Some 25 years ago I was dancing with Clifton Chenier’s son Julian, who was a long way from the bayou. Bon ton roulet, he said, let the good times roll. And we danced a hot Cajun style under the harvest moon during the break. We all stood in constellations under the oak trees, admiring the spin that only a cold, clear night can put on the stars, and the beauty stained the retina for a moment, we forgot ourselves and gazed rapturously at those pinpricks of light. But in the shadows, a drunk leaving the parking lot, blinded us with his headlights, and we were thrown into the small cages of self walled against the night. Unfortunately the drunk was also taking another car with him, doggie bumper style, and then I realized it was my poor VW bug being dragged through the gravel like a recalcitrant donkey. I ran down the parking lot after the drunk, screaming, but he kept driving with my car in tow. Just as I got up to him, he disengaged and took off down the road. I was screaming like a banshee, and Julian was holding me back, saying it’s cool, it’s OK, let it roll. Let it roll right off your back. Come on back inside and dance dance Cajun style with me—and with that he climbed up the stage steps and played a lick on his guitar. Soon we were all dancing dancing in a sea of kelp arms, reaching for the disco ball, myriad stars dancing on our bare shoulders, dancing, dancing, dancing.
11/21/2003 Writers’ Group
