Dancing with Myself

It is a Friday evening on a summer afternoon. The workday is over, and I am not scheduled on my second job tonight. Taking this rare opportunity for free-time in hand, I lay my plans for an evening out on the town. I walk past my cell phone that is sitting on its charger beside the door. I see that it has neither calls nor messages waiting, and I smile. There are no invitations to cookouts or social gatherings or anything. More importantly, there are no calls from adoring women desiring my company. The night is mine.

I pop a David Sandborn CD into my computer, to set the mood, and begin undressing for a quick shower. Sandborn’s smooth saxophone sounds fill my apartment as warm, soapy water washes over my fatigued body. I look down at my midsection and notice the bulge that is gleaming in the shower spray. No, not that bulge-I’m referring to the roll of fat that has accumulated around my abdominal area. I remind myself to eat more veggies and do more crunches.

I towel-dry my hair, pat-dry my body, and exit the steamy shower stall. After donning my newest pair of boxer shorts, I rifle through the closet looking for something comfortable, yet classy. I decide on khaki cargo shorts and a blue-plaid oxford shirt worn over a black tee. My gray and white Nikes complete the ensemble. These days, I dress for comfort rather than style.

Dressed and ready, I head for the front door with my head reeling with a myriad of different visual images. Wait, I just remembered that the Sandborn CD is still playing and the bathroom light is still on. After discharging these two trifles, I once more begin my journey.

I stop and turn. Gotta check the stove. Although I haven’t used the stove today, I still feel compelled to check it. I walk into the kitchen while pondering the dynamics of laser-light (which has nothing to do with kitchen appliances). I look down at the stove dials. They are all set in the “off” position, but I still feel compelled to touch each one as if needing tactile reassurance.

I once again start on my way. I’ve gotten so far as to turn the lock when it occurs to me that I was daydreaming about laser-light while checking the stove. What if I possibly turned on all the eyes while in my absentminded state? I return to the kitchen and recheck the dials, once again touching each one. Once I am sure that everything about the stove is copacetic, I bolt for the front door.

I slam it behind me and lock it with one of the two sets of house keys that I carry. The outside air is hot and humid and smells like car exhaust. I wonder how many toxins that I’m breathing in as I make my way down the stairs. I’m almost at the bottom of the second landing when I remember that I’ve forgotten my cell phone. I have to go back.

I’m in my car now, pulling out onto the road that leads to North Johnson City. My musical taste has progress from David Sandborn to the Ramones. With the refrain of Teenage Lobotomy blaring in my ears and the air-conditioning blowing cool on my face, I make my way through the post-rush hour traffic. I can already taste the savory popcorn shrimp at my favorite seafood place.

As I leave West Market Street and enter the parkway, I realize that I have been lost in my inner world from the time I left my apartment until this point. I shut off the stereo and try to orient myself to my surroundings. Not sure if I stopped for the last red-light, I anxiously scan my rearview mirror for pursuing police cars or traffic pile-ups left in my wake. When everything looks clear, I breathe a sigh of relief and continue toward my destination.

It is still early enough in the evening that the restaurant is not yet crowded. I enter the lobby and approach a smiling young hostess standing behind a podium.

“How many in your party, sir?” she asks with feigned enthusiasm.

“Just one” I reply.

“You’re dining alone?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am” I say.

She draws her mouth down into sad frown that displays her pity and makes a low sound like one who is consoling a child with a boo-boo. I, in return, furrow my brow and offer her my best look of distain for her youthful ignorance. She simply ignores the gesture and cheerfully chirps, “Okay, follow me, sir.”

Although there are many tables unoccupied and available, she leads me to a small, single-chaired one in a dingy corner next to the men’s bathroom.

“May I have a table next to the window, ma’am” I ask.

She hesitates and looks around with an expression as if I have just asked to borrow her car for a day and asks “One of the larger tables?”

“Yes, please”

“Um…okay”

She leads me to my table of choice, tells me that my server will be with me soon, and leaves me to enjoy my coveted dining table. The view from the window is Spartan, with only some scraggly trees and a mechanic’s garage in the distance. It isn’t much, but I’ve fought for it and won it. The table is mine.

