It’s 4 AM and I’m swimming through crowds of dancers. They’re everywhere in this club–on benches, bar stools, tabletops, in every possible nook and cranny. The only people not dancing are the ones playing volleyball: two guys with Marine Corps hairstyles in neon yellow shirts, and based on their grunts and sweat stains, they’re darn serious about this sport. A pile of vomit near the volleyball court goes unnoticed. Stick-girls ogle the sports.
“You’re the best!”
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“We rule!” they scream in unison.
“Why are we here?” I overhear a girl ask her date. (To ask “why” is so Bud Dry it’s almost scary.)
A woman with a scrubbed Liv Ullmann kind of face gets pulled on top of a bench during George Michael’s song “Freedom.” (Most of the women here seem to know the words and the dance moves from the video.) She gets wedged between two boys in Hawaiian shorts. Guy #1 tries to break dance while Guy #2 sticks his tongue in her ear. She slaps him on the shoulder and yells “Back off!”
Am I hallucinating or is that a couple actually doing the Texas two-step? And who are those balding businessmen balancing toy sharks on their heads in a Soul Train line dance?
He says his name, but Nirvana is blowing out her eardrums and she can’t hear him. He tries to put his hands on her shoulders and yells something about Gamekeepers in 1989.
