Too Cool For Prom...?

Michael A. Gonzales recalls his first heartbreak, and an evening in 1981 that took a few surprising turns.

Michael A. Gonzales at his 1981 prom with Ruth Strauss.

I wasn’t supposed to care about things like the prom, and I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to go. That was the tacit agreement between my best friend, Larry Ressin, and me.

Larry and I viewed ourselves as outsiders—artistic rebels who didn’t care about straight-laced school affairs like proms, student trips, ring dances and other events where classmates gathered, wore costly clothes, and snapped lots of pictures. After graduation our plan was to buy a loft in SoHo and become the best writer-artist team in comics since Chris Claremont met John Byrne. We had big plans, and saw ourselves as above all that everyday foolishness.

Then, senior year, Harmony Hart strutted into my life, and suddenly going to the prom seemed like a good idea.

Larry and I viewed ourselves as outsiders—artistic rebels who didn’t care about straight-laced school affairs like proms…Then, senior year, Harmony Hart strutted into my life, and suddenly going to the prom seemed like a good idea.

Larry and I became best friends in the fall of 1978, when I moved from Harlem to Baltimore, and began attending Northwestern High School as a sophomore.

At first, I felt out of place at my new school, and in my new city. While walking around I overheard scraps of conversation and thought that some of my schoolmates talked funny, had a bit more southern sausage and gravy in the texture of their tone. Theirs was an accent I wasn’t yet used to, but I’d soon be talking the same way. In the school’s parking lot a couple of Black kids sat in a car listening to “One Nation Under a Groove” while a group of white kids who looked stoned at 8:30 in the morning stood against the wall in their wrinkled jeans and sneakers, Marlboros dangling from their thin lips.

I thought of myself as a Black hippie, an arty introvert teen, but making friends was easier than I believed it would be. Within a few weeks I was hanging with various cliques, including science fiction nerds, football jocks, upbeat cheerleaders, photography geeks and bad boys. There were the disco kids, the hard rockers and the soft pop posses.

Gonzales with twin brothers Larry and Terry Ressin and their friend Cassandra Tyson on Punk Rock Day at Northwestern high school in Baltimore in 1981.

In first period journalism class—taught by a Trekkie named Mrs. Stall—I met Larry, a jock. He played lacrosse, a sport I’d never heard of before moving to Baltimore, but was also a comic book nerd like me.

A collector since I was a kid, having attended conventions and befriended a few professional artists, I was trying to publish a comic book fanzine, so I had more than a few stories to share when we retreated to Larry’s house after school. He lived a nice, neat place within walking distance of Northwestern, and we spent countless hours there listening to his older brother’s David Bowie albums, reading Dr. Strange comics and devouring snacks.

I thought of myself as a Black hippie, an arty introvert teen, but making friends was easier than I believed it would be. Within a few weeks I was hanging with various cliques, including science fiction nerds, football jocks, upbeat cheerleaders, photography geeks and bad boys.

Sometimes I spent the night. His mother Katie was a substitute teacher at our school and the Ressins soon became my other family. Larry and I were content to geek out together and sit out big, splashy events like prom. But then, a month before prom, at a party at school, I met Harmony Hart—a hot, light-skinned underclassman, with a sweet face and a femme fatale attitude. That year Rod Stewart’s steamy “Passion” was a favorite, and that’s the song that plays in my mind when I think of Harmony.

That night, I was hanging with my bad boy crew, throwing back vodka shots and malt liquor. (Back then the drinking age was 18, so buying liquor to consume at the jam was easy.) After stumbling back into the school, I saw Harmony walking down the hall looking like a Black Bond girl in her blue dress and long hair. We were both slightly tipsy when I started rapping to her, and somehow this freshman who I didn’t know at nine o’clock that morning was in my arms at nine o’clock that night.

A half-hour later we stood on the back staircase and kissed as though we’d been dating for months. From behind us Grace Jones’ hypnotic “Pull Up to the Bumper” blared from the gym, which had been converted into a ballroom. Harmony’s tongue did tricks inside my mouth, a first for me, and I could hardly believe what I had been missing. The following day, Harmony and I talked on the phone for an hour.

