Jeff Burkhart: Locking eyes in a crowded bar

Johann Strauss II’s waltz titled “The Blue Danube” opens Stanley Kubrick’s space station scene in 1968’s epic film “2001: A Space Odyssey.” The fabulous triple meter’s simplicity ringing through the vacuum of space — boom-boom, bump-bump, bah-bah — sets the stage.

And for some reason that simple boom-boom, bump-bump, bah-bah felt right at home in the muted din of our early evening winter bar. That waltz wasn’t actually there; some muzak version of something much more contemporary was playing on the overhead speakers. But a waltz is a feeling as much as it’s anything else.

The man and the woman stood on opposite sides of the two groups of people. And while bars often seem to have one crowd, closer observation will always yield divisions within that crowd, the same way that a river entering an ocean often creates what looks like a line where the saline meets the fresh. But even that line up close looks less like a line and more like a jumble. If we are to believe Pablo Picasso, then the most beautiful things in the world are seen through chaos. And both chaos and beauty live at the edges.

The man looked at the woman, or the woman looked at the man. Whoever looked first didn’t matter because their eyes had locked. There was probably a sudden intake of breath and a dilation of pupils. Those things are universal and timeless.

The two groups were not together, but where they touched magic was happening, or chaos, or perhaps even both. There were leaders of both groups trying to coordinate their respective activities. Gatherings don’t just happen; they are always administrated, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse.

The man and the woman didn’t notice. They moved closer. Their waltz was beginning. She looked at him again — boom-boom, bump-bump, bah-bah. And he looked back — boom-boom, bump-bump, bah-bah. They both glanced away and then glanced back.

If we remember our music history, the waltz was once considered quite risqué. Different from other dances, it happened up close, with the couple’s one hand intertwined, her head on his shoulder and his other hand on the small of her back. In fact, the term “small of the back” might have been invented for just this dance.

Such distinctions probably didn’t matter to this couple, just like they don’t matter to most couples who are in the midst of a dance.

She glanced down and then glanced up. Whatever conversation she was involved in didn’t seem to matter because the dance was happening elsewhere. His eyes met hers again and then looked away. You could feel the tension — boom-boom, bump-bump, bah-bah. On the fringes of the two groups, they turned and turned — not physically, but certainly psychically. Nothing makes one feel more attractive than desire. Lovers tend to stand taller, laugh easier and smile more often. And so it was with these two.

Whatever those two groups had gathered for became secondary to the couple. It’s funny how courtship works. There’s no logic. It just seems to happen — or it doesn’t. And sometimes all it takes is one dance.

As with any large group gathering, something eventually signaled a change. It’s as true with gazelle on the Serengeti or bison on the plains, suddenly something just changes. The two groups started to untangle. That brackish line became more distinguishable as they separated. But at one point they still clung together. If his hand could have been on her back and her head on his shoulder, they would have been. But somehow Adele isn’t exactly Strauss.

She fixed her hair, and he noticed. He adjusted his tie, and she noticed. Both were standing tall, laughing easier and smiling. Boom-boom, bump-bump, bah-bah.

Eventually the two groups were just the couple, two other couples on either side and two small children.

“Grandma, pick me up,” said one of the children to the waltzing woman.

“Grandpa, what about me?” asked the other child to the man.

Their waltz was cut short. A walker and a cane appeared. The daughter of the woman looked at her mom, as the son of the man looked at his father. Then they both looked at each other.

“Are you two all right?” asked the children of their aged parents. “You seem a little flushed.”

The couple nodded sheepishly.

“It’s late; we’ve got to get you back to the home,” said the daughter.

Her mother nodded silently. She wasn’t smiling as much.

“You too, Dad,” said the son, looking quizzically at his father, who wasn’t standing quite as tall.

Then they all made their way slowly toward the front door and back to their respective realities.

The woman and the man looked back at each other once more. And then they were gone.

Leaving me with these thoughts:

• Commenting on Martin Scorsese’s “The Last Waltz” concert movie, guitarist Robbie Robertson said, “It’s the beginning of the beginning of the end of the beginning.” And he was right.

• Funny to think what we in 1968 thought 2001 was going to look like.

• “The waltz can be sad and at the same time uplifting. You have to see life from both sides, and the waltz encapsulates that,” once opined Dutch conductor Andre Rieu.

• It’s always possible to find a twinkle of dawn, even in the twilight of our years. Sometimes all it takes is a waltz of the eyes.

Jeff Burkhart is the author of “Twenty Years Behind Bars: The Spirited Adventures of a Real Bartender, Vol. I and II,” the host of the Barfly Podcast on iTunes (as seen in the NY Times) and an award-winning bartender at a local restaurant. Follow him at jeffburkhart.net and contact him at jeffbarflyIJ@outlook.com