is the true account of one of my favorite people's experiences at his Highschool Prom. I was friends with him and also with many of the people involved, and I can attest to the truthfulness of this account (with the exception of the final kiss.) I would have linked to his myspace.com site where this and other hilarious and interesting blog postings are, but you need a myspace account to access them. It was worth the effort to put it here. For those of you who know Paul, this will explain a lot.

Ladies and Gentleman...The Prom
It has been requested that I recount the events that culminated in the catastrophe now known as "the Prom". The national day of mourning should be explained to the younger generation who do not quite understand the 1980's or the events that brought down the iron curtain and ruined my love life, perhaps, forever. So Let me here tell my story. This will probably take a few blogs, and be sure to stock up on the hankies. This is the story John Hughes dared not tell...

I grew up poor. This is only a minor detail. I had worked the summer of 1988 as a busboy in a casino in town. I had given the money I made to my parents because we were in unusually dire straits that summer, but recovered by Fall. As was the usual case, I was going to wear old clothes to start my senior year (which had improved from the hand-me-down clothes I wore in elementary school; I still recall a "hubba hubba" T-shirt that makes my face burn and my eyes tear up.)

So it was an unusual September day when my mother said, "Paul, you could use some new school clothes." This struck me as odd, and I asked if she was sure about this, as my clothes could last for some time (sweat stains in my arm pits and gossamer thin crotch looking like it was a web made by a spider working for Levi-Strauss not withstanding.) But no, my mother insisted and told me we could afford it.

This, needless to say, made me feel guilty. And also alerted me, something was up.

Let me give a brief sketch of how I dressed. It was not uncommon that I wore knee high buccaneer boots that laced up the back, a smoking jacket (I didn't smoke) and various strange and unusual shirts. I was never bullied for this, or bothered by anyone. Even then I was known for unusual physical strength, and let's face it bullies are really motivated by fears, not desire for actual confrontation. Even then I was a bit blood thirsty, and ruthless...but that's another story.

So clothes shopping was going to be interesting. I had to maintain my neo-pirate style. Those who have tried this are aware that being poor is actually more amiable to eccentric dress than the new department store, where you have to alter the clothes later. Old clothes come with an awkward fit already (as they weren't intended for you), new clothes, well, you have to use artificial means to get that "special" look.

So we shopped around. My mom is a caustic and funny lady, but for some reason she was being saccharin sweet that day, and I was getting uncomfortable. I was starting to believe someone was dying. Any second my mom would say (as she did when the dog died on my birthday), "Paul, Dad is dead." This would really have been a surprise as I had seen him at home only an hour before. So maybe he wasn't dead, but was going to have his limbs removed... I was a strange kid, and an indirect hypochondriac. I wasn't worried about my own health, but everyone else was probably dying. I was just waiting for that other shoe to drop.

But no, no one was immediately dying. It was far worse. I was sitting shotgun, puzzled and guilty, on the ride home, and my mom was babbling. My mom doesn't babble unless she is planning something. With this knowledge, I began to listen very closely to what she was saying. I knew then it was not a dire emergency that was instigating my new wardrobe, but a scheme! Oh had the current Me been there to council the young me!

So my mother asked, "So, Paul. Are you going to your prom?"
I said, "No, I hate school. I don't want to be there during the time that I am there. Why would I want to go extra?"

I had been without close friends in school since 7th grade, when I decided people were too mean to befriend. I was a teenage hermit, who just drew pictures and read Arthurian Romances and fantasy novels. I had many acquaintances at school but no real friends. No yet anyway. I was however unbearably horny so the whole hermit thing wasn't as pure or cool as it sounds. I was invisible to the girls my age, and had no clue what it took to woo them. The Arthurian Romances didn't help, for any of you who have read them. They give a beautiful but distorted sense of male/female interplay. (See the "Cliges" or "Erech and Echidne".) I thought certain noble brave or grand deeds were what women wanted. It was pathetic. And to put it baldly, I was shy of women. When one would approach, I would become a clown. And making a girl laugh is not the key to making love to her- it is the key to scorn.

Now this doesn't mean I had no plans. True I didn't want to go to the prom because it was too much school. But If were to go, there was a certain someone I would have liked to have taken. Her name was "the lovely" Chelsea Harper. I had had a crush on Chelsea Harper since I was a Freshman. She was lovely. I still have a crush on her now that I think about it (note to self: google "Chelsea Harper"- see if its too late to begin career as stalker.)

But this is just background. The scene in the car was not finished. I said, "No prom for me" and my mother responded with fate:
"Really? Well, I work with a girl who is being home schooled and she is not going to get to go to prom, and this is what she would really like."

