Back in 1989, a friend took me to a night club called Studebaker’s, where there was loud music, swirling disco lights, and wandering eyes searching for the perfect date. I didn’t like it there.
Two years later, in an English class, I wrote a story about that experience. I thought I had lost what I had written, but I just found it in an old box. Here it is (take it with a grain of salt)!
Sweaty bodies jumped, wiggled, and hopped in excited frenzy on the crowded dance floor at Studebaker’s disco. Like oily sardines trying to escape from a tin can, they writhed in rhythm to the pounding beat. This peculiar dancing was either a new form of erotic aerobics or a procedure for the ritualistic bonding of desperate middle-aged singles. I wasn’t sure.
Hundreds of eyes searched hungrily around the room for the right victim; the atmosphere was charged with perverse anticipation. My heart sank when I realized that the overweight man at the adjacent table was staring at me, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. His thinning black hair was plastered to his head; his mustache neatly trimmed. A few curling hairs were strategically pulled out of his open shirt, a testimonial to his hidden masculinity. He winked; I frowned.
Encouraged by my negative response, he decided to take further action. He stood up. The length and width of his entire body loomed before me, inviting inspection. It was worse than I imagined. Like an overblown basketball his stomach hung, concealing his belt and the upper portion of his voluminous black and white striped jeans.
“I’m sitting all alone,” he whined in a high-pitched complaining voice. He coughed several times, adjusted the ostentatious gold bracelet on his left wrist, and continued—
“My name is Eugene. I’m an Aquarius. That’s a water sign. I am fun-loving, creative, and spontaneous.”
The size and condition of his body verified the truth of his last statement. I imagined him waddling into his kitchen late at night, spontaneously consuming the creative contents of his well-stocked refrigerator.
Suddenly, someone bumped into him from behind. He lurched forward. I cringed in horror as Eugene’s shoulders touched mine. His white wine splashed onto my dress, trickling into my purse.
Eugene hadn’t planned on this, but he was prepared to use the incident to his advantage, creative as he was. “I am so sorry, ” he apologized. “I think it would be a good idea if we went up to my house. It isn’t far from here. You could throw your dress into the wash, and we could relax in my kidney-shaped spa for a while. It won’t be so loud there. We could talk.”
He raised one eyebrow and gestured towards the door with a sweep of his hand.
Oh No! The last page of my story is missing! I know that (in my original story) she told him to go away as kindly as she could, but I can’t remember the exact words that I used.