As I walked across the waxed parquet dance floor of Scottsdale’s Pulaski club for the first time in over a month I realized how much I had missed it. Not to say that my trip hadn’t been a success, or that I hadn’t enjoyed myself. On the contrary, I had the time of my life. But something in my head was saying Nothing is quite like this stuffy, under-lit cement box, with the constant sound of polka echoing off the walls and the smell of old perfume and mothballs making one’s eyes water, nothing in the world compares to this. Not even Matchu Pitchu. I saw someone wave to me from a table near the front, so I headed across the dance floor between polkas and sat down next to Ruth Pirendozzi. “Leo Spurgeon, where on God’s green earth have you been hiding yourself? I was so worried; I almost broke down your door this morning, trying to see where you had got to. Why didn’t you tell anyone you left? I thought maybe you had moved.” Under Ruth’s friendly scolding was the note of desperation I had detected in many voices I had come in contact with in the last week, since I had returned. Ruth wasn’t the only one who had suspected I had “moved”. I found out my neighbors had had the police try to break down my door when I called Dottie (my neighbor on the right) from California and asked her to take in my newspapers for a few weeks. Everyone was getting a little more desperate, a little more cautious, a little more superstitious; it wasn’t just Ruth. So maybe I should have been more considerate before I left without notice, but where’s the spontaneity in that? How can I live freely if I have to keep the whole neighborhood updated on my whereabouts? Whatever happened to free will? Well, that’s a question for a different day, I guess.
“I went to Peru with Nancy for a moth” I told Ruth.
“Wow, how exciting! I tell you, Leo, God really blessed you with that beautiful daughter of yours. You must be so proud of her”
Ruth’s only son had died 10 years ago in a highly-publicized accident in downtown Phoenix. They said the impact killed him instantly but I know better. You have 8 to 20 seconds of brain activity after you are decapitated. I wonder what he would have said. I mean, if he had still had vocal chords. I guess that’s a little morbid, but at my age it’s hard not to be.
“Oh, I am, I am. She’s a wonderful daughter and I can’t imagine what I would do without her.”
Ruth smiled and patted my hand, turning to look at the dance floor. A few couples were up, but most were catching their breath from the last dance, working up their nerve and dabbing their faces with their handkerchiefs. As I watched the dancing pairs spinning around the floor I suddenly began to feel quite ill. At first I thought it was in my stomach, but it quickly spread to my head and I started to sweat and shake. Ruth noticed and gave me a worried glance. I muttered something about the bathroom, or the bar, I don’t remember, and the last thing I recall is standing up. Obviously this was a poor choice, because I don’t remember anything else until I start remembering the hospital.