A Good American

by Alex George

  As I watched the calendar creep slowly forward, a defeated inertia crept over me. I numbly ticked off the days to graduation. When the posters went up on the school bulletin boards announcing the senior prom, I took no notice. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing to celebrate. Besides, I had no wish to watch my fellow graduates paw at each other’s fancy clothes before they slunk off for slugs of vodka and steamy bouts of heavy petting. And the prospect of watching Miriam and Kevin dancing together as newly crowned king and queen of the prom was too appalling to contemplate.

  I never would have gone if we hadn’t been booked to sing there.

  A week before the prom, the gym became a hive of industry as an army of seniors began its transformation to an elegant venue for the grand soiree. The room had acquired the funky whiff of perspiring adolescents that no amount of balloons or bunting could ever shift, but nobody seemed to mind. A makeshift stage was constructed over the bleachers at one end of the room, behind which a huge purple banner emblazoned with the words good-bye, class of ’55! had been hung.

  As they worked, the girls discussed how far they might be prepared to go with their dates if things went right. The boys watched them from the other side of the room. As the big day approached, the febrile atmosphere of sexual anticipation grew. While I moodily contemplated my father’s pots and pans, my classmates were considering their own induction into adulthood in altogether different terms.

  I spent the day of the prom standing next to my father, helping him with the Saturday lunchtime rush. At three o’clock I escaped the grill and walked morosely up to Tillman’s Wood. There I clambered through the limbs of the old oak tree one last time, a valedictory tour. Most of my classmates were impatient for school to end, but I was clinging desperately to what remained of my childhood. I watched the sun as it inched westward across the sky. There was no stopping the dull trudge of time.

  That evening the four of us gathered in the kitchen. We wore dark suits, white shirts, and thin black ties. This was our standard uniform for funerals, which struck me as appropriate, since we were there to witness the death knell of my youth. Frank was the last of us to appear. As he walked into the kitchen a pungent aroma wafted from him.

  I frowned. “Is that cologne you’re wearing?”

  My little brother inclined his head toward me. “It is.”

  “Did you take a bath in it?” asked Freddy, wrinkling his nose.

  The thought occurred to me that I could have used a splash of cologne myself to mask the lingering odor of fried onions, but I said nothing. Frank extracted a comb from his inside pocket and ran it through his hair, which, I now noticed, was shining with a recent application of Brylcreem. “It’s the senior prom, fellows,” he said. “You snooze, you lose.”

  “It’s not your senior prom,” I pointed out.

  Frank waved away my objection.

  “I believe,” declared Freddy, “that young Franklin thinks he’s going to score.”

  Teddy immediately looked worried. “That’s ridiculous!” he barked.

  “Do the math.” Frank pointed at me. “There are boys going without a date. There’ll be girls without a date, too.”

  “But you’re a freshman,” said Freddy. “No girl is going to throw herself at you, just because she hasn’t got a date.”

  Frank sat down at the kitchen table. “It’s their senior prom,” he said simply.

  “Besides, that cologne is awfully strong,” I said. “They won’t get within ten feet of you without gagging.”

  Frank put on a pair of dark glasses. “Mock me all you like, James,” he said coolly. “Like you said, it’s your prom. But we’ll see who’s laughing at the end of the night.”

  I understood my brother’s thinking. The fables of bacchanalian excess that surrounded previous prom nights had cloaked the event in irresistible erotic mystique. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that a posse of teachers prowled the school all evening, which meant that the interesting stuff would take place after the dance, in the backseats of cars out at Gants Bluff. And Frank did not have a car.

  We practiced our set list for that evening. We were doing the usual crowd-pleasers, and for the finale I had penned some snappy new lyrics to “Toot, Toot, Tootsie,” which said good-bye to school, innocence, happiness, hope, that sort of thing.

  As we walked to school we were passed by a slow-moving fleet of cars filled with my classmates. The boys lounged behind steering wheels, doing their best not to look awkward in their rented tuxes. Their dates sat next to them, checking makeup in their compacts and smoking furiously. The couples weren’t talking much, nervous about the evening ahead. Seeing their anxiety cheered me up a little, and for a while I managed to camouflage my misery behind a veneer of haughty condescension.

  In front of the school, prom-goers were milling about. Girls squealed and kissed one another. They admired each other’s dresses and exchanged final words of encouragement. Boys gave each other last-minute pep talks. Most of them had hip flasks hidden in their jackets, the liquor siphoned off from their parents’ drinks cabinets. They all looked as if they could do with a swig right then, but the booze wasn’t for them. It was for their dates. Everyone knew that alcoholic lubrication would be required if the evening was to end as hoped.

  We made our way toward the gym. Streamers had been hung across the room, crisscrossing above our heads. On the stage, a solitary microphone stand stood gleaming beneath a bank of bright spotlights. The rest of the room was plunged into shadow, illuminated only by a rotating mirror ball that had been hoisted high above the painted lines of the basketball court. A constellation of tiny squares of light floated across the floor. In one corner of the room lurked a crowd of grim-faced teachers, none of whom looked happy about sacrificing their Saturday evening to police a crowd of randy teenagers. We were not due to sing for over an hour, and so we gathered by the side of the stage and watched as the gym began to fill up. Frank inspected every girl with interest, although he was still wearing his dark glasses, which meant that he couldn’t see much. Most of the activity was near the punch bowl. The teachers hovered nearby, hawkishly watching for attempts to sabotage the mix with alcohol.

