Be somebody's fool this year
Eight p.m. The sky was empty, new moon being only an evening away. Cloudless, it gave access to a sea of stars normally washed out by the bright illumination of the city. At the top of a parking garage, I leaned against the fender of my rented convertible, picked out constellations I remembered from college, and waited.
The jacket of my black Jones New York suit lay carefully folded on the trunk, vibrating softly to the thundering beats coming from the silver-blue Mitsubishi's stereo. Billy Corgan's voice rocketed through the empty garage, echoing and re-echoing as it bounced between the concrete barriers.
WHO(who,who,who,who) WANTS (wants,wants,wants) HONEY...
I wondered if the stereo was too loud, but the entire block seemed to be empty. I turned it up one more notch and glanced at my small, silver mobile for the fortieth time. The amber dash illumination of the Eclipse faded slightly with every thump of the bass drum.
I was waiting for my friend Meri, with whom I was scheduled to attend a Christmas party at some swanky club. It was my first night in Tampa, having flown down to determine if I could fathom actually living here, and my palms quickly dampened as anxiety about the upcoming social gathering grew in my chest.
The navy and silver stripes in my tie reflected the floodlights mounted on the corners of the garage. I adjusted the straight pin which held my tie in place, nearly stabbing myself in the belly when her black Miata came screaming up the ramp, levitated slightly, and landed, stopping only yards short of my knees.
The tall, impossibly thin blonde unfolded herself from the Mazda's bucket seat, strode to my not-as-thin body, wrapped her arm around my waist and said, "Sorry I'm late."
She grabbed a purse from her car, turned off the ignition, and approached the passenger side of my car, as I reflected on how unimpressive it must seem to her. I opened the door for her, placed my suit jacket in the back seat, and climbed behind the wheel.
"Where are we going?"
"It's called 1509, it's in Ybor City. It's not far from here."
I coursed the car out of the parking garage and onto highway 60, careful to not abuse the accelerator as I had on the drive over from my hotel on Rocky Point.
"How do you know these people?" I asked.
Her long blonde hair floated over the silver dress that shimmered in the dim orange lights as she pondered the best way to answer me.
"I used to work at a law firm, and we did business with a lot of the big wigs in this town, so this party's mainly going to be lawyers, judges, city council people, the Mayor, et cetera."
The Mayor?
"She always makes an appearance at this party."
As if I wasn't self-conscious enough about being with this stunningly beautiful woman, now I was going to be amidst town celebrities whom any resident would recognize -- and whose identity to which I'd be totally oblivious.
She navigated me through the bricky Ybor streets, directing me to a small parking lot. I pulled a five-dollar bill out of my wallet, handed it to the attendant, and pulled into a well-lit spot.
As we walked elegantly down 8th Avenue, I became aware of the juxtaposition of our finery and the fairly dirty and downtrodden appearance of Ybor City. At the same time, I was impressed by the sheer number of bars and nightclubs lining the streets. I could see myself having a good time in this town.
We approached the 1509 and a tuxedoed doorman checked our names off a list attached to a shiny black acrylic clipboard. As we stepped through the entranceway, Meri leaned down (in her stiletto heels, she had at least three inches on me) and whispered in my ear, Get ready.
Her brief advice was inadequate to prepare me for what I was about to see.
Crossing the inner threshold my eyes immediately focused on a massive spread of food in the center of the room. Meats of indefinite origin surrounded an enormous and abstract ice sculpture. Cheeses, fondue, caviar -- wow, I've never had caviar -- unreal. I can't wait to feast.
My eyes scan the room, taking in dozens of well-dressed individuals, nearly all of them twice my age. I think to myself, Meri and I are the two most attractive people in this room.
Then I notice the dancers.
In three cages suspended above the floor dance scantily-clad women, though in the shadows cast by the rafters I can't see many details. I'd read about this trend in my fashion magazines, but never imagined I'd be able to afford going to a club that had something so exotic.
Meri nudged me out of my observation of the spectacle by asking me if I wanted a drink.
"Yeah, uh, gin and tonic. Thanks."
Leaving the dinner spread for the moment, I followed her to one of the several bars arranged around the dance floor. The blue neon lights combined with the sharp features of the dark-haired bartender reminded me of the film Cocktail, though he didn't perform any alcoholic pyrotechnics.
A wide-faced man in a brown jacket and maroon tie approached us as we sipped our drinks, interrupting me from contemplating which free drink I wanted next.
"George!" Meri shouted as she embraced him. "This is my friend Tim."
George was a partner in Tampa's largest law firm, and had employed Meri for a short term. I listened intently to their conversation, ignorant to the people they discussed and the rumours about those people.
The night continued in much the same manner. I chose my words carefully, describing myself (accurately) as a speech professor in Ohio who was looking at coming to do work at USF. We worked the room, and the muscles in my forearm began to tire from shaking so many hands. I was impressed at how many people Meri knew, being no older than I was.
A group of white-shirted caterers shuffled quickly into the room, catching my eye behind the state representative to whom we were speaking. I gasped as they methodically broke down the dinner spread and carried it out of the club. I guess I won't be eating tonight, I thought.
A DJ materialized at the console on the stage and began spinning 80s dance hits. A fire-haired antiques store owner we'd talked to earlier grabbed my arm and pulled me to the parquet floor. As I lurched through Electric Avenue I tried to determine if she was in her late 30s or early 40s. Or older. Botox makes reading faces so much more difficult.
Her brown eyes flashed as she handed me her card. "Call me when you move down here," she said with a wink.
As I slipped the card into my breast pocket to mingle with a tube of ChapStick, I reflected on how very unlikely that was to happen.
At midnight the party ended, and we stumbled to the car I now felt undeserving to drive. Spending four hours around the rich & famous will do that to you. We floated back to the parking garage, still as empty as we left it. Meri climbed out, kissed my cheek, and told me to call her when I get back in town. The red lights of her Miata blurred the city skyline in the background as she squealed down the ramp.
My eyes averted, and the stars stared back as they had before. I took off my jacket, folded it neatly, and placed it on the Eclipse's trunk. I reached in, pressed play on the CD deck, and skipped to track three.
It hadn't been the greatest day I'd ever known, but I'd had worse.
