In my mind, I can imagine my date, who I shall call Jay, pulling up on a Harley Davidson motorcycle, clad in a Billy Idol-esque outfit, his bleach blonde hair and sunglasses glittering brightly in the dim lighting of the trailer park's street lamps. He kicks the stand on his bike, flips of the sunglasses, and says¦¯"Amanda!!!!"¯ He yells over the loud muffler of his 1987 Ford Ranger, which, at one time, was sky blue in Reagan's age and by Clinton's 2nd term had transformed into puke green. Similarly, when its beginning life had started in all its glory, that sweet girl used to purr like a kitten, but by 2008, she could barely bray like a mare. U.S. Marine Corps decals are spotted around dingy, rusty holes on the tailgate- the Ford logo had long since rotted away from existence. That old girl had seen more in its day than Joan Rivers, who, unlike that old truck, has aged gracefully. Sadly for me, his truck has a lift kit underneath it, complete with swampin' tires, making the climb to the passenger's side a mere 3 and a half feet off the ground, which is about 3\5 of my height. My dress could say the same in terms of being sad. The size I was promised by the lovely people at Amazon.com was a reasonable extra small; however, the tag told a completely different story: medium. The extra foot of dress ended up waterfalling over my little legs, causing my combat boots to be of no use to me. After managing to climb into the passenger's side, I accidentally slammed my dress in the door. By the time I noticed, it was too late. Jay was speeding like a bat out of you know where down the highway, not noticing the fibers in the flapping piece of dress unraveling wildly as we drove. Cars, transfer trailer trucks, and SUVs alike were swerving left and right: they were dodging the loose strings of my dress....great!
In my wildest daydreams, prom is seemingly magical to me. For the first time in a while, I'm actually dressed in a wardrobe that has far surpassed my parent's paychecks, and I look absolutely stunning, only first to my date, who is wearing a sharp, red "Flava-Flav" suit, sans giant clock. However, as I sit there looking out at the great spot in the road that is known as Alcoa, my guilt begins to overpower me like a ton of bricks. Mom and Dad almost literally handed me their pay checks in order for my night to be possible, but I kept refusing, saying that I only needed money for dinner. Instead, they kept insisting, saying(this is a direct quote, by the way), "Please, Amanda, don't screw up the most magical night of your young life like we did over 20 years ago. Would you like to spend prom night at Long John Silver's like we did? Do you know how humiliating it is to have your mother's little sister serve us fishsticks?" Almost immediately, I felt like screaming at Jay, telling him to stop the truck and take me home. If he asks why, I'll be honest with him: I don't want to spend my mom and dad's hard-earned money on prom. They've had talks of buying a plasma screen TV for weeks, and instead, they waste it all on a dress that I'm only going to wear once in my lifetime. By now, I feel like a loser wearing a semi-designer dress from Amazon.com. I can't even return it to get my money back like I can with all my nice outfits(funerals, mostly), so I guess I'm stuck now.......
As soon as we get to the Hilton, we are immediately struck with awe and only what I can assume is disapproval. Everyone is doing the "Solja Boy"(and how in evening wear, I don't know), but suddenly, they stop and gawk, as if they had never seen a 4'10 shrimp in a red dress with a huge oil stain on the bottom being escorted by a 6'3 newly pledged Marine who was trying his best to retain his boot-camp posture. We mirrored the motion and glared back at them mischieviously, causing more confusion than what was worth. Finally, I decided to break the silence by saying rather loudly, "Look, Jay, we're gods to them! They can't stop staring at us for one second!" Afterward, there was an awkward silence that had soon faded into the soft chirp of crickets and the slight twang of banjos. Grinning brightly, I looked up at Jay, knowing that my sadness was all in vain. I whispered under my breath and asked him a question that had been bugging me all evening, "Ready to rock like the Soviets are gonna get us?" Jay began to laugh and said, "Dang straight, sister. Should we ask everyone else to rock with us, too?" "Of course!" I said and looked in the direction of the DJ. "Hey, buddy, why don't you play some Motley Crue for us? While you're at it, ask all these suits if they wanna mosh, okay?"
What a magical evening.......
And if I don't see ya sooner, see ya later!!