  Just before eight o’clock, Eugene Jurgenschlitter, the chairman of the prom organizing committee, approached us. He was wearing a lime green plaid tuxedo. His date was a heavyset girl called Julie Tippet, who was squeezed into a scarlet dress that was a couple of sizes too small for her. She stood two paces behind Eugene and smiled at us. The lights from the mirror ball bounced off the orthodontic strips on her teeth. I could smell the alcohol on their breaths. I figured Eugene would need to be pretty well oiled if he was going to contemplate sticking his tongue into Julie’s industrial-grade metalwork.

  “You guys ready?” asked Eugene.

  Since it was theoretically my prom, I had been designated spokesman for the night. “Absolutely,” I replied.

  “You’ll sing for thirty minutes?”

  I nodded. “Maybe a bit longer, if we get encores.”

  Eugene grinned. “Encores, right.”

  Frank spoke for the first time. He had been examining Julie Tippet with undisguised interest. “We get encores,” he said, looking directly at her over the top of his dark glasses.

  Julie Tippet giggled and let out a small hiccup.

  “Hey, Eugene,” I said, “are you going to introduce us?”

  “Sure thing,” said Eugene. He took a small flask out of his inside pocket and took a quick swig. He smacked his lips together and winked at us. “Show business, eh?” he declared. With that he turned and clambered unsteadily up the steps and into the glare of the spotlights. At once the crowd began cheering and whistling, relieved that matters were about to get under way. Eugene squinted out at the audience and waved his arms for silence.

  Next to me, Frank turned toward Julie Tippet. He whipped off h
is dark glasses and gave her an unambiguous look. “We also do requests,” he said. Julie giggled again.

  Eugene finally got the crowd quiet. He made a few brief announcements about the evening’s schedule and then introduced us. We filed onto the stage. There was some polite applause and we launched into “Brown Eyes, Why Are You Blue?”

  By then we had been singing together for so long that we no longer worried about getting the music right. We had begun to focus on other aspects of our performance: certain numbers now came with little dance routines, and we jazzed up our tunes with swinging finger-snaps. We followed our opening number with a languorous version of “Over the Rainbow.” Beyond the glare of the spotlights I could make out the silhouettes of young couples standing close together. I looked anxiously for a flash of Miriam’s gorgeous, flame-colored hair, but she and Kevin were nowhere to be seen. Julie Tippet stood alone by the wall, watching us. I wondered where Eugene had disappeared to.

  A prom audience is a very different beast from a funeral congregation. That night everyone had other things on their minds besides us, and after a couple of tunes people sauntered off to refill their cups of punch, or went outside for a cigarette. Our finale was “Toot, Toot, Tootsie.” With my clever new lyrics and a rousing last chorus crammed full of impressive vocal pyrotechnics, I had been hoping for a rousing send-off, but instead, as our final chord ended, we were greeted with slightly bored applause from the few prom-goers who remained.

  So this is how it ends, I thought sadly. My brothers quickly left the stage, but I lingered there for a moment, looking out across the empty room. I didn’t want to relinquish my final moment in the spotlight, even if there was nobody watching me.

  Finally I trudged off the stage and went to find my brothers, who were waiting for me outside.

  Freddy looked at me, concerned. “You okay?”

  “Someone might have stayed to listen.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  Frank looked around him and put his dark glasses back on. “I’m going back inside,” he announced.

  “You’re not coming home?” said Teddy.

  “Business to attend to,” said Frank.

  “Don’t worry, Ted,” I said. “He’ll be home five minutes behind you.”

  “What is it, James,” said Frank, “can’t you bear the thought of someone else having fun?”

  That was pretty much it in a nutshell, but I wasn’t about to admit it, least of all to him. Frank turned and sauntered back inside. We watched him go.

  “He’s not really going to score, is he?” asked Teddy after a moment.

  I shook my head. “Of course not. Even I have more chance of getting laid tonight than he does.”

  Which was an interesting remark, given what happened next.

  Part of me wanted to leave the prom as quickly as possible, but I was unable to pull myself away. I knew that when I headed for home, I would be bidding my childhood good-bye. The future would be coming for me in the dim light of morning, and so I went back inside for one final waltz with my past.

  I made my way back to the gym. The corridors thronged with excited seniors. There were one or two girls sobbing in the shadows, but even they were being consoled by a sisterly arm wrapped around their shoulders. Nobody was alone. Nobody except me.

  “James Meisenheimer.”

  I turned at the sound of my name and saw Mrs. Fitch walking toward me. “Heard you up onstage just now,” she said, smiling. “Nice job.”

  I grinned at her. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” We had had our final singing lesson together the previous week.

  She looked pleased. “So how’s prom night treating you?”

  I put my hands into my pockets. “All right, I guess.”

  Mrs. Fitch cocked her head to one side. “No date?”

  “No date,” I said, as brightly as I could.