The weight of new clothes, my mom's pleading silence following her short sob story, and my misguided sense of what was virtuous damned me.

I said, "Okay Mom, I'll take her." Please understand, this was not a nice thing I did. It was a stupid thing. Don't let your pity run away with you! The story isn't over! Not by far!

And don't you whine yet either, I had to live this! So just hold on and keep reading!

My mother responded to this tragic acceptance happily. She began to chatter about my arranged date. My date's name was Poppy. Yes, POPPY. Say it with me now, Poppy. My mother in her good deed exaltation rambled, "You guys will have a great time! She has a great sense of humor!" OH SHIT NO!

My mother had used second worst possible thing to say about a date! The synonym for "She's an ugly bastard!" As if aware of her error, my mother quickly added, "She has a great personality!" Oh God. I felt the steely jaws of the trap close.

My mother made it worse. "Yeah, you guys can sit there and make fun of everyone else if you get bored." What? Does this make sense? Though Proms have been themed "Today is the yesterday you will be embarrassed about tomorrow", I don't think the intention is to go and make fun of people. That's what the mall is for. This small statement told me several things. One, my mother was aware Poopy was not going to be my truest love. Okay fine. But she was also aware of other unsaid things that were due to sabotage fun at the Prom. Oh and there were many things!

So I sank under a heavy depression. From the dry, poetic voice in my head I heard- "You’re Fucked."

So it was going to be me and Poppy sitting by, bitterly saying such funny things as: "Ha! Those stupid people are going to perform mysterious fornications!" I wanted to perform mysterious fornications! But not with this, as yet, faceless Poppy. In my mind's eye she was a person without clear form. But it was ugly unclear form! The only thing clear was she was ugly!

Now you are saying, “How shallow!" and "That's mean!" And the only thing I can say in my defense is: SHUT UP!

Okay, progress...
School started, my doom was months away and I had adventures to contend with. Once again, I was in a class with the Lovely Chelsea Harper. She was a petite girl, with a very pretty smile, a high (but not shrill) voice, red hair, and an impish character. I though she was beautiful. We were in Drama class together...yes drama class. It was fun. You shut up, I liked it! We would talk on occasion, I would make her laugh and she would say nice, but distant, things to me.

At the same time was a new development. In my art class there were a trio of girls (two of whom more so than the third) liked me. They were Shaylee, Hillary, and Carla. Shaylee was serious about the whole thing, Hillary more for the sake of flirting, Carla was just there for the sake of group participation.

This was a strange situation for me. Shaylee was serious and aggressive. I had no clue how to deal with this. She would tell me, "Paul, I had a dream about you last night. Guess what we were doing." I wonder what my face told at these moments, because she would laugh and usually press on with a wicked look on her face. I wasn't very dashing or suave, so I fumbled with these overtures like...a total moron. Sometimes she would get a little touchy feely, and, again, I had no clue how to respond to this. She was aware of my stupidity and teased me often.

These two girls, Chelsea and Shaylee, were involved in the later events either directly or indirectly.

So time went on. Months passed, without many events. We were pleased to find the booger Hud Horton had flicked on an artroom cabinet was still there. And the rubber middle finger I had made the year before reappeared in a can of printing paint. I only went to school half day, which was awesome. And every so often, something embarrassing occurred. I used to walk a very long walk from our school in the middle of (what was then) Nevada desert (it is now a suburb) to downtown Reno. As I tromped home in my buccaneers, I thought I was king. I would often run from school to down town in full pirate adventure mode, in those boots. One day, just across the street from the school,l I began to run when my left foot caught in the right lace of my right boot. I tripped. Now as I perceived it, the ground was coming up fast, so I quickly rolled into a somersault, and in a debonair manner, landed on my feet! The next day Shaylee greeted me in art class with "Paul I saw you trip yesterday; it was so hilarious! Your butt was in the air!" Yeah.....its all in the perspective I guess....

So it went. School was school, and boring.
Time was drawing close, and as the school year unraveled toward Prom, I was assigned a role in the school play "the Mouse That Roared." As school theatre goes...it was on par...which means it sucked. High school acting blows! Some of our improvising was funny...or so it seemed under the glamour of adrenaline and stage hysteria. It doesn't matter, Chelsea was part of the play production. And so too was Shaylee. I distinctly remember one evening after rehearsal she and I were somehow alone at the school (Both waiting for rides home, I believe.) She was "all up ons"! Which was awkward, because I was devoted to my imaginary icon of Chelsea Harper. Nothing happened, well not too much. She did grab my butt and put her hand on my chest and told me I had a nice body. (this is not a lil' anecdote...this has importance.) She seemed much more interested after this.

