Prom, 1983

We spun in the centerof the flashing, silver-balledauditorium after drinkinggin and tonics in the family roomof my parents’ ranch house.Mel drove us — tipsy as shitin his yellow Volkswagen Bug,and we just made it in aftersnapping dozens of Polaroidsagainst the wall's wood paneling.Mel didn't know he was dyingof AIDS, that his long-term loverwith pneumonia the year before hadinfected him. Mel would be healthyfor years, teach my mother's friendsJazzercise, invite me into the Men'sDressing Room of our local dance studio,where only I was allowed to see him stripdown to his dance belt, ask detailed questionsabout blow jobs, crush on cute boys swirlingsoft serve at the Dairy Queen. Mel was doublemy age, never went to his prom. He dressed mein gold sequins, black silk; bought himselfa brand new tux. 40 years to this day,with him long dead but still smilingin my Technicolor memory —Earth, Wind, and Fire and his shiny jazzpants in the background of my dreamof being sixteen, a new driver, walkingstraight into “The Brook,” the onlygay bar in town, and no one ever caredto look at me in there — young, goldengirl-thing; skinny, strobe-lit, disco-ed,drunk on dancing, virgin pussy after prom.