  “Want to keep me company, then? I’m on patrol.”

  “Patrol?”

  “Keeping an eye out for illicit activity,” she explained, arching an amused eyebrow.

  I shrugged my acquiescence. We walked down the corridor in companionable silence. After three years of singing lessons, Mrs. Fitch and I knew each other pretty well. By then I had more or less gotten over my earlier infatuation with her. I wondered what her husband was doing tonight.

  We passed the science labs. Mrs. Fitch opened each door and peered into the darkness. In the final classroom, I saw her stiffen. “There’s someone in here,” she said over her shoulder. She stepped inside and switched on the light. I followed her in. Beneath the blackboard, a curled-up figure had collapsed in a heap next to a pool of vomit. I heard a faint groan. “Do you know who that is?” asked Mrs. Fitch. “I can’t see his face.”

  Neither could I, but the lime green tuxedo was unmistakable. “That,” I told her, “is the chairman of the prom committee.”

  “Eugene Jurgenschlitter?”

  Hearing his name, Eugene’s groans grew a little louder.

  Mrs. Fitch looked cross. “Oh, heavens. I suppose we should do something,” she sighed. We hauled Eugene upright. He was in bad shape. His jacket had been torn in a couple of places and he stank of stale puke. A crust of dried vomit had formed down one side of his face. He blinked at us miserably.

  “Where’s Julie?” he mumbled.

  I had a pretty good idea where Julie was, but I figured poor Eugene had enough to deal with just then. We propped him up against the wall with his head between his knees and told him to wait for someone to come and fetch him.

  “I’ll send one of the faculty to take him home,” said Mrs. Fitch as we closed the door behind him.

  Just beyond the science classrooms were the music rooms. As we reached the room where she taught, Mrs. Fitch turned to me. “Have you got a moment?” she asked. “I’ve been on my feet all evening, and these shoes are killing me. I could do with a sit-down.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  She smiled at me and pushed open the door. Inside we each unthinkingly assumed the positions we took each week—Mrs. Fitch on the piano stool, me standing to one side. She took off her shoes and began to rub her feet.

  “So,” she said, “the diner awaits.” For the last twelve months Mrs. Fitch had sympathetically listened to my complaints about my fate after graduation.

  “Like the grim reaper,” I agreed.

  “It won’t be that bad,” she said.

  “Right now it sure feels that way.”

  A small smile played around her lips. “You’re not looking forward to the joys of adulthood?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Oh, it has its moments.” Mrs. Fitch stood up and walked over to the door. She slipped the bolt across and sat back down on the piano stool. Outside the room’s small window, it was completely dark. The corridors were silent. We could have been the last two people on earth.

  “James,” she said, “there’s something I need you to do for me.”

  “Of course,” I answered.

  “Come here.” She reached out and took my hand. I watched in mute astonishment as my fingers touched the hem of her dress. She pulled my wrist upward. When the tops of her stockings came into view I let out a small cough of disbelief. As the dress continued to ride up her thighs, she opened her legs.

  Finally I chanced a look at Mrs. Fitch’s face. Her mouth was slightly open. She was still gripping my wrist, more tightly now. She nodded at me gently and guided my fingers higher. When I touched her for the first time, she let out a small gasp. I froze.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She smiled at me then, and shifted her weight forward on the piano stool. I felt my fingers press up against her more firmly. “I’m just wonderful,” she whispered.

  The next thing I knew, I was on my knees,
her fingers in my hair.

  A while later—I lost all sense of time—she pushed me away and stood up. She turned around and motioned to the back of her dress. “Help me out of this, will you?” she asked. I pulled down the zipper and watched hungrily as she stepped out of her clothes. She stood in front of me wearing only her stockings and a bra, a miracle of cantilevered wonderment.

  “Now,” she said, taking a step closer. “Let’s see about you.”

  No more words were spoken, until, about a minute later, I said, “Oh!”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Fitch.

  Then I said: “Sorry.”

  She patted me gently. “That’s all right,” she sighed.

  I thought quickly. Mrs. Fitch hadn’t had time to take her bra off. I desperately wanted to see her breasts, but I was unsure how to ask politely. I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively.

  “Couldn’t we do that again?”

  Mrs. Fitch shook her head.

  “It’s just that, you know, in a minute I’ll be—”

  She put her hand up to my cheek. “James, please. Stop talking and get off.”

  I did as I was told. Without looking at each other we quickly put our clothes back on. She went over to the door and pulled back the latch. I was being dismissed.

  By the door I stopped. “Good-bye, James,” said Mrs. Fitch, patting me on the shoulder.

  I nodded reluctantly, and trudged off.

  “Enjoy the rest of the party,” she called.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The following day I started work.

  There was no fanfare, no grand ceremony. I just tied my apron around my waist and began peeling potatoes to make hash browns for the town’s hungry churchgoers. Nobody who came in that morning saw anything different; there we were, my father and I, slaving away at the grill, just like always.

  But that Sunday morning felt very different, at least for me. All there was before me now was a future filled with eggs, bacon, and toast. And a universe of cheeseburgers. I was to spend my life fulfilling the greedy whims of strangers, one order at a time.