We drove up into the lot in front of the Mel’s Drive-In.

“I guess this is it,” Jack muttered. We’d found this restaurant on Yelp—nice, comfortable diner food for a sleepy Saturday morning. It looked even more run down than in the pictures.

“Yep,” I ventured, as he turned off the ignition. “Let’s go.”

No sooner did we step out of the car did we hear the noise. Not noise—music. There was muffled music coming from inside the restaurant.

“Bit loud, don’t you think?” I asked.

Jack was peering through the window. “Beth, look!” he said.

There was clearly some commotion going on inside, which seemed much too big for the interior of a run-down diner. At first I adjusted my glasses in disbelief, but the scene was unmistakable.

People were dancing. Dancing all over the Formica countertops, the vinyl booths. Teenage girls all swishing about in voluminous polka-dot dresses, teenage boys all sporting the same slicked-back pompadour.

Not only were they just dancing—they were dancing the exact same steps, vaulting the same benches, lifting the same trays, one couple to a booth. This was choreography we were seeing.

And were they singing as well? Yes, they were singing, singing something about jukeboxes and malt shops and falling in love, singing in crisp, four-part harmonies, singing to a bouncy boogie-woogie rock-and-roll track that now seemed to be coming from all directions at once.

“It’s a musical number,” I said. “There’s a fucking musical number happening inside the restaurant.”

“No kidding,” said Jack. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

The clattering of tap shoes filled the air as we turned out of the parking lot.