Vanity Insanity

by Mary Kay Leatherman

  “Sure, fine.”

  Swiftly, my mother started the process of sculpting the heavy and thick head of hair in the chair before her, fearing that Lucy might change her mind. The shampoo she used was called Mane ’n Tail—horse shampoo for those who don’t remember it. She put a power protein pack on for several minutes following the shampoo and began the drying and styling of Lucy’s new look. Lucy’s mind was busy with the grief of Johnny Madlin and the concern for his family. Maybe she began that novena for them in my mother’s chair.

  The brunette curls framed Lucy’s face, and I would have to say that I had never really noticed how pretty her eyes were before the new look my mother gave Lucy. Lucy lifted her long hair, twirled around, and smiled in the mirror.

  “I look great!” She shook her locks and gathered her belongings, paid my mother, and started walking out the door. Her eyes were puffy from crying, but she was attempting to push the sad mood away as she thought of the night ahead of her.

  “Have fun tonight, Lucy,” my mother said.

  “Uh, Lucy, the word on the street is that you’ve been lookin’ for me…” I did my best mobster impression.

  Lucy looked dazed. Her confusion slowly turned to alarm. I had just slapped her back to the present. She shrieked, “Oh, my gosh! I almost forgot. We need you, Ben. We really need you!”

  “I’m right here.”

  “Would you take Theresa to the prom?”

  I laughed out loud. I had a few questions for Lucy, such as the following: What guy wouldn’t want to take Theresa O’Brien anywhere? Wasn’t prom that night? And didn’t Theresa have a big boyfriend named Gooey or something like that who had gone off to college to major in being arrogant and conceited? So many questions. So little time.

  “I’m serious, Ben. Chewey plays in a big baseball game this weekend at the University of Iowa. We just found out his coach won’t let him come back. Theresa’s a prom princess. She has to have a date. Chewey told Tom, who told me that she could only go with a safe guy. We thought of you immediately. You’d have a blast, Ben. Oh, please, please, please.”

  This time I had been slapped.

  A safe guy.

  A gentle kiss on the lips with a major whack to the back of the head. A kind compliment with a stabbing undercurrent of an insult. A warm wish with a wicked laugh.

  A safe guy.

  Ouch.

  “That’s me. Safe guy…You know I don’t own any ugly tuxedo or…”

  “We have that all planned. Chewey is as tall as you are. He’s a bit bigger in the shoulders. You’ll be fine. Tom is picking it up when he picks up his tux. He said he’ll drop it off by three…”

  “You’ve had this all planned out, and you almost forgot to tell me? What if I’m busy? What if I’m already going to prom with someone else?” I smiled.

  Lucy laughed. “Thanks, Ben. You’re the best.”

  At least I was the safest.

  12

  Theresa: Finishing Touches for Prom

  Saturday, May 2

  1981

  A.C. laughed his butt off and then told me to behave. I wasn’t so sure that a phone call to him with my news was worth it.

  Just as Lucy had dictated, Tom Ducey, the love of Lucy’s life and a sophomore at Creighton University, dropped off Chewey’s tux three hours later, along with a corsage, and then left to go get ready to pick up Lucy. My mother gave me the “it’s the right thing to do” speech while I adjusted the peach bow tie and cummerbund on one ugly, brown, suede tuxedo.

  And finally, as Lucy had predicted, I did not completely fill out the Chewey-ordered tux, and as I looked in the mirror, I could only laugh. I was going to prom. Let’s have a little refresher here. In May of 1981, I was a freshman in college. I’d never been to a dance, even when I was in high school. I was spending the evening with one of the most beautiful girls I had ever known. I was wearing a really bad tuxedo that was loose where bigger biceps should be. Feel refreshed?

  Once I got over my pity party of being named Omaha’s Safest Guy, I focused on the up side of it all. For one, I didn’t have to go through the whole pre-prom fret of “whom should I ask” and “what if she says no.” I didn’t have to talk on the phone endlessly deciding where to eat, with whom to double, and that whole color-of-the-tux thing. I didn’t spend days or weeks on end playing the “evening” over and over in my head. Oh, and my date was beautiful—have I mentioned that yet? A.C. said that I had the best deal in town.

