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Squeeze pull-pull Squeeze pull-pull Squeeze pull-pull Squeeze.
Jodie’s petite fingers danced over the pearly keys like Mexican jumping beans
with impeccable timing. Oom pah-pah Oom pah-pah Oom pah-pah Oom. White
fingernail polish deftly maneuvered over shiny black buttons as the bowels of
the accordion moved in and out, a life-support pump gone mad with the undulating
rhythmic melody that was the Polka, the proud anthem that represented the
artistic achievement of a generation. Di da-da Di da-da Di da-da Di went
the horns, their valves driving in and out with the mechanical precision of a
brand new Model T, fresh off the showroom floor, the accordion crankshaft
ensuring perfect synchronicity. Boom cha-cha boom cha-cha boom cha-cha
Boom the vibrating drums resounded, spelling out in pattern what words could
never say.
Their song was
clockwork, pure mechanized harmony.
Big Joe sat in his plush purple folding chair, presiding over the dance like
a shepherd over his flock; his anfractuous, gamboling flock. Sheep didn’t have
rhythm like these people. Not by a long shot.
These were the people born into the arms of the Great Depression. These were
the people who rebuilt the country from a grungy postwar slum into a beautiful
sanitized oasis of convenience and luxury that preceding generations could not
imagine and proceeding generations could not sustain. These were the cream of
their age-bracket, those who had maintained their health; the ones who never
drank, never smoked, and certainly never touched the dope for fear of what the
good Lord might think. They worked overtime as civil servants, volunteered at
the Red Cross on Saturdays instead of going to parties, ran the Sunday schools,
the Rotary clubs, led Boy Scout troops, organized picnic groups, ice cream
socials, sock hops, relief funds, county fairs. These were the ones who had paid
their dues on time, every time, plus a few dollars. These were the ones who had
worked tirelessly for their communities, yet aged gracefully enough that they
could still do the Polka well into their eighties. Big Joe leaned back, sinking
deeper into the checkered cushioning that covered the seat of his portable
customato thrown. These were good people, God’s people, and Big Joe was
honored to preside over their dance.
Thud shuffle-shuffle Thud shuffle-shuffle Thud shuffle-shuffle Thud went
twelve feet over the glossy floor of the linoleum dancehall. This was their
time: 2012. The road outside was filled with their progeny, their daughters and
sons, speeding by in their garish German luxury autos, flashing the midlife
crisis decadence that their parents inside the dancehall had facilitated.
Ungrateful children they were, stuffing the people who had built such a solid
foundation for them into crumbling homes for the elderly while they
rushed from party to party, leading extravagant lifestyles that allotted no time
for their aging parents. They would never understand the understated luxury of
the Cutlass, nor the benevolent elegance of the Lincoln Towncar. They would
never understand what it truly meant to have class.
But that didn’t matter now. These beautiful people had labored long and
hard to retire in style, had abstained from excess for over seventy years so
that they could enjoy being old, and now, as they sauntered to the music, none
of that seemed important. All that mattered now was the Polka. From his pulpit
atop the stage, Big Joe watched the three couples as they skittered across the
glistening dance floor and smiled.
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