I am staring out the window, wondering if city trees are as healthy as country trees, when my waiter approaches my table and says, “Hey there, bud, what can I get you to drink?”

‘Bud’, I think to myself, whatever happened to those professional courtesies like sir and ma’am?

“I’ll have a sweet tea, no lemon” I reply.

Meanwhile, he leaves me to peruse the menu as he goes to get my tea. After a very brief period of debate, I decide on Alaskan whitefish and popcorn shrimp with French-fries. A glass of iced tea is suddenly shoved into my field of vision, and the first thing I notice is a large lemon slice bobbing in the center of it. I decide that I can live with lemon, and pull it out with my fingers and lay it on the table.

“Ready to order there, bud?”

I raise my eyes to face my waiter who is standing with pencil and pad in hand, impatiently waiting to take my order. I give him the details of my order, hoping that he won’t screw it up as easily as he did the iced tea. He jots down some notes on his grease-splattered pad, runs a hand through his bushy surfer’s hair, and takes the menu from me.

“Have it out to you in just a minute, bud” he says with a half smile, then leaves me to sip on my lemon-contaminated tea.

It is now 9:15pm, and I have just left the restaurant and am I now on my way to my favorite night club. The place which I am bound for is the city’s most identifiable gay and lesbian establishment. I go there sometimes, not for one-nighters, but for the sensory input. I love the bright lights, loud music, and the constant motion of mingling forms.

As I pull into the rear parking lot, my first observation is that there are but few cars around. I then realize that it is still too early-the crowds do not start rolling in until after ten o’clock or so. The place is a nondescript building with a whitewashed clapboard exterior that is conspicuously void of any windows. It is not much to look at from the outside. What it does look like is a structure trying to hide itself and its business.

I climb the wooden staircase that is surrounded by a high privacy fence, slowly amble down the concealed walkway, and enter where the front desk is to my immediate right. Rhetta is one the establishments most prominent staffers. Upon seeing me from behind her desk, she greeted me in her usual officious manner. After the briefest of chitchat, she checks my drivers’ license and stamps the back of my hand.

“I don’t know why I bother to stamp your hand-you never drink”, she says, and then turns back to her previous work.

I am briefly taken aback by the offhand comment. First of all, because I think these are the most words that she has ever spoken to me at one time. But it also surprises me that she knows so much about my personal consumption. Evidently Rhetta is more observant than otherwise thought, and I now have a newfound respect for her observation and recall skills.

I by-pass the lobby and head straight to the bar across from the empty dance floor. The bartender is talking with two flamboyantly dressed boys and a transsexual man. I take my place in a visible spot, but instead of catching the bartender’s attention, only the transsexual acknowledges me with a flirtatious smile. I nod a dispassionate hello to him and lean on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. He finally turns to me and takes my order-a cherry coke in a glass, alcohol-free.

The bartender is a very muscular man with sandy blonde hair and very effeminate body language. In addition to being a bartender, he is also one of the club’s lead bouncers. When I first discovered this long ago, I laughed, thinking that he would scream like a girl if confronted. I have since learned differently after having gotten to know him. He can handle himself quite effectively in a scuffle- as many a quarrelsome patron has come to discover.

I settle into a very uncomfortable stool near the dance floor and sip my cherry coke while letting my eyes follow the gyrating lights. The effect is almost mesmerizing. Meanwhile, more patrons have entered the club. I watch as they start to shuffle past me.

A young man with boyish features, evidently inebriated, begins to stagger sideways in my direction. I instinctively raise a hand to deflect the impending collision when his companion, a middle-aged gentleman, reels him back on track. Relieved, I go back to sipping my cherry coke and enjoying the light-show.

Soon, the younger and the older man are dancing together. The younger man is doing most of the dancing. The older man is struggling desperately to stabilize him.

I turn my attention to the other areas of the club, debating whether to go sit in the den with its big comfy chairs or the balcony with its commanding view. As I am debating, I suddenly become aware of frenetic movement to my right. It is the young, inebriated man dancing at my side. I’m thinking that at this point he seems determined to fall upon me.

