A Family I Can Dance With

In the fall of my junior year of highschool, my dad hired me to bar tend at an fundraising event that he was coordinating the liquor sales for. This event was to be the culmination of some big hooha that the Tylerites were doing: raising money, playing golf, drinking a lot, all decked out in their finest. Sarah Brighton for the women, diamonds in gaudy gold, big hair and laughter, their daughters standing near by looking blaisee, there hair straight and shiny. The husbands of these beauties and debutants were clustered around their trucks, directly to my left, the bar and I perpendicular to the stage. They clustered around their giant looming proof of manhood, drinking whisky, smoking, discussing God knows what -- being female, I'd never actually entered their midst. Serving at the Laughing Dog, I'd had contact with groups of that sort -- pulled of the high way with their four-wheelers, back from the deer lease -- drinking, smoking, hunting, fishing, their conversations concerned with the enjoyable tasks at hand. That autumn night the conversations were probably the newly opened deer season and football, as they pushed the gravel around with their cowboy boots, or good shoes their wives had picked out. Their sons stood near by, tall and lanky with unruley hair, wearing similar pressed cotton button-shirts, stealing glances as the girls who continuely, yet purposely walked by.

As I was setting up my station I noticed my music theory teacher, Mr. G, dressed in typical cowboy fashion, only for the stage not real life. The check of his shirt was too wide, his hat too big, his fringe too shiney. Then I remembered: the entertainment for the evening was a Pasty Cline tribute. Supposedly, she was a dead ringer, having just finished a play under the same theme for the local civic theater. I invited Mr. G to have a drink. He declined -- you can't play the fiddle, it turns out, when you're drunk -- but said he'd stop by after his show.

Mr. G and I always had a pretty amicable relationship, stemming mutual respect and understanding, I suspect. Music theory was the last class I had Monday/Wednesday/Friday before I finished for the day at the blessed hour of 1:30. Mr. G taughts us music theory, but didn't kid himself that any of us were going to spend too much effort. By sheer lack of knowledge continum, elective status, and position in the school day, not a lot was going to get done. But he was a good guy, and was liberal with the free days, the "music appreciation" days and supported using his class as a study hall when need be. (One "music appreciation day" we'd been listening to Tom Petty when Mr. G comes out of his office, singing along boisterously -- 'let me get to the point, let's roll another joint. Turn the radio . . .' He suddenly realized what he was doing, froze, spun on his heels and disappeared into his office.) I didn't need study time though: I wanted to leave.

I spent the majority of the weekends of my senior year in Denton, Texas, home of the University of North Texas and Sean, my then love. That's a whole different bag of fish. the important point being I liked to leave straight from school if I could get off of work, therefore missing rush hour.

I walk into Mr. G's office, trying to be casual. Come on Mr. G: see me as a person, not a student. I don't want to be in this class today, neither do you, as is evident by your "music appreciation" day declaration while you grade papers in your office.
"Mr. Grinell. I''m going to Denton this weekend. I was going to leave after class, but since we're just listening to music, can I go now? I promise I'll listen to music in the car."
"Why are you going to Denton?" he asks, without turning to face me.
"To visit my boyfriend."
The chair spends around as Mr. Grinell spins in his chair, taking off his glasses. "Do your parents know?"
Oh no! Too far: he's seen me as a person but I forgot that he has a daughter who's my age. Crap.
"Yes, sir. They're fine with it. They've known Sean for years."
"Well, I certainly wouldn't let Amy drive three hours away for the weekend to visit her boyfriend. " he says as he straightens some papers, eyeing me over his glasses.
"Neither would I sir."
Silence. Shit. Shit. Too far Valdez, too far.
"But my parent's let me."
Mr. Grinell smiles. Puts down the papers, takes off his glasses, leans back in his chair. "No, I guess you're not Amy, are you." With a chuckle, "Yes, you can leave early. If you get caught on your way off campus -- I have no idea what you're doing."

I, of course, being silly, run around to the other side of the desk and hug him. Not only had he seen me as a person, but had even looked at me as daughter and still, STILL decided to trust and respect me. I was free.

So, here I am, catering this hoity-toity event, making some cash. Sean's working a mini-bar across the way. I'd told Mr. Grinell he could meet him later. My spot was perfect. The grand-stand stage faced a moderately rolling green, the other three sides of which were rimmed with towering oaks. Stage right was the University of Texas at Tyler building, on the steps of which the barbe-que catering was being served. Stage left was my bar, and the pathway leading to the cars and clandestine meetings in the Oaks. The lawn was strewn with tables and chair, votive candles, Tyler roses, invitations, raffle tickets, empty drink cups, forgotten plates of food, crumpled napkins. The older, more endowed couples were in the back, sitting sedately, as the younger couples danced in the front. Small children ran around, and the women really did sound like Patsy Cline. Mr. Grinell played the fiddle and I danced a bit behind my bar as I served drinks, drinking a bit myself, watching the people.

There was one women in particular. Tall, and trim, wearing just enough make-up for the ocassion. Her sandels were fashionable and cute but neither they nor her belt were Brighton. Nothing she wore seemed to have been stolen from her daughter. She laughed and danced,throwing her black hair back from her shoulders -- one white streak in the front. After a while, a tall cowboy joined her. Not cowboy in the active sense, but culturally. Tall and rugged, button down shirt, cowboy boots, tie, huge flashing smile, large hands, unruley hair, he danced close to her. Their intimacy obvious, they'd danced together many times before and would again, unconscious of any audience. After a while, a boy and a girl who favored them joined, unwillingly at first. The boy was a bit too old be hanging out with his parents being past puberty while the girl was on the other side of that adolescent dividing line, but there were puppies about so she wanted to be off as well. They seemed to want to ask a question, but before they could help it, then entire family was dancing. I could tell that they'd done this before, in their kitchen, on the back porch, in the car singing along. They spun and laughed, mother with son, father with daughter.

After the song, the kids ran off, and the couple approached my bar. Two Whiskey Cokes. I watched them dance the rest of the night, the whiskey taking effect, but not of their bearing or social dignity.

And then I realized: I want that when I get older.