* * *
Because we would be leaving for college soon, that night at Phases was different from the other times we’d come. Even then, we were aware of the significance of this change. It made the lights shine bluer and gave the music an urgent, melancholy sound.
My friends and I were wearing our vintage Keds canvas sneakers with pointed toes that we had found at Cowboys and Poodles on Melrose. The shoes and clothing sold there were all from the fifties but, magically, still brand new. We wore the Keds with miniskirts and white cotton men’s T-shirts, which we had altered by cutting off the sleeves and collar bands and writing on them with pink marker the words “Healthy Pleasure.” This was in direct response to the punk boy gang who hung out at the same club and wore T-shirts that said “Sick Pleasure”, written in black Sharpie.
We never spoke to these boys, but they fascinated us with their short, spiked hair and tattoos. We didn’t know their actual names but M had nicknamed them Rat Catcher, Little Italy, Horse, Ken (for the doll), and Mohawk. They were hanging out in the corner, as usual, under the strobe lights, dumping little airplane-size bottles of vodka into their sodas and watching us with smirks on their faces.
We’d given them not only names but also histories. Rat Catcher lived with his single, alcoholic mom near Phases. He started going there when he was twelve. He started smoking and drinking then, too. At Phases, Rat Catcher met Ken and Horse, who were both older, taller, better looking. But Rat was smarter and became the leader. We imagined that Little Italy, who always looked somewhat disheveled, was homeless, and that the others took care of him. He was their mascot. We didn’t try to make up a story about Mohawk. He seemed like he wasn’t as close to the others, even sitting at a distance from them, arriving and leaving earlier. Mohawk was always well groomed, not a trace of stubble on his scalp, at least from what we could see in the dark, and he didn’t wear the Sick Pleasure shirts either.
“Think Pink” by the Fabulous Poodles played, and my friends and I rushed the dance floor like wild things, skanking around, flailing our arms, tossing our hair. We knew the boys were watching, but we pretended to ignore them, as usual.
More songs: the B-52s, the Go-Go’s, Blondie. Music is so powerful and mysterious because it can bring up emotions you’ve buried inside of you. Dancing is a way to experience those emotions and release them so they don’t get stuck in your throat or stomach or chest. At that time it was the only thing that made me forget everything else. I became just a heartbeat, a part of the music. I was completely free.
When REO Speedwagon’s ballad “Keep on Loving You” came on, we hurried off to sit on one of the shag-carpeted benches that surrounded the dance floor. Sometimes, if we were in the mood, we would dance by ourselves to the slow songs. Secretly, I found this particular song romantic, in spite of how cheesy it was and the guitar solo I hated, but I would never have admitted my affection for it to anyone.
I was leaning against M’s bare, brown, bony shoulder, still warm from the sun. J was leaning her strong back against my knees, L sitting by herself on my other side. I was gazing up at the spinning disco ball when I felt a presence watching me and looked up. Mohawk was there, so close I could have reached out and touched his large hand. He smiled with crooked teeth under a big nose that had obviously been busted at least once. I was self-conscious about the bump on my own nose and was planning to have it shaved off as soon as possible.
“Hey,” Mohawk said. “Want to dance?”
Another slow song was playing, and I hesitated. M elbowed me. We all did what M told us to do. She was going to Yale in the fall. She was the fastest girl on the track team. And she had won best dressed in school, even though her leopard print, stretch Fiorucci pants, patent leather motorcycle jacket, and vinyl purse with two cherubs wearing sunglasses on it were way too out there to become trendy in the Valley. I stood up without thinking and followed Mohawk onto the dance floor.
He put one arm on my waist and brought me close to him. His breath smelled clean, not like alcohol as I had expected, and his eyes were warm and twinkled.
“Why don’t you and your friends ever talk to us?” he asked.
“You don’t talk to us either.”
He grinned, showing those rebellious teeth again. “Where are you from?”
“Studio City,” I said. This was a small suburb of the Valley, on the other side of a canyon from Hollywood. “You?”
“Calabasas.” That was a wealthy area farther north. This, like his breath and eyes, was also a surprise.
“Why do you come here?” I asked him.
“I love to dance,” he said.
“But you guys never dance.”
I felt his shoulder shrug under my hand. His voice sounded deeper. “Yeah. I watch you dance.”
He pulled me a little closer, so our hips were almost touching. “Get on,” he said.
“Get on where?” I wasn’t sure I liked where this might be headed.
“My toes.”
I looked down and saw that he was wearing heavy black engineer boots.
“The toes are steel.” he said.
I stepped carefully on and balanced myself, clinging tighter to his back and shoulder. He moved with surprising ease, me on top of him like that.
M was waving at me from the edge of the dance floor. “We’re going now,” she was saying.
I stepped off of Mohawk’s feet.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“I.”
“I’m A,” he said. And then I had to leave.
* * *
When we came back to Phases a few nights later, the Sick Pleasure boys weren’t there. I felt a coldness sinking through my body, from the base of my throat to my pelvis. I’d wanted to see A. I’d spent the last few days imagining dancing with him again. The solid feel of his muscles under my hands. The light sweat that pressed his T-shirt to his back.
I danced with my friends, but I was forcing it. Without Sick Pleasure, especially A, watching, I didn’t feel inspired by the music. The chill sadness crept through my body again and I couldn’t shake it off.
The music changed. Hardcore punk. The Adolescents, “Creatures.” My friends and I left the dance floor. Then Sick Pleasure walked into the club. They stormed the floor, skanking and slamming into each other. The DJ cranked the music and my ears rang and the strobe lights were making me dizzy. Was A with them?
There he was.
I just stood watching, until he grabbed my arm and pulled me out with him. I imitated the movements of the boys but they ignored me, except for A, who backed up into me repeatedly until I finally grabbed his shoulders and he swung me up onto his back and danced with me like that. The room spun around and I shut my eyes and pressed my face into his sweaty neck. This is one way to leave your life for a while.
The song was over and another one played. “Wild in the Streets” by the Circle Jerks. And another. Dead Kennedys, “Holiday in Cambodia.” I knew the songs from listening to Rodney on the Roq’s show on KROQ. Rodney was odd, with his mullet and whiny voice, but he knew his music.
I kept dancing with A. Then the music switched back to my familiar upbeat new wave and, panting, A and I collapsed onto one of the carpeted seats. He showed me this little Xeroxed pamphlet he’d made.
“It’s a zine,” he said. I pretended to know what that was, but I didn’t, yet. It had collages of ticket stubs and flyers from punk shows and ink drawings of a boy with a Mohawk, who looked just like A, skanking around the margins. There were reviews of record albums and lists of favorite songs and punk venues.
“You made this?” I asked.
It was the ninth edition called Suburban Kaos. I told him it was cool. I especially liked the drawings of the skanking boy.