A flier that reads: OLDIES NIGHT AT THE GOLDEN DOVE, 4th AVENUE AND 96th ST BROOKLYN—FIRST 50 IN LINE GET FREE ENTRANCE.
July 1984, and after hours of convincing from her friend Linda, my then twenty-four-year-old mother, who in fact is not actually my mother just yet, reluctantly agrees to spend her Saturday night in a dark dance club; one that lacks even the tiniest bit of elbow room. While Linda makes the rounds, conversing with every possible six-foot tall Italian who may or may not have connections with the mob, my mother stands in back by the crowded bar, listening to the music blare around her. In contrast to the darkness, she is dressed in all white—down to the open-toed platform shoes, with her dark hair flowing below her waist, (a detail that she never fails to mention when she recounts this story.) She scans the room for a familiar face, or just a face that holds her interest for more than a second, before giving up on the prospect of meeting anyone worthwhile.
When she finally decides to go home, she finds Linda, then rushes through the narrow door as if her life depends on it. She is standing by the entrance, searching for her car keys in her seemingly bottomless pit of a handbag, when she hears his voice.