Tonight was the night. I had stood around the Y dance for weeks intending to ask her to dance but didn’t make it across the great gauntlet from the boy’s corner to the girls lining the far wall on the green benches. It had to be the right song. I waited. I was sweating through my new Christmas gift, a Robert Hall sport coat. My shirt was soaked and the giant shoulder pads seemed like deep sea diver weights dragging me down. I rocked back and forth to the music pretending I was having a good time.
Jim said in my ear, “Well here’s to another Saturday that we will chicken and just stand here all night.” But I was determined to change this once and for all – I replied, “Not tonight my friend…not tonight!”
I never lost sight of her across the great divide, laughing, dancing, being asked by a different guy for each slow dance; she was the light fantastic – she was popular. She was dressed in tan...a Very tight tan skirt and a very tan-talizing fuzzy sweater that immediately drew every guy’s attention to her ample “assets” (that every boy my age stared at) – a vision in tan that made my hormones rumble.
Allen the DJ spun one of my favs, a new oldie – Smoke Gets in Your Eyes and with a burst of adrenaline I found myself walking to the gaggle of girls and...her. This time I would not flare off and climb the stairs to the Coke machine. And then I was there in front of her…
“V. would you like to dance?”
And she said, “Sure I thought you would never ask!” Yikes, she actually wanted to dance with me. I led her out to the center of the floor, praying I would not step on her foot when we danced - I was a lousy dancer. I could feel the big zit on my forehead start to throb. We began and I was in rare form as I performed the Nanny-taught box step. Me moving forward. She dancing backward. This was the typical high school slow dance, dance watched many times on Bandstand after school. But rarely attempted by my me and my gang of guys. Our first time execution was not exactly like Astaire and Ginger would have done – but it was, like most of us except for tennis playing Phil, the best I had to offer.
Wow, holding her close was fantastic – that’s all I can say. My right hand on the small of her beautiful back – I could feel dancing heat radiating through her sweater and I found this very sexy and just as I was heating up myself – the music stopped. And then she stopped my heart for a few beats – “Hey. how would you like to go to the diner after the dance with me”? I was frozen. “What...well?” “Of course…of course,” I mumbled and staggered back to my pack as she joined her gals in a circle of secret conversation.
The dance ended and I held her coat for her. She had a tan camel coat, not a jacket like many of her peers. She reeked of sophistication beyond her years. We walked a few blocks to the Broad Street Diner – I wanted to hold her hand, but I didn’t dare fearing she would laugh at me. We trooped along with a bunch of other “dates” and entered Millville’s emporium of late night refreshment – the windows were fogged from the heat against the glass. We sat in a booth. I wrote my initials on the pane with my finger as she checked the menu and I mentally checked my finances. Five bucks was my total bankroll. But that should be plenty for an evening snack for two.
A gum chewing waitress, who smelled like cigarette smoke, arrived – “whaddya having”? Not missing a beat my " Miss V. announced, “I’ll take the Blue Plate Special and could you add a some ice cream on apple pie?” Yea Gods, I screamed in my head. A dinner? How much would that cost? I rapidly scanned the menu and then noticed on the blackboard above the counter, "Dinner special $4.75". I quickly did the math – and then said, “I’ll just take a small Coke and more ice water please...not very hungry...I guess.” “Gee I’m starving!” V. added – as I prayed she would not add anything more to her order. Her meal arrived – bean soup, meat loaf, mashed potatoes and string beans, a dinner roll basket, a large coke, rice pudding and the pie she added. I watched her eat. (I would learn much about my dates as I grew older by just watching them eat). And V. was the first person I ever saw eat with both hands simultaneously – she engulfed her “special” - I made my Coke last. The waitress checked on us. I held my breath hoping V. would want something to take home but she was apparently sated. I was glad I didn’t put my change in the jukebox. I was going to need every cent and hopefully no more?
And then it was over. My first “real” date evaporated faster than V.'s meatloaf. I checked the check while she checked her makeup in a pink pocket mirror. I left the last of my bank roll as the tip – a dime! And leaving, paid the lady with the big hair, who guarded the cash register and the door beside her. We walked to her house on 2nd street in silence. Well, I was silent. She emitted long burbs of satisfaction as my stomach growled.
We arrived at her door – this was it.! My gratuity for underwriting our big dinner date – the expected goodnight, hope to see ya again, kiss.
I moved in position like a future Russian would do docking at the space station. Closer and closer our faces came. I looked deeply into her eyes. And at that perfect moment V. growled – “You think I’m going to kiss you…I saw the lousy tip you left that nice waitress Irene…I hate cheapskates…!
She turned and the door slammed in my face – I stood there for at least a full minute. Then realized I was freezing, very hungry - and a bit wiser.
And I walked home.
