Initiation
Dear Diary:
It was the early 2000s. I had been resisting my friends’ invitations to join them in a night of dancing at one of those only-in-New-York, late-night parties held in the kind of dark, crowded clubs that were tucked into quiet streets along the Hudson River at the time.
Intense, sweat-soaked, group experiences like that didn’t appeal to me.
At some point, I gave in and spent six hours one night dancing as hard as I possibly could. It was magic. I had found my tribe.
As the early spring morning broke over Manhattan, seven of us left the club together, footsore, sweaty, exhilarated and exhausted, and then settled in for breakfast at a nearby diner.
I felt like I had been initiated, let into the heavy rites of a secret fraternity. I was now one of those guys.
A world-wise waitress came to the table and scoped out the group.
“Oh, puppy!” she said. “Puppy! What happened to you? Did you get off the porch and play with the big dogs?”
I nodded.
“Don’t say a word,” she said. “I know just what you need.”
She took the other six orders and went to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later, bringing me a mound of scrambled eggs, several strips of bacon, a toasted bagel and a big glass of cranberry juice.