  A.C.’s laughter upon my news was pretty ironic. Throughout all of my not-going-to-dances years in high school, I endured that pain vicariously through A.C., who would call me with all of the details ad nauseum. Dance after dance, girl after girl, disappointment after disappointment, A.C. came upon what he called his Prom Theory. It took him only eleven dances—winter wonderlands, proms, homecomings, and probably even one or two enchantment under the seas—to realize that the whole “prom” process was a setup.

  The many generations before us had built up the whole scheme with a must-not-miss enticement that sent most teens racing to be part of it all. They made sure that the night was held up on a high pedestal as a magical jewel so that no reality could ever come near. Once the event had come and gone, preconceptions and dreams shattered like cheap costume jewelry on a garage floor, and teenagers would spend the day after the big dance with thoughts of disillusionment. Cleaning up the broken pieces of the bogus gem, teens quietly feared that sharing this thought with other teens might not be the best idea. Most of those young and naïve individuals, A.C. concluded, would go to yet the next dance that came along in fervent hope that the jewel on the pedestal might eventually be real and obtainable. I had never bought into the scam, and therefore, I had no preconceived notions of the evening. I guess it helped that I had only three hours to anticipate the night of my first dance.

  My mom pulled out her camera from the kitchen drawer and said, “I forgot to tell you. Theresa’s coming here first for me to put some finishing touches on her hair after she picks up her dress from Mrs. Morrow. She should be here any minute.”

  OK, are there any other women in my life who want to drop something on me at the last minute?

  The plan, and I use the word loosely, was to have pictures taken at Lucy’s house, drive to dinner down at Mr. C’s, an Italian restaurant in North Omaha that kept its Christmas lights up and on all year round, and then head to Marian High School to dance the night away, check out the decorations, and watch the queen crowned. The plan seemed plausible. The remainder of the night, I kept an eye on the clock. I was no fool. When midnight rolled around, the magical evening would end for this simple and safe guy. Instead of a pumpkin, a baseball is what I feared turning into—a big baseball that Mr. Chewey might smash with a bat if my safe factor waned with the hours.

  From our kitchen I heard the door to my mother’s shop downstairs open. Mom looked at me. I looked at her. She grabbed the camera, I grabbed the flower thingy, and we both headed downstairs. From the stairs I could see Theresa laughing, her skin tan against a beautiful cream-colored dress. She looked gorgeous.

  “I tripped over my dress on the path around your house.” Theresa covered her mouth with one hand, laughing hard as she adjusted her long dress and shoes with the other. “These big Candy shoes are a hoot. I’m not sure I’ll make it to dinner…”

  “Great dress.” I was grateful for the filter that retracted any thoughts like “Great body” or “You’re so hot” or “I dream about you more than I should.”

  “This ole thing?” Theresa said in a sweet, Southern accent. “I only picked it out since I really don’t care how I look.”

  “Sounds like…wait for it… It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  Theresa and I were two great movie-lines people, and we tested each other whenever we could. I hadn’t seen her for about a year, and I had almost forgotten our little exchange that we had whenever we ran into each other. We called our little verbal volleyball the Sounds Like game. We put our own slant on li
nes and challenged each other. I can’t remember who started the whole thing, but I do know that there are few people out there who can keep up with me when it comes to movie and music trivia. Sure, most can recant the well-known lines, but the more obscure lines and lesser-known great movies were recounted by only the great trivia buffs. That would be Theresa O’Brien and Ben Keller, prom dates for the evening, thank you very much. I left my anxiety on the stairs and joined Theresa with renewed excitement for the night.

  “Good call! Now, whose line? Which scene?” Theresa continued the challenge.

  I took the challenge: “On the street. The chick that Jimmy Stewart is flirting with…her name…”

  “Violet!” Theresa finished my sentence. “I’ll give you the point anyway!”

  My mother put the “final touches” on Theresa’s already-perfect hair while I sat hoping to entertain her. She really did look great.

  “Hey, how was the concert? I heard that you and A.C. went to see the Police in Mexico City. Was it awesome?”

