Black Velvet and White Gloves | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: Black Velvet and White Gloves | Previous Challenge Entry
By Linda Lawrence
07/28/20
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It was a simple black and white question and I knew the answer before I asked—I thought! I was shocked when my mom didn’t automatically say “no”, but gave me an “okay.” What? I was still only fifteen and the rule was no dating before sixteen, so what just happened?

We had recently moved from a small town in Oregon to Redwood City, California. Mom and I were attending a Sunday evening church service. The conference superintendent happened to be the guest speaker that night and his college son had driven in from San Jose, 25 miles away, for an opportunity to see his dad. This was nothing-to-do-with-me information from the pulpit, until after the service when this college senior approached me and asked if he could drive me home.

I was taken completely by surprise. Dumbfounded, I could only blurt out, “I’ll have to ask my mom.” That should have been a clue that I was too young.

Self-conscious and flustered, and having no interest in being with this stranger, we approached mom and she astounded me with her smile—and permission. That was not supposed to happen.

Kirk was a gentleman, opening doors, chatting while I said not a word. What on earth made him want to be with me, and what was I supposed to do, was all I could think about. In that short “date” of driving me home, he enthusiastically asked me for two formal dates. At least they sounded very formal to me. The first was to go hear Carmen at the San Francisco Opera House. There I was, an apparently attractive and sophisticated young woman on the outside, but inside I was as unsophisticated and awkward as they come. Oh my goodness! Can I do this?

The second invitation was to a private musical event with his music faculty—a performance of a recently discovered Sibelius composition. Me hanging out with college professors? I don’t think I said anything except, “Okay.” And I officially had two “dates” on the calendar.

Going to the opera was a superstar event in my apartment complex. Every envious woman contributed something to getting me dressed up for the big occasion. The only store-bought dress I owned was my eighth-grade graduation dress--a baby blue faux-brocade with a full skirt. A black velvet bolero, small-heeled black pumps, a black halo-hat with veiling, a small black patent leather box purse, and white gloves completed my outlandish opera outfit.

Kirk showed up at our apartment wearing a tuxedo. When I opened the door he wasn’t quick enough to hide his dismay. I don’t know what he saw in this teenager at church in her casual dress, but when he saw his “date” he realized I was just a kid. I’m sure he had assumed I was at least eighteen.

But it was too late to back out. We drove to the city, mostly in silence, but I did tell him I’d gone to the school library and read up on Carmen. I was looking forward to my first opera experience.

The opera itself was entertaining and diverting but the disconnect between Kirk and me kept distracting. He continually shifted his body in his seat. I didn’t know what to do with my hands or my purse. At the intermission he excused himself and I saw him across the theater talking to a young couple that I’m quite sure he had intended to introduce to me—but changed his mind. I was an embarrassment. Fidgeting uncomfortably, I wiggled my way out of my velvet jacket.

We came face to face with Kirk’s friends as we exited the theatre so he was forced to introduce me. As they watched, he asked if he could help me with my jacket. “Okay,” I said, and having no idea about the protocol, I handed Kirk my purse to hold while I put on my bolero. Then, realizing I had it on upside down, I wrestled out and into it again. Oblivious to his gaping mouth, I reached out to him for my purse and saw my white gloves thickly speckled with black lint from the velvet jacket. If the floor could have opened up and swallowed me I would have been so relieved, but we still had to politely say goodbye to his friends, go to the car and endure the long silent drive home. And not a word was said about the second “date”. Thank goodness.

Moral of the story? Don’t wear white gloves with black velvet.

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