The title of this should read “One of the Rudest Things I Have Ever Done”. In my adolescence, which ended, oh, a mere few years ago, I would have to admit to multiple lapses of good grace and civility. Much to the horror of my mother, and the delight of my father, I blossomed into a renegade of sorts, bringing my yearbook quote “Invariably the first one over the fence in mad pursuit of a good time” to fruition. Of course this journey was immensely fortified by my running mate, “The Obsessed”, and something called booze.
Saint Christopher’s Church, a monument to Father White, who was in all probability the most influential and productive priest in the history of this town, was designed to allow for organizations of any and all denominations to hold their social functions. The non-Catholics paid through the nose, of course, as Father was indeed a pocket scraper.
A dance was in full swing as several of my delinquent friends and myself were riding by on a Saturday night. Boredom was a common affliction in town for the “tweeners”, which does not hold the same connotation as today. “Tweeners” were those leaving adolescence but not quite ready to enter the demanding world of adulthood, also referred to as “adulterescents”. Anyway, we crashed the dance.
It was a BYO function, and as usual, we were well prepared. We found a table by the stage, and set up a pony keg for easy access. The band was quite good I think, and soon we were all rocking and rolling, bumping and grinding, twisting and shimmying like fools.
The “Obsessed” was bee-bopping next to a semi-large lady with an extravagant hair-do. You, know, the up-do piled a mile high that a cat could live under. The song playing might have been “Rockin’ Robin”, I’m not sure, but it was one that demanded a lot of head bobbing. The joint was jumping, bodies were gyrating, and heads were bobbing in time to the music.
In the midst of one of my intricate maneuvers over the back of the ex, who was quite a bopper by the way, I heard an ear piercing shriek. The dancers spread apart, and all eyes were glued to the dark mass skating across the dance floor at warp speed. At first it appeared to be a large hairy rodent of sorts, but turns out the lady from the table next to ours dancing by to the “Obsessed” had failed to anchor down her wig. Apparently the top heavy thing got bopped right off her head, leaving nothing but a sweaty mat of hair and dozens of multicolored bobby pins decorating the poor woman’s head.
There she stood in total humiliation, hairless, my friend standing a few feet in a state of uncontrolled, uproarious laughter. Another of my hoodlum friends captured the hair by the refreshment table and returned it to the horrified woman, who snapped it from his hands and returned to her table. We resumed dancing, somewhat subdued.
On the way back to our table, I noticed a congratulatory banner for the group organizing the dance. It was a weight loss celebration for members who had struggled for months to reach their weight loss goals. Looking around, the ladies were decked out in garb that definitely screamed “Look at how much weight I have lost!” They were giddy with pride, and rightfully so. I pointed the banner out to my friend.
She was mortified. She had caused so much commotion when the wig took flight that she was sure she had scarred the poor woman’s life forever. She was despondent and disgusted with her insensitivity, claiming she just couldn’t have helped herself. She was overcome with the hilarity of the situation. The last dance was announced and finally she rose and reluctantly hit the floor with her husband, who had spent the previous hour convincing her that she couldn’t have known, the woman was fine, blah, blah, blah.
All the reassurance and attention was starting to get on my nerves. Big deal. She screwed up. I told her several times to apologize to the lady and get over it. Sheesh. The ex and I swooped over next to my friend and her hubby, and I told her again, ever so sweetly, to apologize and they both would feel much better.
She searched for the woman, and found nothing but the empty table, a couple of toasting glasses and a champagne cork the only remnants left of the poor lady’s “stellar” evening. My friend started up again with how bad she felt, and she would never forgive herself, boo, hoo.
So, what did I do that was so rude? I got an early morning phone call the next day. It was “The Obsessed”, wanting to yak about the incident, and how terrible she felt about it. I was never a morning person, and gallons of beer did nothing to assuage my morning mood, so I told her she needn’t bother worrying about it.
I said, “A body was found in the river late last night. It was a woman whose head was covered still covered with bobby pins, and she had a “First Prize Weight Loss Award” clutched in her hand.”
Then I hung up on her.