In New York: Celebrating an Eternal Prom

It is the 67th anniversary of Roseland Dance City, the landmark ballroom on West 52nd Street in New York City, and you . . . are . . . there!

Blistering day. The air is brown. Your nose doesn't work (And why don't the TV weather people issue a nasal caution, times like this?). Dodge a kamikaze bicycle messenger and step under the marquee. On the left, in a glass display case -- the Wall of Fame -- are the shoes of the famous hoofers who have cut a rug here. Betty Grable. Ruby Keeler. Anthony Quinn. Eleanor Powell. George Raft (tiny feet). Gregory Hines (boats). The cashier is on the right. The tariff is eight bucks. The ticket taker says sure, he'll get the manager. Call him Mr. Adam, on account of his surname starting in Little Italy and ending in Greece (Giannopoulos).

Cool your heels -- and case the joint while you're at it. A plaque on the left wall lists the names of the married couples who first met here. There have been 550 or so. They don't keep track of divorces. There's a bar on the right. You shoot your cuffs, walk over the way Bogart would, quiet and self- assured, order the usual, a salt-free seltzer water, slice of lime to give it a jolt.

Dame comes up at your elbow. Enough makeup to make Tammy Faye look like a Breck girl. Says in a voice like a mule eating briars, "Vodka and orange this time -- I'm trying to save my liver." Fires up a Pall Mall. Says, "Who am I kidding? Forget the orange."

You lean back against the bar, drink in one hand, peanut in the other. Good view of the vast maple dance floor. Impressive crowd for three in the afternoon. Mostly old people. Here and there one partner looks so infirm it must be like dancing with a bedpost, but it doesn't seem to cramp the active one, who twirls like a top, shaking a mean leg in the bargain.

Here comes Mr. Adam across the carpet, the carpet a sea of roses the size of missile launching pads. He offers a firm paw, says, "These ballroom people, it's food for their souls. They get away from their apartments. They don't have to be cooped up. They get on the dance floor, and they fly. It's unbelievable. You see them on the street, they can't even walk. They get on the dance floor, and they fly. It's unbelievable."

You are struck by the time warp. Outside, the 20th century is petering out; in here, it's just getting warmed up. Enormous white tents suspended high over the dancers are lighted to blush pink. On the floor are some real hotshots. They samba, mambo, rhumba, tango, fox-trot, lindy, peabody and what can only be called, in street language, get down! It's like an eternal prom.

Place holds 3,450 people, 2,000 on the dance floor, 1,450 in the end zones or on the sidelines at any given time. Says Mr. Adam: "No ballroom, even in Europe, can compete with Roseland. I don't think any ballroom in the whole globe can touch it. There is no competition in New York." On the bandstand the singer with the Don Glasser Orchestra announces, "And now, for Marge and Dominick, here is Blue Bayou."