I erase the year from the birth date on my learner's permit and pencil in an older one. The doorman nods and we enter through the front door of Shakey's. Only now, a partition hides a bar. We walk around it and recorded music surrounds us. Where the player piano once stood is a towering deejay booth from which a hidden wizard produces magic sounds that thump deeply into our chests.
Tables gird the dance floor.
Seniors are here. I boldly ask an impossibly beautiful blonde senior named April to dance. I don't know how to dance. My body is wood. I bounce, doing my worst imitation of the white guy dance.