Bat Boy and Guana Girl at the Junior High Prom
The lights were dazzling, Hammond B-3 solo riffs bouncing off the gym walls. Bat Boy discovered servitude as his prom dress, and was dressed to the nines. Guana Girl was not amused: her effluvia was rising, the winds were out of the north: she was definitely having second thoughts. She’d seen Bat Boy in all his glory, carving the left temporal lobe of the Grand Wizard, slathering it with Beelzebub’s Reign of Fire Barbecue Rib Bath. Bat Boy in red satin and pumps—this was not GG’s idea of prom elegance; this was not even her idea of vanilla fudge. She felt let down, by life, by Prom Girl magazine, by the very Bat Gods themselves.
“Is it too late to opt out? My post-romantic urges are coiling,” said GG.
Bat Boy blushed, “Room 13? I get your drift. I’ve been meaning to myself.”
“You have no idea.”
“But, I—”
“No. Really. None.”
“No Carnival Time?”
“Son, not even Jimmy Dean.”
“But, I love—”
“Not…even…”
Sly was mopping the keys of his Hammond. Gerald checked out on the organ solo; good time for a cotton candy break, he thought, but his guitar pick got stuck in the hairy pink mess. While pugilating the candy beehive, Dr. Mrs. Christabel Darwin stepped out of the Moon Room; her legs and eyes were saffron. Glabrous, even.
Eying Gerald’s labors, the Dr. Mrs. spoke: “Something I can do for you, hon?”
Gerald’d had a crush on the lunar professor since he couldn’t remember when—it seemed he’d been born with his fervor. Blushing, he turned from the moony down of her décolletage—just a wisp of the valley, but Gerald was thirteen, a Victorian lad swooning at ankles.
“I’m fine, Dr. Mrs. Darwin”—the “Mrs.” always stung like a black asp in spring—“really, just fine.”
“It seems you’ve lost your way, Gerry. Sure I can’t—”
“Just fine I assure you, Dr. Mrs. Darwin. Couldn’t be—”
“Oh my, hon, but I think you can—”
“No, really, Mrs. Dr.—I mean Dr. Mrs. —”
“It’s okay, baby,” cool hand at his brow.
A voice from behind the moon goddess: “Christabel? Darling? Cherry blossom?— ”
Christabel rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Angel breath?”
—“Angel breath?”—
Mr. Ware advanced, dance card in hand.
“I was so hoping. But I broke my pencil.”
“Pobrecita. Que lastima.”
“You wouldn’t by any chance—”
“I’m sorry darlin’. I don’t do pencils. Or dances. Or Savanarola.”
Mr. Ware, moue’d moue-fully. “And I am?— ”
“All of them, darlin’. All of them.”
“Even with—”
“Especially with—”
“That doesn’t leave me much—”
“No, that doesn’t leave you any, sweetness.”
The moue-ful moue shuffled off towards the gym.
A momentary lunar pang: “I do know that Mrs. Hatchings—”
Moue-ful Ware: “Yes?”
“Is stunning in her peach parfait.”
Not what he wanted to hear. The shuffling moue re-shuffled.
Gerald was melting, but Mother Luna had not forgotten.
“Distaff troubles?”
“Only the beginning.”
“Nice prom song, I’ll admit, but it has what to do with you?”
“I’ve lost me cave,” said Gerald. “Time is not on my side.”
“Something tells that smelt is all that’s missing.”
“Smelt?”
“Smelt. Have you smelt her lately?”
“I thought you meant the fish.”
“I might have.”
“Dr. Mrs.— ”
“I prefer one—”
"Dr.—”
“Actually, I prefer the other—”
Stinging asp sunk its barb: “Mrs.—”
“I suppose Christabel would be pushing it, no?”
Adolescent DNA was swooning: Dr. Mrs. caught the drift: “Yes. I suppose it would.”
From down the hall, florid glimpses of Bat and Guana. Cries for more from the Shadows of Knight. Sly is perturbed: don’t they know this is a Hammond B, and where the hell is Gerald and his Stratocaster?
Gerald hears the mental drum roll of cousin Sly. He’d like to stay in the lunar tides, but duty calls. He sloshes down the hall.
Sloshes?
From the throbbing gymnasium: “Love is an ocean, I can’t forget—”
Gerald: “That’s not even on our set list.”
Through the gym doors, an explosion of…(sloshes?)…of…(sloshes?!?)…guano?”
Bat Boy is airborne. Coach Faust and Coach Stella are climbing the ropes: it’s post-graduate funambulism at its best.
But, Guana Girl is beyond repair, an ether now, a recitation, a carotid affirmation, a less than blissful mess.
Washing me down, washing me down…
[Seeds of composition: darkly comic Graham Greene and Flannery O'Connor short stories in class, and looking with some juniors at the Prom Girl website: we picked out prom dresses for ALL the juniors, male and female, and faculty, too, of course. 'Splains the picture, no?]
“Is it too late to opt out? My post-romantic urges are coiling,” said GG.
Bat Boy blushed, “Room 13? I get your drift. I’ve been meaning to myself.”
“You have no idea.”
“But, I—”
“No. Really. None.”
“No Carnival Time?”
“Son, not even Jimmy Dean.”
“But, I love—”
“Not…even…”
Sly was mopping the keys of his Hammond. Gerald checked out on the organ solo; good time for a cotton candy break, he thought, but his guitar pick got stuck in the hairy pink mess. While pugilating the candy beehive, Dr. Mrs. Christabel Darwin stepped out of the Moon Room; her legs and eyes were saffron. Glabrous, even.
