“I don’t know. The in-betweens, I guess.”
We played pool and pinball for a while, and then I saw the jukebox in the corner of the room. I emptied the contents of my change purse into my hand, and then I dug around the bottom of my purse for more quarters. I was going to play every single song I knew the words to tonight, and I was going to sing along at the top of my lungs. When I looked at the jukebox I was not disappointed. It was as if they had transported the radio in the truck my mother had when I was a child, and programmed it into this jukebox. She used to drive me to school and play all the songs on the rock station at full blast, and we would both sing along.
Man, Mick Jagger. I used to love Mick Jagger. Why’d he have to go and get old? Or was he always old? Oh, the Eagles. The Eagles. The Who, wow, are you kidding me? “Eminence Front,” that was one of the first videos I ever saw. Won’t you come and join the party, dress to kill. And I have to play some Beatles songs. The Beatles will never die. I should really go to bars more. Why did I stop going to bars? Or maybe I could get a jukebox for the apartment? Will likes music. Will would like a jukebox. Will, Will, Will.
I saw that Melanie was talking to two guys at the bar. As I walked across the room, I tried to add a little strut to my walk, a saunter, a little shake of the ass. Shake your ass. I liked that song, too. Where had I heard that song? That Hugh Grant movie. The one with the weird kid and the mom who tried to kill herself.
I was never going to have children, was I? And we had talked about it. It had been discussed. There was a time when Will and I thought we needed to make something more out of the two of us besides excellent dinner companions, a great couple to have over for potluck. He works in software, she’s a media buyer. He understands that college football is much more interesting than pro, and she’s sincerely interested in your exercise regimen, even though she wouldn’t step foot in a gym. He still has a good weed connection, and she likes to drink chardonnay as much as you do, honey.
One of the guys talking to Melanie was cute, lean and tan, though he needed a haircut. He smiled at me as I sat on my stool. He had the whitest teeth, like he’d eaten an apple every day of his life. It was too much for me to handle, the gleam of his smile.
His friend was short, and puffy with alcohol, you could tell, with his red nose, ruddy cheeks almost like he’d been running and needed to catch his breath. He was smiling like a clown, lips clamped together, cheeks raised high.
“This is Brock and Ryan. They run the nursery on the island,” said Melanie. Ryan, the man with the perfect smile, shook my hand. Brock opened his mouth, but only garbled words came out. I thought he might be retarded, but I couldn’t be sure.
Suddenly Brock spun around in a circle, and then started a little dance to the tale of the brown-eyed girl; hands clenched in fists, shoulders and arms grooving, the slightest wag of his behind, and sway of his legs. He bobbed his head in my direction, then pointed toward an open space at the back of the bar.
Ryan leaned in to me and said, “He wants to dance with you.”
“Go on, dance with him,” said Melanie. “He’s fine. I know him. He’s just really drunk.”
I looked back and mouthed, “I’m going to kill you,” to Melanie. She laughed, and so did Ryan. Wait—was that his hand on her hip? Not that I cared, only I wanted her to tell me if something was going on between them. I was her best friend. She could tell me the truth. In fact, she should tell me the truth. Here I was, here on this island, waiting for it.
Brock took my hand, raised his arm, and spun me awkwardly underneath it. I let out a laugh, and he started to pull me toward the dance floor. I really was going to kill her.
But then as soon as we started dancing, I was glad I hadn’t fought him. Every limb was electrified. I was dancing backup on Solid Gold, I was breaking all the records on Dance Fever, I was shaking my caboose on Soul Train. I moved my hips and my chest and arms and then neck and head. I jumped, I glided. Sweat formed at my temples, and brushed my breasts and shoulders. I can’t get no. Satisfaction. Hey hey hey. I shook it like the world was on fire and only the force of my body could put out the flames.
What my partner was doing, I’ll never know. That dance was about me. The dance is always about me.
At the end of the song he said slowly, words struggling out of his mouth, “You dance good.”