Flipping a Coin for Dr. Coyne (Part 6)

 

After you hit rock bottom there is nowhere to go but up.   I was shocked to hear that J. J. knew I had flipped a coin in hopes of "winning" the opportunity to ask him to the Junior Dance.   Once he revealed that he knew this embarrassing story, I simply "let go"; the worst had happened (in my silly and immature understanding of life) and I didn't die.    What else could happen that would be any worse? 
We entered the Ballroom, festively decorated for the holiday season, Christmas tree and all.   I don't remember if we had assigned seating but what I do remember is that we sat at a big round table with the other interns and their dates.  I am not sure who arranged this seating but for some reason, it seems like the men took charge of a lot of things that night.   In 1963, eighteen was the legal drinking age in New York, so that, too, helped me relax.  The band played and 

at some point, my friends coaxed me to demonstrate an outrageous dance move for which I was notorious.  So we laughed, we ate and drank, we danced a bit, and mostly we talked and talked, our chairs facing each other, and all of a sudden I realized I was indeed having the time of my life.   I no longer felt the tightness of my undergarments, the stiffness of my hairdo, my awkward self-consciousness.  We were simply, and marvelously, a young woman and a young man having a really fantastic time together at the most wonderful time of the year, in the greatest city in the world.   What more could a girl ask for?

Before you could wink an eye, the band was playing the last song.   I guess it is a well-known fact of life that the good times of our lives fly by much too quickly.
Not knowing what, if anything, to expect next, we were pleasantly surprised when "the men" tell us that our night wasn't over yet.  They had talked among themselves and had planned something else - something special - for us.  Being a rather large group, the mystery ride to our next destination required several cabs.  Imagine my excitement when our cabs stop at the world famous Playboy Club to drop us off.  We enter this legendary, risqué'  establishment and deposit ourselves in the crowded entrance way while we shuffle around to organize our winter coats, hats and gloves to give to the Coat Room Bunny who is standing by, waiting patiently.  Then, we are directed to follow behind another Bunny – there are Bunnies everywhere – who proceeds to takes us in a parade of sorts up a spiral flight of stairs. When we reach the next level, it becomes quite obvious that it is going to be a major ordeal for the Bunnies to find an area big enough to seat such a large crowd.  There is a lot of commotion and upheaval as tables and chairs are pulled from other sections of the room and shoved together every which way in an effort to seat us all together.   We are making quite a significant scene; everyone in the place knows we have arrived!   I remember I had to scoot along each seat as I worked my way back into the corner of two connected tables  Finally, we are all seated and the waitress Bunny passes out menus.  After much deliberation, we are finally ready to place our order and one of the men gives a nod to our Bunny.  She approaches our table, pen and pad in hand, ready to record our requests. 
Gentlemen, she says in her low, provocative voice, which one of you will be using your Key tonight?
Dead silence ensues.  The guys look around at each other and slowly the realization hits them that you have to have some sort of membership (aka a Key) in order to be served at the Playboy Club.  They don't serve any Tom, Dick, or Harry at this prestigious establishment.  Oh no, only the exalted, bona fide members are served at this exclusive club.  Our money was not good there and we were not wanted.  No amount of sweet-talk; cajoling or coaxing could persuade them to give us so much as a drink of water.   We were, in plain English, thrown out of the Playboy Club!  But we didn't go quietly into the night.  We made at least as much noise scrambling out of our seats, from behind our tables and back down the spiral staircase as we did on arrival. 

"Our gentlemen" handed the coat check tickets to the Cloak Room Bunny and, as we all donned our winter gear, I clearly remember the incongruous look of the scantily clad Bunny assisting J.J.  with his full length dress coat, as two twelve inch cardboard dolls hung precariously in each of his side pockets.  These Christmas angel dolls were decorative ornaments that had adored our tables at the Junior Dance.   They looked completely and totally out of place at the Playboy Club!

At the least, I can always honestly say I went to the Playboy Club in Manhattan with the sexiest Intern at St. Vincent’s Hospital.