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Dance Before the Lord
It’s better than dancing with the stars
It’s the early seventies. I’m 20 years old. In simple math, a long time ago. I’m invited to a dance, a first date. For the occasion, I buy a tangerine silk wrap dress along with a pair of strappy heels. The ones that look amazing while squeezing your toes in a vise-like manner.
My date arrives in a 1971 Volkswagen bus, dressed in Levis, a Led Zeppelin T-shirt; the iconic image completed with messy hair and mutton chop sideburns. We converse in “first-date-ESE,” each asking the other prepared clever questions. You know, like, “What’s your sign?” Or “What band do you groove on?”
When we arrive at the Broadway Grange Hall, he excuses himself, points to the punch bowl, and joins his buddies across the room. It’s one of those moments when mundane tasks feel awkward, like standing, selecting a facial expression, breathing in and out. Looking around the room, I notice the crowd is — different. Then I remember my date works at Yakima Specialties, with disabled adults. He failed to mention this is a dance for his clients.
Just then, a young man in plaid bell-bottom pants and platform shoes taps my shoulder asking, if I’d like to dance. The dance floor is empty. The song is Jim Croce’s, Bad, Bad, LeRoy Brown. I want to say no thank you, but instead, say,
