IT'S FRIDAY night. You lie on your bedand gaze at the clock. Seven fifteen. Your mind begins to work feverishly. What's up, tonight, old boy? You don't know. Mental cogs are turning at an incredible rate. Still nothing.

Seven thirty. Time to get out of here and do something. You jump into the car and head for the bright lights. That's a good one. North Street. You have reached the meeting of the ways, the cradle of civilization. You check the big clock on the bank. Seven forty·five.

Around the park and back up, that's the way it's done. You stop at a red light and turn the radio up full blast. You light a cigarette, slouch over, and put on your rough, sneering North Street face. Beside you a cynical·looking youth in a Ford revs up his mill. Sounds tough. The light turns green; there is an ear·shattering blast and a strident struggle for traction, and suddenly he is no longer beside you. Clever fellow. Indeed.

What do you do now? The dance? Ah yes, the dance. You leave a little Goodyear on the pavement as you careen around the corner and slam neatly into a parking space. Hope somebody saw that. You get out and head for the door. Outside are three youthful cosmopolitans, smoking cigarettes and looking wise.

Inside. You plunk down your four bits and the smiling gentleman stamps the back of your hand with an excellent likeness of a kangaroo hoof. Symbolism. You swagger onto the dance floor. In the middle a few are dancing. Surrounding them are little groups, talking. And around them all stream hundreds of lost adolescents, just walking. Always walking, with a way out look in their eyes as if they know that whatever they're looking for isn't there.

This is hopeless. There are so many kids here you can't see any of them.

Back out on the street. You jump in and crank'er up, gazing intently at an imaginary tach. You turn back onto North Street, the Broadway of the Berkshires, la Rive Gauche of the New World. You decide to trek down to Kelly's.

A noisy 195O Hudson passes you on the right. From the window a toothless girl with teased red hair smiles at you and guffaws. You ease your car into Kelly's lot and kill the spent engine. You make a purchase at the window and return.

The night is dead. One more swing up North Street and home. What a wasted evening! Oh, well--Just walt ''til tomorrow night. ..