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.

Just as we were ready to enter Syatt's love nest, hordes of smiling, twentysomething freaks came rushing onto the scene with eerie smiles and pink hearts on their name tags. They were chattering about sales percentages and quotas.

"These people have been here all weekend," she whispered, with a look of scorn. "They're called NuSkin."

It was a company like no other, and after talking to a skinny guy in a blue suit with a crazed look in his eyes, we were almost converted.

"I became a distributor because of faith in the product. If you don't have the belief that these are the finest products in the world, then you won't succeed. The objective is to build your belief level," he said earnestly.

He and the 100 other tagwearers around us were training to become NuSkin distributors, an elite with the power to foist goods upon unsuspecting multitudes.

"It's shampoos, soaps--you know, skin careproducts. We've got something calledsonic-enhanced drying. You see--your body is aliving organism and every day you put soap allover your body."

He left us feeling stunned, unproductive andacutely chapped. But he soon came back, with thelook of someone who has just one more thing tosay.

"I hope to go to Utah soon. That'sheadquarters. Our company has a motto: All of thegood, none of the bad."

NOW THIS IS A PARTY

Contorted faces examined a buffet tableat the front of Syatt's party. A group of hungrymen squinted through the dark of the Hiltonnightclub in a vain attempt to identify thefoodstuffs.

We stood watching their routine. It wasorderly, systematic. Each man examined thedisplay, cut a sandwich in two, placed a half onhis plate and sauntered away, back to his startingposition with the other fellows. They appeared tobe stuck in this cycle forever. Not exactlyromance.

The dance floor in this place was not muchbigger than your average public bathroom. It was aplace where adults could start all over again.They were going to be young...to dance the nightaway.

But this was hardly the case, for the peoplewere not here to dance the night away--they werehere, as one man said, "to connect." The dance,this whole scene, was strictly a means to anend--finding someone. It was a particularlyawkward means of overcoming loneliness.

Indeed, the majority of adults did not evenconnect with the dance floor. Forming asemi-circle around the dance floor, they watchedand sipped their drinks.

The music was some kind of ugly late-seventiesnightmare. To witness these older framesstruggling with gravity on the miniature dancefloor was to see the unnatural forced upon thelonely.

Of the several people interviewed, only onecouple had really "connected." For the rest, therewould be more weekends to come of standing in avirtual amphitheatre, watching the modern satyrchorus boogie around an empty center.

FROM THE TRENCHES

"No one asked me to dance," a29-year-old blonde office manager told us when weasked about her night.

"I come here about every other weekend. I thinktomorrow I'll go the party at the Holiday Inn.It'll be better there. Tonight was an older crowdand there weren't that many people."

She was sitting across the small bar table,smiling thinly and occasionally adjusting herglasses. The last dance came on and she got up toleave, then wove her way through the dancers andout of the room. She singlehandedly broke Syatt'smyth of the speedy connection.

A tall man, 62, observing the dancing at adistance, said he started coming regularly tosingles parties after being separated from hiswife.

"I've been going twice a week. I don't know ifI'm gonna go any longer. I haven't connected withwomen that I would ask out. I know a man who hasfound people periodically, but I'm veryparticular--I'll only ask two people to dance inone night," he said.

Like others interviewed, this man emphasizedthat he felt comfortable sitting out a dance ortwo because most people did not find a suitablematch.

"When I was single, God knows how many yearsago, I would never go to these things. But thesepeople seem very ma-B-1