Reckless Sunday

 In 1982, the summer sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a golden hue over Baldwin. My dad had the club, Infinity, a local hotspot where the music blasted and the dance floor pulsed with energy. But on Sundays, the place was a ghost town, closed up tight, and that left the day open for shenanigans.


I had made some plans to meet up with my friends from Massapequa, a wild bunch that knew how to have a good time. The thought of driving out to the club, setting up an afternoon full of chaos, and living in the moment was all I could think about. So, with a thrill of rebellion coursing through me, I swiped Dad’s car. He’d never know—and, honestly, that added to the excitement.


We rolled up to Infinity, the abandoned exterior a stark contrast to the raucous energy we were about to bring. As we piled into the club, the dimness enveloped us, the stale scent of old beer lingering in the air. We dragged in a cooler filled with beers, our laughter echoing off the walls, and set up our little party scene right on the dance floor.


The sun streamed through the windows, illuminating our reckless ambition. We cracked open beers, tossing back the cans, the sound of metal against metal blending with the pounding of our hearts. Before long, we were digging into our stash—cocaine laying out in front of us, shimmering like little treasures.


“Let’s f***ing do this!” a friend yelled, and we all joined in, the excitement bubbling over as we took turns. The high hit hard and fast, laughter filling the air as we danced and goofed around like idiots. Time blurred, and all that mattered was the moment. 


The music was just a backdrop, the echo of friends shouting and the clinking of beer cans creating a symphony of chaos. We jumped around like kids, losing ourselves to the thrill of being young and irresponsible. I remember thinking, “This is it; this is freedom.”


But the fun couldn’t last forever. As the afternoon wore on, our energy began to wane, and the high wore off, leaving room for a creeping realization of where we were and what we were doing. My heart raced at the thought of Dad. Did he suspect? Would he ever find out? It was a risk, but the thrill only added to the wildness of the day.


As evening approached, we cleaned up our mess and scrambled back into the car, the sun setting behind us. We headed back to Baldwin, hearts pounding, laughter still spilling out like the beer cans we’d tossed away. I dropped Dad’s car off, parked it just right, and walked inside, hoping against hope that he’d never have a clue.


Looking back, those reckless days feel like a fever dream, a snapshot of youthful exuberance wrapped in danger. And while I can't say I’d recommend that kind of trouble, in that moment, it was everything I thought I wanted.

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