Wormwood

Reflections on a Shattered Nation

Deconstructing an Eventful Day in My Life*

May 10, 1963 was the last class day of my college career at Boston College. I had my final college paper due that afternoon, a research paper for Professor P. Albert Duhamel, one of the most respected teachers at BC., and I wanted it to be perfect.

After working on it for several weeks, I spent all that day typing the final draft of my twenty-five page product: “Prospero: The Archetypal Magician.” I had nothing to eat all day, except a bowl of Raisin Bran. I turned in the paper around 4 PM. (I ultimately received a fine grade but with stated reservations about my diction.)

It had already been a long day, but it was far from over. My girlfriend, Mary Beth Dolan, had her Junior Prom that night at the Sheraton Plaza in Copley Square. Duke Ellington and his band were performing. This was a big deal. After dropping off my Shakespeare paper, I had two hours to pick up my tux, shave, shower, and put on my duds. I arrived early and waited thirty minutes or so while she prepared.

When we joined our table in the hotel ballroom, Mary Beth and I decided that since we were dressed like sophisticated people, we would drink scotch (for the first time) instead of beer.

It only took two drinks for Mary Beth to feel tipsy. So, I volunteered to drink hers as well as my own. Not twenty minutes later, Mary Beth and I were fast dancing on the floor when the booze started dictating my dance moves. She left the dance floor giggling when I suddenly broke into a solo routine, arms waving, swirling hips, knees wiggling like Elvis. A crowd circled me, clapping and hooting. I imagined “I must have some serious talent. And this scotch is amazing!”

Back at the table, sipping another drink, I noticed that one of the loudspeakers on the stage was not functioning. The dead speaker problem bothered me inordinately. I wondered why no one was fixing it. Feeling an overwhelming sense of obligation to the crowd who so graciously (or mockingly) applauded my floor show, I decided to talk directly to Duke about it.

So I walked up the steps of the stage and wound my way carefully between and among the musicians and their instruments, almost getting poked by a trombone. I arrived at Duke’s spot and sat next to him while he was playing. Duke pretended I didn’t exist, and it was only after I told him that one of the speakers was not working that he nodded.

As I stood to walk back across the stage, however, a crowd gathered near the stage and saluted me with applause and shouts — sincere or mocking, it didn’t matter at that moment. And, it seemed the most natural thing in the world for me to clasp and wave my hands over my head in recognition of their approval.

Then things went sour. Before I reached my table, the Demon of Drunken Fools attacked me in full fury. I rushed to the men’s room, found a stall and started heaving buckets of scotch-flavored raisin bran. I heard a voice in the background chuckle, “Look at the shape of this guy.”

When I thought I was finished, I staggered back to the ballroom. Mary Beth was waiting worriedly, near tears. Before I could reach her, however, another wave of sickness gripped me. In a panicky last-ditch effort to salvage my last shred of dignity, I lurched toward the heavy satin curtains hanging from the ballroom’s ceiling. I wrapped myself inside them like a cocoon and, well, let ‘er rip.

All this occurred before 9 PM. My night was over. Lights out. A friend drove me, in my car, back to my room. He dropped me on the couch (where I slept all night in my tuxedo), then he returned to the prom. Mary Beth, who apparently sobered up somewhat at the prom, stayed behind and had a great time.

That day happened sixty-three years ago. The problem? I once interpreted this as the comic misadventure of a drunken college boy who played the fool and provided cheap, harmless laughs for a celebratory group of people, while also getting a chance to sit next to the immortal Duke Ellington while he was performing.

But other considerations surfaced as I got older. First, I was violently ill from all I drank. I was sick for a couple of days. I never drank that much again. Second, I was inconsiderate of my college sweetheart, a very fine young woman, for messing up her evening. It didn’t end our relationship, yet, but it didn’t inspire confidence in my stability.

Third, a few years later, as the messages of the civil rights’ movement made headway in my social consciousness. I realized how disrespectful my goofy and presumptuous behavior was to the great Duke Ellington and the members of his wonderful orchestra.

And, fourth, how lucky: A friend reminded me that if I had pulled that stunt back in Harlem’s “Cotton Club” in the ‘Twenties, or some other less geographically safe place in ’63, I might not have left the ballroom in one piece.

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• A rebirth story for Easter.