Everybody dance now.
There was a place called Hurricanez. I’m not sure if it was spelled with a Z, but in my mind, it definitely has a “Z” at the end because that’s just the type of place it was. Hurricanez was in one of those doomed buildings—every town has at least one. It’s a place that is constantly becoming something new, like a cassette tape that’s played too many times. Each time it turned over, it lost more luster.
Hurricanez was a dance club with “ladies drink free” night. I think it was on a Tuesday. The catch is that the free drink had to be a Blue Hurricane (creative marketing), which means that our college-age selves were downing sugary “cocktails” full of Blue Curacao all night in a place with sticky floors and a subpar sound system. It was our version of Sex and the City but set in Bakersfield, California.
The best part about Hurricanez was the dancing platforms. I was never the girl in the group who guys flocked to. I think I’ve been hit on by a stranger maybe twice in my entire adult life. If being catcalled while running outside was considered flirting, I’d be cleaning up. But, alas, that wasn’t my role to play in the crowd. This worked out fine for me, as I preferred to dance on a box by myself anyway. I should have been getting paid for it, honestly.
When you dance on a box, it means you have some space. It also means you can wear ridiculously high heels because, really, most of the dancing can happen in one small 2’x2’x2’ cube. You have to get very creative with your upper body (body rolls) and have strong quads (getting low). I have storage bins full of these Hurricanez heels for all seasons. They currently collect dust in my basement, with maybe one pair trotted out once per year for a special occasion. These are not quality investments. These were fast fashion shoes before “fast fashion” was a thing. We’d get them from strip-mall bargain spots in Los Angeles — Koreatown or Hollywood were the best. Anywhere where Drag Queens shopped for shoes, you’d find college girls searching for the sparkliest, most studded, impractical shoes on the rack.
I keep these shoes, look at them sometimes, and remember that feeling of freedom, dancing on that box. But I also remember the agony, the longing, wishing to be the girl who men gravitated towards. It was a confusing time, as I’m sure it is for most girls… that mix of revulsion at boys and an obsession with being wanted. These shoes were for a different me, and I’m not the person I was. I stayed that person long after I retired from box dancing… I stayed too long perched on that perpetual box, waiting for someone to affirm my beauty.
I hope these shoes find a good home. Maybe I’ll pass them to my daughter, for whatever Hurricanez comes her way. She’s already more confident than I ever was — she’d be dancing on that box because she could care less what boys thought of her, not to be seen but to be free. I am so grateful for that.