She’s digging through the mound of cherries when she shakes her head. “No, I think you’ve done enough.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I clear my throat and belt it out, loud, really emphasizing her name.
When I’m done, she turns toward me and says, “You know, your voice is just as terrible as it was three years ago.”
“No insult you throw my way is going to ruin this moment for me. For the first time in three years, I’m eating ice cream on this day with the girl I fell in love with years ago. I’m in fucking heaven.” I wink at her and then reach over to scoop a few of her cherries.
“Hey, those are mine.”
“I paid for it, so it’s payer’s tax.” I put the spoonful in my mouth and chew, loving the way she glares at me like she used to. God, it almost feels like no time has passed between us.
We sit in silence for a few beats before she says, “So, aren’t you going to ask what happened?”
“Nope.” I take a huge bite of ice cream, enjoying the flavor combination. “That’s up to you to tell me. I’m not going to pry. I’m just here to make sure you have a good birthday.”
She nods and says, “Well, this makes up for the first half of it.”
“And we’re not done, babe. I have plans.”
“We’re doing more after this?”
I lean against the side of the truck and give her a once-over. “Yeah, babe, we’re doing more after this.”
***
“I can’t believe you brought me here.”
“Why not?” I shout above the music, black lights igniting the color on our shirts.
“Because”—she looks around from the bar stool she sits on—“we are surrounded by old people.”
Laughing, I say, “Hate to admit it to you, Amelia, but the bars we used to visit wouldn’t accept us old farts, so I took you to the next best thing. Flashbacks.”
“The younger bars would accept us.”
“They would.” I take a sip from my beer. “But they would be staring at us the whole time because they would know we were too old for their crowd.”
There are a few bars on State Street. It’s where all the college kids go to party and oddly enough, they’re jam-packed during the holiday weekend with the kids who couldn’t go home for the holidays, or the kids who came back home to Binghamton for the holiday. Basically, everyone is getting drunk tonight.
When we were younger, we could go to an underground bar called The Rat, and that’s where the scene was, that or JT’s, but there was no dancing in JT’s. But now we’re older, we have two choices: Dillenger’s or Flashbacks. Dillenger’s, although an awesome atmosphere, doesn’t have dancing, just drunk singing to Journey. And I want to dance with my girl.
“We used to make fun of the people who came here.” He looks around, bright hippy flowers bouncing off the walls and an old VW Bug in the corner. It’s a strange place, but the dance floor, that shit is lit up and I can’t wait to get my feet on it.
“Yeah, and look at all the fun we were missing out on.” I lean over her shoulder and point to a man on the dance floor. “Look at that dude, he’s straight-up doing the hustle. Don’t you want to be a part of that?”
She studies him for a second and then shakes her head. “His chest hair is glistening.”
“Because that dude is feeling his groove, and I’m fucking jealous.”
I lace my fingers with hers and say, “Let’s go, Amelia, time to get those feet moving.”
She holds me back. “You’re kidding, right?”
Caught off guard from her refusal, I tilt my head and take her in. “Where’s the girl I used to know who would willingly jump to the dance floor? The one who would openly run nude in the middle of a field, or scream out the window while driving down the highway?”
Her eyes lower as she nibbles on her bottom lip. When I tilt her chin up, she says, “She had a rough day.”
“Looks like we’re going to have to remedy that then.” I pick up her drink and say, “Chug.” I do the same and the minute we’re done with our drinks, I lace our fingers together, pull her from her stool, and guide her to the dance floor.
A little shy at first, she looks at me, not knowing what to do—which makes me snort—so I lean forward and whisper in her ear, “Just dance, babe. Let loose.”
She looks around and when “Love Shack” by the B-52’s comes on, that’s my cue to take her lack of dancing into my hands. I spin her around and snag her by the waist with our hands clasped out to the side.
Like the “funky” aunt and uncle at a wedding, I start moving our feet up and down along with our clasped arm. I know we look ridiculous, especially with my size taking up a good portion on the dance floor, but when Amelia starts laughing uncontrollably, me jostling her around, I know I’m doing everything right.
I spin her out and then grip both her hands and twist them back and forth, causing her whole body to shake. Her smile stretches across her face, her hair fanning out, and her eyes bright and sparkling more than I’ve seen in a long time. When the music starts to die in the middle of the song, I bring her down to the floor, squatting as the women in the club say, “Bang, bang, bang on the door, baby.”
The men reply, “Knock a little louder, sugar.”
We go and back forth and as the music gradually gets louder, the crowd stands until we’re all shouting, “Bang, Bang, on the door, baby!”
Amelia finally gets into it and when the music stops and the singers shout, “Tin roof, rusted,” Amelia sings from the top of her lungs, the fun-loving girl I once knew peeking out for the world to see.
And then she lets loose and I find it hard to keep up.
Her hand runs through her hair, and her feet start to really move, but when the music switches to “Billie Jean,” I get a good show. Fuck if I can’t stop myself from smiling like a fool.
Getting in her Michael Jackson position, Amelia grabs her crotch and her head and starts bouncing up and down like MJ only to start snapping around me, her moves calculated, formulated and on point. I try to keep up, but hell, she’s moving all around me, singing and “Eee-eeing” with MJ at the top of her lungs. The crowd starts to form a circle and before I know it, Amelia is moonwalking across the floor only to stop, flip her leg out in some crazy-ass MJ way and then grab her crotch, pelvic thrusting in my direction.
Oh fuck! I laugh so fucking loud and tears fall from my eyes. She’s so petite, wearing freaking riding boots and leggings, and owning the dance floor like it’s her own. That’s until my jam comes on . . .
I spread the crowd apart and form a circle for me and me alone. I stand in the middle, reaching up to the sky, and tap my toe to the beat. When the music falls, so do my arms, only to rise with jazz hands. That’s right, fucking jazz hands.