My mom and I are driving through a city looking for something down alleyways. Finally we get out and start walking, looking for it on foot. It was dark when we were in the car but it's lighter now that we're outside.
It's a big, busy city like Boston or NY. Lots of people on the sidewalks. It's evening. People are milling around and we're trying to stay together. There's this big crowd of people ahead taking up most of the road. They've been listening to a band play or something. They're a rough lot. Middle aged but wild looking with a lot of dyed hair, torn clothes and punk jewelry. Blowing smoke and loud, beery voices.
My mom and I are trying to get through the crowd. Suddenly she calls to me, says "Happy Birthday" and reaches over to hug me, but this shortish guy with Rod Stewart style black hair gets in her way and she's effectively hugging him. He grabs her and starts sweeping her along, making a joke of it for his friends to see. It's tense. I extricate my mom from him and he looks mad. We step aside. I explain to him sheepishly,
"It's my birthday Tuesday but my friends are going to be away, so my mom just wanted to say Happy Birthday with some people around, like it's a party."
The guy's face changes immediately.
"Hey, Dom!" he yells, pointing at me.
The guy named Dom comes over and grabs me and suddenly we're up on the stage. He's swinging me up in the air and back down, like an extreme dance routine. I'm weightless, being tossed around like a little toy in the bright stage lights. People gather around, taking pictures.
The closeness of the crowd makes it feel like we're inside. No, we are inside. It's changed. We're in a bar and my dad is there at the front of the crowd, filming with his camera. Dom swings me around smoothly, changing the routine. I'm mugging now, getting comfortable, smiling for the cameras and dancing in time to the music. After what seems like a long time we stop.
I thank Dom and am aware of what he looks like for the first time. He has white hair, is in his late 40's or early 50's, and is nice looking with a deeply cleft chin like Kirk Douglas. He's shirtless. I didn't notice that before but now I'm well aware of the incongruity between our appearances. I'm wearing my green Red Sox hat, grey fleece jacket and black culottes.
I ask Dom politely--feeling very odd because we'd been in such close proximity and I'm still kind of draped on him, my arm around his shoulder, sweating profusely under my fleece--I ask him if he's a dancer or if he just does this at parties?
He says, "I like to say that I can dance like Echo Dawn."
I recognize the name of an old movie and remember that I just read that exact phrase somewhere--in a personal ad on Craig's List. Yes, I just saw this guy's profile.
He continues, "I'm single--divorced. I like to stay in shape." He flexes. His muscles are defined but old mannish. His chest is narrow and seems to be caving inward.
I'm aware of my dad, looking on and feeling not-too-comfortable with me being so close to this guy, but he's also fiddling with his camera, trying to get a good shot. The flash isn't working.
I look at the camera, hold it at arms length and try to get a shot of Dom and me. Turning the camera around to look at the image, I am surprised to see that I look like I'm 14 years old and have cute, even features, looking more like a neighbor of mine than myself.
I say to Dom, "Here, why don't you try taking it? You have longer arms." But that picture doesn't come out well either. One of us is cut off.
As I'm waking up I'm still enjoying the sensation of weightlessness but I am regretting that I don't have a good picture of Dom and me.
As I was driving past Skater's Edge, a shop located in the heart of fabulous Manch Vegas, where skaters buy boards, accessories (extra wheels? lubricant? what does a skateboard need?) and oversized, overpriced threads resplendent with graphic designs, some young skate pup had the temerity to hold up traffic so he could get a running start for a trick he executed.
