Boogie Knights

There were still Christmas lights up and the city glittered and shone. Mrs. Hall unbuttoned her white winter coat and looked out of the windows of the parking garage elevator as they descended. The rain had stopped and it was warm and unseasonably mild. Even though it was still early, couples in formal attire were already converging at the Oncenter for the New Year's Eve party. Pulling a freshly cleaned and sparkling big black car out of the hanger, Mr. and Mrs. Hall had left Mistress Colleen and a few of her friends to celebrate quietly in front of the fire with board games and pizzas.
As they rode the escalator down to the main lobby, the pink spotlights lit the columns dramatically over the silent auction display. About a month ago, the Halls had met with the organizers of the party for a brainstorming luncheon (the Gentle Reader can click here to refresh their memory) and now it was finally coming to pass. The band was rocking the house already. "Let's check our coats and get a drink."
"I hope you wore your dancing shoes," said Mrs. Hall, over her shoulder as she shimmied to the dance floor. She was met on the floor by Rosie, the V.P. in charge of the event, wearing a bright red dress and no shoes, clearly already enjoying the evening. The band struck up a disco party favorite from 30 years ago and the crowd hit the dance floor en masse. “Com’n and prepare to shake yer booty,” said Mrs. H. "Apparently we're going to party like it’s 1979!”

Jumbo-trons on both sides of the ballroom displayed the simultaneous television broadcast that was going on, on WCNY that evening. All night the TV cameras moved about the room, interviewing the party-goers and bringing the event to the hundreds of housebound voyeurs, unwilling or unable to brave the hoards of "amateur night" drivers. Mrs. Hall slipped out and placed a bid on a rare Syracuse Chiefs scorecard, signed by pitching phenom Stephen Strasberg, while Mr. Hall checked out the appetizers.

Just ahead of midnight the waitstaff brought out flutes of champagne and the countdown began. Thousands of balloons dropped, there was a short break while everyone cheered each other, and then the band began anew.
"My feet hurt," said Mr. H. "Ah, okay, " replied Mrs. Hall, and they wandered past the gourmet pizza stations in the lobby. "I have to see if I won anyway," said Mrs. Hall, and she flagged one of the Oncenter minions, who shimmered and flitted away. The Halls talked movies with one of the advertising execs while they waited. (Mr. Hall, who was friends with the director, invited him to their table. "Believe me," he had said, "at 12:31, I'm sitting down and having a beer!") "Yes, you won it!" said the helper, when she returned, gingerly holding an envelope. Mr. Hall pulled out his wallet. He had made quite a killing on slots the previous Christmas evening at the Turning Stone, and was in a generous mood.

It was evident by the thinning crowds that it was time to head on home. Wishing the remaining (awake) party goers at their table a hearty happy new year, they gathered their coats and noisemakers and returned to the night, the big black car and a quick trip home.