First Date

Articles

First Date

By Patrick Hurley
June 15, 2006

At some point in a boy's passage in the 1960's, he is going to have to face the inevitable experience of going one on one with the girl of his dreams. This social encounter which will leave memories for the remainder of his life, both good and horrific, is known in American romantic history as...The First Date.

I know.

I was there.

Mine occurred when I was sixteen years old and it was a night I will never forget. Her name was Jeanne. I was a junior in high school. She was a freshman. This may have been my first mistake...

For those of you who observe the youth culture today, you will notice they rarely go on, first dates. Instead, they "hang out." This is far more casual and safer. There is little risk of failing. In my time, the odds of succeeding on a formal encounter with someone you barely knew were frighteningly low.

It all began with a phone call to Jeanne. I was so nervous I practiced what I was going to say at least three HUNDRED times before I actually dialed. When she answered, I did what any typical boy in 1964 would have done after all that sweating....

I hung up on her.

Thank God there was no caller ID back then.

I waited two days before phoning her so she would not be suspicious when I hung up on her again. And again. Finally, after a week of treating my phone like a yo-yo, I persuaded her to go on a date with me. My uncanny ability to persuade her went like this,

Me: "Hi Jeanne, this is Pat Hurley.

Jeanne: "Hi."

Me: Do you want to go to the movie with me on Saturday night?"

Jeanne: "Okay."

Me: "Okay. Bye."

I was brilliant.

The day of the date I prepared much like a Green Beret in intense training. Because girls like guys who smell good, I took several showers just to eliminate any possibility that the Dial soap commercials were less than truthful. In between this obsessive cleansing, I played my favorite Neil Sedaka album over and over and OVER again. I needed inspiration and hearing him sing, "Next Door to an Angel" and, "Stairway to Heaven.," (no not THAT "Stairway to Heaven"...the DORKY one!) gave me the confidence I was going to sweep Jeanne off her feet.

Next step: Hair.

Frank Gifford had convinced most of us young guys that Vitalis was better than the, "greasy kid's stuff" and since he was one of the best players in the NATIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE we believed him. We wanted to be a man's man, too. So, I worked the oil into my scalp convincingly. When I was done, I was pretty convinced I looked a lot like Ricky Nelson, but to be honest, I resembled Wally Cleaver.

It was now time to send my face to hell.

Cologne.

My choice to scald myself? A sexy little bottle of exotic perfection called Jade East. It was not as popular as English Leather or Brut, but it worked perfectly with my natural body odor. I made sure I filled up both my hands with as much liquid as possible. SPLAT! Immediately, my face exploded in pain. I patted it quickly with specks of water. I hoped I had put on just the right amount. As I walked out of the bathroom, I could hear my dad yell from the patio, "What in the hell is that SMELL!"

I took another shower.

It was finally time to go.

My dad asked me if I needed any money and I said, "Sure!" He told me to get a part-time job. My mom hugged me and whispered, "Next time try not to use so much Jade East!" Grimacing, I went to the garage and opened the door to my parent's car; a 1957 sky blue Pontiac. I slid in to the front seat. I liked the length of it. The perfect BAROMETER for a teenage boy and his date. You could always tell how a girl felt about you by WHERE she sat on it when she rode with you. If she sat up against you, the evening would end up at the lake and a great make out session. (major kissing) If she postured herself 6-8 inches away, she was just being coy. That position would change before too long. She was probably just being a good Catholic. If she sat up against the door, you have made a SERIOUS dating mistake. Today's seat separators take away all the drama of dating. The girl has her little "pod" to camp in and there is no soul in the drive.

I carefully hid the seat belts so Jeanne would not feel obligated to use them making it mentally easier for her to slide all the way over once we left her house. Driving carefully, I made my way down Linden Street, turned left on Village Circle Drive, crossed over First Street and turned left on High Street and then...I was at her house. This was IT!

I kept driving.

The pressure was too much to bear.

Pulling in behind Sill's Liquors, I sat there with the portable air conditioner blasting my Vitalis-wracked hair and tried to pull myself together. "She is just a gorgeous girl. A goddess of major proportions. What are you so WORRIED about, Hurley?" I saw my life pass before me. I needed something to stablize me. I went into Save Mart and bought a new comb and a can of Tab. Chugging it, the metallic taste seemed to jump start my nervous system into a higher gear. I jogged around the store thirty times and finally, after two managers threatened to call the police on me, I went back to my car and pulled up to the curb of her house. My prayer was simple, "Lord, please do not let her father be within 100 miles of this place!"

I was about to realize that God has a twisted sense of humor for those who pray idiotic things to Him.

Next up: Meeting Satan

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About the author: Pat Hurley has won three Emmy awards for writing, hosting and producing television shows. He resides in Southern California.

Email: coolhumor@sbcglobal.net

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