Shake It, White Girl

Outside the club, a homeless man in a wheelchair put his head in his hand and shook it from side to side as he saw the bus pull up. It was 1:10 a.m. and the bouncers were extremely agitated. Inside, a painted Volkswagen Beetle was part of the décor, and one reveler leaned his back against it as he gyrated into his girlfriend. Everything was painted in Day-Glo, and we saw two men in separate parties standing side by side in Hawaiian shirts without irony. Our group was in heaven. We looked at Sean; he looked at us. He was in hell.

We found Ricardo dancing with one of the older women from the bus. His feet shot expertly in and out to the beat as he moved his hips. He led us and Sean outside, where we exchanged hugs and thanked him for an amazing night.

As we walked to Sean's car on Third Street, we looped our arm through his.

"Did you have an OK time?" we asked, skipping down the sidewalk next to him.

"Oh, yes," he said, an evil twinkle in his eye. "Let's just say I owe you one."