From The Pen O Joshua Lawrence Breslin- When Mr. Chubby Checker Ruled The Night

She, Julie Lawton she, was fearful, preternaturally fearful, of the events ahead that evening. The cause for that concern was the Freshman Mixer to be held that early October 1960 night in the chandelier-bedecked central ballroom of the Park Plaza Hotel in downtown Boston for the incoming freshmen at Boston University, the school that had awarded her a scholarship that had been gratefully accepted in the strapped-for-cash Lawton household. Part of her concern was that she had already lied, or half lied, to her parents about the event. The official title of the event, reflecting some old-time Jazz Age 1920s F. Scott Fitzgerald prejudice, was the Freshman Smoker. Since her parents (and she and her four brothers and sisters) were strict Lord’s Witness Pentecostal Baptists who abhorred, absolutely abhorred, smoking and drinking alcohol if she had tried to “sell” them their permission to go under that signature she would be spending the night in her lonely dorm room.

Another part of her concern was that she had lied, or half lied, to them as well that this “mixer” was simply an event to introduce the far-fling members of the Class of 1964 to each other in an informal way rather than its well-deserved reputation as a dance that would serve as the prelude to the first of many wild parties that would be an iron-clad part of most undergraduates’ experience. See, the parental Lawtons (and her siblings) also abhorred dancing, and of late, particularly dancing to the devil’s music, rock and roll.

Finally, Miss Julie Lawton had lied, or half lied to her parents about the formalities of the event. It had been billed as a semi-formal meaning that she would have to get a dress, a dress that would show more than modesty, family Lawton would dictate. Would show her shoulders, would show her legs a little higher than right for a Lord’s Witness girl of eighteen. Julie Lawton had reasons to be fearful of the events ahead in that evening’s next few hours.

But Julie wanted to go, first casually and off-handedly wanted to go just because back home up in Lincoln, Maine, under the watchful eyes of parents and siblings she had no occasion, or frankly then, no desire, to go to dances or other school social events. As the day came nearer though, she began to desperately want to go, desperately want to go, because her three dorm roommates created such a whirlwind around the event that she was ready, willing and able to lie, well half lie, to go. It was her roommates, Rebecca, Sandy, and Leah, all from New York City or Long Island and about ten thousand years ahead of Julie on the social wisdom calendar who called the shots throughout as she could hear them bubbling up all day over this and that thing that needed, just needed to be done in preparation. She reflected, as she made her own final preparation, how it had been Sandy who had told her to “sell” the thing as an innocent mixer, and to practically declare to her parents that if she didn’t go dire consequences would result around her scholarship. Yes, they, those three charming (and they were) New York girls, put on the full court press. But the biggest part of all was played by Leah who agreed, actually, practically begged Julie to borrow her red, velvety crimson red, semi-formal dress for the occasion. And so she was ready, ready to face the fearful night knowing she had sinned, but thinking that as long as she just attended the dance and didn’t dance things would be all right.

What she didn’t count on, or didn’t expect to count on, was her effect on everybody, male or female, but especially male, as she made her way into first the hotel lobby and then the ballroom dance floor that night. Even guys, older guys, maybe dreaming of past conquests, who were escorting older women, maybe their wives, turned to get a second look as she entered the lobby walking toward the entrance to the central ballroom. And who could blame them. A Botticelli beauty, Botticelli out of the Renaissance is what her classmate in Introduction to English Literature, Frankie Larkin, called her while explaining to her, candidly, why every non-Irish English writer was nothing but a heathen, a style-less heathen and why she should go out with him, as a friend, of course one Friday night back when school had just started. (She refused, dating boys un-chaperoned, dating strange boys, strange heathen Roman Catholic Irish boys her parents would say, was also abhorred among the Lord’s Witness crowd). She, not knowing who Botticelli was, snuck over to the school library one afternoon to see for herself and saw on the cover of a book of art on the subject herself staring back at her from the cover. (She had also blushed, blushed as crimson as the dress she would wear, when she found out from reading the summary under picture that the model was Botticelli’s mistress. A whore who under Lord’s Witness doctrine, and despite Jesus’ view of the possible salvation of fallen women, a woman to be shunned. At least that was her first reaction.)

