Take Me To The Fair

When I was 14, Diane Henley was the prettiest girl in the class, or the church, or anywhere else. I'll never forget this night:

Take Me To The Fair

I really wanted to go to the Southeastern Fair with Diane Henley. To my way of thinking, I had about as much a chance of doing that as I did learning to swim.
Diane Henley was pretty, funny, flirty, always surrounded by boys, and I was a toadstool. Diane and I went to church together, so we knew each other, were friends, and had even sat besides each other in one of those Methodist Youth Fellowship meetings that were so boring the drapes kept falling asleep.
I even knew her telephone number.
But a date to the fair was clearly impossible. So I moped. Sighed a lot. Kicked sand. Ignored my dog. My father, raking leaves, asked what was wrong.
“Diane Henley won’t go to the Southeastern Fair with me.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did she say when you asked her?”
“I haven’t.”
“You haven’t what?
“Asked her.”
“But you know she won’t go.”
“You know Diane, right?”
“Sure.”
“And you really think that she would even consider going to the fair with me?”
“I don’t know. You haven’t asked her. Why don’t you call her now?”
”She’ll laugh, probably call me some stupid name, and then hang up.”
I kicked some more sand. The dog saw his chance and escaped.
I’ve always been afraid to call the Diane Henley’s of the world. The sales trainers call it “call reluctance.” The psychiatrists call it “paranoia.” Writers call it a fact of life.
Just as I was about to start looking for the dog, my dad said he’d make a deal with me. “You go call Diane and ask her to go to the Fair with you tonight.”
“Tonight?!?”
“You are not to say ‘You don’t want to go to the fair with me, do you?’ or the deal is off. If she says yes, tell her we will pick her up in 30 minutes.”
“What’s the deal?”
“ I’ll give you five dollars for the Fair if she says yes.”
Five dollars was a lot of money in 1958. Heck, it had only cost me a dollar to get an Eagle Scout in Troop 272 to let me pass my swimming test so I could be a First Class Scout.
So I went inside the house and stood by the black, dial phone on the kitchen counter. I stared at it. I read all of the notes on the bulletin board, and was headed for the cookbooks when I thought about Diane Henley and then the five dollars. I turned around and dialed the phone.
It rang. I was dripping sweat. It rang again. I started feeling faint. It rang the third time.
“Hello?” Diane. It was Friday night in the fall. She was home. There was something seriously wrong with this picture. She must have broken her hip, and I hadn’t heard about it.
“Hi. It’s …”
“Oh! Hi!.” She sounded cheerful. Maybe it was the drugs for the broken hip.
“Uh … “ (and then at the speed of sound) “DoyouwanttogototheSoutheasternFairtonight?”
“What?”
“The Fair. Wanna go?”
“Sure. When?”
“Uh … “ Come on, you can do it, she’s already said yes, “tonight.”
“Wow! Really?”
Now I was convinced I had the wrong number.
Then she asked, “Who else is going?” (Dating in 1958 was normally in packs of at least 6.)
“Just us.”
“Great!”
“Diane?” I had to make sure it was her. “We’ll pick you up in 30 minutes.”
“I’ll be ready. And thanks for inviting me.”
The lesson, naturally, was stupidly simple. And I had learned it that night. It didn’t last, of course. Like all writers I have perfected paranoia to an art form. But whenever I’m afraid to pick up the phone, I think about the night with pretty, popular, flirty, outgoing Diane Henley at the Southeastern Fair.
She liked me. I liked her. We held hands the entire night.
And I didn’t even have to tell her about the five dollars.

From "Jim The Wonder Dog and Other Things Worth Knowing." (c) 2005 Mark E. Johnson, Jr.