You Mean You're Supposed to Be 21?

I read a book recently in which the author was scared that the pages were flying so fast off the calendar she wouldn’t have time to live her complete life. For me, it was because I was convinced I would die young. Where this feeling came from, I have no idea, but my desperation was slaked by this new world. Gritty, it was also sophisticated. Sensual, it was, by my parents’ moral standards, dirty enough to ban a girl from polite society. There was no lie I wouldn’t tell to be with John and go to the Stein Club.

There we would see Ben Douglas with his girlfriend. Probably in her late 20's, Becky was very attractive and stylish. Though you wouldn’t say she was pretty, her slender figure was so good that she modeled for bra and pantie ads for magazines. Becky could be ill tempered and jealous just in general. But lately she had good reason. Floating around 14th and Peachtree were more and more girls ten-plus years her junior in super-short cutoffs, miniskirts and see-through blouses. The Mandorla was a chick magnet and, increasingly, so was Ben Douglas.

After 40 years, I’m a little vague on how many times the waitresses let me in without asking for ID, but eventually that day did come. John had instructed me to say that I had left it at home. Our server allowed as how when I had it with me, I could come in again. By this time, as little as I had actually experienced there, the Stein Club was a necessity. I just had to get back in.