element. Nobody could keep up with him. With his legs flying every which way, he was an unstoppable ball of energy—the ringmaster. Powerful and humorous at the same time, he spun and pivoted perfectly to the beat, grinning the entire time like a clown. With his shirttails pulled out and his bright green suspenders on full display, he was indeed a sight to behold, dancing without a care in the world in what must have been the ugliest polka-dotted tie ever made. Somewhere in the middle, we made eye contact, and he winked at me before spinning away. Finally, the song ended, and Charles escorted his partner, who still looked a little dazed from all her spinning and flipping, to grab a glass of punch together. All the while, I stayed rooted in place; I was a wallflower.
I watched the scene before me unfold as if in slow motion. I could see the mob of people pulse with the beat. I felt them surge as the cascading notes drove them forward, pushing and prodding them. I watched flashy feet flitting about and sweaty hands slipping briefly only to be reunited after a quick rub on pleated pants. I saw ponytails whip around like helicopters and giant poodle skirts billow out like colored cupcakes. Hands clapped, clasped, reached, and caressed. Couples disappeared into the dark corners, and the music moved from one song to the next, like one jumbled endless song with Louie and Sarah and Ella and all the others leading us into the world of soul and swing and jazz. There were moments when I swore I could feel the music pumping through my veins, making my feet tap against their better judgment. As the night rolled on, more and more people poured in until the place was flooded with hot steamy bodies rebelling against authority and dancing as if there were no tomorrow. There in that place, the rich and wealthy future leaders of America forgot their dignity. We were all pagan worshippers in the temple of lust and music and dance. We were overcome in a frightening frenzy like the ancient prophets. In our ecstatic state, we offered ourselves as living sacrifices, and in our dying, we were resurrected to fullness of life.
There was just so much life, so much energy that night—I thought the building might burst. I feared we might bring the place down upon ourselves like Samson, or that the library itself might grow legs and shimmy and shake across the campus and knock on Dr. Grove’s door. There was an explosion of brass, and the room seemed to jump. A solo sax dripped hot wax and ran up the scale so high it disappeared, only to come crashing down with a wail. A trumpet hopped and skipped and ripped and roared, tearing up the night as the dancers tore apart the floor, digging in for more with each step. Digging. Digging. Digging.
And through it all, I stood and watched, a wilting wallflower staring into a ferocious jungle to which I so desperately ached to belong. But there was a fence that had been erected between us long ago, a tall, wide fence that I knew not how to overcome.
Finally, the music began to slow, feet began to drag, and tired legs ceased kicking. The dust settled beneath us, and bodies slumped into chairs that had long sat empty. The punch had long been drunk dry, and cups of water were passed around to parched lips and dry mouths. Sweaty shirts stuck to skin, and once perfect hair now hung about in disorderly fashion, rebelling against bobby pins and hair spray. A courageous couple clung to one another on the dance floor as the few remaining notes faded away. There we sat, silently acknowledging the passing of the music unto death. Slowly, people began to whisper, laugh, and vanish up the winding black stairs, slipping into the night. Just a few of us remained, a few stragglers holding on to a moment now over. We grasped at it with sweaty hands but were unable to catch hold of that elusive partner. The music was gone. Charles sat on the floor. Hat in hand, he was the ringmaster, and the show was over.
At last, I too turned
I watched the scene before me unfold as if in slow motion. I could see the mob of people pulse with the beat. I felt them surge as the cascading notes drove them forward, pushing and prodding them. I watched flashy feet flitting about and sweaty hands slipping briefly only to be reunited after a quick rub on pleated pants. I saw ponytails whip around like helicopters and giant poodle skirts billow out like colored cupcakes. Hands clapped, clasped, reached, and caressed. Couples disappeared into the dark corners, and the music moved from one song to the next, like one jumbled endless song with Louie and Sarah and Ella and all the others leading us into the world of soul and swing and jazz. There were moments when I swore I could feel the music pumping through my veins, making my feet tap against their better judgment. As the night rolled on, more and more people poured in until the place was flooded with hot steamy bodies rebelling against authority and dancing as if there were no tomorrow. There in that place, the rich and wealthy future leaders of America forgot their dignity. We were all pagan worshippers in the temple of lust and music and dance. We were overcome in a frightening frenzy like the ancient prophets. In our ecstatic state, we offered ourselves as living sacrifices, and in our dying, we were resurrected to fullness of life.
There was just so much life, so much energy that night—I thought the building might burst. I feared we might bring the place down upon ourselves like Samson, or that the library itself might grow legs and shimmy and shake across the campus and knock on Dr. Grove’s door. There was an explosion of brass, and the room seemed to jump. A solo sax dripped hot wax and ran up the scale so high it disappeared, only to come crashing down with a wail. A trumpet hopped and skipped and ripped and roared, tearing up the night as the dancers tore apart the floor, digging in for more with each step. Digging. Digging. Digging.
And through it all, I stood and watched, a wilting wallflower staring into a ferocious jungle to which I so desperately ached to belong. But there was a fence that had been erected between us long ago, a tall, wide fence that I knew not how to overcome.
Finally, the music began to slow, feet began to drag, and tired legs ceased kicking. The dust settled beneath us, and bodies slumped into chairs that had long sat empty. The punch had long been drunk dry, and cups of water were passed around to parched lips and dry mouths. Sweaty shirts stuck to skin, and once perfect hair now hung about in disorderly fashion, rebelling against bobby pins and hair spray. A courageous couple clung to one another on the dance floor as the few remaining notes faded away. There we sat, silently acknowledging the passing of the music unto death. Slowly, people began to whisper, laugh, and vanish up the winding black stairs, slipping into the night. Just a few of us remained, a few stragglers holding on to a moment now over. We grasped at it with sweaty hands but were unable to catch hold of that elusive partner. The music was gone. Charles sat on the floor. Hat in hand, he was the ringmaster, and the show was over.
At last, I too turned
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