The play went on, and strangely through it seemed, I suddenly had friends. Like real friends. Not just acquaintances.

The prom was two weeks away and my Mom thought it might be a good idea if I met Poppy. This made me downhearted. I had forgotten about this. Ol' Sir Gawain had made a promise, and after a year and a day, he had to go to the Green Knight to have his head cut off. Lil' Paul had made a promise and he had to go to the prom with "nice personality" Poppy. I offered to trade with Gawain, but he said, “not a chance” and laughed at me.

Poppy came to our humble home. The moment of truth! I greeted her outside. She looked like Weird Al Yankovic- with muttonchops. Okay, okay. I knew she wasn't going to be a supermodel. And to be honest I was kinda hoping we could just go to prom, and have some fun. Good sense of humor means ugly, but it doesn't negate good sense of humor. So we weren't gonna fall in love, fine. But I can make friends. Right? Right. Poppy was very shy. She was a home-schooled 7th day Adventist. Admittedly some of my favorite religious and Devil humor would probably have to be curbed, but this doesn't mean she wasn't pleasant company. What did mean she wasn't pleasant company were two things she said over and over again: "This reminds me of that Bill Cosby story..." usually in regard to something Bill Cosby never addressed, and "My uncle got his eye shot out of his head with a BB and the BB is still there." I will concede this last phrase is kinda interesting once. But not 15 times. What is more, she couldn't elaborate. What do you mean his eye was shot out with a BB! The Whole eye? HOW? WHY? What about the BB, do foreign BBs cause cancer? Nope. no more info. Story over. I just had to live with those words about the BB.

I have two sisters. One older, Robyn, who refers herself as the "Elder daughter" and the other younger, who simply goes by Erin. My sister Robyn is Evil. Don't get me wrong, I love her to pieces (I love both my sisters) but Robyn is evil. EVIL! Robyn was there to experience Poppy too. So what was a difficult, painfully awkward social situation was just about to get much worse.

Robyn suddenly had a Cheshire cat smile and said, "Brothe, can I talk to you for a moment?" So we retreated into a back room. Robyn offered, "Paul, you need to tell your little girlfriend, she needs to wear a bra." Now, I had thought this would not be a problem that I would ever face. But with Poppy it seemed ridiculous. Poppy was lacking all secondary female development. Apparently, she did have over developed nipples. Which wasn't and isn't a pretty thought. I like Wierd Al okay, but no.....I don't, and I don't want to oggle his nipples.

Needless to write, I didn't do anything about the bra problem. Thankfully Robyn suggested they (Robyn and Poppy, not Poppy's nipples) try on some different clothes as we were going to take her to an underage dance club, and her clothes were a bit out of fashion there. (thanks to Robyn wherever she is.)

The evening had no other noteworthy events, but I'm sure you get the idea of how it wasn't pleasant.

I'll leave off here, and continue in the next blog. I assure you we haven't hit the climactic parts yet.

