Lesson over, the hostess announces: “It’s time to get started! Gentlemen, rise and go to the ladies.”
No one moves. Our feet are frozen. The air is thick with pre-teen angst.
To our horror, from under her dress she produces a cattle prod.
Oh, you don’t believe that, huh? Hey, give me credit for trying.
She walks over, and plucks one of us desperadoes at random. Takes him by the hand, pulls him to the girls. One of them eagerly stands, just dying to get this bullshit over. The hostess places both sets of hands as she has instructed, cues the band, and pushes them off; their first bike ride without training wheels. These two dance alone, like in American Graffiti. Except embarrassment is Tattooed on foreheads.
I’m wishing that she says “Gentlemen……Start your engines!”, but humor is a foreign tongue here. With a grand, sweeping gesture, she sends us off across the floor into eternity.
We exchange glances across the DMZ as we stand. The girls mix giddy with apocalyptic doom. The friendly ones smile, recognizing the that terror shared is a terror halved
Being slow of foot, I can’t grab one of the CEOs. I think I chose a girl named Jane. Back in fifth grade, my mom adored her–a tall gangling blonde with glasses. Her father had died tragically when she was young.
Oh Boy, you mean I have to ask her????? GULP!