Finding Your Groove

I was feeling nostalgic when I wrote this because dance had been such a big part of my life. My earliest memory is my mom blasting the radio and we’d dance around the house while we cleaned on the weekends. I did have a short career on a dance team in junior high school. When I turned eighteen, the social scene at dance clubs came into play. The ones I used to frequent have since come and gone: Metropolis at Cincinnati Mall, 8 TRAX and Mannequins at Downtown Disney’s Pleasure Island.

The most well-known dance club had an even shorter life; the infamous Studio 54. I learned about it in a Netflix documentary, which the below piece is inspired by.

The music drifted out of the club like a vibrating pulse. I could feel it in my bones. The night was alive with possibility. I could even imagine myself being let in beyond the velvet ropes. “Tonight’s not my night,” I mumbled, walking home alone defeated, yet again.

For weeks, I’ve been studying those who were let into Studio 54. I’ve taken a tally of all their features, styles, and unique qualities. One stands out more than the rest. They all had impeccable footwear! My scuffed, holey, hand-me-down saddle Oxfords weren’t cutting it, so I decided to scrap together enough dough to buy myself a lesser used pair from the thrift store. These didn’t even have frayed laces so I’ll definitely be a “shoe-in.” This upgrade will significantly increase my changes of rubbing elbows with the stars. I’m sure they’ll be stoned out of their minds, but I’ll remember every second.

“Tonight’s the night,” I whispered as I gave myself one last once over in the foggy bathroom mirror. I was startled by the shrill ringing of the telephone. I scurried into the narrow hallway and picked it up on the second ring. “Yo,” I deeply purred as I leaned against the doorway. “Ronnie, you can’t bail!.. I gotta feeling tonight’s gonna be different… Well, I– Oh, c’mon dude… Alright, I get it… Later.” I hung up the receiver and it quietly chimed. The apartment door creaked open into the hallway and I shuffled over to let my grandma inside.

“Well, don’t you look spiffy, Junior,” she greeted me with a crooked smile as she pinched my cheek.

“Ya really think so?” I asked, dusting myself off, and fluffing my hair. She nodded, setting her handbag down next to the phone. “Don’t wait up, Gran. I’ll see ya in the morning!” I gently kissed her cheek and patted her on the shoulder.

Off I went into the dark neon night, ready for an adventure, gleaming with optimism. I turned the final corner to see a long line of human disco balls in gold and silver sequins, platforms, go go boots, and stiletto heels. The audible wave from the lively crowd gave me confidence that the power of music and dance is universal. As I gazed upon every race, creed, color, and gender. I’ve found my tribe.