  “Never got there. Between our schedules and bank accounts, it didn’t happen. We’re saving for the next time the Police are in Chicago.”

  I’d accepted A.C. into my Sting Fan Club a few years ago after he, driving around with me one summer, had heard every song by the Police. He was hooked after hearing “Roxanne” only once and soon became as obsessed with their music as I was. The first time we saw them in concert was in Kansas City in March of 1979 when we were both seventeen, almost eighteen. We camped out all night to get the tickets and then drove to Kansas City to see them in concert on March 15. Beware the Ides of March. The concert was incredible, and we started planning for the next tour. I would have given anything to get tickets to the world tour in Mexico City.

  I carried Theresa’s shoes, purse, and bouquet as she hiked her dress up knee-high and tossed the bottom of the gown over her wrist. In her bare feet, Theresa walked ahead of me around the path from my mother’s basement door to the front yard. Mom followed close behind with her camera. We were halfway across the street when the crowd that had gathered in front of the giant Mangiamelli evergreen began to clap. For me.

  Lucy shouted, “Cheers to Ben. The lifesaver!” Everyone laughed and clapped.

  I squinted and took a glance across the Mangiamelli lawn as a huge wind blew over the group. Ava and Louis Mangiamelli stood laughing and waving. Most of the Mangiamelli brothers were sitting on the front porch. Lucy leaned into the large body of Tom Ducey while Marty kept at least eighteen inches from her debate guy. Beyond that, several other bodies flooded the tiny front yard. Several of the younger Morrow kids, most of whom I couldn’t name, ran around or rode bikes back and forth, commenting on how funny the prom people looked. Hope and Mrs. Webber heard the commotion and had grabbed their cameras as well. The prom princesses and the decorator of halls held their dresses and hair in the next wave of wind.

  “Quick, get a picture. We need to go before our hair is ruined,” Marty scolded anyone who would listen.

  Ava gave me a big hug, and Louis Mangiamelli gave me a firm handshake, mumbling, “You’re a good kid…” I glanced up from the handshake to see a sullen Will Mangiamelli on the Mangiamelli porch, his eyes red and squinted, leaning against the railing with his hands in his pockets. He was staring at Theresa. He was either high or upset that he was not included in the gala events of the night. Only one response there, buddy. Safe guy. Guess you didn’t qualify. Still I yelled out to him, “Hey, Will.”

  “Hey,” Will mumbled.

  Will and I had gone our different ways for many reasons. Different high schools and some not-so-legal extracurricular activities on his part played a big role in that. Will had dabbled in a few activities other than sports, as Lucy informed me. His junior year, Will rekindled a connection with the Chief. Eddie Krackenier, who went to another public school I can’t remember, had led Will down a wobbly path of drug experimentation and risky living that Will juggled for a year or two with his high-school sports career. The many balls in the air caught up with him his senior year.

  A month into his last year at Prep, Will and a carload of buddies drove over to Marian High School. Prep had a free day while Marian was in session. The driver of the car, allegedly Eddie, dropped about five or six guys off at one of the school entrances and drove to wait for them at the other end. The boys were naked except for skivvies, ski masks, and Converse Chuck Taylor sneakers. Each guy was armed with two loaded squirt guns and a gut full of inopportune self-confidence. They hooted and hollered and squirted down the main hallway, exiting to the getaway car, buoyed by false immortal assurance, minus support in other areas.

  The prank sounded harmless until you hear the second part of the story. When Sister Mary Edna, librarian and Latin expert, came out into the hallway to scold the source of noise and mayhem, she slipped and hurt her hip. No longer funny.

  Principal Sister Rebecca announced somberly over the sound system to the Marian student body that this sort of activity was unacceptable and that anyone with information regarding the identity of the members of the reckless act should come immediately to the office. Lucy had glanced out into the hallway and recognized legs and shoes that had been to her house in recent years. She hung her head and prayed.

  Before Lucy could feel any guilt surrounding this Catholic crime, rumors slithered through the school faster than the patterns of light on an oil slick. Ellen Richter, class officer and a perennially self-righteous classmate of Lucy, had named one naked squirt-gun runner, and one only: William Mangiamelli.

