The door opens into an almost empty room. Wednesday night at the Rec Room (remember this spot from The Cougar Pack?), and only a few drinkers are seated under the fluorescent light of the bar. The dance floor is empty; truly empty with bare board walls, scratched and dented tables pulled together in the center of the room and a lonely deejay lost behind his equipment, spinning his discs out into the void.
We head toward the deejay, and my companion asks, “Do you have any swing music?”
“Swing? What’s that?” the deejay asks.
“Oh, you know, you must know, ‘50’s and 60’s rock and roll.”
“Like Elvis Presley?”
I say, “Yep, you got it, Elvis Presley.”
My companion looks at me, scrunches his face up and says, “I hate Elvis Presley.”
“I don’t like him, either, but if it gets us danceable music, who cares if it’s that silly old Jailhouse Rock.”
“I’ll look,” says the master of the music, while he puts on a tune by The Byrds.
It’s a cheek-to-cheek number, so I head for a table and pull out a chair. After all, the rule with this companion is that we never touch each other (You met him in Toying). He’s married, so this is the deal. No swaying slowly to the music, no cheeks or anything else pressed together. Not with this guy. Not about to happen.
