“Vodka, brandy chaser.”
He thinks he hasn’t heard and brings his head closer. “Say what?”
I repeat my order and we do an act where he says, “You jest,” and calls me “Lady Blues,” and I say that no, I do not jest, all of this delivered in minishouts, because a small orchestra is warming up, in honor of which the lights are muffled some more to the point where I can barely see my fingernails.
He tries again. I think he says, “You can’t be serious.”
“No, that’s it.” There’s a pause while he asks something else, and I realize I’m supposed to be specific. “Smirnoff and cherry brandy. Any brand.”
He shouts, “Oh, cut it out,” and I shout, “No, I mean it,” and he shouts, “Shit,” and gives the order.
We’re off to a good start. Cherry brandy is one of the most awful drinks there is. I’ll have to carry it away into the restroom, or something.
That about finishes it for the conversation, at least for the time being, because the band has hotted up and has started playing, in dirgelike tempo, something that I think is “Sentimental Journey.” And the lights, in tribute to the music, have been turned down to nada. It’s impossible to talk and almost impossible to see each other, should anybody want to communicate in sign language.
Our drinks arrive. The waitress must have echolocation, to get around in this shrouded room. I taste my brandy. Oh, God. Why am I doing any of this?
When Scott touches my wrist and gestures in the direction of the dance floor, I agree right away.
The band is still dragging itself through “Sentimental Journey.” Slow and with lots of beat.
Scott’s hand around mine feels pretty sure of itself. He leads us successfully on a pathway through tables and out into an apparently free space where we start to move.
He’s a good dancer, with a sturdy, energized body. He finds the right place in my back, and doesn’t hold me too hard. It’s been a long time since I danced like this, face-to-face, fifties style. I’m able to do all the stuff, breaking and coming back, at first in pitch dark. That’s fun, too. Finding a skill you didn’t know you had is always ego-boosting. Then I guess somebody in the really bad orchestra notices us, or maybe it’s the lights person; anyway, suddenly we have a spotlight on us and we’re doing an exhibition.
The orchestra saws its way out of “Sentimental Journey” and starts on “I Love Paris.” Scott and Carla do three minutes of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The house lights come on; there’s a lot of applause. “Wow,” I say.
We’re leaving the floor, with me trying to look modest. “Somebody’s waving,” Scott says.
I say, “Oh, yeah. Of course.”
Of course, I think. Cherie, on cue. Cherie and Rob. I’m partly irked and possessive: Cherie. In this bar. With Rob. How dare they? And partly triumphant. Sure, I expected this. And how do I appear for the occasion? Triumphant. Dancing with a handsome man. Getting applauded for my skill. How great is that? The goddess who arranges such things did right by me; I send up a thank-you to her.
Except that Scott intervenes, deflating my balloon. “Well, guess what? It’s Rita.”
“Rita?” I bleat, as if I had never heard of such a person.
“And she’s with . . .” I brace myself, prepared to hear that Rita is with Rob. I’m still aimed in that direction. And you never know.
“She’s with your dad.”
Surprise of surprises. Yes, there they are, as the lights continue to get higher, a couple at a table near the door, Rita with something glittery in her spiky dark hair, my dad in what I think is his best tweed jacket. Rita is waving with both hands. Now she stands up. My father just sits, looking pleased.
And Cherie and Rob aren’t here at all. Not present, when I was expecting them. I find that I’m feeling disappointed.
Now Rita is bearing down on us, arms outspread. “Hey, fellow art lovers. Scott, old stud.” She moves forward into
He thinks he hasn’t heard and brings his head closer. “Say what?”
I repeat my order and we do an act where he says, “You jest,” and calls me “Lady Blues,” and I say that no, I do not jest, all of this delivered in minishouts, because a small orchestra is warming up, in honor of which the lights are muffled some more to the point where I can barely see my fingernails.
He tries again. I think he says, “You can’t be serious.”
“No, that’s it.” There’s a pause while he asks something else, and I realize I’m supposed to be specific. “Smirnoff and cherry brandy. Any brand.”
He shouts, “Oh, cut it out,” and I shout, “No, I mean it,” and he shouts, “Shit,” and gives the order.
We’re off to a good start. Cherry brandy is one of the most awful drinks there is. I’ll have to carry it away into the restroom, or something.
That about finishes it for the conversation, at least for the time being, because the band has hotted up and has started playing, in dirgelike tempo, something that I think is “Sentimental Journey.” And the lights, in tribute to the music, have been turned down to nada. It’s impossible to talk and almost impossible to see each other, should anybody want to communicate in sign language.
Our drinks arrive. The waitress must have echolocation, to get around in this shrouded room. I taste my brandy. Oh, God. Why am I doing any of this?
When Scott touches my wrist and gestures in the direction of the dance floor, I agree right away.
The band is still dragging itself through “Sentimental Journey.” Slow and with lots of beat.
Scott’s hand around mine feels pretty sure of itself. He leads us successfully on a pathway through tables and out into an apparently free space where we start to move.
He’s a good dancer, with a sturdy, energized body. He finds the right place in my back, and doesn’t hold me too hard. It’s been a long time since I danced like this, face-to-face, fifties style. I’m able to do all the stuff, breaking and coming back, at first in pitch dark. That’s fun, too. Finding a skill you didn’t know you had is always ego-boosting. Then I guess somebody in the really bad orchestra notices us, or maybe it’s the lights person; anyway, suddenly we have a spotlight on us and we’re doing an exhibition.
The orchestra saws its way out of “Sentimental Journey” and starts on “I Love Paris.” Scott and Carla do three minutes of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The house lights come on; there’s a lot of applause. “Wow,” I say.
We’re leaving the floor, with me trying to look modest. “Somebody’s waving,” Scott says.
I say, “Oh, yeah. Of course.”
Of course, I think. Cherie, on cue. Cherie and Rob. I’m partly irked and possessive: Cherie. In this bar. With Rob. How dare they? And partly triumphant. Sure, I expected this. And how do I appear for the occasion? Triumphant. Dancing with a handsome man. Getting applauded for my skill. How great is that? The goddess who arranges such things did right by me; I send up a thank-you to her.
Except that Scott intervenes, deflating my balloon. “Well, guess what? It’s Rita.”
“Rita?” I bleat, as if I had never heard of such a person.
“And she’s with . . .” I brace myself, prepared to hear that Rita is with Rob. I’m still aimed in that direction. And you never know.
“She’s with your dad.”
Surprise of surprises. Yes, there they are, as the lights continue to get higher, a couple at a table near the door, Rita with something glittery in her spiky dark hair, my dad in what I think is his best tweed jacket. Rita is waving with both hands. Now she stands up. My father just sits, looking pleased.
And Cherie and Rob aren’t here at all. Not present, when I was expecting them. I find that I’m feeling disappointed.
Now Rita is bearing down on us, arms outspread. “Hey, fellow art lovers. Scott, old stud.” She moves forward into
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