Though she was three years younger than me, she was sexually forward and constantly talked about getting me “between the sheets.” My plan was to stay a virgin until moving back to New York for collage, and the horizontal bop wasn’t in the cards. Still, Harmony was working hard towards getting me to break my vow.

I saw Harmony walking down the hall looking like a Black Bond girl in her blue dress and long hair. We were both slightly tipsy when I started rapping to her, and somehow this freshman who I didn’t know at nine o’clock that morning was in my arms at nine o’clock that night.

Later, when the subject of the prom came up, she said sensually, “You know, you should take me with you. I have the perfect dress for it, but you’ll need to get a white tux.” A ray of sunshine beamed from my mouth when it flew open. I was shocked. I’d so far had no girlfriend, dated rarely, and, because of pressure from my mom, planned to go stag to the prom. But Harmony sashayed into my life and changed all that.

“I can do that,” I replied, perhaps a tad too excited. My mother, too, was happy, pleased that I was finally doing something normal for a high school kid, like proms and dates.

From the beginning, though, my good friend Ruth Strauss was suspicious of Harmony. “Just because she let you make-out with her the first night you met her is not reason enough to take her to your prom,” Ruth insisted. “That night is supposed to be special. You don’t know anything about this girl. You’ve never even been out on a date with her.”

Of course I didn’t listen. “I know she’s hot, she likes me, and she wants to go to the prom.”

Ruth sighed. “Guys are so stupid and gullible,” she said. I ignored her. Though she shared my love for music and long walks, Ruth wasn’t exactly a dating expert. She and I met in chemistry class when I commented on her Jackson Browne t-shirt, pretending to be a fan of The Pretender album. Now we’d been friends for two years, but in that time Ruth had never had a “real” boyfriend, most of her relationships going no further than one or two dates.

From the beginning, though, my good friend Ruth Strauss was suspicious of Harmony. “Just because she let you make-out with her the first night you met her is not reason enough to take her to your prom,” Ruth insisted.

Still, she had her share of admirers. A month or so before meeting Harmony, I’d noticed Larry’s twin brother Terry flirting with her at the pizza shop we sometimes visited after school. Nothing came from it…not right away. However, the day after Ruth and I spoke about Harmony, I was at Larry’s house eating cookies when Terry came into the kitchen and the conversation soon shifted to the upcoming prom. He didn’t have a date, but he had one in mind.

“Do you think it would be all right if I asked Ruth?” It was the last thing I expected, but, trying to be cool, I shrugged. “Call her. She might want to go.” Terry was a cool, respectful dude; a Boy Scout without badges. “I’ll give you her number. Call her.” Though I wasn’t sure what she might say, Ruth agreed to be Terry’s date.

Meanwhile, though I saw Harmony at school, we had lunch together a few times, and small-talked in the courtyard, whatever big romance I might’ve fantasized about never happened. Still, she insisted that we were going to be the cutest couple in the room at the prom. For the next couple of weeks, as we all planned for our special night, I daydreamed often of walking into the room with my foxy date, and the shocked looks on the faces of my fellow soon-to-be graduates when they saw me.

Since I didn’t drive, HarmonyHarmony and I would be riding to the catering hall, Martin’s West, with Larry, who’d recently gone through a break-up, plus Terry and Ruth. I went downtown to Lexington Street and rented a white tux and matching shoes that made me look like an American Songbook-wailing lounge singer at the Holiday Inn about to break into a few verses of “My Way.”

Harmony assured me that everything was fine, but, of course, it wasn’t. Since we hadn’t been out on any real dates, I had no idea where Harmony lived. I called her house most of the day and no one answered. I was becoming anxious. Finally, around three o’clock someone picked-up. It was her mother. I tried to stay calm. “Hello, Mrs. Hart. This is Michael Gonzales. I’m supposed to take Harmony to the Northwestern senior prom this evening.”

