Chuck and I take a bus clear over to the wrong side of town (where we now, of course, let phone books pile up on our front porch). We make the rookie error of getting there sober, and the place is teeming with mom jeans and white man shuffles. An 80s-90s theatrical tribute band is playing. Chuck and I move through the crowd, but it's not so much moving through a crowd as something more akin to vertical crowd surfing.
We both buy a can of the kind of beer you can get for free under most bridges, provided you are in the right company of drifters and train hobos, and make for the porta potties. In mine, there is a beer can floating in something that is either a Fisher Price urinal, or an abandoned beer bong -- or both. The tiny enclosure smells like an entire softball team was using a White Castle crave case as a diuretic. I do my business quickly, and then bathe myself in a layer of hand sanitizer, kneading it into body parts that I usually neglect with real soap.
I leave the outhouse with the same look on my face as my mom gets when I suggest she try sushi. Almost simultaneously, I see Chuck falling out of his one-man shitter. He buckles, veers left, veers right. Like he just got spun in circles, and released blindfolded into a crowd. He stumbles behind the row of outhouses and barfs. Then he barfs again.
And readers? That was before we had even gotten drunk. So that's what I think of when I think of the Spirit Valley Street Dance. And yet I still can't wait to go there tonight.