Prom

Early winter in Florida produces some wonderful nights, just cool enough for a fire in the fire place. Frequently Landi and I watch watch reruns of old TV favorites. Right now, we are watching Castle. We always start with the pilot, and then watch the whole series to the end. Last night’s episode featured Castle dealing with his daughter beginning to date. I thought how he handled it was a little over the top, but then I remembered my conduct several years ago in New Jersey when one of my daughters was about to go to Prom.

My daughter had a date for the Jr./Sr. Prom. I didn’t know the boy, so I was not comfortable with this at all. She didn’t date much, but I was pretty sure she could handle her self ok. Some boys are assholes, though. I didn’t want her to have to beat her date’s ass at the prom if he was a jerk. I wanted her to have a good time at Prom. I had a great time at my Proms.

On the night of the Prom, I nervously sat down in my easy chair in the Living room to enjoy a cocktail and watch TV while I waited for my daughter’s date to arrive.

This was a tragic error. I didn’t watch TV. No, while I sipped my bourbon, I had time. Time to remember, time to remember my proms, and how madly in love I was. I remembered how it was to be a young man, dressed like a prince, driving up in my father’s car to pick up my beautiful date. She had the bluest of eyes and long blonde hair. She was the sweetest girl I had ever known and simply took my breath away. I remembered I wore Old Spice despite the fact that I didn’t need to shave at that time. I had recently had a hair cut. I remembered how I had spent the afternoon before the prom washing and waxing the pink Lincoln. Yes, it actually was a pink Lincoln. I was little more than a boiling pot of teenage hormones and, despite my best efforts, I never got lucky at any of my Proms. I was, none the less, eternally an optimist. I always had hope.

I was smiling at the memories when a commercial came on the TV and I snapped back to the present. I entered a state of complete and utter panic. Oh my God! My daughter’s date is going to try to get lucky! I have to put a stop to this, but how? My mind raced, rational thought was long gone. How was I going to ensure the well being of my daughter and still let her go to Prom? I couldn’t lock her in her room, could I? There had to be a solution!

Out of nowhere, I had a flash of inspiration. I dashed into the kitchen. With steely calm I methodically assembled the components of my plan. I peeled two of the largest grapes we had. I filled a mason jar with vinegar, and dropped the grapes in. Tightening the lid securely, I placed the jar containing the grapes on the mantel above the fireplace just as the door bell rang.

I opened the door and tried to act normal. Although in my mind I was greeting Charles Manson, my facade was that of calm, cool, composure. I had never met my daughter’s date before. My daughters date, let’s call him ‘Charles’, was tall, about 2 inches taller than me, solidly built and, to make matters worse, the bastard was strikingly handsome with strong cheek bones and piercing eyes. Oh, this was bad. It was much, much worse than I had feared. Charles politely introduced himself and we shook hands. I gave him a deliberately firm handshake. I escorted him into the living room, and offered him a seat. I told him I would let my daughter know he was here.

Having notified my daughter that ‘Charles’ was here, I returned to the Living Room. ‘Charles’ and I engaged in some polite conversation about the plans for the Prom, and for after the prom. As we talked, I casually walked over to the mantel, and picked up the jar with the grapes. I gazed at the grapes as he spoke. As he told me about plans to go to a diner after the prom, I handed him the jar. He looked at me somewhat puzzled.

Without smiling, I looked him straight in the eye and in a very serious voice said, “Charles, do you know what those are?”

“No, Sir. I don’t”, came the answer as he stared curiously and closely at the grapes in the vinegar.

I loudly popped open my Buck knife. Using the point of the blade,I very deliberately began to clean beneath my fingernails as only the most uncouth of villains do. In my very best low, and threatening voice I said, “Those are hog nuts, son. You bring my daughter home happy and unmolested, or the hog will get some company, Cappish?”

The young man went pale, and my daughter entered the room.

The photos we took of them before they left were uninspiring. My daughter was radiant, and her date was, well, terrified and it showed. I felt badly at the time, but not to badly. They had a great prom, a good post prom meal at the diner, and my daughter came home happy and unmolested.

I never saw that boy again.

So, perhaps Castle wasn’t all that over the top after all.