I snuck in at fifteen. Victor dared me to walk in, plug the juke and chose the sappiest song I could find, then leave through the back entrance. But when I got inside I froze. There was no Barry Manilow. So what was sappier, “All Out of Love” by Air Supply, or one of those falsetto numbers by the Bee Gees? I felt everyone’s eyes on me. I had to decide. I dropped the coin in the slot, punched a button and slipped out as “You Should be Dancing” began to play. “Hey! Whadzat crap?” someone shouted behind my back.
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