Tilll next time.
Prom Part two the slow descent into hell.
So there it is. The set up. Our young hero, Paul, has found himself the victim of unkind circumstance. Things don't get better. But let's look on the bright side, I'm not that ass Ben Affleck, so...there ya go. Let's jump right to it shall we? No more pussy footing around. Wait, pardon my language I mean vagina footing. Okay here goes. It's Prom Eve, and I haven't gotten my tux yet, nor any of the weird ornaments that accompany prom dates (And I don't mean rubbers, I wasn't gonna need 'em.) So I needed to get a tux, a corsage, and well, I guess there really aren't that many prom ornaments after all. A corsage is weird though. A minor piece of relief was I was not going alone. As I mentioned, I had acquired new friends. About two weeks before prom some important events occurred. 1. Somehow word got out I was going to the prom with "an Amish girl." 2. My new friends saw my miserable plight and suggested we all go on a group date. 3. Shaylee upon hearing that I was going to prom walked up to me and said "I hope your date is ugly because if she is I'm gonna laugh right in her face." That's lucky. So beside all the other bad parts of the prom date I'm going to be placed in an awkward situation wherein I have to defend Poppy from a girl who, I ashamedly admit, I would have to sympathize with. It seemed somehow natural and good to want to laugh in Poppy's face, but you know cover it with, "OH man, I was just thinking of a really funny joke I remembered from earlier today but I can't remember it to tell you." Yeah that's mean. But I'm kinda laughing as I type this, so make what you will of that. Okay...back to prom eve. My Dad is a great guy. He's a riot, but not much help in certain situations: Like "guy stuff". My Dad tries to bluff but he really doesn't know about regular ol' guy stuff. Neither do I. So when we set out to do some guy stuff, like pick up a tux and a corsage, we were both lost. My Dad was the leader of our two-man expedition but only ritually. He would often say "Oh Yeah, that's a good one," about things that were unmistakably bad...but usually large. Large and good are the same thing for my dad. There is probably a weenie joke in there somewhere but c'mon, its my Dad. So we went to Ciccarelli's Tuxedo shop. It was Prom Eve for Christ's sake. The choice of tuxes was limited! That little introduction to this paragraph will give some hints about the nature of the tux I ended up with. But let's go through the whole tux process, so we can share the joy together. Some old guy with one eye that was visibly blind (it looked like a cooked fish's eye) walked up to me. He was about 5 feet tall and smelled funny, but not ha-ha funny. I'm six feet tall, so a five-foot tall stinky guy fits right perfectly under my nose (not to mention the fact that he was just the right height for spooning). He took a tape measure from around his neck and measured my inseam for about 45 minutes. By this, I mean some short guy was giving me a ball message when all I wanted was a tuxedo. Oh well. So after the erotic inseam measurement, the guy stood up and said, "So what size pants do you wear?" If wasn’t mistaken, wasn't that the whole point of our measuring time together? (I still get calls from him; we're just friends.) So I told him, "I wear a 31x31." Now to you and me, this obviously would mean that my pant size was 31 length, 31 waist, right? Right. Then he said, "What color did you want?" My razor sharp retort was,"Do you happen to have any black?" He cleverly countered with, "No. Outta black." I quickly got my bearings and lunged with, "How about white?" He seemed stricken, but it was just a ploy- he said, "No-We have silver." "With tails?" I rejoined. "Yeah." "SOLD!" Okay. I got a silver tuxedo with tails. Pretty snazzy. Well, I thought pretty snazzy. But no, not snazzy. Silvery with tails. Sassy. So I was going to the Prom as the Silver Pimpernel. I almost looked as sassy as that guy who did the electric 80's mix version of "Puttin' on the Ritz...." Off to get a corsage.
My Dad wasn't helping by the way. In the car he says to me, "Why are you going with her? Jesus, we can think of a way to get you out of this. Here, get out of the car and I'll run over your legs." So I tried to put a noble face on this error, "I can't; I gave my word." It was strange. When I said that, my Dad looked at me intensely. He smiled slightly, his brows went up just a bit and he said, "That's horse shit, you’re stupid. How about this, I'll shoot you when we get home. You can call Poppy from the hospital and tell her you can't make it. I might just shoot you anyway, Mr. Stupid." My role model. So we went to a florist. Here's where our stupidity really shined through. We were looking at corsages and neither of us had a clue what makes a good corsage. So we fell back on my Dad’s usual measure of quality: Which is biggest? Not knowing any better, I was thinking to myself "Wow, that is a monstrously large corsage, we're gonna win!" Apparently I was mistaking Prom for a 4H contest involving corsage picking. There was to be no winning! So we got this immense mother-hubbard corsage, with petals so large you could use them as rafts and sail them on the open sea to Cuba. They were durable too. This corsage was "Big Boned". It must have weighed a good 65 lbs. Poppy only weighed 55lbs. Yeah...this was a good corsage. So we got home and it was starting to hit me-the following day would be a long assed day. I get a call from my friend Cameron. Cameron was the friend whom everyone suspected was gay. But Cameron wasn't gay... he told me he wasn't during one of our India oil naked rubdowns. So Cameron called and we were talking about prom. He suggested that I try on my tux, just in case something was wrong. Good idea. So I told him I’d call back. I tried on my tuxedo. The jacket fit fine, the vest okay. The cumber bund, well who the fuck knows what that is for anyway? And the pants? Oh the pants. (I've never written "oh the pants" before, I hope you found it to your liking.) The pants were snug. Way snug. Super snug. Genitals in saran wrap snug. Everyone could see that I’d been circumcised snug. Senior Weenolammading dong has an announcement to make, and his interpreter will be Mr. Tightpants, snug. That kinda snug. Now, I've never had much shame about my "Executive Branch", so this wasn't exactly the problem. Admittedly I didn't want to give everyone at the prom a traumatic show, but that was secondary. Those pants hurt. Remember 31x31. I think the short guy heard 31x13. But being ever optimistic I thought "Oh its okay...these pants will stretch." why did I think this? Lack of blood going to my brain because the pants were cutting off the circulation from a full half of my body.
