The Spectacular Now

“Aren’t we kind of overdressed?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s the sentimental history of the place—the scene of our first date.”

“I thought the party at the lake was our first date.”

“I mean our first sit-down-and-eat date.”

“All we had was chili fries.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like the idea?

“No, it’s not that.”

“I mean, this place is, like, special. It’s our place.”

“Really? Our place?”

“Of course.”

“It’s perfect, then,” she says, smiling.

At Marvin’s, I’m sort of expecting the staff to really get a kick out of us coming in all decked out in our prom gear, but the guy behind the front counter—who may or may not be Marvin—gives us this look like we must be crazy.

“We’re going to the prom,” I tell him, “and we could think of no more splendid establishment than Marvin’s for our special occasion.”

“Really?” the guy says flatly. He looks at Aimee. “And you went along with this?”

“Sure,” she says. “It’s our place.”

The guy cocks his head to the side. “Okay. Try not to get chili on your dress.”

We take our favorite booth and when the waitress comes over, she’s a little more into the spirit of things. “Don’t you two look sweet,” she says. “We’ll have to get you something special. How about the chicken-fried steak?”

“Can we get it with chili fries?”

“You can get it with anything you want, sugar.”

After we order and the waitress has disappeared into the back, I pull a small package from my pocket. It’s wrapped in red and green paper and tied off with a bright red ribbon. Okay, so it’s leftover Christmas wrapping, but it still looks nice.

“Here.” I hand the package to Aimee. “I just wanted to get you a little something for tonight.”

Her eyes light up and she sort of pets the box. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I know. I just wanted to.”

Very gingerly, she chips at the paper as if maybe she doesn’t want to tear it so she can save it for a souvenir. Finally, she slides the paper off, removes the lid from the box, and stares inside.

“It’s a flask,” she says.

“Yes, it is. It’s just like mine.”

She sets the box down. “I love it.”

“And you’ll notice it’s already full too.”

Everything’s perfect. We doctor our drinks, Dean Martin croons from the jukebox, and the chicken-fried steaks and chili fries couldn’t be better. The waitress even sets a candle on our table for romantic effect. If Aimee had any qualms about Marvin’s before, I don’t see how she could have any left by the time we leave for the prom.

The next stop is Remington Park, where the prom is being held. Yes, it’s a horse-racing track, but they also have this really swank facility with a super-cool banquet room. The building itself looks like a palace, all lit up with a golden glow, banners waving from the rooftop. Also, they have this great entryway with a big red awning that makes you feel like you’re walking into the Oscars or something. Very upscale.

Inside, the banquet room brims with padded chairs and tables with white tablecloths, row after row of them on five different tiers. Along one side, huge windows—a wall of glass really—face out on the track, which is lit up for our viewing pleasure. Of course, there’s no horse racing tonight, but it’s a magnificent scene with the way the light shines on the brown track and glitters across the two ponds on the north side of the infield.

I have to hand it to the planning committee—this is a great locale, but the decorations are just what the Puttin’ on the Ritz theme led me to expect—cheesy cutouts of top hats and canes and tiaras, along with some glittery stars and moon slivers. They’re truly awful in the most glorious way. Yes, we’re puttin’ on the ritz, all right. Here we are, the kings and queens of lame. It’s our night!

Aimee and I arrive a little late since I got lost a couple of times on the way over, but luckily Cassidy saved us a seat at her table. It’s the least she could do after shooting down my limo idea. Ricky’s at a table clear across the room surrounded by Bethany and Tara’s friends. What he has to talk about with these people, I couldn’t begin to guess. From the look of his awkward, two-sizes-too-tight smile, I’d say he doesn’t have much of an idea either.

The punch mixes perfectly with Aimee’s Grey Goose but doesn’t really cut it with my whisky, so I have to sneak in straight shots whenever I get the chance, which I don’t mind, except this is supposed to be our special night. Couldn’t they have some 7UP around somewhere?

Also, I thought we should have live music, but they hired a DJ instead. This idiot thinks he’s smooth too. Hat on sideways. Wrap-around sunglasses. I mean, dude, we’re inside and it’s night. What do you need sunglasses for? His patter is a born-and-bred white Okie’s version of West Coast hip and his song selection is the same as what the radio projectile-vomits day in and day out. But that’s all right. I brought my secret weapon—The Essential Dean Martin. I’m just waiting for the right time to slip it into the mix.

Despite the hideous music, the dance floor’s packed, and after a while of me entertaining our table with a few of my comic stories, Cassidy and Marcus squeeze their way into the crowd. Now, believe me, Marcus has this completely smooth look—immaculate white tux with black shirt and tie—but he’s a little bit of a whooping crane on the dance floor, long stiff legs and a goofy back-and-forth head bob. Cassidy, on the other hand—you might think she’d jiggle too much, but no—she moves like liquid grace.