A Safety Dance: Back to Party
A look into the near future
The box has always bothered you, with all the thinking “outside” of it, and the miracles that will never manifest — unless you decide to think outside the darn box for once.
It’s November 2020 and your life has never been better. You work your office job on a comfy sofa; you see and talk to family and friends every day. There’s a video Pilates class three times a week and those Mistery Romance novels you can’t put down at night. Day after day, life is full of joy, activities and delicious homemade food, while you’re hopping from one room to another, always pretty and well dressed.
Until last week, when the “Expand your comfort zone” resurfaced and became viral again. It made you question yourself.
Note to self: next time you feel you’re not doing enough with your life, don’t ask your friends’ opinion.
However, let’s focus on the “here” and “now”. It’s Saturday evening and you’re sitting in a bar with a man. With your tall glass of wine, you feel as easy as the stork at dinner, while companion the fox is slurping up his pint at arm’s length. He keeps his face shield a bit askew and takes the glass to the lips with ease. He’s a natural like he was born right in 2020.
Ten minutes ago, you didn’t know he existed. He saw you sitting on your own and came along to introduce himself. You can’t remember his name, although it has to start either with L or M.
He talks and drinks eagerly, the freckled face looks piping hot behind the Plexiglas. He says that weekends seem farther away each time you need to wait for them, “like years, not weeks apart.”
Clichés. That’s what you have to endure when you finally leave your home to meet new people.
Other than you two (and a cellophane-wrapped barman), there are three other customers at the far end of the bar. One of them is a woman with a fancy facemask based on a Venetian design. She looks so sexy and mysterious, despite the suit being as dull as a parachute.
Do you remember when you said that you would’ve never gone to a club dressed like an astronaut? Those first Instagram stories looked appalling: sparse people on a dance floor trying to enjoy themselves, resembling clumsy Star Wars Stormtrooper or white stuffed toys. A scene as nostalgic as party at the very end. That is the new face of the nightlife reopening to fewer people at one time. You too, girl, are now partaking of it.
Your companion must have read your mind, “It’s cool that you’re here tonight” he points a finger on the table, and explains, “Not a lot of women have the guts to go to a bar alone.” A smile dries up on your face.
You’re not sure how to react to this. Is he thinking you’re a Billy-no-mates or just too cocky to hit the bars on your own? Even so, you couldn’t have done otherwise. This is the L-M weekend, your name is Lula (not judging your parents at this point) while your friends’ first names are Esther, Georgina and Soledad. Which means different weekend slots.
“On the other hand,” he goes again, “I guess now it’s easier for you ladies. I mean, dressed the way you are, the way we all are, there is no reason to fear a sexual assault.”
You have this image in your mind, of you and Leonard looking at each other through two glass windows. Now you know that you have to go. You’ve felt it at least since the moment he sat next to you. The fact that Tainted Love is being played in the background doesn’t help you.
“What was your name again?”
“Leonard.”
“Leonard, I am going to the loo.”
He must know what it means to a lady to sit on a toilet when she’s dressed for outside. Men have zips both on the suit on the undersuit, women don’t, they have to take off both. As soon as you’ve announced your temporary absence, Leonard tries to engage elsewhere. Quick and efficient as a tadpole, he moves swiftly to someone who’s just entered and whose face is covered by something like a diving mask. No doubt, he’s got eyes to recognise a woman under the compulsory garments.
Downstairs, in your cubicle, you try not to acknowledge the pinch of the disappointment for a man who gave you up that easily. You never liked him anyway.
Better to concentrate on your friends’ advice of a few hours ago.
“You’re always finding excuses for yourself.”
“Even back in the day, you never went out too often.”
“If you don’t want to do the apps, then you need to get your ass out.”
It’s interesting how the majority of your friends (all married or coupled to someone) assume that nice men populate every corner of the world, so if you haven’t met any of them it means you have avoided them like puddles. That arrogant of Georgina even claimed 2020 has changed men deeply, “now they wouldn’t go through the trouble to approach a stranger unless they’re interested.”