Let's move on to the Prom day, shall we? This, next part is for me most personally embarrassing. You see, dear Reader, I never learned to drive. I'm a walker. I drive badly, so just never pursued it. Now as you can imagine, I couldn't just walk to Poppy's house, then walk to the prom, Poppy in tow. I needed a ride. So who was going to take me and my tight pants to Poppy's house? Yes.....MY MOM! Is it warm in here? Thank god I had some 45-sided dice with me! We started out late because I am such a nerd that Anthony Michael Hall decided he was going to go get girls and left me to write the paper for the Breakfast Club truants. I think I did a fine job with that essay by the way. So my mom drove me to Poppy's home. Let the fun begin...................... We drove up and there were two dozen cars parked in front of Poppy's house. All of the license plates were from out of state. From out the door came a crowd of 7th day Adventists from several states to greet the infidel with the tight pants. (I mean me) I looked back at my mom, and she was beaming with pride.... why? I cannot guess. I'm not really very good in crowds. Especially crowds which are tied closely to my doom. So I was a bit uncomfortable. Poppy's mother came up to me. She was a very nice lady, and she quietly said, "Poppy will be right out; she made her own dress, and she is finishing the last touches." Okay. On a few occasions when I have told this story to women, this part strikes them as most alarming. The making your own clothes thing seems to be an issue in some circles. But let's recall my tux before we pass judgment on Poppy's dress. I didn't make my tux, and it was shit. Poppy's dad put his arm around my shoulder and took me aside. He said, "Have her home by 12, or I'll have to use my three numbers." I said, "I'm sorry, I don't understand. Your three Numbers?" "My 357". So aside from everything else, a death threat. Poppy made her entrance. The crowd gasped. I gasped (but we probably had different reasons.) The crowd clapped, and I gritted my teeth and faked a taut smile. Poppy had tight curly hair naturally. She took her tight curly hair and tied it back into a tight curly knot on the back of her head. The pull of the style was so tight if you pricked her forehead with a pin it would have split like pantyhose. She shyly walked up to me and said these gentle words in my ear "I have an infection in my stomach from post nasal drip." Reread that. Let the majesty of those words pass over you. With this romantic moment between us, I placed the Cyclopean (thank you Lovecraft) corsage on her dress. This was a tricky moment. Usually I look forward to fiddling around with things on my dates’ chests. That's what date means in Latin: "play with her chest." But no. I didn't want to have anything to do with her chest. This moment was emblematic of every moment for the rest of the night. I pinned the corsage on her dress strap, the whole while shrinking back and wincing to myself. To watch me, you'd think I was handing a napkin covered in poop to someone vomiting. She, with little subtlety, pushed her chest forward, you know, to allow me a crypto feel. "Now, what we have here is a failure to communicate!". What was worse is that she had cheerleaders urging her to chase. Her mom was looking over Poppy's shoulder the whole time and giving me sly looks like "Oh ho ho..he'll make a fine....well he'll make a son-in-law anyway." Exactly! Yikes is right. One more time: “I have an infection in my stomach from post nasal drip!” My folks had a Volkswagen bus at the time, which was a car I really liked. I especially liked it then. Poppy sat shotgun (that is, in the passenger seat,) and she and my mom talked and chatted during the long drive back to our house. I sat in the way back, 50 years old, embittered, and comparing notes with Job. Somewhere there are photos of this event...but I happily do not know where. When we got to my house, within a minute or two, my friends showed up. When I introduced them to Poppy, they did their best to be friendly and gracious. But its hard when meeting a celebrity like Wierd Al Yankovic, not to go ape shit and ask for an autograph! It’s even harder to realize, "no, that isn't the esteemed Mr. Yankovic, I can tell by the long curly side burns. Why is Paul crying?" Their faces said it all. There was always the "stop short" when they would meet Poppy. An expression that was a mix between "what the hell..." "Is this a joke?" and "what's wrong with you?!" Poppy didn't lend much of a hand here. She quickly fell back on her aces in the hole: "This reminds me of that Bill Cosby story...' and "My Uncle had his eye shot out with a BB...." And believe me, like fine wine, those stories got better with time… and repetition. That’s all for now....one more installment should do it. We haven't hit the good parts yet. we still have to resolve how Chelsea Harper fits into this, and Shalee, and a certain infected stomach. There are also surprises...and deep frustrations and aggravation. What did I end up doing about those pants? Okay I won't leave you in suspense about that… I'm wearing them as I write this.... mostly because I couldn't get them off.... but only mostly for that reason. See you next time.
Prom Episode three: star wars sucks
So here we are. The night. Prom. The purpose for offering this history is now at hand.

