On a hot day, I had two choices: go to dinner with two girlfriends at the Mexican restaurant, or drive north to meet a friend for First Wednesdays, a block party in another town.
I t was hot, but I knew I couldn’t eat Mexican food, so I went to the street dance. One block is shut down, and a live band plays at one end while the food trucks take up the other end. In between there are booths giving away water, cucumber lemonade, and other trinket stuff.
My friend, El, who is the king of dance, had a table reserved for the Meet-up people. Suzanne was there, too, and I rolled in to Daft Punk’s Get Lucky. Only three people were dancing, my two friends and one other guy. I joined them on the asphalt, then sat down at the shady table.
As the night progressed, the crowd got bigger, and the people got looser about dancing. Still, the concrete wall in the shade was lined with good-looking guys who never budged from their seats.
I tried the cucumber lemonade, but it wasn’t tasting good to my acidic stomach, so I stuck to my water bottle. One thing I’ve noticed when I don’t drink is that I don’t get as excited about the music without the benefit of wine. The ONLY song that I screamed when I heard the beginning of it was Signed, Sealed, Delivered by Stevie Wonder.
Babies danced for the first time. One little boy named Rex with a wild mane of black hair was the cutest. Grandmas danced with granddaughters. Dads danced with sons. Young tattooed girls danced. Old ladies danced. One old guy danced by himself all night long in his black socks and sandals.
At one point, a young adult woman in cut-off shorts and a navy tank top danced to Maroon Five’s Sugar while a sixty-five-ish woman in cut-off shorts and a black tank top danced right beside her. I was seated in the shade watching this, thinking how the music appealed to a cross-section of people. All ethnic groups were represented, even though the town is heavy on white people.
By the time we left, the crowds were filling up the street. A cool wind was chilly on my bare arms and legs. Suzanne and I walked to the parking garage together and rode the elevator with a woman who told us to have a blessed night when she got off a floor before we did. When the doors shut, Suzanne started singing Hallelujah at the top of her lungs.
We said our good-byes on the roof level. I got into my car, took off my straw hat, and drove down the five floors to the exit. As I pulled out a woman in a car in the lane next to me was also pulling out. I moved over to the far left lane and realized that she was also heading to the same lane. I sped up so that we wouldn’t collide. At that point I could see that it was the same woman from the elevator. I did a u-turn at the light to get on the freeway to head south. The woman from the elevator also did a u-turn, then passed me, slowed down and flipped me off. She mouthed the word bitch. She didn’t recognize me from the elevator.
WTF? I was bothered by her change in attitude. She must’ve been drunk. That would explain why she took so long to pull out of the parking garage.
Another night of fun as we gear up for summer. The weather acted like a summer day, and the crowd partied like it was summer night.