Wednesday Night Fever

The bump and grind of a new generation

A A A Comments By Michele Laudig Thursday, Sep 4 2003

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With about 30 teens lined up around the corner, the wait outside The Buzz is longer than ever at 10 p.m. The place is already packed, but more kids keep showing up. Many of them come for only two hours. At a regular nightclub, people come and go throughout the evening. But the kids stay here right up until the party ends at 12. Besides -- where else do they have to go?

Left: Kids lounge around, waiting to hear their favorite song. Right: Lots of girls at The Buzz look years older.

Top: Girls gather in the rest room to gossip and get glammed up. Above: Teens swap numbers after a night on the dance floor.

Parents line up to pick up their teens.

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Photography by Jackie Mercandetti

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Inside, the dance floor is sea of moving bodies that's nearly impossible to cross, except for a conga line of pretty girls that somehow snakes its way through the frenzy. The girls turn heads the whole way. Music keeps pumping until the stroke of midnight.

As soon as closing time comes, the teens are ushered right out of the building. Hundreds of them linger out front, giddy from the action, and bouncers tell them to keep moving. They move about 15 feet, and end up blocking traffic in front of the club.

A fistfight between two boys breaks out in the middle of the parking lot, and suddenly dozens of kids scramble to watch. But within seconds, security guards rush in to break things up. It's like the bubble of energy that's built up over the course of the night -- jealousy, aggression, anxiety, sexual tension -- has finally burst. After that, the guards wander around the lot to shine flashlights on kids, telling them to go home.

The teens exchange phone numbers, chat, and laugh uncontrollably. They're finished dancing, but for a while they just keep on mingling. Sweaty and exhausted, they chug bottled water and wipe their faces. Some who've already hopped in their cars drive up to say hi to friends. Others stand around in full view of a line of waiting vehicles, gabbing like there's no hurry to leave.

Then someone's mom honks. Nearby, girls standing in a huddle look around, embarrassed. Finally they prance over, high heels clicking on the pavement, pile into a plain white minivan, and head home.

E-mail michele.laudig@newtimes.com or call 602-229-8497.

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