There I stood, silver tuxedo, extra tight pants, slicked back hair and a really strained smile in the living room of a stranger. Poppy was fused to my left arm, depriving my brain of one more source of oxygen. We were at someone’s house; I have no idea whose house it was. Maybe it was the house of a friend of one of my friends. We made several pageant like stops to let upper middle class suburbanites take our photos. When I wanted to be photographed least in my life is when I was photographed most. Poppy relentlessly whispered about Bill Cosby in my ear. Every so often she would remind me about her stomach and then began a new point of charm: every stop we made she had to use the bathroom. Sometimes more than once. It was a side effect of her postnasal drip maladies.

After our whirlwind tour of suburban houses we ended up at “Pub n’ Sub”... To begin a tour for slumming, sporty, suburbanites pretending to be red necks. I felt like a giant asshole. In those moments Poppy seemed like a nice distraction. I had daydreams that maybe she could take her vice like grip from my left arm and transfer it to my throat, and quickly ease me into oblivion.
This tour was cut short, because the transmission fell out of the truck in which we were touring. Now I began to wonder if this wasn’t a sign from God. The transmission fell out of the truck…I was going to the Prom with Poppy who has several maladies which should have kept her home…..I liked another girl…..My pants were too tight…..maybe not signs as such, but good reasons not to go. The signs were: God wrote with the Blood of the Innocent across the Vault of Heaven “Okay Paul. This is it. This is your last chance.” It immediately rained frogs, and a swarm of locusts appeared. A rider on a pale horse rode up to me, he took the cigarette from his mouth, shook his head, said “Dude” in a knowing way and road off.
An Angel did appear in the midst of this horror. Her name was Chris Petty. Chris Petty ruled. She was a true pirate. She appeared with our friend Eric and as you will see, she made the prom a bit better…but just a bit, than it otherwise would have been.
We managed to get another car, and we all went to “Johnny’s Little Italy” a restaurant…I don’t know its star rating. There were eight of us…for dinner…a booth please.
I had had those pants on for a couple of hours by that time. I had never been so aware of my genitals. As it turns out, when you walk there is a whole process of motion includes the genitals. Now, if you suppress this motion it causes what scientists call “friction”. Now this type of friction has two purposes in industry; one is “sanding” and the other is staring fires (camping industries only). Now I can’t recall precisely if I felt like my parts were in pain due to sanding or incendiary motions. Maybe it was something in between…like rug burn. Crotch rug burn. (Which by the way is my secret agent name: Rugburn, Crotch Rugburn.) So now you understand about friction. There was one other dynamic at work here that scientists call “squeezing the B’Jesus out of…” and in this case it would be my penis and testicles.
I wanted to stop walking around. So the booth was a gracious relief…I thought. But no, let’s introduce a new device called “stretching.” It seems materials have a limit on how far they can be warped from one shape to another, or stretched. Take my pants; they are in their perfect state as: pants shaped minus Paul. Now if we add Paul, the Paul object will create stresses in the materials. Now in this case, when standing the stresses had hit a very strained equilibrium. The pressure on the pants from Paul was not enough to cause pant structural failures- such as tears, and likewise, the pressures of the pants on Paul were not enough to cause Paul structural failure- such as dick being pinched off. But with the added element of additional pressure on the pants from sitting there was danger of structural failures.
So dinner began very uncomfortably.
We all talked amiably, made some jokes, and were having a good time except Poppy. She was deadly quiet. I understood she was home schooled, and a bit socially inexperienced, so I tried arranging the conversations so she could feel welcome. I would differ to her opinion. and silence, well I wish there was silence. She would whisper in my ear “Tell them about my uncle.”
“Yes everyone, Listen to this Poppy’s uncle had his eye…..” no. No. No. Poppy was getting up to go to the bathroom about very five minutes or so, which allowed us rapid meetings.
“Is she okay?”
“Is something wrong?”
“What’s with her uncle?”
“Did she say Bill Cosby?”
“Why does she keep having to go to the bathroom?”
“What is post nasal drip”
“Why are you sweating?”