The music is very loud when you re-emerge from the toilets, twenty minutes later. It’s 11:00 am and everyone is dancing to some disco tunes from the Nineties. There are Leonard and his new girlfriend (you shouldn’t call her that, you don’t know either of them) with the diving mask, and the other party of three, the two guys and the Venetian woman. They are all dancing and a disco ball is spinning and glimmering in the lights. When they see you they all wave at you, Leornard being the most enthusiastic. You briskly join them, grateful to have been acknowledged.
Finally, you’re shaking yourself among other people. Last time you have done so must have been over 18 months ago. There must be an evolutionary reason if a society cannot renounce this even during an emergency. It could be also a spiritual or a metaphysical cause that brought all of you here tonight, twisting, twirling and hopping, at safety distance from each other. You’re all looking, let me say it, rather silly, but let’s pretend that things have always been this way. On the other hand, you needed this, girl. You are even dancing at the centre of a circle like you used to do with your girlfriends. Now and then, someone hands you another glass of wine.
Oh, my. You got so drunk tonight. Everything, from talking to drinking seems to sit on the toilet, feels ten times more intense than it used to. Even the guy with flashing blue eyes and surgical mask, you bet he looks so much hotter now than he would if you’d met him last year. He’s the only one to wear a surgical mask. He stands out in the meagre group; despite the muffled voice, he’s so expressive. It must be because he is Italian.
It’s 2:00 am and the place is closing soon. There is time for one last drink. The Italian is talking about a fight he saw between two drivers, who left their cars and removed their masks before spitting and hissing at each other. “What’s the point of this,” he raises his arms, as to signify his white suit. “What’s the point of dressing like idiots when people don’t follow the rules?”
Leonard’s girl, the one with a diving mask, frowns at this. “The rules are confusing, for a start. Outside you’ve got to follow them, while at home everyone is free to invite others and taking the clothes off.”
Venetian mask girl laughs. She resembles a pretty kitten. “A friend of mine demands a test from her dates if she decides she will kiss them.” So far, she adds, her friend has kissed no one.
“So pointless” complains Leonard. Apparently, women who were difficult before are now taking the virus as an excuse to reject those they don’t like. The two other men agree heartily. It’s late, you’re all drunk and the conversation is getting quite heated.
It could be magic because all of a sudden you’re hovering on the floor. Italian man is gently holding your arm, walking you away for a private conversation. The oddness of the beautiful moments, the oddness of chemistry that nowadays you didn’t dare to imagine but knew existed. The disco ball still shines on the ceiling. This is another world, we are still getting used to it. It’s like walking on the moon. It’s like this Italian man, whose half face is hidden from you, holding your hands and saying you’re beautiful. That could make you happy for weeks (or could it not?)
“Please, tell me your full name,” he utters underneath the mask. He has taken one glove off, holding his mobile with the bare hand.
It’s a matter of seconds before the Italian types your name and you see yourself on his screen. Your belly button, your micro t-shirts, your golden curls and pouting lips: you may have overdone yourself during this last lockdown (shame on you, you’re not that young anymore.)
And then, as an effect of another magic, the Italian disappears. Before he thanks you and waves the others good night; but then he leaves, without a promise, a plan, or a thank you.
When you go back to your friends of tonight, you all decide it would be nice to hang out again on the next weekend allotment. The street outside is empty, while you blow each other invisible kisses. There you are, the Saturday night unbreakable.
At home, before drifting into sleep, you think that all in all the experience was positive, despite your girlfriends being wrong under many respects. No point of pining over Italian man. He will get in touch and reveal his full name. You’ve read before about this kind of men, they ask what you’re called and then disappear because they’ve gone to check you out. They want to see what you’re like inside, or underneath. Which you think, it’s fair enough. Just the way it used to be.