He doesn’t fall on me though. Instead he smiles, winks at me, and begins removing articles of his clothing. Shirtless, he moves toward me and begins rubbing his lean buttocks against my outer leg. I am flattered, but not interested. For a moment, I am frozen with shock, not really certain how to respond to this impromptu lap dance.

Suddenly, his elder companion grabs him brutishly and jerks him away. He gives me his most fierce “bitch-I’ll-scratch-your-eyes-out” look and drags his younger companion back to the dance floor. I laugh in bewildered amusement.

During this time, I have decided upon relocating to the balcony-the farthest point from the dancing duo. As I make my way across the club, an extended remix of a Village People song is playing. I resist the urge to mouth the words to “Macho Man”. Instead, I climb the short stairway to the balcony section and sit down in a swivel chair that is unexpectedly comfortable. I lean upon the metal railing and watch the figures below as they sway, circle, dodge, and interact.

I soon find myself falling asleep against the rail’s cool metal. So, I make my way back across the club toward the bar to fetch another cherry coke. Perhaps the caffeine will offset my post-prandial sluggishness. I make it barely three-fourths of the way there when I feel hands upon my shoulders and pressure against my back. My first thought is that it is one of my few acquaintances with whom I bother to associate. Nope, it’s the inebriated young man again. Once again he is disrobing and trying to gyrate against me.

The older companion once again grabs him vigorously, this time forcing him down into a nearby chair. He turns to accost me but, but I am now gone. I am lost in the crowd and on my way to retrieve my coveted cherry coke.

With my drink in hand, I am now sitting quietly on a bedraggled sofa in the club’s lounge. The muted thump of the music echoes from the dance floor. The rhythm is broken only occasionally by the excited howl of a patron. I notice that I am surrounded by groups and couples that are both straight and gay. They seem to be taking no notice of me-and that’s the way I like it.

Something suddenly crashes down hard against my left side. It is the amorous young drunkard again. With his head resting upon my shoulder, he looks at me with his wide, blue eyes and unashamedly asks, “Can I see your penis?”

I look at him more with pity than disgust. He has phrased the question in much the same way as a child may innocently ask for a cookie. I am forced to repress my urge to snicker at the unseemly request.

“No”, I say firmly, but with a kind intonation.

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be proper.”

“No one here cares. Really, they don’t.” He whines. And then to my chagrin he to turns the strangers seated around us and loudly asks, “You guys don’t care if he shows me his penis, do you?”

The crowd suddenly erupts into astonished, howling laughter. The once oblivious patrons are now taking an active interest in my personal business. Even Rhetta has put out her cigarette and stepped out among us to see the commotion.

I realize it is time to leave.

The enraged, middle-aged companion is suddenly standing before us with his face contorted in anger.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” he hisses. I am not sure if the question is directed at the young man or at me.

The angry companion pulls his young lover up to his feet by the arm, and begins pushing him toward the exit.

“C’mon, I’m taking you home!” he barks.

The young man turns to me one last time, and with despondent eyes asks, “Please let me see your penis”

“Maybe next time”, I tease.

“No, neeeeever!” the companion hisses, making a clawing gesture at the air in front of me.

The two of them stager out the exit and disappear. And, once again, I am left to enjoy my solitude. I consider returning to the balcony and watching the drag show which is soon to commence. But, a wave of fatigue has suddenly overtaken me, and I decide instead to just go home.

The thump of the speakers and the sounds of wild mirth fade as I exit the club. It then occurs to me that I am leaving a lonely place for a place of aloneness. Loneliness is not a matter of how many people surround us. It is not something to be quantified on a mathematical basis. But rather, it is about how we relate to ourselves. All the physical presences in the world cannot comfort us until we make friends with that one stranger that we call our self.

I arrive home a little after midnight. The building is quiet except for the low, mechanical hum of the air conditioner. I sit upon my futon, drinking in the silence with a glass of skim milk. I realize that I am happier at this moment than at any time during the course of the evening. Having made friends with myself long ago, I enjoy my own company best. Here, in my home, there is nothing complicated to figure out. There are only the familiar things that make me happy.