The Disco Era as Tao

My Dance Moves and the Specter of Male Rejection

When disco ruled the world — around the same time polyester was considered breathable and high-waisted bell bottoms were the pants of the gods—my holy temple was a seedy, pulsing joint on Columbus, Ohio’s West Side called the Dixie Electric Company.

Tucked between a defunct JCPenney and an Eckerd Drugs in the Great Western Shopping Center, Dixie was no Studio 54.

But to me it was Mecca with a strobe light. The checkered dance floor lit up from underneath like Moses parting the neon sea. The DJ doubled as a wizard, casting spells with the Ohio Players’ song “Fire” and summoning spirits with You Dropped a Bomb on Me. A smoke machine belched out clouds as if Zhuangzi himself had taken a long drag from the Tao.

You see, I didn’t know it then, but the Tao was alive and moonwalking at the Dixie.

My squad consisted of Michael B (smooth with the ladies), Bob (owner of the classic Buick Electra 225 that handled like a boat on land), and Stretch—a man whose limbs moved like wind chimes in a thunderstorm.

We’d cruise over to Dixie, a bundle of hormones and cologne, to perform the ancient Taoist ritual of “Seeking a Slow Dance.”

As the only Black guy in the club—the lone fly in the buttermilk—I felt like a guest star in someone else’s sitcom. But there was a certain freedom in standing out. “A frog in a well cannot imagine the sea,” said Zhuangzi. I was trying to imagine the sea… and maybe cop a slow grind while I was at it.

Now, for us, the categories were clear: Fast Dance (Fools Rush In) and Slow Dance (Potential Nirvana). We wanted the slow dance. The slow dance meant you were practically married for four minutes and sixteen seconds. You could smell her strawberry lip gloss. You could feel her breath near your earlobe. It was intimate. It was terrifying. It was a miracle.

But first—you had to get to her.

That meant The Walk. Across the glowing floor. Into the lioness’ den. Past the table of judgment, where the women sat in tight-knit pods like Olympic synchronized swimmers on break. They’d look you up and down: shoes (cheap), shirt (wrinkled), hair (lopsided), vibe (suspicious). Then they’d consult one another via telepathy.

“Sorry,” she’d say, not sorry at all.

And then—The “Walk of Shame” back. Alone. Head down. Friends laughing. Bar crowd jeering silently. “To be rejected is nothing unless you allow it to be something,” Zhuangzi might have whispered. But Zhuangzi never had to slink back to his table to the sound of Funkytown while a bouncer laughed into his Budweiser.

Sometimes, though, we got smart. We paired up. Michael and I would spot two women—usually mid-laugh, mid-wine cooler—and go in as a duo. The rejection, if it came, was a team sport. Shared shame is better than solo shame. That’s basic Tao.

I didn’t have the look. My “disco outfit” was more “J.C. Penney Casual.” I didn’t have moves—I knew only The Bus Stop, and even that was two steps behind the beat. But when the beat was right, when Shake Your Groove Thing kicked in and the siren went off, I swear I wasn’t dancing anymore.

I was flowing.

That, my friend, is the Tao.

You become the music. You stop trying to impress and just are. You are not the dancer or the one being watched—you are motion in its purest form.

Zhuangzi once dreamed he was a butterfly and forgot he was Zhuangzi. I once did the Electric Slide with a woman named Karen, a local hospital respiratory therapist, and forgot I was a loser.

Afterward, we’d pile back into Bob’s Electra 225, all dejected swagger and beer breath, and hit White Castle hamburgers like war veterans seeking solace. A Crave Case was our Eucharist. Each slider a reminder that we lived, we tried, we danced. We may have failed, but we showed up.

And that, too, is the Tao.

Not winning. Not losing.

Just… showing up in polyester and doing the Bus Stop like it mattered.

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