The Dog House
The Dog House
June 1953
Our high school football team was called the “Bulldogs”. They had competed in the State play-offs the past two years under the direction of a new coaching staff, and last season the team went to the semi-finals before they were defeated. It seemed that everything had an attachment to the name, “Bulldog”. Even our youth center was called the Dog House. I had been forbidden to try out for the team, because my parents said I was too small to play football. My final year of junior high school was complete, and I would be a freshman in September. It was an awkward time to be a teenager: I was old enough to date girls, but I was too young to drive a car. Half of my friends were athletes, but I played in the band, and I watched them play football from the grandstands. I wanted to dance, but I was too shy to ask someone to teach me. I must be in teenage purgatory. Since I had become a freshman in high school, I was old enough to be a member of the Dog House. I could at least go there and watch the older kids dance. Maybe I could learn to dance by watching.
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The admission was only a dime, and the game-room facilities were free. It was a good place to meet my friends on weekend nights: not to mention girls without dates. I didn’t need a ride to the Dog House: it was only five city blocks from my house, and I could walk. It was open every Friday and Saturdays nights, except for holidays. The youth center was a part of the Carnegie Library building. Most of the second story of the building was a wooden dance floor, adjacent to a small room with tables that were used for card games. The basement was equipped with pool, ping pong, and shuffleboard tables. Smoking, drinking, and bad language were not allowed, and there were two adult sponsors who made sure that everyone abided by the rules. This was not just one of the places that high school kids congregated on the weekend nights: it was THE place. Since I was a freshman in high school, it was time that I started acting like one of the older guys. After all, I would graduate in four years.
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While all the teenage girls were spending hours preparing themselves to go out for the night, I was ready to go in ten minutes. I had to check myself out in the mirror (that took another ten minutes) to make sure that I really looked as cool as I thought. No doubt about it: I was cool. I made a final mirror-check of my muscleless, 135 pound frame, to make sure everything was in place: the cow-lick on the top of my head was plastered down with Brylcreem; my short-sleeve shirt had one button that was open at the top, exposing my hair-less chest; and both sleeves were rolled up two turns so the girls could admire the 13-inch biceps that were growing on my bony arms. The tail of my shirt was not tucked in my pants, and the cuffs on my Levis were rolled up two turns: this would allow me to show off my new, black penny-loafers and nylon socks. After a final glance in the mirror I felt good about the way I looked; I was in style; and I was ready to mingle with the masses.
The Dog House was open from 7:30 until 11:00 P.M. on Saturday, so I left my house at8:15: I didn’t want to arrive too early. It was a very warm night in June; the sun had set a half-hour earlier; and the street lights were coming on as I reached the youth center. After my ten minute walk, I saw that there were cars parked on both sides of the street in front of the building and on the side street adjacent to the building. There were no parking places for a city block in either direction. It must be standing room only. My suspicion was confirmed as walked up the steps and went inside. I heard the juke box before I opened the door: Jo Stafford was singing, You Belong to Me. I dropped a dime in the jar on the sponsor’s desk; I took one look at the packed dance floor; and I decided to go downstairs and shoot a few games of pool. Maybe some of the people upstairs will leave early.
When I walked into the game room, I thought I had walked into my class reunion. Most of the boys that I ran around with were already there. There weren’t many girls in the game room; many of them were dating upper classmen and were likely upstairs. I picked the least-crooked cue stick from the wall rack and waited my turn for an empty pool table. The game equipment was in ill-repair after many years of teenage use. The pool table felt was torn in places; some of the pool balls were dented from being dropped on the concrete floor; and the soft-paneled, acoustic ceiling was riddled with pool-stick punctures from frustrated players, despite the large-lettered sign on the wall: “DO NOT PUNCH HOLES IN CEILING WITH POOL CUES”… Yes, I remember being frustrated a few times.
Playing “8-Ball” and “Scratch” were no longer my idea of entertainment. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the clock on the wall slowly move, as I played several less-than-stimulating games of pool, ping pong, and shuffleboard. These games were a lot of fun in past years, but my priorities in life had changed as suddenly as my voice. It was time for me to make a change from the pool hall to the dance hall – an evolution from the basement to the upper room … or something like that. At ten o’clock I put my cue stick in the rack on the wall and walked upstairs to the dance floor.
Tony Bennett was crooning Rags to Riches, as I gently elbowed my way through the first and second rows of people that were circling the dance floor. The heat in the room was intense: there was no air conditioning, although the windows on three sides of the room were wide open. Some people were sitting on the edges of the open windows. The room was packed with perspiring teenagers, but I hardly noticed the temperature: I was in a state of awe. Most of my football heroes were there, and they didn’t seem to mind that a younger kid who played in the band was in their group. I stood next to a senior lineman; I knew him from his picture in the yearbook. He must have been a foot taller and outweighed me by one hundred pounds. Mother was probably right when she said I wasn’t big enough to play.
There were many of my friends from the band and the pep squad on the dance floor; it was a composite of the entire high school – from freshmen to seniors – and everyone was friendly. It was like being in a large family of teenagers. The dance floor was crowded during every song; people were feeding quarters into the juke box, as they waited to hear their favorite song; and everyone was having a great time. Even though the volume was wide open, the juke box was often muted by the loud talk and the laughter of the crowd. No one seemed bothered by the intense heat and noise on the dance floor. I tried not to show my tinge of envy when I saw the several upper-classmen that were dating girls in my class. They were old enough to have their driver’s license. My envy was short-lived, when I realized that I would be taking their place next year: I would have my own license. Sixteen was the legal driving age in Texas, but if my parents signed a “hardship waiver”, and I could get my driver’s license when I was fifteen. The state would allow me the license, because both of my parents worked. I was already working on the details.
One thing was certain: I would not be able to learn how to dance tonight. If I were brave enough to step out on the dance floor, I would be trampled into the saw dust on the floor. The people who were dancing looked like they had just finished rehearsing for American Bandstand. The “Jitterbug” was the dance of choice for the fast tunes, and the older couples looked like professionals: they must have danced together for several years. When a fast tune was played on the juke box, the crowd moved back and watched the better dancers. It didn’t take long to recognize those couples. They often got applause and jesting, cat-calls from the crowd: it was exciting to watch.
It was ten minutes until closing, and I decided to leave early and avoid the rush after the dance ended. I walked outside into the clean, night air. Half-way down the block I could still hear the laughter and the fading strains of the words of Patti Page: How Much is that Doggy in the Window? I walked across a familiar set of railroad tracks that crossed the street and the sidewalk. The music from the Dog House had stopped, and I could hear voices outside the building, as well as laughter and car doors slamming. There would likely be a mad dash to a hamburger drive in called, the “Super Dog”. It was where the late night crowd gathered before taking home their dates. I will be among that crowd before too long.
Harmon Park was only a block from my house, and I stopped and sat down in one of the swings. I had spent thousands of hours playing here as a child; it was always one of my favorite places. I watched the cars go by, and I wondered if I would ever drive a car, learn to dance, or take a date to the Dog House like my other friends. Two things were certain: it was past eleven o’clock, and my mother knew what time the Dog House closed. She has a dog house of her own. I’ll have to deal with those other problems at another time.
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…I later got my “hardship” driver’s license at 15; I learned to dance one night on a concrete slab at a Lutheran Church park, and I took my date (who was my dancing instructor) to the Dog House. It was a wonderful time to be young, to dream, and to see your dreams become reality…
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