Harmony assured me that everything was fine, but, of course, it wasn’t. Since we hadn’t been out on any real dates, I had no idea where Harmony lived. I called her house most of the day and no one answered.

“Who are you?”

“Michael Gonzales, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am, I’m not that old.”

“Sorry.” I took a deep breath. My life was just beginning and it already sucked. “I’m supposed to be taking Harmony to my prom. Tonight.”

“Are you now? Well, this is the first I’m hearing of it,” she said, pausing. A few beats passed and I felt as though I was about to fall from a cliff. “Harmony isn’t going anywhere tonight.” She slammed down the phone. Simultaneously, I suffered a shattered eardrum and broken heart. The entire conversation lasted all of three minutes, but everything changed. If I weren’t so shocked I might’ve cried. Briefly I thought about not going, but I was too cheap to throw away the prom tickets and tux.

Instead of sulking silently, I called Ruth. She could’ve been mean and laughed, screamed that she “told me so,” but she didn’t. Still, what came next was totally unexpected. “I’ll be your date.” Through my sadness, I chuckled. “How do you expect to do that. Aren’t you going with Terry?”

“I’ll be both of your dates. You guys can share me.”

“I’m sure Terry will love that.”

“Terry’s not my boyfriend,” Ruth said. “I’ll talk to him. I just wish you had that bitch Harmony’s address so we could go teepee her house.” A house covered in toilet paper flashed in my mind. “Now go get ready. Terry’s coming to pick me up and take me back to their house. His mother wants to take pictures.”

“Harmony isn’t going anywhere tonight.” Her mother slammed down the phone. Simultaneously, I suffered a shattered eardrum and broken heart.

Fuming while taking a shower and getting dressed in my lounge lizard suit, I played the fuck-off anthem “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins over and over, as I related to the heartbreak and pain conveyed in the song.

Two hours later, when I arrived at the Ressin house, Ruth was already there, clad in an elegant white flowing prom dress and wearing a corsage on her left wrist. “You look like a real princess,” I said to her. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. For a second, I felt like a prince.

That night we all had a blast. The ride took about forty minutes and we cranked tunes including the Rolling Stones’ frantic “Shattered” and Bruce Springsteen wailing about his “Hungry Heart.” After parking, we shared a table, danced like fools to Rick James and Journey, and partied harder than the guests in the wedding scene in The Deer Hunter.

Though we weren’t going off to war, we were moving to the next level of our then young lives. When it was time to pose for pictures, the prom photographer was puzzled, but amused: Terry and I posed with Ruth standing between us. “It’s a long story,” I said, as deadpan as Bob Newhart, and everybody laughed. Afterwards, Ruth and I posed for a picture of just the two of us.

“I’ll be your date,” Ruth said. Through my sadness, I chuckled. “How do you expect to do that. Aren’t you going with Terry?”…“I’ll be both of your dates,” she said.”

Truthfully, everything that happened between that night and graduation day is a blur. I can’t recall if I ever confronted Harmony Hart about her no-show, but considering how passive I was during that time, I doubt it. However, years later when I began writing crime stories, many of the “femme fatales” in my tales were modeled after her, with more than a few fictional bad women sharing her name.

The last time I saw Ruth was in the winter of 1982, when she and her parents visited New York City, stayed at the Plaza Hotel, and treated me to seeing The Pirates of Penzance with them on Broadway. Having returned to the Big Apple two months after graduation, I was living in Manhattan, going to Long Island University (Brooklyn campus), working as a messenger for Archer Courier, and trying to break through as a magazine writer.

After that visit, Ruth disappeared from my life for decades, but in 2008 contacted me on Facebook. I was ecstatic as I accepted her invite. In a message she told me she’d suffered a devastating illness in 2005 and lost many memories, but one yesteryear recollection that was still clear in her mind was the night she, Terry and I went to prom together. “Do you remember?” she asked, as though it was a night I could never forget.