A fourteen year old boy on his first date with the first girl he has ever had a crush on and the agony of 1950's hand-holding.
First Date
Tonight is my first real date, ever. My birthday was last Saturday. Now that I’m fourteen, my mother thinks I’m old enough to go out with a girl. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time.
First I thought about taking Cindy to see “The Blob.” It had just come out and was showing at the Park Lane Theater. Everyone I talked to was dying to see it and the popcorn’s terrific. If, on the other hand, she didn’t like that, we could go again next Saturday when “The Fly” was showing. Then, I thought about something entirely different, like going for ice cream in the late afternoon and having a walk in Sylvan Park afterwards. It would be dark by then and anything could happen, but I finally settled on this evening’s events, the tenth annual summer concert series of the Sylvan Park Community Park Community Band. This would seem like a dull thing to do to both Cindy’s and my parents, but they’d like it. I had a plan and this was part of it.
Right now, I’m enjoying my daydreams as I loll lazily on a grassy knoll in Sylvan Park, thinking about tonight, stretched out full length and pleasantly drowsy. My hands are behind my head and I count the puffy, sheep-like clouds through slitty eyelids. One is large and triangle-shaped. A large cylindrical cloud comes floating by. I am trying hard not to think of Cindy’s anatomy but my imagination is running wild. The air, heavy, damp, and laced with the heady perfume of petunias doesn’t help.
I rouse myself out of my torpid state, brush off the leaves and grass clippings and try to clear my mind of all images of Cindy. The New Jersey midday, summer sun beats on my back and bare head as I hurry home.
Tonight’s the night! I hardly feel the heat as I think of my big date with Cindy Green. I think this is her first date too. Summer’s coming to an end and the delicious dawdling I’ve been doing for three months is going to turn into boring essays and algebra very soon,
In 1958, first impressions, especially to parents, were vitally important. So was orthodox behavior, and any deviation from the norm, such as fantasies of sex, breasts or any other body parts were readily available to the thought police, adults. One’s motives seemed to be transparent and the subtlest attempt to disguise them was sure to be instantly obvious to any grown-up. They knew everything. I’d also heard that pimples were an indication of unclean thoughts. If that were true , I certainly was guilty! I had a dirty mind. I admit it. These thoughts were uncontrollable. Even more of them were, at this moment, rushing through my mind as I imagined the voluptuous Cindy, with her big white teeth, even bigger breasts and what she might be wearing tonight; the peasant blouse that engulfed her lovely curves or the gingham dress that was slightly too tight in the bosom (that’s what we called this mysterious area back then.) I could feel the pimples of guilt forming on my forehead as I walked. I ran my hand over my entire face, just to be on the safe side. Tonight would definitely not be the time for an outbreak.
Cindy and I had been playing piano duets for years. We both studied with the same teacher, the flamboyant Mr. Berger, with his shock of “artistic” white hair, which meant long and unkempt, over his collar. We had been working on a four hand arrangement of the “Poet and Peasant Overture” for the spring recital. It was pretty hokey and full of funny silent-movie-sounding passages that made us giggle a lot when we practiced.
“Don’t you think that’s a little close to be sitting together on that little bench? asked Mrs. Green.
She drove us crazy with her interfering and incessant humming. When we practiced, she stuck her head in the room every five minutes. Cindy and I would quickly move apart, making a safe distance between us. She was always clinking drinking glasses and dinner plates or making sure to be preparing food.
“Sammy, do you want to stay for dinner? We’re having tuna casserole, your favorite.”
“No thank you, Mrs. Green. I have to get home.”
Her attentions corresponded to my recent discovery that Cindy had magically developed hips, breasts and was wearing lipstick.
The day arrived! The band was conducted this year by the local CPA, Mr. David Youmans, and was playing a concert this evening, which included The Poet and Peasant Overture, which I hoped had become “Our Song”. Would she recognize it as the same piece we practiced on the piano?
I was to pick Cindy up at 7:30. I had carefully engineered everything, a safe location that her parents and mine would approve of, the concert program-the Poet and Peasant Overture figured big in my choice-and, of course, my wardrobe. I would wear my new red shirt and the blue trousers. I had my secret weapon, too, aftershave. The concert was at eight. Sylvan Park was five minutes away from Cindy’s house, so we’d walk. I might get to hold her hand, maybe on the way back.
This balmy summer season at Sylvan Park had been perfect for romance and, thank God, there were a few days left. I savored the evening.
