I graduated high school in 1961 and as is normal high school practice, graduation was celebrated by staging a prom. In our case our senior prom was called the junior prom because the junior class organised it; or for some equally confusing reason.

I had out done myself and had secured a date with a very beautiful and smart co-ed whom I had previously considered out of my league. A very lucky result I thought. So the date was made: restaurant booked, dinner jacket obtained, corsage purchased .. (secluded parking place planned). Everything was in order.

As it happened, I was scheduled, along with two classmates to attend a special scholarship test at the state level and this would take place in Bozeman, Montana, about two hundred miles to the East. The test was to take place on a Thursday, and we would drive in my mothers Plymouth station wagon on the Wednesday.

All went just fine until we were descending the Eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains on one of Montana’s famous long straight roads with no daytime speed limits. My friends and I decided to see how fast my poor mother’s Plymouth station wagon would go and floored it. The mountain had nearly flattened out now and the road ahead was completely empty. We managed to get 115 mph out of it before we heard rather worrying noises. Yep! We had thrown a rod. We managed to limp to the next town and arranged to have it fixed in the next 48 hours while we were away. The rather hick repair place said they could replace the part but couldn’t guarantee the repair because the crankshaft needed grinding or something. I confess I didn’t really understand the implications of “Not guaranteed”.

Anyway, we went off to Bozeman in a car we had no doubt hired from the said garage to our hotel and took the tests the next day.

We returned to pick up the car the following morning and set off for Missoula, about four hours away. Well we didn’t get much more than half way. The flat camshaft if that was what it was, soon effected the new barring, and we were once more limping to a local garage. By this time it was getting to six o’clock and really time to jump into the bath ready to climb into my burgundy dinner jacket recently bought for the occasion. My date was of course informed, and we made slow but steady progress by hitching and taxi and I finally arrived home at about 10pm, horribly late. My mother and sister pored me into my DJ and, corsage in hand, I raced off in another car to collect my date, Karen. We finally managed to arrive at the high school, beautifully suited and booted at 10:45pm. The prom would finish at 11pm precisely. We had just time for the last dance.

The teacher on the door was Mr Delany, the gym teacher, and I wasn’t his favourite pupil. I was a bit skinny and something of a nurd and his favourite students were jocks. When he asked us for out invitations, I suddenly realise that in all the rush and confusion, I had forgotten to bring them.

So, there we were, Two 18-year-old kids, all dolled up for our graduation prom, perhaps a little breathless from rushing to get down the path from the car park for the last dance. Mr. Delany knew who we were, we told him of our ordeal getting there, he knew we were seniors and meant to be in attendance. ….

You guessed it! He wouldn’t let us in.

(expletive deleted)

Oh well, we decided we would console ourselves over a Chinese meal as booked at the Golden Pheasant, a local well-respected restaurant, also favoured by some of our class mates. As we approached the restaurant, Karen spotted her ex-boyfriend Earl, walking down the street. It is worth mentioning here, that the only reason I got this date was because she had recently broken up with the afore mentioned Earl. Unfortunately, this upset her even further and she asked politely to be taken home.

Sigh!

Lives twist and turn and some years later, after I had completed my US Army tour in Germany, I remained in Europe instead of flying back to The States. A girlfriend of mine and I were staying with a recent army buddy and his girlfriend in a cheap flat in central Paris and we decide to attend an American poetry reading in small Saint Germain theatre. Between each reading, a little string quartet would play a short classical piece. We were sitting in the balcony and not very close to the stage, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the cellist, surely it can’t be?  –  Missoula Montana Karen had been a very accomplished cellist.

Well of course it was her and we did get a chance to meet up for an hour or two and chat about the circumstances that brought us both to the same theatre in Paris, at the same time, some five years after our, perhaps best forgotton, Junior Prom night in 1961.

I wonder who the prom king and queen were?