Carrie May Have Had More Fun

Prom night, 1982. My date was a tall, cute junior, Paul W., and although I had been looking forward to this magical evening for some time, in the last couple of weeks my excitement had begun to wane. My dress was fairy tale-worthy; I was to be a vision in pink tulle in an off-the-shoulder long gown that I had seen and immediately fell in love with. Paul was borrowing his brother's brown Corvette and although this is where the problems seemed to begin, I could still picture us zipping off to the Dearborn Hyatt, sitting low, looking cool and just the right amount of wind-blown.

For a few weeks before prom, oh, probably about mid-May, Paul began warning me about what would happen if he drank that night. I was not, under any circumstances, he firmly told me, to let him drink, lest he smash his brother's car. Of course, the cargo he would be carrying was given no thought, at least not out loud, but the car, the fiberglass trophy he would be driving us in that night must be preserved, as if anything happened to it, his brother would kill him.

Paul and I had never been out before, we were friends from class. He was a year younger than me, but I found him cute and sweet and before long, I had called him and asked him to go to my senior prom with me. He thought it would be a good idea for us to go on a pre-prom date, so I agreed and we went out, downtown to one of the ethnic festivals. I had a marginally decent time, but by now I was locked in. Paul was cocky and a bit full of himself, but at least he was still cute. And he knew everyone I did, so I knew we would have no trouble mingling. But every time I talked to him, he reminded me that I wasn't to let him touch a drop on prom night. His sobriety became my responsibility and for no other reason, it seemed, but not wrecking that damn car I was beginning to hate.

On a sunny evening in June, Paul pulled up to my house in the brown Corvette. He wore a light grey tux with pink something-or-others meant to complement my dress. As he stood proudly by the car we had our picture snapped; lucky for me the car was there, otherwise I may not have had a photo of those moments at all. After group pictures at another friend's house, we were on our way, cruising down I-94, headed toward the biggest night of senior year.

The hotel was beautiful. As classmates greeted each other, admiring dresses and barely containing our excitement, Paul began doing something very strange. He began poking me in the sides with pointed index fingers, the way kids do when they want to get your attention and annoy you at the same time. The way that makes you jump, highly agitated, from the tickle/pain/surprise.

I think it may have had something to do with the way I started not paying attention to him once we got inside. I had become rather disgusted by Paul and his freaking car, the final straw being the way he had suggested going out of our way to drive up to the front door of the hotel so everyone would see us in the Corvette.

I think Paul saw this night as a chance to date a car rather than a girl.

The prom itself was very nice, but I was not happy. As many times as I asked Paul to quit poking me in the sides, that is how many times he did it. What a lovely way to spend an evening, jumping out of my skin at every turn because my date thought it was cute. Afterward we went to a hotel room where there was to be an after-prom party. Of course Paul spent the whole ride reminding me of my obligation to keep him out of alcohol-induced trouble. When we arrived at the room the beer and whatever else was flowing freely and damn if the very first thing Paul didn't do was to grab a drink. By this time my patience was strained as thin as a single layer of my beautiful tulle. I told him through gritted teeth to put down the beer. He looked at me, annoyed of all things, and told me to mind my own business, that he could drink if he chose.

About one half hour later, I was at home, snug in my bed, dress slung over a chair. My plans to stay out the night, this hard-won permission procured from my reluctant mother, gone to waste. Another thing I found out about Paul was that he didn't believe that four-way stops applied to him; he told me that any opposing drivers would already be stopped, naturally, so it was no big deal to blow through these intersections.

I am pretty sure that was the last time I ever spoke to Paul W. again.