1: Dancing in the Dark
I came alone and sat at my favorite table close to the band. By ten p.m. gyrating bodies crammed the dance floor of Palo Alto’s Keystone West. Men were dressed in tight pants and polyester shirts opened to show off chest hair and gold chains. Most of the women wore short skirts or tight dresses and platform heels that could cause serious injury with a misstep. Some of the dancers dressed like hippies, sporting beads and bell-bottoms. The dress code didn’t allow jeans. That hippie/disco culture clash showed up on the dance floor. Hippies moved to the music as if in a trance. The disco crowd seized all the space, showing off like John Travolta.
I opted for the disco dolly look, a dark blue wraparound dress. Though I’d hot-rollered my shoulder-length brown hair to get flips around my face, I hadn’t bothered with much makeup. At the age of twenty-four, I thought foundation was for old ladies. Mascara, blush, and lipstick were enough.
I ordered a rum and Coke and watched the mating rituals. I never understood why women went out together in herds. It took a lot of guts for a man to walk up to a crowd of women to ask one of them to dance. If the woman rejected him, the others smirked as he slunk off.
When I wanted to dance, I sat at my table alone, sipped a drink, and paid attention to the band. It was important to look approachable by moving to the music and looking like I was having a good time. I made it a practice to dance at least once with anyone who asked me. Old, young, cute, or nerdy-looking: I didn’t turn people down unless they were rude. I loved to dance. If a number came up I liked, I didn’t hesitate to join the crowd of solo dancers. Sometimes I asked men to dance. Their look of astonishment was worth it. No one turned me down.
Enjoying a rest from the crowded dance floor, I noticed a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a crisp white shirt and tan slacks emerge from the crowd, heading my way. I couldn’t tell if he was Hispanic or East Indian. His high forehead and cheekbones and prominent nose gave him a regal look. He paused a few feet from me, smiled, and extended his hand. I slid off my café chair, walked toward him, and placed my hand in his. Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” oozed from the female vocalist, and the band played the throbbing beat. We walked together to the edge of the crowded floor, turned toward each other, and began dancing to the slow, sensuous number. When the singer got to the moaning part of the song, I laughed and shook my head. My dance partner grinned, his bright smile contrasting with his dark skin. When the music ended, he pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “What’s your name?”
“Catherine, and yours?”
“Ramón.”
Ah, Hispanic. We walked toward my table.
“Dance again later?” he asked. He tilted his head and smiled.
I nodded. “Sure.” I turned to sit down, but he continued holding my hand. The band began a cover of the Isley Brothers’ “Who’s That Lady.” He leaned back and tugged me onto the floor. We danced again, closer this time. The packed dance floor gave us little room to move, and I didn’t mind.
We continued to dance. I lost track of time and started to tire. “I need to go home now,” I said. He nodded and escorted me to my chair. I signaled my server and settled the tab. Ramón didn’t offer to pay and I would have refused if he had. That kind of transaction creates expectations, and I preferred to remain in charge.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked. He seemed to struggle with the language, pausing for the right word. I tugged on my sweater and thought about the risk. I hated walking through parking lots late at night. I didn’t know this guy, but after all the close dancing and ear whispering, I felt hungry for a good night kiss.
“Thanks. It’s not far. Your English is very good. Where are you from?”
“Mazatlán. I live here in Palo Alto. ¿Habla español?”
“Un poco, pero no muy bien.” After two years of high school Spanish, two semesters in college, and a recent community college class, I should have been better at it, but I knew only enough to converse with patient people.
Ramón visibly relaxed. Switching to Spanish, he asked me where I was from and where I lived now. Outside, without the noise of the band, we could chat more easily. By the time we reached my Volkswagen, I’d learned he lived nearby in a room he rented from a Japanese lady and worked at a nursery in Cupertino. With the parking lot light shining on him directly, I could see he was younger than I’d thought, maybe a couple of years younger than me. I asked him if he wanted a ride home, but he’d ridden his bicycle to the disco. We both looked at my VW bug and laughed.
I pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from my purse and wrote down my phone number. He was sweet, sexy, and handsome as all get out. The fact that he probably didn’t make much money and got by on a shoestring, as I did, never entered my mind. I didn’t care much about those things then.
Over the previous six months, I’d been waffling between dating men I met at discos and seeing my ex-husband, Devin. I had married him in my first year at Wichita State as an excuse to escape my demanding and abusive parents. All through college, I struggled to be a good wife while taking classes and working evenings and weekends at Safeway. If Devin continued to avoid the draft, we planned to move out of Kansas when we graduated. We had visited a few places that might work—LA, Colorado, Florida—but we agreed on the San Francisco Bay Area. After graduation, we held a garage sale, packed the rest of our belongings in the VW, and headed west.
The marriage hadn’t been happy for a while. After five miserable years of experimenting with open marriage, trying to keep Devin in college to avoid the draft, and dealing with his drinking and physical abuse, I’d had enough. Now I lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Mountain View and worked as a teller for a savings and loan in Los Altos. Living alone for the first time in my life, I didn’t sleep well, waking with every little floor creak and horn honk. Most nights I slept on the sofa with the TV droning in the background.
Under the glare of the parking lot light, Ramón pressed me against the car and kissed me with more passion than I’d known for a long time. “You’re beautiful, Caterina.” My knees melted. He stepped back, gripped my arms, and looked at me as if scanning my soul. “Muy hermosa.” He sighed and walked away. After a few paces, he turned, smiled, blew me a kiss, and headed off.
I peeled myself from the car and fumbled in my purse for my keys. Once inside, I locked the door and sank into the seat. What just happened? I took a few deep breaths and thought about the short drive home. I hadn’t drunk too much, but the kisses had left me shaken. After a few moments, I started the ignition and put the car in gear. I drove home mumbling, “This is going to be interesting.”