Danceteria

Maureen Bard
Rhetoric
Dr. Smith
1/28/1987
Draft #3

I was looking for a new niche.  Stanford had not fulfilled my expectations.  I had naively hoped that academia was the place to achieve social change.  Instead I found myself reading articles like "Seating in the House of Parliament, 1770-1800."  Ever the rebel, I rather self-righteously rejected what I saw as the intellectuals' pretensions to social awareness.  Like the atheist who easily converts to evangelism, I jumped to the opposite extreme.  Perhaps the corporate world would put my brain to productive use.

So there I was in New York on a job interview, seated in a charcoal flannel office, pretending to myself and to the interviewer that I liked competitiveness, that I thought selling more Coca-Colas promised to be a rewarding endeavor.  I'd substituted my dullest gray suit and pink blouse for my long skirts and loose sweaters.  Desperate, I wanted to want to belong to the world of sales quotas, yearly promotions, Christmas bonuses, coffee breaks, and two week vacations.  But I knew I didn't.

When the man in the dark suit asked one of those typically exasperating interview questions, "If you were an animal, what kind would you be?" my sarcasm took over.

I couldn't even come up with my planned response of "maverick."  Instead I retorted, "A Dartmouth fraternity brother."

Then I saw the plaque behind his desk, "Dartmouth, Delta Chi."  The rest of the interview went slowly.

Finally, as my token goodbye to big business, I gave him the requisite extra-firm, two-jerk handshake.  As if in a trance, I left the office.  I couldn't let myself think just yet.  I wandered into the elevator, mindlessly humming along with the Muzak, "Coo coo ca choo, Mrs. Robinson."  Where would I go next?

As consolation prize I phoned Sue and Miriam, my old Mount Holyoke College classmates who lived in town.  Where ever I go I seek out Mount Holyoke Types (MHT's we call them).  I don't have to explain myself to them.  I had heard the Danceteria was "The Place to Go," and would they like to come?

Later, the three of us entered the Danceteria, trying to look casual.  We didn't.  Stepping into the hallway, we could hear the thump! thump! of the bass pounding from the dance floor.  We glanced anxiously at one another.  That was not out kind of music; this was music made by groups with names like "Sex Pistols" and "Suburban Lawns."  The gravelly voice crowed, "If I had a rocket launcher, I'd make those bastards pay," while the melody repeated itself over and over.   We hoped the other two dance floors in the place would be playing music with saxophones and lyrics about love.  (We shouldn't have hoped.)

In spite of the music, we opted to begin on the first floor.  We strolled in en masse, trying not to be noticed.  This was hard, since we were three of perhaps seven people there.  We'd failed to arrive fashionably late.  For solace, we rushed to the bar.

Gulping beers, the three of us stood awkwardly watching a 10' by 10' video screen: a genderless face sang unintelligible lyrics; a blue skull transposed itself over the face, and dancers appeared in the eyeball sockets.  Miriam wanted to know why I had selected this place.

"I merely wanted to observe the latest trends," I explained.  I liked daring unconventionality.

"You've certainly come to the source," remarked Miriam.  Inspired and inquisitive as usual, she continued, "Let's try to find out why other people come here."  We decided to scan the other two dance floors.

Second floor -- "I might like you better if we slept together," a female voice shouted.  A V-shaped neon-lit bar.  No place to sit. ... On to the third floor.  Now this was different.  The same music at lower decibels.  Another bar, tables in the back, and 1950s metallicized fabric couches at odd angles.  And there were TV sets.  At least twenty of them, some facing each other, some back to back, some at right angles, all showing the same picture: The Jetsons.  Miriam and Sue left me there, sitting on a couch, feeling quite at home.  I watched the episode in which George doesn't want his daughter Judy to win a contest writing lyrics for a wild new singer whose music he scorns.  He substitutes baby talkfor her entry, and of course his submission wins.  After George accompanies Judy to play his hit "Eep Op Ork Ah Ah" with the singer in the grand prize concert, the youthful music wins him over.

The Jetsons switched to The Dating Game.  "Bachelorette number three, what animal best describes your personality?""  I was about to answer, "Maverick," when I noticed a guy with pink hair, a ring in his nose, a George Washington colonial costume, and a chain of plastic baby dolls hanging from his belt.  He was heading my way, so I took off for the bathroom.  I wanted to talk to him, but I was afraid of the silence that might actually result between us.

With another beer in hand, I sought comfort in numbers.  Where were Sue and Miriam?  Returning to the first floor, I found the fashionably late at last arriving.  I stood mesmerized in front of the elevators.  Each one, lit with neon, contained passengers with hair to match.  The Danceteria-ites sauntered past, clothed in the same electric hues: fish net tights, holey shirts, rubberized camouflage, and intense makeup.  Looking at them made me feel all the more adrift.  These people knew where they fit in and where they didn't want to belong.

Suddenly I sensed their hostile glances.  I looked down at what I was wearing: my interviewing skirt and a silk evening jacket.  (That's they way Ms. magazine suggested I pack for a short business trip.)  Unique is one thing, conspicuous, another.  I felt like the kid in high school who violated the taboo of no green and yellow on Thursday.  Only he would fit in here.  He would be chic.  Perhaps, I consoled myself, they'll think my get-up is a satire.

I laughed at myself.  Maureen the Maverick wanted to fit in.  No, not exactly.  I wanted to belong without having to be alike.  If only people would approach me regardless of how I might be dressed or categorized.  Which was not how I'd treated the guy with th plastic baby dolls hanging from his belt.  "Inconsistency!" as my ethics professor used to shout.

Enough of this reverie, I thought.  I located Sue, who wasn't hard to spot, dressed in a frog-printed turtleneck, kelly green sweater, corduroy slacks, and LL Bean shoes.  Miriam joined us.  Someone asked her whether she was lost or forced to come here.  The inquirer assumed a person dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a baseball jacket would not come to this environment by her own choice.  At last I admitted the Danceteria wasn't the place for me.

"Let's go, guys."  Maybe alone in my room at the Ramada I could come up with a new plan.

When I reached my hotel room I called my boyfriend long distance.  "New York is great.  I think tomorrow I'll go shopping for some fashionable clothes."  I wanted to stand out in St. Louis.