Eying Gerald’s labors, the Dr. Mrs. spoke: “Something I can do for you, hon?”
Gerald’d had a crush on the lunar professor since he couldn’t remember when—it seemed he’d been born with his fervor. Blushing, he turned from the moony down of her décolletage—just a wisp of the valley, but Gerald was thirteen, a Victorian lad swooning at ankles.
“I’m fine, Dr. Mrs. Darwin”—the “Mrs.” always stung like a black asp in spring—“really, just fine.”
“It seems you’ve lost your way, Gerry. Sure I can’t—”
“Just fine I assure you, Dr. Mrs. Darwin. Couldn’t be—”
“Oh my, hon, but I think you can—”
“No, really, Mrs. Dr.—I mean Dr. Mrs. —”
“It’s okay, baby,” cool hand at his brow.
A voice from behind the moon goddess: “Christabel? Darling? Cherry blossom?— ”
Christabel rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Angel breath?”
—“Angel breath?”—
Mr. Ware advanced, dance card in hand.
“I was so hoping. But I broke my pencil.”
“Pobrecita. Que lastima.”
“You wouldn’t by any chance—”
“I’m sorry darlin’. I don’t do pencils. Or dances. Or Savanarola.”
Mr. Ware, moue’d moue-fully. “And I am?— ”
“All of them, darlin’. All of them.”
“Even with—”
“Especially with—”
“That doesn’t leave me much—”
“No, that doesn’t leave you any, sweetness.”
The moue-ful moue shuffled off towards the gym.
A momentary lunar pang: “I do know that Mrs. Hatchings—”
Moue-ful Ware: “Yes?”
“Is stunning in her peach parfait.”
Not what he wanted to hear. The shuffling moue re-shuffled.
Gerald was melting, but Mother Luna had not forgotten.
“Distaff troubles?”
“Only the beginning.”
“Nice prom song, I’ll admit, but it has what to do with you?”
“I’ve lost me cave,” said Gerald. “Time is not on my side.”
“Something tells that smelt is all that’s missing.”
“Smelt?”
“Smelt. Have you smelt her lately?”
“I thought you meant the fish.”
“I might have.”
“Dr. Mrs.— ”
“I prefer one—”
"Dr.—”
“Actually, I prefer the other—”
Stinging asp sunk its barb: “Mrs.—”
“I suppose Christabel would be pushing it, no?”
Adolescent DNA was swooning: Dr. Mrs. caught the drift: “Yes. I suppose it would.”
From down the hall, florid glimpses of Bat and Guana. Cries for more from the Shadows of Knight. Sly is perturbed: don’t they know this is a Hammond B, and where the hell is Gerald and his Stratocaster?
Gerald hears the mental drum roll of cousin Sly. He’d like to stay in the lunar tides, but duty calls. He sloshes down the hall.
Sloshes?
From the throbbing gymnasium: “Love is an ocean, I can’t forget—”
Gerald: “That’s not even on our set list.”
Through the gym doors, an explosion of…(sloshes?)…of…(sloshes?!?)…guano?”
Bat Boy is airborne. Coach Faust and Coach Stella are climbing the ropes: it’s post-graduate funambulism at its best.
But, Guana Girl is beyond repair, an ether now, a recitation, a carotid affirmation, a less than blissful mess.
Washing me down, washing me down…
[Seeds of composition: darkly comic Graham Greene and Flannery O'Connor short stories in class, and looking with some juniors at the Prom Girl website: we picked out prom dresses for ALL the juniors, male and female, and faculty, too, of course. 'Splains the picture, no?]
posted by murat11 at 3:50 PM
6 Comments:
It's Carrie revisited, man. An explosion of smelt and red satin. Pumps careening through the air.
Mr. Ware in the gym with the pencil. G Girl in the corridor with the effluvia. Mrs. Moon in the cotton candy with the rebuff.
You have re-invented Clue. O'Connor in the backwoods with the Misfit. Another mystery solved.
Synchronicities do abound, do they not: this story and the prom dress "shopping" were done yesterday, and then independent SK parallels. Hoolawd! Demented southern minds of a feather...
Seeded deeply within this story compost was an awesome junior high dance in Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, 42 years ago: pure magic that night was.
Everett and JoJo skip the prom
to engage in skullduggery
and fine tune the rougher nubs
of their morose poetry.
“Oh,” Everett begins direly,
“but the black asp
has no sting in winter
for my left buttock
is frostbitten.”
“Ah,” JoJo bemoans,
“and your black ass
has no reason to sing
next summer with the
bourbon makin’ my
nose go all unfeely.”
The pair continue to
eschew grace in pursuit
of hiccoughing
till next homecoming.
ALT: I feel badly for Ev and JoJo: sounds like, graceless eschewing notwithstanding, they really needed a PromGirl consult. With proper promwear, nobody should be goin' unfeely. I thought the point of prom was to get plenty feely, no? Pobrecitas/os.
Peace.
this Prom sounds much more entertaining then mine - the only entertaining part was when I convinced my date to let me parade around the shared hotel room in his tux shirt and jacket - couldn't wait to get out of the dress.
Things are getting a bit risque around the joint now, jsd: I'm sure prom date ALSO couldn't wait for you to get out of the dress. And by the by, was this a total clothing swap? How did he look in the dress?
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