  Will’s huge scar on his perfect physique had become a traitor along with Ellen. Long ago—I vaguely remember—Ellen had a crush on Will, though he had no interest in her. He may not have paid attention to her, but Ellen had paid attention to his upper body during the summer days at Brookhill Country Club. She recognized the scar and immediately turned Will in to Sister Rebecca. Lucy immediately placed Ellen Richter into a box clearly marked self-righteous.

  The Jesuit leaders at Creighton Prep anguished in making an appropriate punishment for Will his senior year. The following two weeks, Will was not allowed to participate in any school-affiliated activities. This would have been frustrating to most, as the homecoming dance was the next week, but for Will Mangiamelli and the Creighton Prep varsity football team, this was a huge problem since the state playoffs fell within that punishment time. Will and his team, who lost in the playoffs—though we will never know if his absence played a role in the loss—had to live with the consequence of his little run through Marian.

  That windy day in 1981, Will stood back and took in the chaos. Ava waddled from Lucy to Theresa to Marty like a little hen, pecking and fixing their hair and dresses. Ava moved Tom Ducey, the debate guy, and me in place and told everyone to step back. Several cameras flashed as we all formed a great pose that said, “Hey, look at us! We are young and dressed up and…it’s all about us!”

  I saw a car pull out of the Webber driveway and drive past the group. Faith slowed down and smiled. I waved to her, and she waved back. Then she drove out of the cul-de-sac as A.C.’s green Camaro turned onto it with him honking over and over again. He parked, jumped out of the car without shutting the door, and ran up to the group. Stephano Mangiamelli grabbed the top of A.C.’s head, which was now sporting an Afro. A.C., who had grown into his big feet, towered over Stephano and looked at me, holding up his camera. “Hope I didn’t miss it!”

  Either Mrs. Webber or Ava announced that she wanted a picture of the old neighborhood gang. Tom grabbed A.C.’s camera, and Debate Guy went and stood under the safety of Satch the Evergreen. A.C. joined the growing group as Hope and the Morrow kids squished in. We all huddled together and smiled, eyes squinting in the sun and wind.

  Tom Ducey turned into a comedian as he directed us into our neighborhood shot. To say Tom was South Omaha means more than just a direction in our city. Calling someone a South Omaha Boy, or SOB, implied you were dealing with a very proud and loyal guy. Tom was loyal to the en
d. To his mother—oh, they loved their mothers. To his father, who had worked his whole life at the Falstaff Brewery. To his buddies. To his girlfriend. The order of the loyalty was questionable, but having a guy from South Omaha in the area meant he was taking over and we were going to have fun.

  As the group moved in for the pose, something to the left of me caught my eye. I turned to movement from the green Wicker house. The dark image of a head looked out from the back porch. Our neighborhood witch had joined us, too. Ava took only one picture as a huge wind forced everyone to his or her cars.

  From that point on, the evening moved at warp speed. We did make it to dinner and to the dance. Theresa laughed that she didn’t recognize most of her classmates since they had all washed their hair and put on makeup. With no boys in the school, daily hygiene rules for the Marian girls include a ponytail and teeth brushing before heading off to class. I discovered that night that the Marian girls could care less if their dates danced; they danced all night whether their dates got up or sat. Marian girls knew every word to “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.” Oh, and, there is such a thing as too many cutout fish.

  Finally, the DJ played “Free Bird,” something I could enjoy. Last year’s queen came to crown the new prom queen, who also happened to be my date. Marian girls swarmed Theresa like bees on a warm glass of lemonade. I bent down and whispered to Theresa, who looked shocked and uncomfortable at the attention, “Gee, your hair smells terrific.”

  “This prom thing is goofy, right?” Theresa asked, her voice quivering. I knew she was uncomfortable with all of the attention. I also knew that when Theresa O’Brien and I had walked into the gym, all eyes moved in our direction. This happened everywhere we walked, every place we stood. All eyes. Something I realized Theresa must have to endure every day. Something I was sure she was unaware of as she went about her life. All eyes.