He was like twenty-two years old
with a 1966 Impala SS,
aquamarine with a black vinyl roof.
Was living with his parents,
staying in his childhood bedroom.
In his childhood house.
Bottom half of a childhood bunk bed.
And he was horny.
***
So, the decorated veteran –
there was a war, there was a draft –
doused on some Brut,
climbed in his sweet ride and headed to the state line.
College girls – too young to drink where they were –
drove across to drink anywhere else.
Like the Portly Dragon.
No idea why it was named that.
The manager was fat and ugly
and had bad breath.
But big boobs Just sayin’.
Anyway, the dance floor was huge
live music on weekends.
Like tonight.
***
Gerry and The Potstickers playing
a bunch of original compositions
which sounded just like hit tunes
except poorly written.
Songs like “Proud Larry”
and “Hey, Lady, Hey.”
But he could almost dance
to the not too fast stuff
after a couple Johnny Walkers neat.
***
Dance floor is an acre of slick hardwood.
With a long long bar across the east end
and a tiny bar which was rarely used at the other end.
There was a gorgeous blonde
sitting there with a girlfriend, chatting,
might’ve been smoking.
Draining his Black Label,
he headed straight for the blonde.
***
A long walk
and just before he got there
another guy comes swooping in
and the gorgeous blonde vanished.
What to do what to do.
What to do?
The whole place had watched him
cross the plain of parquet.
He panicked
and asked the not nearly as gorgeous girlfriend –
she wasn’t very cute at all –
to dance.
***
They were married ten years.