Oddballs littered the barroom.

Old men in suits, women far beyond menopause dressed too fancy for six in the evening. Everyone younger wore sloppy T-shirts and shorts smelling of fish caught in the bay, here only because of cheap early-bird dinners.

After a while, the guy in the too-shiny suit saddled up to the mic and crooned vintage love songs. When he sang Humperdinck’s “After the Loving,” the shoddy ones withdrew, not understanding.

She was short, dark-skinned, old; built like a small tank with large breasts crushed inside the pink leotard top. Her short skirt revealed still-shapely legs, but it was her feet that fascinated. They shifted rhythmically, smoothly, doing a little side-step hop while her partner, the one with the death mask for a face and spats on his feet, gave her the space and timing to make that quick undulating move.

A look-alike for Gomez Addams stepped onto the floor with a bottle blond whose tapered skirt flared provocatively showing her fixed assets when he swung her under his arm in a fancy, practiced twirl. Her silver heels glittered, held by a strap; shoes only professional dancers wear, or those who take classes at Fred Astaire Dance Studios.

They were aware of themselves, the four of them, dancing for the audience that dwindled down to a drunken party in the corner and a few gals at the bar, all dressed in black—waiting for a dance partner; waiting ‘til death finally parted them from their kind of music.