(re-run)
He was right in front of us, a club member who had dated another club member for sixteen years until the break-up. We both knew who she was. But what was her name?
“Liz,” he says.
“No, that’s not it.”
We talked about my ex-boyfriend club member, the Gong show, him being shirtless onstage, and how we remembered that image, a hairy guy, still proud of his looks in his mid-sixties.
There’s nothing wrong with that. We senior citizens have to flaunt it while we’ve still got it, because one day soon, we will not got it anymore.
“I think her name is Liz,” he says. “I can see her face.”
“Nope, it’s not that, ” I said. “II can also see her.”
“Lois?” he asks.
“It’s an unusual name, but it’s not that,” I say. “She’s the only one in the club with the name.”
We were at a winery, celebrating the first outdoor music gig of 2024 and celebrating a club member’s birthday, twenty of us who were already friends, dancing to Papa Joe and his band of family members for four hours. You read that right – four.
Today my knees hurt and they never hurt. I’ve been taking that lubricant-for-your-joints pill for more than a decade. It has always worked for me before. Yesterday I danced an extra hour. On the dog walk this morning, my knees were telling me that I should’ve stopped at three hours, like I usually do.
We change subjects and talk about him being a security guard in Oakland.
“Do you wear a bullet-proof vest?”
“I do,” he says. “I am armed as well.”
“An AK-47?” I ask in jest.
“I cannot say,” he replied, “but it’s sufficient.”
(Don, if you’re reading this you know I am embellishing our convo because I can only remember half of it)
“I still think her name is Liz,” he says.
“Lorraine?” I say.
“You’re on the right track,” he says.
We silently agree that her name started with the letter L.
“Aren’t you afraid to work in Oakland?” I ask. “Lots of bad stuff has been happening in that town.”
The thing about Oakland is that there are still nice parts, and lots of nice people, but the bad apples tend to spoil it for the rest of the town. I just went to the White Elephant Sale over there three times, once by myself. We all take risks, and no one bothered me, but you never know who is going to carjack you or rob you or shoot you because you looked at them the wrong way.
“I like your hat,” a woman says as I pass her on my way to the bathroom.
‘Thanks,” I say. “I like your shoes.”
On other days the same women have asked me if I taught their child in 2nd grade, if I’d give them my scarf, etc. It’s simple banter to put ourselves at ease with one another. We dance side by side on that tiny plastic square in front of the stage. We have all agreed to be friendly, this tribe of aging dancers in a city many miles and one bridge crossing away from our towns.
“Lorretta?” I say to Don as we chat in the shade of our table’s umbrella.
“Louise!” he says.
“Louise!” I agree.
It took ten minutes, but we got there.
FIRST DATE, WORST DATE EVER! 