Thang Nguyen 555

Time: 73-74

Place: Saigon

Who: high-schoolers

What: celebrating passing the SAT exam

Why: if flunk, for male students, enlistment and off to the frontline

For those who passed, this was a rite of passage: beer all around, dancing around and around.

Pre-req: the Akai tape deck, own or borrowed (heavy). Later, they came out cassettes (Sanyo) or 8-tracks. But then, AKAI ruled.

First, the baby powder on the floor to “grease” the floor

Second: wind the tape around, cue music, then pause.

Third: when boys and girls all there, press PLAY.

Paso-doble, Tango, Cha Cha Cha, Bebop and slow.

Only the brave would try Waltz. Most time, free style dance to get to know the opposite sex.

We closed the curtain, turned on the disco ball and let go. Heck with war and peace, negotiation and withdrawal. Tonight we lived. Stay alive.

No tomorrow, no free fall. Just stirring then settling. Sweat no tears, smiles no sadness.

Body pressing against body, right then left as weight shifted symmetrically, like Charlie Chaplin on a high sea; we were “drunk” in the moment. Young people. Old-time music, dancing hall type.

Mostly instrumental, mostly predictable, even Santana’ numbers. Slow songs were mushy mushy and none of us recognized or remembered decades later.

We had no phone, asking for no number to follow up. Hence, we treated each encounter, each dance as our last. Random hearts, random chances.

“Love me with all your heart”…. Our young did not return or returned un-whole. All of us left something of ourselves behind after those years.

The gals felt that too, the rumble and premonition. I knew then and now. Their bodies were tremble, pressing against ours (young male) as if not and never wanted the song to end, to let go, to wake up and be back into a painful reality.

Outside there might be flares and claymore, grenade and M-16s, barbed wires and check point.

Inside, we lost in our own garden of Eden, from start of tape to finish. The Akai experience, rolling from left to right, then side 2 (intermission).

We went with the cards we were dealt. Friend’s living room and hardly enough seats to rest. Just the floor, the tape deck, some sandwiches and orange soda.

Yet you could never find a happier times: all hair, tight jeans and tight shirts. Even tailored ones, from CHE (almost like that revolutionary figure, with a ^ and ‘ on top) who was short and lived in the alley behind ours.

We wanted to soar, to fly and be free. The adults made all the calls, wrong ones more than often.

That’s why our born instincts could always pick up on the vibes. We knew then and now, someone was screwing someone, and that somehow, somewhere, we were the ones who had to pick up the slack.

Conveniently, many have passed on, leaving us with odds and ends memory of a brief good times allowed only after we had passed the gruesome test of adulthood, arithmetic and art of survival in war.

While in Woodstock, NY they stayed up three days for music, there in Saigon, a privileged few could afford a place, a time window and an AKAI tape with dancing music on it. The world and the tape go round and round, and before long, we find ourselves in the mirror (our reflection) so old, out of place and times.

Only the memories, fun memories of:

Time: 73-74

Place: Saigon villa, Mac Dinh Chi or Tu Do street

Who: graduates the summer between HS and college

What: celebrating and dancing

Why: there would be no other times better and more memorable…keep searching and googling.

Visually and philosophically, the tape provides insight into the life we would eventually live and are still. Round and round and round, stirring and settling, longing and belonging, forward and regrets.

Years later, we all benefit from the miniaturizing of the chip set and size: large-screen TVs and instantaneous music replay at a click of the mouse.

But friends are no more. Only shadows and ghosts of yesteryear. Fleeting and flicking, passing form by the window, watching us and over us in our sleep. Those dances left a strong impression and imprint on me even years later, triggered mostly at the mention of the Akai tape deck my friend had to hand-carry to the dance before-hand to set up.

For me, spraying the powder on the floor was an act of accomplice and catalyst. Someone had to do the “dirty” work of getting things started (and once it did, you had to push people out of the door per curfew).

We started with a paso-doble and ended with a sad slow song. Never had we partake alcohol, but for some reason, I felt so drunk afterwards, every single time. So “tipsy” and hurried out of the door, I don’t remember staying up to help with the clean-up. Shame on me.