Squeezed tightly together at a table barely big enough to accommodate a small army of ants, Babe and I are "clubbing" for the first time at Ziggy Mahoney's. We have lived on this island for over ten years, but somehow we missed out on this throwback, party down, let's hear it for the 50's night spot. I guess some of us are destined to be overdue at the trough.

If by some lucky fluke, we are able to find space on the dance floor, we intend to boogie all night long to tunes we loved, tunes made famous by The Coasters, The Drifters, Little Richard and Fats. Whoa! Let the good times roll.

As soon as the band starts up with, "I Love Beach Music," Babe yanks me off my bar stool perch and onto the pygmy-size dance floor before I can say poodle skirt and saddle oxfords.

Languidly closing his eyes, he swings me around while twirling back on his heels like Mikhail Baryshnikov. He cracks his baby blues just in time to keep me from crashing butt first into the well-over-sixty twosome trying to remember the dance steps.

I mouth a silent apology in their direction but they are deep into remembering their dance lessons and don't notice. I watch as the man's lips silently move: "One, two, kick. One, two, swing."

Stifling a giggle, I check out his partner. Shoot! She's counting too! Not only that, she's clutching a big white pocketbook like the Hope Diamond is stashed inside. So help me, she's wearing saddle oxfords and Bobbie Sox.

"Hey, Babe, ease away from Fred and Ginger," I shout, hoping my voice carries over the high performance sound system obviously lacking reduction technology capability. With his eyes still closed and wearing a goofy expression, Babe continues to boogie like nobody's watching.

Shagging over closer to him, I give him a shove, more forcefully than intended, then watch in horror as he plows into a senior dancing with a walking cane as a partner. The man wheels around, bares his teeth and snarls like a mad dog. It doesn't faze Babe, the short-term Baryshnikov who is twisting back and forth Fats Domino style.

I love to shag and I am having a great time. I don't want to stop, but I've got no choice. If we don't put some distance between Kujo and his metal cane and us, we're going to be taking rabies shots.

"C'mon, Babe," I yell, pulling him by the arm. We weave through the entangled bodies on the dance floor and eventually make it back to our miniature table where a large frosted mug of beer awaits. Forty seconds later, that brew is history.

Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, Babe looks at me as though trying to figure out who I am and whether or not he's about to get lucky. After a minute, he says, "Why'd you make me quit dancing? I was in the Zone. I was THERE, baby. THERE."

I roll my eyes like he so often does. "I saved your life, Babe, and this is the thanks I get? That old guy with the cane was fixing to pummel you into the middle of next week."

"What 'chu talking 'bout, girl?"

I point to the white-haired man who is slow dancing with his cane, which sounds like a dumb blonde joke but it isn't. Babe looks at the guy for a bit, shrugs his shoulders and says, "No way."

"You almost knocked him down, Babe. Didn't you see his face? He was ticked. He's probably a very, very mad Gray Panther just itching for a fight."

Babe gazes at the snarler, sizing him up. "That little twerp? Shoot, I can take him down in three seconds flat."

I look at the diminutive man, then at the 200-pound-plus Babe. "Ya think?"

Babe drains the last three drops of his Bud Lite before slamming the mug down on the table. He moves away from me so quickly that it appears he's going after the old dude.

I grab his arm. "What're you doing?"

He stares at me like I've got kitty litter for brains. "I'm going for a beer. Want one?"

Just then, the band plays, Carolina Girl, and before I can say Myrtle Beach, Babe yanks me up and pulls me onto the already jammed dance floor, the fresh beer definitely history.

Beach music rings and zings in my ears and all through my bones as I dance side by side with the white purse clutcher and the white-haired old man. Through a kind of weird synchronicity, we are suddenly and collectively catapulted back to the summer of 1959 when girls wore crinolines and ponytails and guys wore I.D. bracelets and no ponytails.

Elvis was only a prince, not yet crowned The King. Little Richard was little and Fats Domino was not. The Drifters drifted out their songs while we shagged and drifted into tomorrow.

Laissez le Bon Temp Rouler, as they say in N'awlins. Let the good times roll!