Tell Good Stories…..

A good friend of mine is a high school teacher, and he and his wife have recently blogged about their experiences chaperoning the Prom.  It took me back to one of my Prom experiences.

I was asked to escort a young lady to the St. Mary’s Prom “back in the day” - we were friends from church, and she needed a date. I, being the young stud that I was, was certainly willing to oblige.

Back then, I did a pretty good job of transcending the cliques.  I could run with the nerds and the cool kids equally well.  I’ve never been much of a partier (not that I have ever had any problem with it at all, but it’s the rare occasion that I have more than one beer, even to this day), but I was usually handy to have around to transport the rowdier folks

We went in the front door of the Prom, had our picture made, and went out the back door, to the parties. We dined at the City of Oaks Diner (R.I.P.), and settled in at the Ramada Crabtree. Once there, I departed hastily, as my “date” had accomplished her end goal, and no longer had any need for me. I felt so used.  I would have been happier at the prom. Confident that she was with friends, I went home.

The next morning, everyone in the family had gone to church, and I was awakened by the phone ringing.

“Mr. Rogers, this is Officer Smith of the Raleigh Police Department, and we need to inquire as to the whereabouts of your date of last evening.” I explained that I had left her with her friends at the Ramada. The officer asked me to come down to the Ramada, where he was, so I could “answer a few questions”. I hung up the phone, rushed to get dressed, and the phone rang again - it was Mom, calling from church to make sure I was awake.  I gave her the details and she asked if I needed her to meet me at the Ramada.  I indicated no, hung up, and the phone rang almost immediately.  It was my date of evening last.  She was at the Ramada, and had fessed up to everything.

Turns out, she had told St. Mary’s staff that she was spending the night at home, and she told home that she was staying in her dorm room on campus. Someone had caught wind of this and called the police (she was a little rowdy).

By this time, my mom was walking into the Ramada.  I climbed back into bed.

I was the only good guy in the whole transaction. Shoulda just stayed at the prom.

I was sitting at my desk, the neon “O T E L” sign flashing like a bug zapper on a hot summer night when the phone rang.

It was a dame, and she was bent out of shape like an old paperclip.

“Johnny, I’ve got a big problem on my hands.”  Not knowing who Johnny was, I listened intently. “Anyway Johnny, I’ve gotten mixed up in a dangerous world, and I’m worried”

Guns? Imports/Exports? Murder?

“No worse, Johnny, much worse - Politics”

I took a shot, and poured myself another.

“I’m running for President, and I’ve gotten myself into quite a mess.  Seems I misspoke, and they had video, and Johnny, I just don’t know what to do.”

I was on my last handkerchief, and I wasn’t gonna waste it on this blubbering dame.  Time for another shot.

“Johnny, I need you to find me some snipers.  I’ve got campaign stops all this week - surely you can do something for me?  Firecrackers, then?  Please?  I’m desperate, Johnny.  I owe my supporters some snipers.”

I told the dame to hit the bricks as I poured my last shot of the morning - murder’s not my game.  Not today anyway, and not for this broad.  It was time for lunch.