The First Date that Almost Didn’t Happen
COMING OF AGE

The First Date that Almost Didn’t Happen

Photo by Cameron Behymer on Unsplash

Dean worked the grill at McDonald’s; I worked the counter and in the drive-through. It was clear to everyone we were sweet on each other. His outspoken twin sister and I were friends, and she told me he liked me as we wiped down the fry station. Deanne held no secrets and suffered no fools.

Two awkward teens, he and I flirted sheepishly across the tall grill top, which separated his work area from the counter area. “I need a Quarter no onion!” I’d call out with a grin and slide the handwritten special order back to him. He’d smile back lopsidedly, a shock of dark hair cascading from under his boat-shaped paper hat.

Never mind that I’d kissed his best friend, Ed, last year at Christmas in the restaurant basement under the plastic mistletoe placed over the break room entrance. My first kiss. A brazen act (for me) done perfunctorily between early dinner rush and late dinner rush. Ed and I were just friends; he was going with Laura now, who also worked with us.

Prom season was coming up. And rumor had it that Dean planned to invite me to his.

The invitation

Straightening my pale blue polyester tunic, I finished handing food to the customer in a beat-up pickup truck, took a deep breath, and headed to the back of the store for a meeting carefully arranged by our handlers and intercessors.

Dean was at the deep sink behind the freezer, pretending to focus on the grill scraper. I approached and casually cooed, “Hey, Dean.”

His body turned toward me, as he began talking to his shoes. “Oh, hey. I was wondering. Um, would you want to go to prom with me?”

“Ok,” I responded, too quickly. Then, taking a breath, I added, “That’d be nice.”

“Cool,” he said.

With our business concluded, I returned to the drive-through window and whispered the big news to my waiting best friend.

The reckoning

That was the easy part, I soon realized. I still needed to run this whole idea by my dad.

I grimaced at the thought. To say Dad was strict and protective was an understatement. In our non-drinking, religious home, my siblings and I weren’t allowed to dance — not even in grade school gym class. The Southern Baptist high school I attended outlawed rock music (even “bubblegum rock” was considered gateway music that would lead inexorably to “acid rock,” promiscuity, drugs, and maybe even — gasp! — divorce). He joked endlessly about wielding guns to protect his daughters’ virtue…and we never knew exactly how much he was joking.

My mom worked the afternoon shift at a trucking company during my teen years, leaving the house around 4 p.m. and getting home after midnight. My siblings had flown the coop — one married and one away at college. I was going to have to manage this one without support.

“So, Dad,” I ventured nonchalantly when I got home, masking primal fear. “A guy I worked with asked me to go to prom with him. I was thinking maybe it would be ok.” Then adding, “It’s at your old high school!” (I figured the nostalgia factor would be a nice touch.)

He bristled — protective instincts in full bloom. He wanted to know all about Dean, the dance, and 100 details I had no clue about. I answered and assured as best I could. And then he lowered the boom:

“Well, if he wants to take you out, I’ll have to meet him first and he can ask me for permission!” he said with finality.

What? What on earth? It was a date, not a proposal! There’s no way Dean was going to agree to that. Why would he? We didn’t know each other nearly well enough, and I was sure he could find another date who wouldn’t be so much trouble. How could I even ask him to do that?

But I agreed. I’d waited 16 1/2 years to be asked out on a date, dammit. I’d figure out a way to make this work. I decided to talk with Mom in the morning to see if she could intervene. She was sympathetic but said Dad had his mind made up.

That night at work, I pulled Dean aside and, with great embarrassment, told him he had to meet my dad. His eyes widened in shock but he said, “Yeah, ok.” I left out the part about asking permission…there’s just no way to tell a 16-year-old boy that without scaring him off permanently.

A time and place were arranged. Neutral territory. Dad and Dean would come to McDonald’s as my shift ended one night later that week.

Dean arrived first. I smiled as he headed toward me. He and Ed had come together. Then, with horror, I noticed his shirt: loudly emblazoned with “Budweiser.” Possibly the king of beers to some, but I’d have a Clydesdale’s chance in the Kentucky Derby of going to prom if my dad saw it. I panicked.

“Your shirt!” I cried out, pointing.

“What’s the matter with it?” a confused Dean replied.

“You can’t wear that shirt! My dad will be here any minute!”

Taking charge, I said, “Ed, let me see your shirt. Okay, you guys go downstairs and switch shirts. But hurry! My dad is never late!”

They looked at each other, shrugged, and toddled off to the crew room as I scanned the parking lot for my dad’s car. Seeing him pull in, I asked my manager if I could punch out and went to greet my dad at the door. I was touched to see that he’d changed out of his work clothes and put on ’70s dad dress apparel— polyester pants and an open-neck dress shirt. And, while he tried to hide it, I could see he was nervous, too.

We found a booth, and Dean joined us a few minutes later, wearing a blessedly innocuous shirt. We all endured a painful conversation, in which no permission was sought yet was implicitly granted. The deed was done. The date was on. I began to breathe normally again.

Dad put his arm around me on the way to the parking lot and told me he loved me, something he told me at least once every day of my life.

The big night

With a clear green light, preparations began for prom night. We would ride with Ed and Laura, have an early dinner at a fancy(ish) restaurant, and then head to the high school gym for the dance. Then “straight home.”

I bought a Gunne Sax knockoff dress — simple ivory cotton with a lace-up bodice — which was very trendy at the time. Very demure…so much so that I’d wear it again to sing in church a few weeks later.

Mom, who had to work that night, was devastated to miss my first date. I got dressed early so she could see me in the dress. She hugged me and took off for work with tears in her eyes. And I was left, once again, to face Dad’s Tourette’s-like protective instincts alone.

Ed, Laura, Dean, and me on prom night. Photo by Dad.

Dean arrived, along with Ed and Laura. Dad, who had been instructed by Mom, dutifully took pictures, injected dad humor, and tried strenuously to be upbeat and friendly.

Just before we walked out the door, we went over all the instructions with him one last time. I was relieved. He did it! He was a normal dad and didn’t embarrass me once.

Oh, but wait….We weren’t quite out the door when Dad said, “Well, your dress is white as you’re leaving. Let’s hope it’s white when you get back!”

I flushed to the tips of my hair. Welp. There it was. Dripping with symbolism and not even a little subtle. We ducked out the door and into Ed’s car, with Dad standing in the doorway — chagrined and regretting his last remark. Had my organs not all just shut down, I’d have felt bad for him. Maybe.

Epilogue

Dean, Ed, Laura, and I had a good time that night. Dinner was nice, I bluffed my way through slow-dancing well enough (since I’d never been allowed to learn), and we came straight home, as promised. Dean was a perfect gentleman. I don’t even remember if he kissed me goodnight.

We never went out again but remained friendly at work.
['Tina L. Smith']
['Parenting', 'Love', 'Humor', 'Creative Non Fiction', 'Dating']