Rebel Night

It was a cold night, so we were happy to see that there was no line. There was a doorman, but when he saw MIke, he didn't bother with my ID, or the ID of the pretty young woman who walked between us. It was still relatively quiet in the bar, though there were already signs of life. There were a few girls in long skirts, hair up in ornate beehives and sharp bangs, arms bared to reveal a parade of mermaids and pinup girls. The D.J. was playing some song that Elvis had once sung, but everyone in the bar knew that it wasn't Elvis singing, and it was only on vinyl. It smelled like beer, only vaguely like cigarettes, and only near the door.

The first stop was the bar, where it was early enough that we could still get a pint of Brooklyn Lager in a glass. We walked down the hallways, the music getting louder, switching tempos as the needle came down on a new piece of wax. In the hallway, bathrooms and videogames, the usual college kid fare. A quiz game and a buck hunter cabinet, along with the usual college kids. Still early, and their hats were still on backwards. We walked by as they blasted away at digital buck, wondering what was all the noise coming from the back room. Rebel Night, someone blurted out, uninvited. Tonight is Rebel Night.

We sit down at the only table. The rest of the floor is reserved for dancing. Its empty now, and we sip our beer and chat. We talk about new records and girls. Slowly, familiar faces emerge from the hall and we stand, shake hands, return to our beer. The music gets a little louder and the pretty young girl begins to grow restless. She sees the Japanese gurus hit the floor. Their hair is greased up with dramatic precision. Their sleeves are rolled up, measured to reveal just the right amount of tattoo. Their clothes are vintage, their moves are vintage, and the whole thing unrolls itself like scotch. Vintage and smooth. The gurus and the girls embrace, beginning to swing, twirling across the floor, catching the simple rockabilly rythm and exploding it into movement. We sit back and watch. The young girl drinks her margarita and taps her foot.

She gets up to use the restroom. I lean over to Mike, who looks concerned.

"You're gonna have to dance with this girl." I say. "If you want to keep her happy."

Mike knows better than me. He waits.

It takes three more beers to push us into the now swirling tides. Bodies are moving, twisting, everyone trying to find just a little bit real estate on the tiny dance floor. Every now and then, the guru couples take the floor to show us all how it's done. Other times, the girls in the skirts and hair and tattoos all take the floor and form up in lines, doing a synchronized shuffle to Maybelline. When these theatrics are over, the floor opens up again, and we're all there, twisting and shaking. We sweat through our shirts and strut, and roll up our sleeves to show our tattoos. You try to show that you're a member of the tribe, even though the tribe is a transient manifestation of guitars and vinyl. Glancing over at Mike, you see the young girl's head on his shoulder, exhausted from dancing. You now its time to go home.

It's past two, and you figure it's a good night. You wish you could've made it till closing time.