That Bitter Pill

One of the great joys to touch my life in recent years was the discovery that my high school friend, Donna, is living up the road from me in the Boston area.  It must be our destiny to be lifelong friends, because we have been following each other around the country unknowingly for decades.  It was a thrill for me to see her marry Chris, and to share many celebrations with her and her new family.

Donna and I love to assume the personae of ‘ladies who lunch,’ retreating from our working worlds to bask in the daylight and enjoy a leisurely turbo-carbed meal.  There, we chirp like birds, take pot shots at any topics we choose, and act girlie far from the ridicule of our very patient husbands. 

Back in high school, Donna was on the swim team and I was, well—NOT.  However, I spent a lot of time hanging out with members of the swim team, so much so that I became known as their mascot.  In fact, it was a documented certainty that if I was in attendance, our team would win their meet.  Those years in the 70s were the glory days for NMB Swimming; some of the state records set back then continue to stand today.

But swimming is not the point of this story.   Sometimes it takes an entire lifetime for an event from your youth to click and make sense.  During our last lunch outing we surprised each other with one such revelation.

Donna and I began playing a game of “What ever happened to. . .?”  Thanks to the interactiveness of Facebook, we no longer have to wonder or guess what has become of the main characters from our past lives.  But once in a while, someone falls off the radar.  Their absence makes them all the more conspicuous.  Such is the case with a woman we call “The Pill.”  This nickname has no pharmacologic implications; she is just a real pill.  Through no fault of her own, she had many unfortunate personal circumstances, but rather than rising above them she liked to wallow.  I have never met anyone that so enjoyed having people feel sorry for her.

In a conspiratorial tone, Donna began to share with me a story about The Pill.  It involved Prom Night.  The Pill had wanted Donna to procure a prom date for her, so Donna enlisted her college-aged boyfriend to entice one of his buddies to double date with them.  Among the difficult challenges in life is finding someone who is willing to be a blind-date for a high school prom.   It is a credit to Donna’s quality as a person that her boyfriend was willing to take on this challenge, imposing such a punishment upon one of his close friends.    

The prom was held on a Saturday night.  The foursome agreed to meet at Donna’s house ahead of time for pictures and to make introductions.  But there was a last minute complication.  The Pill had spent the previous summer in Israel and was newly charged with Jewish conviction.  She began keeping kosher and she would not ride before sundown on the Sabbath.  In order to be at Donna’s house by the agreed-upon time, she walked about five miles from her own home to Donna’s in the heat of a Miami afternoon.

Donna explained in vivid detail how The Pill arrived for Prom after her arduous journey.  Dressed in a full-length gown, she walked the streets in dress shoes, arriving at her destination red-faced and dripping in sweat.  The mystery date was unimpressed, to say the least, promising revenge to the friend who had set him up.   Of course, had The Pill made it clear in advance that she had these constraints, the group would have been happy to accommodate her in some other way.  But The Pill was all about calling attention to her misfortune.  It would not have had the same effect to pick her up from her home so she could be fresh-faced and sweet-smelling.

And that’s when the pieces began to click into place for me.  It turns out that Donna and I were co-conspirators in the world’s worst prom date.   It was then my turn to resume the tale.  As a pianist, I had a closet filled with evening gowns.  The Pill asked—begged actually—to borrow one of my dresses for Prom.   In fact, she had her eyes on a particular dress that she thought was perfect for her; I had chosen it because it was perfect for Beethoven.  I was reluctant to loan the dress as she was shorter than me.  Furthermore, I had a performance coming up; I could not afford to have this dress altered for her benefit.   On the condition that she wore the dress as-is and returned it immediately and dry-cleaned, I agreed to lend her my green gown.

When a friend loans you something, you have a social obligation to return it as quickly as possible.  At least that is what I think.  After three weeks, The Pill still hadn’t returned my dress.  I had an performance coming up and planned to wear it, but as the date drew nearer and nearer she stopped returning my calls.  Finally, just a couple of days before my performance, she arrived at my house with the dress wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic.  She handed it to me and then ran off, claiming she was late for an appointment.

Days later, as I readied myself for my concert, I stepped into my green gown and zipped it up.   While I put the finishing touches on my hair and make-up I began to smell an unbearable odor.  I started looking around my room, in the trash, under the bed.  Wherever I looked, the odor followed until I realized it was me—or more specifically, the dress.  Unzipping it, I scrutinized the supposedly cleaned dress.  It had a band of sweat around the inside of the neckline.  There were dirty scrapes all over the skirt.  Lifting the hem, it was nearly black with dirt and had several spots that were badly worn.  The dress had not been cleaned at all; but furthermore, I could not imagine what might have transformed my favorite performing dress into toxic waste.  Disappointed, I was forced to wear an alternate that was less fitting for my Beethoven Concerto.

Donna and I laughed uncontrollably.  It happened 35 years ago, yet our independent encounters with The Pill were still festering in each of us.   We found closure in the realization that we were both duped, amazed that we were never aware of the role the other played.  It fortified our bond as lifelong friends, made sweeter by a shared slice of dulce de leche cheesecake.