In the 1980s, neon colors came blazing into our lives & burned our retinas. Yellow bright enough to make you believe you’d win the Tour de France, pink bold enough to flip your whole identity. Music videos from the U.S. flooded our TV screens. The Smurf was so widespread, it became the dance of the moment. Rap & hip-hop were just around the corner. My body – about as supple as a mathematicians – was ready to give everything a go if the slow songs came on.
Urban legend has it that the word “smurf” originated from Peyo’s “Schtroumpfs”, because the early dancers wore white gloves like the cartoon characters.
Electro music blasted from Sony-branded walkmans heavier than a middle school backpack. Funk tried to keep pace with a decade dominated by both American & French pop & rock. We consumed music on cassette tapes. The top-selling hits were listed in the Top 50. Since I didn’t really know what I liked, I listened to everything.
From the French group Taï Phong, one artist went solo. Jean-Jacques Goldman who would soon prove worthy of the weight his name carried as he became a hero of French music. The band KISS landed with “A World Without Heroes”, draped in myth & spectacle as Goldman was rising with songs rooted in truth. Where KISS offered masks of fantasy, Goldman gave raw emotion & everyday stories. He didn’t need fire or face paint—just a guitar, a voice and the courage to stay real.
The music of the ’80s was mocked by the rocknroller’s before making a comeback, building a new fan base. Like a cult of greying fifty-somethings with flabby bellies & clown-like makeup, they rushed to see their idols of yesterday; icons who had never really come down from the pedestal they’d never quite climbed in the first place.
With clumsy hip swings, Thierry Hazard was singing Le Jerk, probably while thinking about the new tax laws being introduced. Meanwhile, singer Jean-Luc Lahaye, who shares a last name with a nun from my teenage fantasies (Sister Brigitte), definitely wasn’t sipping from that same moral cup.
I didn’t care. Perched on my Raleigh bike, I was headed to a party in Séverine’s parents’ garage. Her budding bosom gave me island fever. Two unknown islets capsizing the heart of a young wannabe explorer. That age when a hair flip could bring a blush to your cheeks. When two islets make you a master of your own under-the-cover cartography.
Saturday night parties were to teens what Sunday mass was to their parents. You never knew what bosom to place your faith in.
Behind some gray sheets, Séverine’s old man had hidden a moped-engine he’d never fix, and his stash of Union magazines. The strongest thing you could find there was her old man’s sneakers – a fatal olfactory hit no teen would risk inhaling. Yet despite his stinky feet, the idiot soon ended up locked in a make-out session with the mum of the hostess – his wife!
While some observed then swap spit to Gilbert Montagné’s wild tunes – out there it became the Jardiland of love. Slithers of saliva hit the floor. The garage floor quickly became an ice rink. Couples all around started playing tightrope walkers. The boldest attempted wet kisses.
I sat alone on a straw chair with my solitude, which was much drier than Séverine’s lips.
Slow songs became the only music we listened to. One after the other, three-minute bursts of hopeful connection. The goal: flirt or fail. Séverine was already with another guy. I was feeling pissed off and downed another glass of Tang in one go. The party was just an excuse for a saliva exchange. I was about to leave, unbending myself with sadness. I streched my back as I stood up when a small voice rose behind me, :
“Wanna’ dance?”
I didn’t understand a word. The girl was stunning. Long jet-black hair framed her delicate face. Her eyes were darker than my thoughts. When she smiled, her braces sparkled under the strobe lights. No one had invited her to dance because she was foreign.
Since I felt like a stranger to the whole vibe, we stuck our lonelinesses together. She muttered some words to me with an accent that could melt the polar ice caps. I turned so red & confused that I instantly started speaking her language. We grunted, stumbled, apologized, stammered between waves of foreign words & silences. It quickly became our morse code of communication & sign language became our lifeline.
Two minutes later, she pulled me into her arms. Her vanilla perfume teased my nose. I wondered if I might spontaneously combust.
One always remembers the music in times like these. “Beth” by KISS was melodically playing to our sway. But her name was Michi. We exchanged names, since other words failed us. She planted a kiss on my burning cheek.
The music suddenly embraced me. I glanced across to Séverine who looked severely tongue-tied. Love is disgusting. The party was over. A grandparent chaperon was looking for his cane to leave after being much too much into the younger crowd. Jean-Jacques Goldman became the next throbbing sound in the background.
Séverine’s dad ushered us firmly & politely out the door. He had magazines to consult. Or a Peugeot 103 engine to fix.
As I climbed onto my bike, a hand landed on mine. It had a beauty mark at the base of the wrist.
It was Michi.
She didn’t bother explaining anything. She grabbed my neck & sent a kiss flying straight through me. Our teeth bumped like an unimportant clash, yet at that moment, I instantly understood Colombian! With our four lips fused, I imagined becoming a drug lord, a puma trainer, or a professional Colombian tango dancer (if that’s even a thing in a kid’s mind).
Time stretched like elastic on the way home. My Raleigh carried me back to the little hamlet of Epivent. My heart was pounding in my chest. It had nothing to do with pedaling.
It was my first kiss.
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