Yes, long blond hair, kind of curled, and very real, pale white skin reflecting not absence of manual outdoor work like in the 15^th century but many hours in the library striving to get ahead, get ahead in this world for her parents who sacrificed much for her, and, of course, getting ahead for the Lord. Pale blue eyes, pale like the Pacific Ocean blue, on days when it is acting up to its name, small breasts, a little tall for the times, an interesting figure, not full, not Marilyn- full like the times desire, but enough bone to warrant another peek, and no make-up when Frankie Larkin made his pitch back in September . (Yes, frowned upon by the brethren). But tonight a little sinful blush on her cheeks (courtesy of Leah) and some more sinful light touch of lipstick, very red. Oh yes, and that red dress, that red dress which showed almost perfect shoulders, and spoke of some gallant putting his tired weary head against it to shelter him from life’s storms, and just enough showing above the knee to set other dreams in motion. The whole effect, to give a more modern example, like some blonde (real blonde) Lauren Bacall as she put Humphrey Bogart through his paces in To Have Or Have Not.

And all to sit, or rather stand, by some forlorn wall (lucky wall) and looking around as she spent the first half of the night just talking to her roommates (when they were not occupied with being run at by every Bill, Harry, and Sam with eyes, and no hopes, forlorn nor otherwise, to get close to Julie), talking to some boy classmates, or refusing about twenty-six invitations to dance. She seemed happy, if others weren’t, just to take in the sights of the night. Not knowing that she couldn’t dance, or dance well, the guys turned down went away glum but a little suspicious that they had not made the cut and moved on to other things.

This Lord’s Witness thing was a big obstacle when Julie first met her roommates. They could not understand why she kept saying no to everything they suggested that smacked of fun and giving her patented answer of it’s a sin. They knew of sin, but they also had come from the secular city, not the city of god, and so as the weeks passed by they, almost unconsciously, had developed a campaign to bring Julie into the 20^thcentury. Tonight was a glowing result, or almost glowing. One thing that had perked Julie’s interest during their campaign was the records (and record player) each girl had to keep her company on those lonely Thursday nights when they were resting from social engagements. As one would already suspect she had no records and no record player for the now well-worn reason that she abhorred such devil’s work.

One Thursday night though Rebecca had put on Chubby Checker’s The Twist and she and Leah had done their gyrations to this number while Julie watched. Julie was intrigued as the girls well noticed. Leah called for her to try it. Naturally she deferred, deferred in ancient father wisdom, especially after Leah had told her that Chubby Checker was black and she shot back that black music, like rock and roll, was the devil’s music and everybody knew that. Still she was intrigued and succumbed after Leah suggested that dancing in a dorm room was not really dancing. While she wasn’t very good at it technically, although the gyrations are easily self-taught, she did cut a very nice figure against that dorm room wall shadow. But enough of campaign talk and Julie war stories.

At dance intermission she ran across Frankie Larkin with his date and found that she was a little disappointed with herself that she had not gone out on a date with him, now that she thought about it a little. But more disappointed just then that he had not asked her to dance, although she would have declined. All she could think of though was that too bad he was a heathen because he had some nice qualities, and especially nice to talk to, even if he was a little full of himself.

The cover band started playing signaling the beginning of the second half of dance and while Julie had had her share of fun she was a little tired of standing against that forlorn wall and decided to take the Green Line trolley back to her Commonwealth Avenue dorm after a few more songs. A couple of songs later though the band started to do a blast cover of The Twist and the crowded room jumped. Julie became a little flush. She spied Frankie standing by himself for a minute (his date had gone to the ladies’ room), ran over to him, grabbed his arm, and pulled him to the dance floor. And then to everybody’s amazement did the twist, did the twist in public. Guys, and a few girls too, kind of looked over and wondered, and the guys wondered why they had not been picked, had not made the cut. But mainly they looked, the look of some forlorn dream.

Now Julie did not perform a masterful twist, and she didn’t have to. Put those sensual gyrations together with that blonde hair, those red lips, that slim figure, those well-formed legs, and that dazzling red dress and you have, well, you had the stuff of dreams, man-sized dreams. After the song was over Julie thanked the bedazzled and smiling Frankie, went over and grabbed her coat, and headed for the train. Walking to the stop she knew two things, she had been the queen of the dance that night even if some other girl would wear the official crown. And she had, finally, come of age. Why? She was wishing, she was sinfully wishing, that one Frankie Larkin would spend that night feverishly tossing and turning in his sleep.