I looked at the clock. The time was moving crazily at warp speed. In fifteen minutes, I would be dragging my little sister several city blocks to the 69^th Street playground for the big event. I always had to take her everywhere. The walk was a little scary because we had to cross the railroad tracks. I had heard the stories of little girls who had been attacked there. Some had disappeared, they said. I thought maybe these were made up stories so we kids wouldn’t linger at the tracks. But I did see the bad boys, the older boys who hung out there. The boys who smoked and laughed at dirty magazines and wolf-whistled at passing girls.

With the playground in sight, fear turned to excitement. Two large men were wrestling equipment into place on the asphalt. A huge box was angled sideways in the open trunk of a dark blue car, cables stretching to our shady cement area. The shadow of another man with his hands on his hips stood nearby.

“Hurry up you two,” said the pimple-faced counsellor who liked to play tag with us and win, as he waved us wildly by.

Today was the biggest deal of all our lives. The famous Chubby Checker had picked our playground to test out his new dance which had been born in our very own Philadelphia, and which was all the rage with the older kids at school, the ones who were almost teenagers. The real live Chubby Checker, the Philly superstar we had all been hearing about had picked us! Oh, we were used to fun treats like hula-hoop contests with the reigning teenage champion. Or having a real artist who taught us to finger paint on the backside of some left-over wallpaper, courtesy of the Franklin Wallpaper Store.

Considered “underprivileged”, we immigrant Philadelphia outskirt kids would get lots of free stuff. Some of it was not so good, like the warm carton of milk with our name on it that we had to drink before we left the city playground because they said we were all too skinny.

The counsellor was still waving as he shoved me and my sister through the gate and safely locked us and another dozen skinny towheads inside. The other counselor, the nice one—Tammy, I think—slapped her hands together loudly, drawing our attention.

“Line up kids,” she said.

We always had to line up for everything. Boys in one line, girls in the other. It was hard to keep to our lanes as we jumped up and down and stretched our necks as far as they would go to see Chubby. The counselors stood in front of us making it impossible to see. Suddenly, the music stopped and the counsellors started to scream. Chubby was here! Somewhere. I couldn’t see him!

Then, a miracle!

Chubby waved his arms around, lassoing us closer together.

“Come on everybody!” he yelled.

“Yay!” We all yelled back.

“I can’t hear you!!!”

We all yelled louder.

“We’re gonna do the Twist and it goes like this…”

The music shook the entire playground, and cars outside the vibrating fence stopped, peering in on our special date with Chubby Checker.

Chubby smiled at me and I almost fainted. Having never seen a live coloured person before, other than on TV, like Buckwheat in “The Little Rascals”, I froze and stared. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t jiggle. And most certainly, I could not twist. I simply could not wiggle my chest one way and my behind in the opposite direction, slinky-like. He laughed in my direction, his eyes twinkling.

Chubby Checker seemed tall, but I wasn’t sure. The kids who liked to make fun of me had pushed me right up to Chubby. I stared at his legs. His black trousers had the proper crease in them and his shoes were well-shined, so I wasn’t afraid. My mother had always said that ironed trouser creases and shoes with a high polish were indications of a true gentleman.

I gazed higher. Chubby’s big glistening teeth were whiter than white Chicklets. His black hair sparkled in the sunlight. And his smile… It seemed very kind. His happy cheeks were most definitely chubby. Now I understood how he got his name. Even though it was only 11:00 AM and Chubby had barely arrived, his white shirt was soaked to the skin.

He leaned way down at me and said, “Come on little honey…”

I couldn’t move.

“We’re gonna do the Twist… and it goes like this…”

The men standing back by the speaker cranked up the volume and the whole playground erupted in shrieks. Chubby held a microphone up high in his sweaty right fist, the cord dangling over his head. He crooked his left index finger at me.

“…And it goes like this…”

His elbows and knees swung East and West, back and forth, back and forth. He called out to the girls that had pushed me to the front, who’d been hanging back against the fence laughing at us. He flashed his shiny teeth at them and waved at the boys, summoning them to the makeshift dance floor. Despite their tough exteriors, they twisted away.

When Chubby sang, his voice sounded higher-pitched than I expected, and I could see spit hitting his microphone. With a smile stretched across his smooth-skinned face, he winked at all the girls.

My turn. I closed my eyes and started to twist with all my heart. With my sharp elbows flying and scabby knees gyrating, I twisted until noon.

Then the music stopped and, like in a dream, Chubby evaporated into the heat.

The blue car left and was swallowed up in traffic. I should have warned him about the train tracks. Be safe, Chubby. I should have offered him my milk carton. You’re probably thirsty, Chubby. Or at least I should have shown him where the hose to cool off hung. It’s hot at the playground at noon.

The next morning, a picture of Chubby Checker smiled back at me from the Philadelphia Bulletin. “Chubby Checker Teaches Kids to Twist.” I cut out his picture and glued it into my scrapbook, smoothing his crinkly eyes, tapping his Chicklet teeth, touching his chubby cheeks.

Today, at the playground, we were going to make Fourth of July potholders. Big deal.