THE DUNGAROO ORDEAL

"W hen the train pulls out, you'll see the letter H." So said the train conductor, leaning out of the train as it slid away from the Dedham platform. We were alone. Behind us loomed a forest, above a starless night sky, and in front a seemingly endless snow-covered parking lot. Our eyes fixed on a neon H in the distance. We headed out across the neverending lot.

The Dedham Hilton is a complex of fake-looking brown brick stuck in the middle of a suburban no man's land. And yet, on this cold Saturday night, the parking lot was full of cars from places like Needham and Stoneham.

The layout is just a little less vulgar than that of an Atlantic City casino. It's all sharp corners, dull pastels and flowery sofas. There is no light which does not emanate from a medium-sized chandelier. Most of the "Lobby Lounge" is left in a dim light--and everything, from the beer to the people, lies in that area between pink and brown.

Once our eyes adjusted to the gloomy glow, we realized there were only two options--drinking in the Lobby Lounge, or walking right into Syatt's party, which lay in a kind of ominous purple darkness beyond the lounge.

The waitress seemed to be anxious that we were drinking at a quicker rate than she could handle. "I'll see about those whiskey sours after you finish those beers." The sours tasted like poorly mixed Country Time lemonade. "I'll see if I can get him to put some pop in those for you," our waitress said, responding to our whining.

A host of peculiar people were going in and out of the party--strange little bearded men running to the bathroom. One particularly officious little man was the radio personality Dick Syatt, though we didn't know it at the time.

The really pressing issue was how to get in. Maybe Syatt didn't want reporters messing with his party and making people uncomfortable. Maybe we'd be too young, plainly not meeting the "28 to 60" requirement. Then we'd have to lie. Could he sue us? What gives him the right? If we do go to jail, will it be a bad one?

When the leggy Asian piano player played "Unforgettable" for the second time, we took action. We approached the bleached blonde watchdog monitoring events from the entrance to Syatt's party, and she explained the rules of the game.

"If your friend wasn't wearing dungaroos, then I'd let you in, but if you want to see Mr. Syatt, he comes in and out. In fact, I just saw him leave."

In the end, it was a pair of blue jeans which stood as the barrier between us and the party.

YOUR BODY IS A LIVING ORGANISM

So we returned to the Dedham Hilton and its Lobby Lounge the next week and sat in the same seats where we could see everything and everyone. Same waitress. Same piano player--still playing "Unforgettable."

The place was more alive this time. Dozens of tuxedoed Black men with red fez caps and huge gold chains milled about, as people walked in and out of Syatt's shinding.

A man in a long black leather overcoat looked around nervously as he passed by, worried that a hair might be out of place. Guys stood in the bathroom with their cream-colored, curtain-fabric jackets, satin shirts, blow-dried hair, staring at themselves in the mirror like junior high kids prepping for the final plunge onto the dance floor. But these guys were in their fifties.