At six o’clock, I started getting ready. We’d just finished dinner and my father insensitively asked, “What’s your hurry?” I pretended not to hear. He smirked. I didn’t notice my mother’s warning look at my father, but I thought it was a dumb thing to say, so I scowled at him as I got up from the table. Running upstairs, I slammed the door of my room and emerged a couple of minutes later to stand in front of the bathroom mirror to have a pimple check. I picked up my hairbrush, but my efforts to get my unfashionably thick, curly hair to conform to the current slicked-back, movie-star style were futile. The more hair tonic I applied, the more it curled and the more dork-like I appeared. I eventually gave up on my hair, but I concealed three brand new pimples fairly well with Clearasil.
I had just begun to use deodorant and had been enthusiastically applying Arrid for two weeks, now.
My mother said I was allergic to it, but I was determined to eradicate any possibility of body odor. Wincing with pain, I rubbed it on my reddened skin.
Mom had just ironed my red shirt with the white collar, so I carefully laid it out on the bed while my foaming armpits dried. After putting it on, I rolled up each short sleeve twice and put on my blue pants with the iridescent checks, which had been a little tight last time I wore them. This time, however, they were looser and looked almost too short, as I stared down at my feet. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door with approval. Except for my hair, I looked pretty good. What girl wouldn’t want to go out with me? Cindy, do you hear me?
Half-past-seven came and I found myself on Cindy’s front stoop, knocking on her door. Mrs. Green opened it immediately, as if she’d been standing there on the other side, waiting for me.
“Hello, Sammy,” she said, staring with horror at the blanket under my arm. “Cindy will be down in just a moment. Won’t you come in?….Er, I thought you were going to a band concert tonight.”
“We are.”
“Don’t they have chairs?”
“No, we have to sit on the grass.”
It took her a while to say, “How nice,” but she did, eventually, even though there was more than a hint of disapproval on her face.
Just then the boisterous Cindy bounded down the stairs, smiling.
“Hi Sammy.”
She was wearing her peasant blouse and her body bounced in rhythm to her steps. I began to sweat with guilt and appreciation. My head jerked up and down, idiotically with each bounce.
“Sammy, are you feeling all right?” asked Mrs. Green. “Your head is jiggling.”
“I’m fine. Mrs. Green. It’s just a little twitch. I almost had to sneeze just then.”
“Oh, all right. Be careful you don’t catch cold tonight. You two have a good time. When will the concert be over?” She turned toward Cindy. “Be home no later than eleven, Cindy.” And then, she spoke to me as if I were retarded. “I’m baking some chocolate chip cookies. You can come in afterwards and have some, if you want, Sammy.”
As Cindy and I walked to the park in silence, I stole sidelong glances at her. Chocolate chip cookies were definitely not on my mind. We’d known each other for years, had grown up together, but were as tongue-tied as if we’d never met. We were like two deaf-mutes.
When we arrived, people were noisily setting up their lawn chairs and carrying their picnic baskets in order to listen to Victor Herbert and Gershwin melodies. All I had on my mind was Cindy and maybe holding her hand. I chose a good spot and we spread out the blanket on the lush green grass. I looked at Cindy. She was smiling, wickedly, and licked her lips, as if in anticipation-or was it my imagination? We sat down. She smoothed her skirt and posed, gracefully. I nervously sat cross-legged. There were no programs. Each number was announced by a red-headed young man, wearing a white dinner jacket. I recognized him from school. His name was Duncan Dunlap and he was in the drama club. He squinted at the program and announced in a squeaky voice, “The band will now play The Poet and Peasant Overture.”
After the band started playing, Cindy turned to me and said, “Isn’t that the piece we’ve been practicing?”
She noticed! I couldn’t believe it!
When the concert was over, we folded the blanket and took the shortcut to Cindy’s house, through the woods. This was it! The moment I’d been waiting for. The smell of damp leaves and night-blooming jasmine was intoxicating. The air
was deliciously cool. I was trembling with nervousness at the prospect of serious hand-holding. Arm-around-shoulder or kissing were wild fantasies not even to be considered.
We didn’t speak. If we had, my voice would have let me down and come out in a squeak. I walked on her right side, desperately wanting to grasp her hand. I couldn’t. My left hand was turning to stone and was rapidly losing feeling. My arm was like a huge dead thing, hanging from my body.
I couldn’t move my fingers. I stepped over to Cindy’s other side. Cindy spoke first.
“I liked that Peasant piece.”
…..And then we were almost home. I could see Cindy’s house from the path. It was too late! We stepped from the woods onto the street and, as we did, I felt her hand brush mine. Was it an accident or was it deliberate? …..Too late! Cindy’s mother opened the door, still wearing her flowered apron, and called out.
“Did you two have a good time? The cookies are still warm. Would you like to come in, Sammy?”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Green “
