But the Mellotones are impervious,nand the dancers are not critical of theirnstage habits. Nor is the crowd concernednwhen they modify a rendition of “Innthe Mood.” The Cordovox player hasnslipped over to pick up a tenor sax. He’snplaying about a c|uarter-tone sharp, and itnsets my back teeth dancing in sync withnthose on the floor. The valve-trombonenman has slipped behind the Cordovoxnand reveals an aptitude for this instrumentnas well. The drummer, inured tonthe switch-hitting, plays steadily. Henlooks bored, and each stroke on the ridencymbal is the same — every time, everynsong. The dancers don’t mind; live musicnis a treat anytime.nWith “Sentimental Journey,” a youngnwoman —large, obese—takes to the floornwith her husband. If she were in tiie ubiquitousntights or blue jeans, she would bengrotesque. She’s not. In a dress that ridesnabove her knees, she displays calves as bignas hams and the promise of gargantuannthighs. But she looks appealing. Both tallnand thick, she is graceful and arhsticallynpoised on spiked heels. A few quick calculations:nSay she weighs 300 pounds andnthat each heel is one-quarter square inch.nIf she lands on one heel with all hernweight, that would equal 1,200 poundsnper square inch. That’s just weight; itn^ndoesn’t even take into account the forcenthat goes with it. Foot-pounds of energ)’,nthey call it. The floor shakes just a little;ncertainly it’s not soft or wavy.nShe may know physics. She’s smilingnwith a secretive smile; she certainlynknows something we can’t guess, but cannonly envy. I am happy for her, perhaps anbit jealous of her bliss as she is swept awaynin the arms of her lover.nI buy the second round, and we sit andnwatch. We watch hard, because wenknow we are really seeing something.nA young man enters the room, his facenred from the cold. He sheds his coat andnfinds his young lady. Her jeans fit well.nTogether, they dance through the crowd.nI can’t recall when I’ve seen better youngndancers. They are smiling, assured. Inknow their dancing will protect themnfrom harm, as it has protected all the othersnwho are on the floor. They’re toonyoung to be married, but not too young tonthink about it. In a few years, diey may benteaching their babies a polka or a shottishnor a jitterbug. They’re not swing dancingnin the style of this latter-day revival;nthey’re dancing the way their parents do,nwhich is the way their parents did.nWe learn lessons in humility this way.nI can’t dance, and neither can the otherntwo. Nor would we ask anyone to dancenAre You a Member of The Rockford Institute ?n5^nWouldn’t you like to know wJiat Chronicles editors donwhen they’re not writing for Chronicles? For a taxndeductible membership donation of $25, you willnreceive the Institute’s quarterly publication, Main StreetnMemorandum, your source for all the hard-hitting commentarynand Rockford Institute news that can’t fit in the pages ofnChronicles. To join, send a check for $25 to:nTRI Membershipn928 North Main StreetnRockford, XL 61103nwith us here; our wives are at home, somen500 miles away. We are not flirts ornrounders. But we watch, and somehownwe fit in (or think we do). Nobody asksnwhere we’re from. This crowd is used tonsteam-train volunteers, and they probablynassume we’re of that ilk. Maybe we smellnof trains, and that protects us. We don’tnsee any others from the railroad, but wenknow they sometimes come here.nThe second beer is gone. We must be,ntoo: The hosfler awaits. The band breaksnas we leave. We wave to the massivenowner, and he waves back as we exitnthrough the front door.nWe pull up beside the steaming locomotive,nand I hotfoot it around the farnside of a nearby building to make somensteam of my own.nI return to find the other two ready tonbegin the interview. Dennis has mountedna little light on the camera; he’s goingnto rely on some of tlie reflected glow fromnthe open boiler. Jay adjusts his earphonesnand positions the mike. I climbnup the side ladder to the engine, and wenbegin this last interview, finally back innour own element. The hosfler tells us thensecret thoughts of this particular locomotive.nWe listen to her and to the engine,nand the night moves toward day.nIn the hiss of the engine and the silentnVn^ rnnnJUNE 2001/39n