The Black Dress
-Gabriele Strohschen
It had been one of those events you feel obliged to attend. It was a Friday night and I certainly did not feel like fussing with my hair, squeezing my now sweatpants-clad legs into silken pantyhose, smearing colors onto my eyelids or adjusting the strapless brassiere to stay up under that tight black dress. But I did all these things under the scrutiny of my daughter's eyes. She had come for her regular Friday afternoon mother-daughter quality time. Somehow this was good. It gave me an opportunity to show her that she has a lot to look forward to when she turns my age. And she had given me that beautiful black dress for Christmas, stating she had found it in the thrift shop for a mere two bucks although the pricetag, which was still on it, said "Bloomindale. $168.99" Irony aside; so I gussied myself up and stepped into the rainy, foggy Chicago night to attend the 100-year celebration of a community organization in which I once held a director's position and now do some consulting. On the way, I picked up a loyal former staff member who is a good friend and whom I had told to put on his new suit. We were going to be happy ex-employees tonight and enter with a show of smiley happiness of being part of this event. He didn't feel much better about spending his Friday night in the Humboldt Park neighborhood, one of Chicago's poorest, but with a bunch of suburban well-meaning corporate types gushing over the nice little poor people. But we knew there would be excellent catered food and champagne and so we had decided to go take a look. The place was lit up, balloons had been draped everywhere, and staff members of the organization were decked out in period costumes of 1899, when this place was created by followers of Jane Addams, the sociologist who started the settlement house movement in Chicago and with that ushered in a paradigm shift in social work in the United States. We signed in and hugged many of our former co-workers... after all, it began to look like a pleasant evening. In Wilson Hall, the former gym-turned auditorium, there was a wonderful display of old pictures, featuring the founders of this organization. They had been mostly German and Swedish immigrant women. With my own ancestry from that part of the universe, I began feeling comfortable and the old feeling of belonging to this group of caring people, inspite of the many people issues we had endured together, returned. After enjoying the exquisite spread of delicacies, I bumped into a gentleman who apparently seemed a bit lost. His name tag simply read Rob. He had this look of a hardly-working man about him but wore jeans and a LL Bean shirt, those academic spectacles were perched on his smooth-skinned face, and his hair was fashionably unkempt. In this mood of benevolency and community, which in part was also inspired by the generic wine the nice gay server had poured me with a wink, I spoke to this Rob. Soon, he had explained that he was a sociology professor at the University of Chicago, "one of the world's most prestigous universities,, and that he was in search of a community. Maybe it was my response that intrigued him. I had simply laughed and told him that the likes of him would have to tone down their fancy language if they wanted to be understood. He asked if he could sit with me during the up-coming ceremony. Of course, I invited him to sit with my friends, since he was all alone. Let me add that I had met up with a group of old and dear friends I hadn't seen in years, so I welcomed a newcomer with no place to sit. It turned out to be a big mistake! Mr University didn't only want to sit, he had other community building activities in mind. While a heartwarming performance of the organization's children took place on stage, Rob eased his body toward mine. It was like the stereotypical teenager's trick to yawn, stretch his arms, and end up resting them on the back of my chair... I stiffened and then turned to look this stranger squarely in the face.. he leaned over and whispered how he oh so much liked when things begin fast. Well! What was a nice woman in a tight black dress to do upon hearing this in a packed auditorium during a ceremony for a 100-year-old community organization? Stand up and slap him? The thought occured to me but it was hardly in good taste. I ended up perching on the very rim of the cheap plastic chair trying desperately to let this guy know with my body language that I was not the community he could enter! It was to no avail. Throughout the speeches by corporate sponsors and the dramatic dialogue of a wonderful actress describing the beginnings of this organization, I sat with either Rob's knee ever so lightly touching my thigh or feeling his hot little fingers on my fourth vertebrae. After the performance, my friends who had of course witnessed this unwelcomed public foreplay of sorts, assumed this must be my beau! So they invited us to go to a bar after the event was over. Sighing, I made my way over to the dessert table and the nice gay server listened sympathetically and poured me some champagne. I inquired if anyone knew this Rob because after all, if he were some important benefactor to the organization, I wouldn't want to knee him so that he'd get the point. No one knew him. My former boss, a wonderful man whom I have admired for years, finally took pity and whisked me out of the building for a cigarette break. Out of the corner of our eyes we saw Rab following but the security door slammed before he could foil this escape. After some giggles and dramatic reinactment of what I had just endured, we went to reenter the building. And what to our giggling faces should appear..but ROB standing there, peering into the building in a stance that spoke of the quest he was apparently on, yeah right, the one for community!!!! Well to end this part of the evening, we escaped him with the help of other staff who went on a look-out for us. Rob must have given up waiting for his "quick angel" and left with his environmentally correct backpack and his jeans in all their original losenes. And we finally went on to that bar to shoot some pool. The bar is one of the greatest dives in Chicago; you still find there this mix of neighborhood drunks, Chicago Art Institute students, and newcomers to the neighborhood who are buying up the old homes and rehabbing them. The next layer of gentrification, the yuppies who buy the overpriced and cheaply built houses that developers are putting up in 20 days flat, wouldn't set foot into this dive. So we played pool with the advice of one the neighborhood drunks, who seemed to take great joy in being our coach. Why not, he had fun and we didn't mind. My black dress didn't really fit the occasion but I was in a good mood, having escaped the advances of some stalker-to-be and I had lots of good laughs with my old friends. When in walks an ex-boyfriend. I don't know what it was about this night, but soon he, too, send me winks and smiles, sitting there at the bar and watching my every move. I made sure that I remained armed with my cue stick and next to the safe protection of my dear gay friends, who quite comforting hugged my waist or brushed my hair out of my face when I concentrated on sinking those balls into pool table pockets. There is something grand about being in a crowed bar with a leering ex-boyfriend and having several homosexual man friends around you.. and the ex-boyfriend doesnt know! But he must have been inspired, because upon leaving he shook my hand. I felt something in the palm of my hand and just widened my eyes. It was a matchbook cover. And on it he had written his new telephone number and an invitation to call him later that night should I care to. I didn't. Oh, but there is more! Suddenly a handsome man walks in. And my gay friends introduce him, making those matchmaking faces behind his back. Oh great. Who had called him? And then someone else joined the pool game, this young man whose mother is German which had him spouting off the most incredibly faulty German with great pride to me. Well, by the time I had somehow won the game of pool, I also ended up with the matchbookcover, a bar napkin with an email address of the handsome man, and the young German-mothered man's internet name repeated to me by him five times so that I would remember. My gay friends had invited me to a camping outing in June, we all promised each other we would have a party soon, and one of my other friends, now on his umptienth beer, suddenly thought that he wouldn't mind having a little one night stand with me and proceeded to logically argue the mutual benefits of such an undertaking, seeking approval of everyone standing around us! My ex co-worker, who had silently witnessed this circus, just shook his head. All the while a really good band played in the background! I left the bar at midnight. I must admit, I smiled all the way home, wondering what it was that had caused such a chain of events on a Friday night when I hadn't even wanted to go out in the first place. Or was it that black dress? Just why was this wonderful dress in a thriftstore at such a low price. I don't think I will wash it ever and try and see if its magic is gonna work again on some other rainy, foggy Friday night in Chicago.
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