Out Dancing

Out on the mesa, across from the airport and next to the city dump sits a very popular brew pub. They were celebrating their one year anniversary with a free night of music and dancing and everybody I knew was headed there. As I walked into the enormous Quanset hut building, I almost panicked. None of my acquaintances had yet arrived. The place was packed with people. They were sitting at tables and the bar, leaning against the walls and clustered in groups of four and five between the tables, drinking micro brews and waiting for the band to start. So many bodies I found it hard to breathe. I slowly steered myself over to the far side of the building (which had been built using recycled materials) and found a lone, unclaimed bar stool near the stage. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, not knowing how long I could last, if I would be able to stay to hear the music or if I would have to run out and gasp into a paper bag.

Almost immediately, a smartly-dressed woman in her '80's came up to me and said, in her Texas twang, "Isn't this something?" I told her I couldn't believe how crowded the place was and she said she was the mother-in-law of one of the owners. I complimented the recycled decor and she smiled. I found that focusing on one friendly face relieved my panic and as she walked away, I was able to enjoy myself more. With a clearer head, I surveyed the room and noticed quite a few parents with young children. The girls ran back and forth over the dance floor and the boys rough housed and threw each other around on the ground. Reminded me of a wedding reception. I figured once the band started, the parents would haul the kids home to bed.

The disco-funk-bluegrass (not kidding) local band started up and most of the crowd surged onto the large dance floor. a lot of folks were dancing solo, as was I, and I surveyed the crowd. Everybody was there. I spied the leader of the Tibetan Buddhist community, next to a Native American elder. Across from him were a bunch of tie-dyed aging hippies and dancing to my right, a teen-aged blonde girl and her companion, dressed like elves - complete with pointy hats. Directly in front of the guitar player, oblivious to everybody else, a limber lass in braids wearing professional dance shoes tested the strength of her hot pants and t-shirt by doing back bends and yoga postures in time to the music. Parents picked up their children and danced with them on their shoulders. My panic abandoned, I gave myself over to the music, closed my eyes and swiveled my hips and twirled. After a while, I noticed two young men had spied me and were now dancing, facing me. I smiled. They moved on and danced next to another woman. Some tripped-out dude was whipping his way through the crowd, bowing and stretching and I was afraid his manic movements might hurt somebody! He came over to me, looked me right in the eye and did his bowing routine. Then he turned around and moved across the dance floor to another woman. Communal dancing seemed to be the theme of the evening. Patchouli, the preferred scent. A refugee from 1986, in his black shirt, pants and big-shouldered, hot-pink sports coat shimmied his curly grey head on the side of the dance floor.

After an hour, the band took a break and the sweaty crowd poured outside to cool off in the night air. My shirt and skirt were drenched. I spied my friends over by the corner and we all shared some water. When the band resumed, I lasted about fifteen minutes and then, I knew I had danced enough. As I stood back on the sidelines watching the crowd, I wondered where else in this country could I ever see so many different types of people, of every age group and social strata, grooving to the same kind of music?