What will this evening bring me this morning?
Mom is driving, of course. We pick up Dan and maybe one other kid. I rode shotgun, immersed.
Dan, as usual, is King of the Night. He’s hanging ten on his libido wave. He’s already full of obscene assessments of girls. We talk around things, mom doesn’t need to hear us talking about T&A.
It’s autumn more or less. Cool night air creeps under your door. Tees and shorts are despondent in drawers. Sun goes down way too early, like a knife cutting off fun. The car needs headlights and the heater. By the time we leave, it’s getting dark. How appropriate, I think. Someday I’ll know the mysteries of the night, when I can drink, drive, and smoke weed.
I know I have two left feet. The shoes hurt. The collar is so tight I feel myself swallow. I check my pocket fifteenth time for the stupid invite. What if they want us to dance fast–we have no clue. All those old dances like the Twist and the Mashed Potato are your parents’ stuff. What are the latest dances??
We’re here–the Berkshire. One of the largest buildings in the city, but decidedly over the prime-space hill. It catered to the 40+ crowd, who left their mark on trampled rugs and nicotine bathrooms. A local radio station broadcasts there, and they specialize in a show called ‘The Imaginary Ballroom”. This, of course, was records from the 40’s and 50’s–the age when those WWII couples were in THEIR teens. There wasn’t a lot of musak when I was a kid, but the hotel had built-in tunes with the radio station.
We park on lower left–everybody out! We went up these stairs:
Mom wishes me well–“Smile!” (though your heart is breaking). The stairs have carpet! Petty cool. Big sign at the top of the stairs, saying:
I kid.
It actually said: “Cotillion Sign-In Ahead”. A table is set up and an old lady smiles and hands you your tag with a yellow-toothed “Welcome, young man.”. (Unless you owed money, of course).
Double doors open ahead. There is a huge 3 story ballroom with a band setting up on a raised stage. The lights are low, but spotlights on the sides, illuminating rows of folding chairs. I entertained a brief thought that our show tonight of exciting somnambulant music would be live on the radio. Then we’d have to wear bags on our heads Monday.
Inside, I see small groups of boys talking on the left; girls on the right.
Behind me, Dan: “Holy fucking hell!”
There is a vision in a very short white dress under a right-side spotlight. We will call her ‘J’…………….one of the Cotillion’s CEOS.