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Jukebox Saturday Night {continued} Linda was great. So, too, were most of the others, with the possible exception of Sammy, who seemed to have an urge for getting into fights and trying to shove guys' heads down the storm drain. Andy-Boy taught me to play matchbook football on the slick Formica tables. Frankie showed me how to finesse the pinball without tilting it. And even Sammy had something to teach me, in his case, how to sing background harmony. {He had an amazing voice and could sing just about anything, from the lowest bass lines to the highest falsetto.} I'd even get to dance with some of the girls, including Linda.
It was Linda, in fact, who showed me how to dance. And, most nights, I'd get to dance with her, sometimes two or three times, sometimes even more, before midnight came and it was time to close. Of course, at least a few times during the night, before the clock got to twelve, there'd be a slow dance. I didn't know it then, but, when a slow dance came on, something stirred inside me, though I'm not sure what. I'd watch Linda dance with Frankie, cheek to cheek. They'd start out holding hands, but it didn't take long before their arms draped around one another. And the way she looked at him, you just knew.
One night, it was winter and snowing because I remember the sound of the tire chains slapping the cobblestone streets, sounding like sleighbells, a slow dance came on. It was Santo & Johnny's Sleepwalk, I remember, because Linda came up to me and asked. "Wanna dance?" You'd've thought I'd've jumped to it. Either that, or tried to play it cool, the way I'd seen so many of the older guys do, especially Frankie. But instead, I sat there slightly stunned. For a moment, I wondered if we'd end up dancing slow, but a mile apart, tracing square steps the way grown-up's who dance with young kids sometimes do at weddings. I didn't think I could take it if that's how it was going to be. But finally ... "Sure," I said. And we began to dance. I hadn't ever felt anything like this before. She wasn't a mile away at all, she was close. And I, I was pretty big for my age, so we there we were, face to face, and I could feel the slightest press of her body against me. For a moment, I got distracted and looked over at Frankie, a little nervous. But he was talking away with Andy-Boy in the corner. I held one of Linda's hands in mine, my other arm reached behind her. There were no square steps. In fact, everything seemed round, warm and round, and though I had my back to it, I could almost feel the liquid light pouring from the jukebox, filling up the air. "You dance pretty good," Linda said. If I hadn't been dreaming, I might've said something in reply. But after I don't know how long, "Thanks," I heard myself say. Then finally managed, "Guess I owe it to you." Linda pulled back a little bit. I got nervous. Did I say something wrong? But when I leaned back a bit too, I could see, she had this puzzled look on her face. "But I never taught you to slow dance," she said. Then, with a smile, she added, "It must've been one of your other girlfriends." No, I thought. She's gotta know. There aren't any others. But then I realized she was teasing, and it occurred to me that she was right. She hadn't taught me to slow dance. She couldn't have. ... Finally, the lilt of the steel guitar ended. I didn't want it to. But I knew ..."Thanks," Linda said, as she let go my hand. "Thanks," I said, not in reply, but as if I was the first one to speak. And I walked away, first with a couple of backward steps, then turned. ... The distant sound of sleighbells on the cobblestone drew me toward the window. I walked over and leaned to see a pair of headlights coming down the street. Snowflakes swirled under the streetlamp. The car passed, its red taillights disappearing a couple of blocks away. "Last call!" My dad loved to cry that out. It was a sound I usually hated to hear. But not tonight. Tonight, it was ok. Everyone started putting on their jackets and scarves and gloves. I watched Linda as she put on hers. Both arms in, her scarf draped loosely over her head, she took Frankie's arm and they started to leave. As she passed the stool where I was sitting now, she paused and smiled. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "Thanks again," she said. "I really enjoyed our dance." I started to say something, but nothing wanted to come out. Not like before. This time, there was nothing to say. So, instead, I just looked at her and smiled. Linda went out the door with Frankie into the snow. I watched her make a snowball and throw it at him. They laughed. "Where've you been?" I spun the stool around slowly to see my dad behind the counter, drying glasses and placing them on the shelves. When he saw my face, he stopped what he was doing for a moment and it looked as if he was going to say something, though I'm not sure what, or whether I just imagined it. But then he picked up where he'd left off and, as an after thought, asked, "How's about a malt before we go?" "No thanks." "Sure?" he asked. "Yeah," I said. "I'm fine." "Ok, then," and we made the rounds, gathered up our things, locked the front door, and started up the block toward home. The snow was tracing gentle patterns beneath the streetlights. We passed the houses, one by one, and though I'd usually recite to myself who lived on what floor in each one, tonight, I just wanted to watch the swirl of snowflakes dance beneath the streetlamps. "Beautiful night," my father said, almost in a whisper. "Yeah," I agreed. "Beautiful." . ******* ******* If you'd like to submit a poem, short story or literary essay for possible publication, please e-mail us at books@downstreetmagazine.com. The e-mail should contain your name, address, and a phone number where we can reach you. You may also send a copy of your piece. The text can either be included in the body of the e-mail, or you can send it as an attachment in just about any word processing format. 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