A question that's come up in dinner conversations with some of our crew is whether Andrea and I would have been friends if we'd known each other in high school. Andrea thinks we would have gotten on each other's nerves, but I wonder, though. What would have happened if we rewound a few more years, back to grade school - before we'd both become jaded after years of living the hard scrabble life in small-town America.
I can sort of infer the outcome from a story she's told me about a young Dude, a school dance, and a super groovy shirt.
A boy once asked Andrea to a school dance. She agreed, but in the days leading up to the event, it became more apparent he was way more excited than she was.
"It's gonna be a great night, Andrea! I even have a special shirt for the occasion."
I can see her giving him the "raised eyebrow side glance" I've now seen countless times. Expecting he would dress to match her outfit, Andrea was a little taken aback but rolled with it.
Apparently, this mystical shirt was a super fly, satin-looking, multi-colored polyester ensemble that imbued its wearer with +5 charisma and style. I imagine it looked like it came off the set of Staying Alive, and it was funny as she told me. But I then remembered, "Hey, I had those same shirts."
It was the tail end of the '70s and disco, while not quite dead, still held massive sway. A number of my dress shirts at this time were that same pseudo-silk polyester blend. If the occasion was best served by wearing a coat and tie, I figured my shiny, dark green number with the weird geometric patterns in contrasting browns and tans was a cut above. Clothes absolutely do make the man. The proof is in all my grade school pictures where I proudly sported duds that made me look like a mini-me extra in a Bee Gees video. I can now empathize with Dude thinking he was the shiznit.
Back at the grade school dance young Dude was absolutely strutting his stuff as he popped his collar. "What do you think of the shirt?! It's cool, right?!" Knowing Andrea's innate preppy style, I imagine she was cringing.
When the inevitable slow song comes on, Andrea and Dude are awkwardly swaying at arm's length on the dance floor because this deep in the Bible belt, "You've got to leave room for Jesus". But Dude took his shot.
"You know, it's OK if you want to put your head on my shoulder." I can hear Andrea's stifled sigh across the time-space continuum. She haltingly started to lean in, but suddenly pushed him away.
"Yeah, I can't"
"Sure, you can. I won't mind!"
"No. I really can't."
"Well, why not?"
"Umm. You're too short."
That made for an awkward ride home.
Young Dude was a product of the times. In his shoes, I likely would have donned a similar outfit because, sadly, from what I remember of my wardrobe, my sole reference for "hip" must have been Travolta in Staying Alive. I doubt at that age I'd have had enough game to ask Andrea to lean in during a slow dance, likely sparing me the epic burn. Also, while I'm not 6' tall like she has in her handwritten bullet list of the ideal man she penned in college, I'm not Cruise-Kidman short. So maybe, if she was able to look past the goofy, discotheque wardrobe, we just might have been friends back then.
This past year, Andrea and I were down in DC at an outdoor restaurant, and the place was piping music through outdoor speakers. Suddenly "Staying Alive" came on. I perked up and looked up and down the street, expecting someone to start doing the Travolta strut down the sidewalk in Northwest DC. Sadly, no one stepped up. For the briefest microsecond, I considered it since it was such a wasted opportunity. But then our food arrived, and, well... priorities.
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