“What’s with the tight pants? Have you seen Spinal Tap? Do you have an Armadillo down your trousers?”
Poppy would return as would 7 plastic smiles. Now a change in mood occurred at some point here I cannot quite locate. The waiter came and took our order and didn’t come back for 2 hours. In the interim, Poppy’s whispers took on a different tone. They went from “I’m shy” to “For your ears only.”
I recall Cameron was telling a story that I had partially participated in, so I had supplemental information. He had suggested an event that didn’t happen, so I corrected him. He said, “No, that’s not what happened.” Then jokingly I said “Oh it must be this delirious fever I have.” Poppy leaned in and with a clumsily seductive tone said, “If you have a fever you can put your head on my lap.”
It’s hard for me to hide my emotions. My face tells everything. I distinctly remember the obscuring twitchy squint of eyelids surround my vision. I couldn’t take anymore.
Mostly what I couldn’t take anymore were my pants. I said, “I’ll be right back.” Cameron said, “I’ll come with you.” I John Wayned my way to the bathroom, and walked in the door and without further delay dropped my pants. I WAS FREE! I could swear my penis saw stars as blood returned on the long, long, journey home (I had to get one long Johnson joke in okay?) So I was standing in the middle of a public rest room, my pants were at half-mast in honor of this national day of morning, my arms were spread to heaven, and I was speaking in tongues. Cameron came in, took a James Dean stance against on of the stalls and said: “Dude what were you thinking?”
“Cameron, it’s a loooong story.”
“Paul, Why didn’t you take Chelsea Harper? She really wanted to go to the Prom, and she wanted to go with you cuz you’re the only boy she trusts.” There were several points of interest here, the most pertinent being Cameron didn’t know I had a crush on Chelsea. The others were: Chelsea was sitting at home not at the prom, and Chelsea, if not in love with me, held me in high regard. For some reason I hated Poppy just then. Crestfallen, I hiked up my pants to return to my date. When we arrived at the table, Poppy was even less savory than when I left. She and Chelsea had some similar attributes. Both had red hair, they were about the same height, same age, supposedly the same gender, but when I came to the table Poppy seemed like the Anti-Chelsea mentioned in the Book of Revelations. She seemed like Bizaaro World Chelsea. Some wicked not Chelsea Robot sent in Chelsea’s place to assassinate me because I was going to free the world from the tyranny of machines at some point in the future!
I sat beaten beside Poppy, and felt her surprisingly strong arm squeeze off the feeling from my left arm, again. But distractions were near. As I mentioned, the Goddamn waiter had not been to our table for two hours. He had dropped off some salads and apparently went to go see Pretty in Pink before returning. We had to get going. So we finally tracked him down. We asked for a check for the salads. He said, “Oh they are free, but you should really leave me a tip for my time.”
We all looked at each other puzzled. All of us but Chris Petty, she said, “WHAT?” and then chased him into the kitchen. We heard profanity and things crashing and we took off at a sprint. It was chaos for a few minutes, and Chris came out grinning and happy. It was awesome.
So we set off for the prom proper. We arrived without any further incidents, but I was getting more and more depressed. When we got to the prom, held at Lawlor Event Center (high class affair), Poppy went immediately to the bathroom. Cameron came up like a secret agent. “Here is the plan, Poppy has to be home at 12, right? We’re gonna go get Chelsea and then we’ll all go up to Tahoe. We’ll meet you at your house at 1:00 am. Okay?” Okay? Was he kidding? Absolutely!
Poppy returned and she was much less the Anti-Chelsea. Several people I knew came up and wanted to meet the “Amish Girl”. They never said this, but it was written on their faces. My good friend Shane, who was super, beyond belief, stoned, walked up to say hi. I Introduced him to Poppy and he giggled and couldn’t stop. And so he stumbled away giggling as only the stoned can.
I asked Poppy to dance. And we danced. At first, I was at once troubled and fascinated by her dancing technique. It could be described as simian. Please understand, I wasn’t embarrassed that I brought Poppy, nor embarrassed by her dancing. My emotional investment in the opinions of my schoolmates was not very high. But just for the pleasure of watching a girl dance, it wasn’t what could be hoped. But she seemed to be having fun, so I let my resentments go, and we had some fun. Briefly.

