The Dance Floor

They followed the cursory directions, winding around bumpy, dusty roads, and came over a hill, then dropped down into a small gully. Below sparkled the city lights of Denver, yellow and blue under the open sky. They pulled into the parking lot and backed the car into a space between a super-sized SUV and a Jaguar. They looked up at the entrance of the Mount Vernon Country Club. The valets were running, earning their tips. One took the hand of a blond in a fur coat as she slipped into the passenger's seat. Another ran past our car, keys in hand.

"I just have to change. I'm fine right here, don't you think?"

"Sure, just hurry," he said, looking around.

She quickly changed into black slacks and pointy-toed sling backs, the kind she swore she would never wear, grabbed her black jacket and slammed the door. Ouch, she thought to herself, these shoes kill.

"So, are we just supposed to act like we own the place?" she asked, as they took hands and began walking.

"That's what he said. As long as we're dressed up, they won't notice."

They walked in, up the stairs and he led her to the right, smelling the steaming food. They entered a large room built around a fireplace, unlit, and the scurried passed the buffet of roast beef and silver serving dishes. The tables on the perimeter were empty save for three. Two couples in their fifties and one large family celebration.

Sitting at a table near the back, they settled in and tried to look inconspicuous.

"If they ask us for our membership number, we should say we're with the Underhills," she said, quoting from her favorite movie Fletch. She felt like Fletch right about now, but without the confidence.

He chuckled at her joke.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked.

"If she comes, I might order one, if we can pay cash," she said.

"Right," he said, already focused on the band, his fingers toying the candle on the table.

The band, three men and one woman, was in the middle of a set and enthusiastic given the small dinner crowd. The woman, with a heavily hair-sprayed up-do, was snapping her fingers and bobbing her hair to the beat, while her bass player came in for harmony at the chorus. He wore a mustache and looked a bit like Sonny from Sonny and Cher. The keyboard player and the drummer both had salt and pepper hair with beards and glasses. They were also jamming out, into their chords and riffs as if the thin crowd were about the rush the stage.

"What do you think?" she turned to ask.

He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, as if to say, not bad, not bad.

"I like them. That woman, I like her voice. She knows what she's doing," she said and turned back around to hear the end of the song.

The audience clapped with half-hearted obligation, and then the band began another song.

"Who's our guy?" she asked him.

"The drummer, that's Brent," he said nodding in Brent's direction.

"Should we signal to him? Let him know we're here?" she asked.

"Let's wait until they take a break," he said, now taking some bites off the cuticles on his left hand.

Two songs later, the band hit a Latin number. Two couples got onto the dance floor. Both began the samba. One couple looked stiff and a bit scared they'd miss a beat, and the other exaggerated the steps. They were both having a ball, and she thought, I wonder if we'll ever dance like when we're fifty. A Saturday night at the club, finishing drinks after a late dinner. Listening and dancing to the weekend jazz band. Ah, romance.

After the band finished the Latin song, they played "Crazy" by Patsy Cline. The woman sang the octave notes with sultry ease, as if she grew up with this song, and the couples remained on the floor, drawing each other closer.

"Do you want to dance?" she asked.

He stared and her and shook his head. "We don't want to draw attention to ourselves, do we?" he said.

"Yeah, I guess so" she said. She knew he'd be offbeat anyway and didn't really want to deal with that. But she envied the couples. They were having a good time and looked experienced in each others' movements. They'd probably been doing this every Saturday for the past thirty years.

She looked back at him and covered his hand with hers. He smiled back at her and winked.

The next number the bad played was "Shake, Rattle and Roll". The couples sat down, and immediately, three children came running up to the dance floor. One girl twirled around in a red dress and tights, and a second girl tried to tap dance. A boy went right up to the stage and snapped his fingers to the offbeat, swaying his little hips, unabashed. Gosh, she thought as she remembered dancing like that. What a kick, as a kid, dancing however you wanted, parents glad to have you out of their hair for a few minutes.

As the band finished, heavily hair-sprayed woman took a sip of water and addressed the audience.

"Thank you so much. You're a wonderful crowd tonight. Some great dancers out there. Yes. Well, we have a very special announcement now. A big congratulations to Bob and Johanna who are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary tonight, ladies and gentlemen. This next one is especially for you two. Let's get you up on the dance floor."

Bob and Johanna embraced in a statue-like pose, yet began to grace the floor with a practiced routine. Bob wore a white ponytail about six inches down his back and had a slightly hunched back. A rancher maybe. Johanna had a golden bob and a smile a mile wide. They twirled around the dance floor, covering every inch and enjoying the admiring gazes of those sitting.

Fifty years, she thought. I'll be 83 years old by then. God, will I be dancing at all? She thought of her mother's wrinkles and hunched back, her slow walk with a hint of a limp. She tried to erase that nagging image and get back to the scene in front of her. Just then, she felt his hand on the back of her neck, and she searched for his knee under the table.