Page 35 of The End of Summer

“Would this be at the same place?”

“Yup. Cosmo is my big spot. Outside of that, we do private parties, but there aren’t any real clubs out here on the Cape, you know?”

“Right.”Hmm. Another chance to see Gretchen, without it being weird. I mean,obviouslyit’s weird, the thought of stripping in front of her again. But because she’s all decked out and uncomfortable, somehow it makes it less weird that I’m only covering my cod-piece with a snapper-wrapper.“What’s the getup? Zorro again?”

“Nope. You’d need to be a baseball player. Lots of bat-action. Two choreographed routines. You think you could make it down to Harwich to practice with the guys? 1pm?”

Two hours?“Yeah, I can be there.”

“Great, kid. I’ll even throw in the thong this time since you’re doing me a solid.”

“No problem.” The butterflies that have suddenly appeared in my stomach threaten to wreak havoc on my gastro tract. “Where’s the practice, exactly?”

“Harwich Cultural Center,” he says. “Friend of mine has a dance studio there.” He gives me a phone number, which I write down. It belongs to Max, one of the people I’ll be dancing alongside. “He’s been with me the longest. I’ll let him know to expect you.”

“Okay,” I say. We hang up, and I exhale, looking at myself inthe mirror.

“Well,” I say to my reflection. “Batter up.” I shake my head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. I wash my dance belt by hand in the kitchen sink and toss it in the dryer before heading into the shower to start getting ready.

I’m not from this part of the Cape, so I type in Harwich Center in the GPS and I end up giving myself just enough time to arrive at the Harwich Community Center at 12:55 p.m. I briskly walk inside. The place is nice, and it looks like fairly new construction, right across the street from a high school. But it definitely gives off a geriatric vibe. There are three elderly women behind a circular front desk, and I try to get my bearings and find some sort of center map to figure out where in this building the dance studio Steve told me about is located. A quartet of old men are playing racquetball through a glass wall straight ahead, all hiding behind rec specs, and a woman in a wheelchair with a ball of yarn and a pair of knitting needles in her lap is being rolled down the hallway by a middle-aged aide. There’s a Harwich Community Center bulletin board that boasts upcoming events, such as a field trip to the Sandwich Glass Museum and a “movie night” featuring the movieCocoon,which must be well before my time because I’ve never even heard of it.

Befuddled by the lack of clarity as to where the dance studio might be, I approach the desk. One of the women, with a badge that says “AGNES, here to help” comes up to me. Slowly.

“Can I help you, young man?” she asks.

“Can you tell me where the dance studio is?”

“What’s that, now?” Sheleans in closer.

“I’m looking for the dance studio. I’m here to meet some guys.”

“Dance studio?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am. If you could just tell me where it is, that would be great.”

Confused, she looks up at the ceiling. “For dancing?” she asks me.

I nod. “I’m here to meet a group of guys,” I add.

She looks at me and offers what I’m sure, back in the day, might have been the Agnes version of a devilish grin. “I haven’t seen anyone here for dancing,” she says. “But I would be happy to cut a rug with you, if you’re looking for a dance partner.”

I shake my head and look at the clock on the wall. It’s 1:00. “I’m sorry, I’d love to do that another time, ma’am. But right now, I’m late for a dance rehearsal with a group of guys. Now, please. Is there a dance studio here or not?”

“I’m afraid there’s not,” she replies, sadly. “Betty?” she calls out to a different white-haired lady at the desk.

A diminutive thing with a four pronged cane who I can only imagine is Betty turns around.

“Betty?” Agnes repeats. “This young man is here looking for dance classes?”

“No, that’s not it,” I interject, not wanting to be rude.

“Huh?” Betty asks, adjusting her hearing aid.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to get flustered. “I’m supposed to be meeting a group of guys here to learn a dance number for a bachelorette party tonight.”

“Oh,” Agnes says. “Ooh-la-la,”she nods at me.

Betty startles, as if perhaps she’s turned up her ears too loud. “He’s a stripper?” she yells across the desk.

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