She spins and dances and whirls and smiles. She is radiance and music and youth. She is energy on fire. She is alive. We are alive. This scene is alive. A hidden dance party in the hidden part of the city, full of true believers just getting high on life for the night. Just getting alive for the night. We all smile at each other as if we are in on the joke. And I suppose we are. We are on the inside, the sixty or eighty or maybe a hundred of us. We’ve come together in the basement of this house in blue collar north Portland for a night to forget about everything else. There is only the bass and the beat and the rhythmic stomping of bare feet on a concrete basement floor. There is only the spinning and dancing, whirling and smiling.
An hour earlier, I had been sullen and withdrawn. Caught up in deadlines and rewrites at my local coffee shop, I had just settled in for a long Friday night with strong black coffee and my laptop. And then she walked in. A cute little brunette pixie, full of energy and life. She burst through the door masquerading as the embodiment of promised mischief. Her and a couple friends. Three young cuties out on the town; youth in action. I tried to ignore them and go back to my writing, but girls like this demand attention. I couldn’t help but glance over my computer, and inadvertently lock eyes with her. Beautiful brown eyes, alive with the fire of fantastic possibilities on a Friday evening.
You look bored. Are you boring?
No, and yes. Errr…
Do you dance?
Too bad, it’s going to be a riot.
Wait, can I?
Can you what?
Can I come too?
She grabbed my hand and told me to loosen up. We are the dreamers and believers; we are those who inspire others. We are the ones they tell stories about. It is us other people aspire to be. Young and fun and out on a Friday night making memories. They need us to show them the way. Their need to be inspired is just as great as our need to inspire. She told me to smile more and worry less; things have a way of sorting themselves out.
We rode together in the backseat of her friend’s twenty-year-old Volvo, still hand in hand. She told me I had a kind face, built for smiling. I told her that I had never met anyone like her before, she said she got that all the time. I wanted to kiss her, quick and flirty, but I didn’t know how. She looked at me and laughed, called me silly, as if reading my thoughts.
So now here we are, laughing and dancing and whirling, spinning away our cares, making memories on a Friday night.