by Trish Cantillon

I came upon my teenage daughter watching The Breakfast Club recently.  It had been decades since I’d seen it, maybe even since its original release in 1985.  Along with the nostalgia and feelings of teenage angst, I remembered my encounter with Judd Nelson at an L.A. club in 1986.

Dirt Box was an underground club that popped up randomly on a Saturday night in different sketchy locations downtown. Five dollars got you into the warehouse or loft where there was a DJ, a bar and maybe a patio.  It opened at 10 p.m. but didn’t really get going until around midnight and it wasn’t unusual to be walking to your car as the sun was coming up.

That night had started like most Saturday nights out with friends did.  I slid my closet door open and flipped through my clothes looking for just the right outfit.  I’d settled on my oversized shirt dress with black and white paisley print. I fastened my black leather belt with the enormous silver buckle low across my hips and finished the look with my grandmother’s large, vintage paisley-shaped rhinestone brooch over the top button of the dress, just below the points of the collar. After dusting Indian Earth bronzer all over my face, I lined my lower lids with black eye pencil and coated my lashes with Maybelline Great Lash. I piled equal amounts of L’Oréal mousse into each palm and ran my fingers through my short hair.  When it closely matched the style of Belinda Carlisle from the Go-Go’s, I was satisfied. I pulled my black cowboy boots on, then left to meet my group at a friend’s apartment.

I drove through Beverly Hills blasting Prince and Madonna on the cassette player of the stick shift Datsun 210 with the blue plaid upholstery that my sister had generously passed on to me. The hope and excitement for a night out welled up inside me. Maybe it would be the night I finally met someone. An honest to goodness boyfriend.   I’d met lots of someones who were content have a few drinks and make-out, but those encounters rarely went any further. I’d been single for most of college and, at almost twenty-two, I was ready for a serious relationship, like my friends had. I was tired of feeling like the odd man out. I tossed the Benson & Hedges menthol cigarette that I’d stained with Revlon’s Silver City Pink lipstick out the window before parking my car.  I checked myself out in the rearview mirror one last time and vibrated with all the possibility of Saturday night.

As often happened, as soon as I got a look at my friend’s outfits, mine seemed all wrong.  I should have worn jeans.  I should have worn pumps.  I should have put my hair up.  My clothing choices were strategic; with the purpose of hiding my flaws and accentuating my assets.  My friends, in my estimation, had the luxury of being all assets. They wore tight short skirts or jeans that showed off their long, thin legs. Their tops flattered their toned arms or flat stomachs, both of which eluded me. In those moments, even their jewelry seemed better. I was prone to self-pity and could have second guessed myself all night, but had a shot of tequila instead.  My friends may have been better dressers, but I was the best drinker.

Our first stop was Pinafini’s, a bar at the Beverly Center Mall, next door to the Hard Rock Café.  Since its large windows faced out on to Beverly Boulevard, a slow drive past, before parking, could yield valuable information. Was it too empty? Too Crowded? Who was there? Who wasn’t there?  Generally, though, it was a good place to start the night out. The bar was spacious and brightly lit, which helped in getting the attention of bartenders and checking for cute guys. The unspoken goal was to have someone else buy our drinks, but in the absence of that, we took turns buying rounds of Cape Cods and Sea Breezes for each other.  There were often guys we’d gone to high school with hanging out there, guys that invariably had had a crush at one time or another on some of my friends. They were always sweet and nice to me, but I never got the same flirty teasing.

On this night, however, the tables turned.  I spotted, across the bar, a guy I had gone to elementary school with. He was the first guy to have a crush on me, albeit in third grade, and he was the first guy to kiss me. While I was packing up my book bag after school he came up beside me and kissed my cheek.  That night he called my house and sang his favorite song, “Smoking in the Boy’s Room” on the phone to me. Except for an occasional spotting at church on Christmas Eve, I hadn’t seen him since fourth grade. He was cute, the night was young, and I was ready to take matters into my own hands.  I walked up to him and his friend, smiled and asked if he remembered me as I also reminded him who I was. He smiled, and we hugged. When the only thing you have in common is Catholic elementary school it’s hard to find a place to make conversation. The awkwardness notwithstanding, I hoped that seeing me would spark memories of his eight-year-old love, but it seemed I had caught them on their way out of the bar. In an effort to keep him engaged a little longer, I somewhat aggressively insisted that I was buying us drinks. Their response was the equivalent of a courtesy laugh when you tell a bad joke, but they were willing to stick it out for the free cocktail. We toasted to Sister Editha and Beverly Hills Catholic School and at that point, even I was ready to move on.

Around 11:30p.m. my friends and I decided it was a good time to head to Dirt Box.  The bar scene had been a bust for me: schoolboy crush aside, there was no one there that interested me, and I didn’t seem to interest anyone else either.  With a freshly applied Revlon lipstick and a positive attitude, I squeezed into the back my friend’s VW Rabbit convertible with everyone and we made our way to Alameda Street downtown.  

Midnight was the perfect time to get there. It was full, but no line outside. It was dark and loud inside and the line at the makeshift bar was a jumble.  Our group splintered at that point, with a couple of girls volunteering to stand in line while the rest of us went to the dance floor, which was really just an area with some lights and a DJ tucked away in the corner.  We stood on the periphery, trying to find people we knew, checking out guys and waiting for a better dance song. The first few beats of Prince’s song “Kiss” came up as the other song ended. We moved as a group to the dance floor.  As we were shaking our hips and flipping our hair a kind of sloppily dressed guy moved toward us. He positioned himself right in front of me. Was it who I thought it was? I looked at my friends. Was I was dancing with Judd Nelson?  Without speaking we pulled away from the group. He swayed and moved his body from side to side without any thought of the rhythm of the music at all. I smiled and focused on my own dancing, hoping to impress him with my flair and style.  Our eyes locked a few times, and when the song was over he smiled at me and moved on.

As midnight turned to 1 a.m., then 2 a.m. I noticed that he was still dancing.  By himself. The night that started out full of possibility did not yield the true romance I was looking for, but I went home, as far as I knew, as the only girl who danced with Judd Nelson.

After she finished The Breakfast Club, I mentioned to my daughter that I had once danced with Judd Nelson at an L.A. club back in the day. I somehow expected that news would be met with an eighties worthy, Oh my God!  No Way!  Her response, however, was somewhere between sincerely impressed and mildly amused.  It was easy to picture him as a cool twenty-something in 1986, but probably a bit of a stretch to imagine her mom in the same way.  Those experiences I had, that influenced me as a young twenty-something, took place outside of the reach of my family. So now, I look at my daughter and wonder what adventures is she having out beyond my reach that are shaping the young woman will become. In creating this life for herself, I hope that she will embrace the awkwardness, the growing pains and the serendipity that comes with spreading your wings.         

Trish Cantillon is a married mother of two who has published on The Fix, Refinery 29’s “Take Back the Beach,” Storgy, Brain Child Magazine Blog, and in Gold Man Review and Berkeley Fiction Review. She works for Dream Foundation, the first and only national organization serving terminally ill adults, and their families by providing end of life dreams.