Rock With You

I wanna rock with you, alllll niiiiiiight....dance you into the day- sunliiiiight. Wanna rock with you, allllll niiiight, dance the night awaaaaaaaaaay. Hank's eyes are closed, his head dwarfed by massive earmuff style headphones, cocooned inside the mellifluous sweet strains of early Michael Jackson. He does an awkward sort of jive, shrugging his shoulders towards his ears, up and down in time to the music. His face is split ear to ear with a lopsided, full toothed grin, brow furrowed as he reaches for the high notes. Occasionally he punches the air with an extended index finger as if he were dotting the i's in night and sunlight. Hank listens to this record over and over. He has it on his ipod too, but there's nothing like the warmth generated by vinyl. He's an analogue man. The record sleeve is ragged and dog   eared, torn near the center no matter how careful he is with it. The album cover is smudged with fingerprints- Hank gave up trying to keep his lp's in pristine condition years ago. They're meant to be played and enjoyed not put on display like some sort of showcased fetish of hipster fixations. This is Hank's original copy, played countless times at Peggy Hardwick's basement dance parties back in elementary school. They'd dance in sock feet on painted concrete and hand looped rag rugs with Peggy's older brother's lava lamp and disco ball spinning on top of the pinelog bar. The only reason Hank got the invites was his record collection and portable record player. He didn't care; any opportunity to play Michael and dance outside of his own bedroom was a celebration. It never bothered Hank that he was always off in his own corner as long as he had control over the music. Until you've danced through as many pairs of socks as Hank, you couldn't possibly understand the rhythm that Michael inspires. To touch greatness. If only.

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