After our dance, Poppy and I were somehow isolated together. My friends were off and around. So Poppy and I had a seat. I tried initiating conversation, but this failed miserably. I asked her to dance about 45 times. She found a way to say no 45 different ways. So we sat there. As you may be surprised to learn, we were not crowned King and Queen of the prom.
It was about 10:00 and Poppy told me she wanted to go home. ALL RIGHT! I mean…so soon? So I let my friends know what was happening and we all winked and secret handshook each other.
Ahhhh, preparation for written embarrassment….
So here was the deal… the sad pathetic deal…When we were ready to leave, the plan was that I was going to call my mom, she was going to pick us up, drop Poppy off at home, and then we were to proceed home by 0100 hours (or is it 1300 hours?)…that is 1 a.m. We had plenty of time. I thought.
I called my mom… and the phone was off the hook.
I called again. It was definitely off the hook!
So I tried again and again... it was off the hook.
I tried for an hour. My mom answered in a groggy voice... she had been taking a nap! So through gritted teeth I suggested that she hurry up and get us; because it was vary likely, unless we got Poppy home soon, I was gonna get shot! Likewise if we didn’t get home soon I was gonna shoot myself.
So she was on her way. We left Lawlor Event center and were making our way to the sidewalk where we were going to meet my mom. Who should be walking up the sidewalk as we walked down? Shaylee. In my memory Shaylee was about 8 feet tall. This might not be wrong as she was wearing some high heels, or it could be the result of utter intimidation. I remember it like this. Walking somewhat behind her was a 35 year old guy…her date. She was majestic. She looked like a grown up. And I knew trouble was approaching. The look on her face was sinister (heavy on the sin). OH SHIT!
She walked up and said, “HI PAAAAUULLL. Who is this?”
I tried to be as dignified as possible, and likewise come up with whatever clever repartee and defense would be needed in the next couple of seconds, “Shaylee, this is Poppy, Poppy, this is Shaylee.”
Shaylee said, “Poppy, what a pretty name, it’s nice to meet you.” Then she and her date passed on. She did look over her shoulder and give me a look of triumph. Which was just fine by me.
My mom finally came by, picked us up and….took us to Poppy’s house? No. She took us to go show my dad how “nice” we looked. Why? I don’t know. I had hoped these exhibition tours were over for the day. CHELSEA WAS AWAITING! An amazing thing happened while we rode. Well two amazing things. I entertained my first and best daydreams of suicide, and Poppy suddenly came to life. She was animated and excited. She was recounting everything that had happened that night. It was unrecognizable to me beyond the cast of characters. She had had a great time! Then she took to psychoanalyzing all my friends. I just sat back and hoped to have a really good car accident.
We got to my Dad’s work, and he could have cared less. He looked at my pants, his brows raised over a puzzled face and said “Nice pants. Are you trolling?”- That’s a fishing reference if you don’t know.
So we left, and I was on edge. You see, Poppy lived far far away, it was almost Midnight, and if we didn’t hurry our asses up we were not gonna get to go to Lake Tahoe with Chelsea Harper!
My mom is a terrible and slow driver, and she did not disappoint that night. So we slowly and terribly drove to Poppy’s house. As we did this, a new problem came to mind. How do Proms end? What happens next? Well, ideally, Proms are times of romance wherein you try to impregnate your high school sweetheart, thereby being the first to soil her, and claim your crown as “man.” Right? Right. Less ideally, it can be a time to makeout, get stoned, maybe see some of your dumpy friends naked, get drunk, vomit some, in other words have fun. But what was I to do in my unique situation? What was Poppy thinking? As I pondered “You can put your head on my lap” started to echo and interrupt my thinking.
I was not going to kiss Poppy. It was not going to happen. I put my foot down there. No. Now, how do I break this to Poppy? What is worse is she started floating back more and more coy looks the closer we got to her house. And so we arrived.
It was after midnight. I wondered if her Dad was going to shoot me, and I had only gotten the target on my forehead half painted by the time we drove up. So I walked Poppy up to her door. She turned at the door…..and her Dad walked out! YES! So I kissed him goodnight, shook her hand, thanked her for a lovely evening and sprinted back to the car.
I jumped in, and for some reason expected my mom to peel out and speed home. Which kind of happened. She backed out slowly, stalled the car, then restarted it and drove home in a leisurely manner.
When we got home…my friends had come and gone. No Chelsea for me….that unraveled in another saga.
So what happened to the people in this story?
Chelsea Harper got married and moved to Kansas.
Poppy got married the next year, I believe, and Moved to Kansas. Which is weird. I hope they never met.
My friends moved around the country, and I believe they are all married now. Several of them are teachers.
Chris Petty, is probably pirating around somewhere. I wish I knew. I’ll have to see if I can find her and see what she is up to.
I do not know what happened with Shaylee after graduation. I wish her well. She wasn’t all that bad, she was just more advanced.
Weird Al Yankovic is still touring and making song parodies, but with stem cell research and your kind donation we may yet find a cure.
My Mom is still my mom and we will celebrate our 34th anniversary on my next birthday. She loves my prom story; somehow she considers it one of her greatest works.
My Dad is still offering to shoot me and run over my legs. Since the prom, he has initiated me into certain secret sayings held by the men in my family such as “There are only two kinds of women in this world, good ol’ big ones, and big ol’ good ones” “He’s ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.” And the “Rolly Polly tickle my Holey” song.
My sister Robyn has just graduated law school, and is now certified evil.
And me? Well, mind your own business. Okay, I’ll give more than that. I was forever traumatized by this event and never recovered. I died in 1996 at the age of 25, in a strip club in Tupelo.