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“Freak out! Le frique, c’est chic!”

And that was the end of us budding hippies, us freaks, and the beginning of our capitalist education.

“Le frique, c’est chique!”…they sang, changing innocence into something so much more exciting than hippiedom, my eyes flitting to Judy’s budding breasts instead on the dance floor, my over-coiffed hair falling flat over my pimples in a greased flop, as I jerked about in spasmic rendition of Travolta at his best. Or I thought so, anyway, in my yellow long-sleeved polyester shirt covered by white T shirt.

“Freak out!” Judy dancing in young teenage girl style, a little out of rhythm, feigning disinterest, glancing around for her friends as the globe glittered around and I jumped, hopped and did Pete Townsend and James Brown all at once.

“Le Frique…!” We’d never heard anything like it. Disco hit us square between our mop-covered eyes, and peace and love was definitely over.

“Are you a freak?” Judy had asked me, chewing her gum, as teen society demanded, mouth open, stretching, twisting, looping the plastic with her tongue, teeth, and now and then thumb and forefinger, “or a rocker?”

“I dunno,” I had replied, with fourteen year old utter coolness of restraint.

“I’m a disco chick,” she announced in reply, popping her gum, and peppering me in her saliva.

“What does Le frique, c’est chique mean?” she shouted in my ear, warm and perfumed in her closeness, as the song started.

“It’s French slang for money, it’s cool” I told her.

“Cool!” She said, starting to jive, or dance: “d’ya think it’s cool?” she asked, her glitter make-up giving her a soft-focus-lense-look.

I nodded immediately, a teenage capitalist against my wishes but for my desires, selling out, man, just for a Wrigglies chewing gum kiss.

Later, Judy elevated her disco chicking career to the pole, and I slid the other way. We met, randomly, near the gutter. But she’s a grandmother now. Me? Hey! I’m still a freak, man!