Recounting an evening at the Blue Fox

The night felt eerily college-esque. Well past our college-aged escapades, my friends and I descended on the Blue Fox bar. There was nothing "college" about the establishment; its single bar wound through three rooms, populated by that odd mix of suburban & back-country yokels, the types that drive F-350 diesel trucks but never throw a load in the back. The same folks that will donate to local wildlife preservation funds but shoot black bears out of trees after their snarling dogs wear them down from the chase. Ahhh. Just like home.

No, what felt college about it was the group behavior. Not the excessive consumption and woo-hooing of yesteryear but a dynamic. The central reason for the group and the location was a birthday. And that's really the only thing everybody had in common. It seemed like the same contrived social scene I'd participated in so many times before.

"Oh, you're his friend's friend? We have so much in common!"

As always, I retreated to the safe zone: hovering around my two buddies, hamming it up for the ladies or forming bonds through cigarette-bumming and cocktail purchasing whenever conversation became stagnant.

College party

After about an hour and a half, I started to slip into the warm realm of vodka-induced comfortability. It was time for my friend and I to go check out the band, High Noon, playing two rooms and about sixty cautious steps away.

When we'd initially entered the bar, I thought the music pumping through the speakers came from the jutebox. It felt scary to see the actual band. When I rounded the corner to view the stage, the lead singer had a leg on his monitor and was leaning forward, cowboy hat tipped so the brim was perpendicular to the floor, belting out Journey's "Faithfully." It made no sense. The voice may as well have been Steve Perry's, the whiny guitar line rang out verbatim, but the stage showed me washed-up studio musicians and guitar technicians who'd never quite "made it." I was genuinely impressed by the amount of effort they'd put forth to mimic the bands they covered, but I would've been happier listening to the classic rock radio station they strove to be.

Two songs later, even my vodka-warmed heart couldn't get pumped enough to dance or sway, so I pointed my buddy back towards the group and urged him forward. After only a few steps through a crowd-congested bottleneck of the bar, he was stopped by a tall 50-something man with glasses. I couldn't hear their conversation, so I waited patiently until I heard my friend say, "No, but HE will!" I looked up to see a finger pointed at my face and an eager-looking young woman peeking at me below my friend's outstretched arm.

Before I understood what arrangement had just been made on my behalf, the young lady grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor to enjoy a Rascal Flatts ballad by the artistic stylings of High Noon.

Rascal Flatts (sigh)

I hoped to God that she was drunk. I was not dressed to impress. My jeans were torn, by hair had been under a stocking cap all day and stuck out in multiple lenghths and directions, I was seven vodka-tonics into my evening and my motor skills were suffering. I don't want to know what my breath smelled like.

She asked my name, I told her, she told me hers, I don't think I even heard it I felt so uncomfortable. The only slow dancing I'd done in the past five years had been with my girlfriend: pressed in close, with lots of pecks on the neck and cheek. I had no idea how to appropriately slow-dance with this girl. I put both my hands on her hips, carefull to bridge the area between the bottom of her shirt and the belt-line of her jeans, no higher or lower, ensuring that the shirt would stay put; I didn't want to risk contacting exposed skin and sending the wrong signal.

I stammered out comments about how "this is just like my 8th grade dance at school" and asked questions like "Do you really like Rascal Flatts?" She smiled a little, locking her hands behind my neck. We both avoided eye contact. The song would not end. Glancing around the dance floor, I realized we were the youngest dancing pair. It felt good that this somewhat attractive woman had seen me fit to dance with, but incredibly lame that I swayed in the company of over-the-hill Jimmy Buffet fans.

Jimmy Buffet Fans

The song finally ended. I heard my father's voice, "Always thank the lady for the dance," and quickly thanked my partner. I was really more thankful that it was over and had taken in a deep breath to sigh out with relief when she grabbed my hand again, leading me back to our place of meeting. As we passed alongside the bar, an older woman leaned back on her bar stool and pointed at us with two fingers straddling a Marlboro.

"I saw you!" she said to my partner, "I saw what you did!" At which point my dancing queen dropped my hand, turned her own, raised it and flipped the harshest bird I'd seen in a long time.

"Fuck you." she said. We walked awkwardly ahead to her group of friends. I thanked her again, saying I should probably rendezvous with my own group, then slowly walked back to our corner of the bar to re-connect with the evening's trajectory.

I never discovered the connection between the old woman and my dancing partner. What sinister secret had woman seen from her bar-stool perch? Perhaps my dancing buddy was married and the woman saw our innocent shuffle as grounds for divorce. Maybe she'd copped a feel without me noticing (doubtful). Or possibly this evil she'd committed extended far outside the boundaries of the Blue Fox...

I like to think that the old lady was jealous. But then usually I come to my senses and take the Rascal Flatts CD out of the player.