By Bob Bankard
Bucks County Courier Times
LOCATION: The Tweeter Center, Camden, NJ
Carnival lights are strung across the Delaware beneath the Ben Franklin Bridge. They tie Philadelphia’s skyline to this place, anchored by the dome of the Aquarium, bathed in gaudy lights of primary colors. The stage is nearly a quarter mile away, but the saxophone probes the darkness with surgical surety, leaving the sweep of the horn section to warm the air of the chilling night.
The end of summer is near. But the party isn’t over.
Back-lit, dancers sway by the rear fence, broadcasting caged phantoms onto the walls of the terrace seating in front of us. Strange and tribal, city sophisticates move to hot instrument solos pressed in cool jazz.
Except for the shadow on the left, doing jumping jacks and imitating a werewolf.
That’s Dave.
He’s having a good time tonight.
The Cuervo Gold; The fine Colombian
Make tonight a wonderful thing…
Back out on the lawn, it’s a blanket ranch. Taciturn John the bartender wears his improbable orange hat, backing the band up with an invisible high-hat and snare drum when he’s not trying to throttle his dense-pack margarita into a liquid state.
“If you ever call me ‘hard to get to know’ again, after this,” he says, hat hanging precariously off the side of his head, “I’ll kick your ass.” An incoming volley of stale popcorn punctuates his point, the latest in a non-nuclear air war his wife and I have been waging against each other for the last two hours.
Micoh leans back and whispers, “Bob – a cigarette…?” A coffin nail is produced, and he inhales deeply. His wife Tiffany snatches it from him almost instantly and grinds it into the dirt. That’s three down.
Breathless, Dave lopes in from the rear. “Did you guys see me? Up on the wall? I was doing the bump with this girl – I asked her if we could bump, and she said, ‘Sure – I’ll bump with you!” His smile is absolutely beatific. Suddenly, his head cocks to the right and his ears prick up. “Oooh – it’s Millie. Should I go talk to her?”
My friends say no, don’t go
For that cotton candy
Son, you’re playing with fire
The kid will live and learn
As he watches his bridges burn
From the point of no return…
I consider it judiciously. “Sure. Go for it.” He trots off into the darkness to our right. The horns soar into the heavens.
Babylon sisters… shake it!
John’s wife, Jill, and Tiffany are working out a dance routine on their backs. In the water, it would have looked like synchronized swimming; on land, it’s slightly… gynecological. An inbound airliner swoops over us; the keyboard player stabs a scattering of notes at it like flack.
You gotta shake it baby, you gotta shake it….
Eric wanders in from the concessions, and flashes his Gomez smile as he trundles between the scattered bodies towards his wife. Dave flanks him and parks back in his seat again.
“That Millie… There are just some people you put on a pedestal, you know?”
“I’d never have guessed,” I said in perfect deadpan.
Suddenly, he stands up again. “I’m getting parched. If I get you a beer, will you drink it?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“John – hey, John – you want a lager?”
John isn’t listening – he’s choking the life out of a foot-long plastic guitar neck plugged with ice, perfectly preserving the Cuervo beneath. “Goddamn it… 12 dollars for a portable glacier…”
I turned to Dave. “I’d take that as a yes…”
With that, Dave was off again, on the hunt, down and to the left among the masses, chased downhill by a piano arpeggio. John has left off the drumming duties; his wife has caught his attention, and they huddle together on the blanket in the darkness.
And me?
The stars wheel slowly, the lights of the city hide its scars, and notes drop from the speakers like invisible gemstones. The shadows dance and sway to music that is cool and calculated, jaded and cynical. The breeze from the river mixes with a mournful note that lingers, raising gooseflesh and the hair on the back of my neck. Surrounded by wonderful company, wrapped in an alcoholic cloak under the belt of Orion, I sigh.
The night is mine, and the persona I wear has fused like Teflon to the marrow of my bones. I am the sneer in the love song tonight; I am the grit behind the veneer. I am a camera and a reactor, recording and weaving the sights and sounds, the earnestness and the irony into living poetry. I live to watch the shadows dance, my back to reality, spinning in untouchable aegis, like the Tennyson’s Lady of Shallott. It’s not everything I once hoped for, but…
Dave wanders in and distributes the cups. “How’s it goin’ bud?” he asks.
It’s the light in my eyes
It’s perfection and grace
It’s the smile on my face
Tonight when I chase the dragon
The water may change to cherry wine
And the silver will turn to gold…
I smile in the darkness. “It works, Dave. It definitely works.”
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