Slave to the Rhythm

At first, he would only go dancing with packs of people, usually co-workers at the restaurant after their shift ended, but after a few trips he felt confident enough to dance by himself. It was actually a relief to go solo, he soon discovered, for he didn’t like the ironic way most of the pack would dance, all clumped up on the floor, the straight cooks uneasily staring at the gay men in the club while conspicuously dancing with (and only with) the waitresses. He also didn’t like the way everyone deferred to the lone gay waiter who traveled with them, either, treating the poor guy like some cicerone who could explain the hidden codes and rules of the gay dance club that the straight people were cheerfully resigned to never decipher.

He liked his co-workers well enough on the job, but it was always jarring to see them out of context, and he grimaced whenever someone would try to retell a work anecdote while he was trying to take in the new environment. It felt like a straight jacket to Jake, this dead-weight of the group, when all he really wanted to do was get loose on the dance floor.

Where this new found mania for dancing came from, he had no idea, but he gave in to it wholly. He was an odd dancer, to be sure, exuberant and self-possessed, with just enough native skill and confidence to be a bit unnerving to watch. He was granted a wide berth by the other dancers on the dance floor, with his flourishes and flailing arms, but after four or five songs he’d find other dancers cautiously moving into his space, usually a couple of men, sometimes a lone girl, and he’d welcome them with a smile and turn his attention to them, almost formally, like a Devonshire gentleman opening the door to his cottage. He didn’t want to be touched while dancing, was the only rule, but he’d be gentle when enforcing it; if a stray hand landed on his hip or caressed his cheek, he’d pull his body away from the touch and then press his finger to his lips and say “Shhh.” He’d shake his head slowly, but with a smile, and thus avoided becoming a pariah on the dance floor. After a few solo nights he was accepted, a part of the club’s tableau, along with the drag queens and the sorority girls: the dark-haired cipher, untouchable but harmless. He received and bought drinks in equal measure, taking great care to over tip the bartenders when it was his turn.

On this night, he hadn’t planned on going dancing, initially, but the cast party was a bust and around 11:30 he stepped outside of the director’s home as if to smoke a cigarette and promptly escaped. He didn’t think he’d be missed too greatly; the theatre revue he had been performing in consisted of eight original mini plays (“An Evening of Half Acts”), and of the entire company, he’d only become friendly with the two girls in his particular play (He played an uptight young preacher in a yellow tie who suddenly developed Tourette’s; the girls played aghast Church Ladies.) He had flirted brazenly with the two girls throughout the course of rehearsals, and he was pretty sure that he could end this night with a romantic dalliance with one of them, but at the cast party he discovered he wasn’t interested. It seemed apparent that the girls had held a summit before the closing-night cast party and had determined that the youngest would graciously bow out of contention, and while he was indeed more attracted to the oldest (speech major, graduating in May), he suddenly felt embarrassed to be the Prize. He probably would have stuck it out if dancing had been possible, but the ex-hippie director was inordinately fond of “The Big Chill” soundtrack and her record player was muddy-sounding with dinky speakers.

He arrived at La Chat Noir after midnight and the place was packed. Halloween was still a week away, but many of the regulars wore costumes anyway, as if performing a dress rehearsal that they would fine tune before the combination Drag Show/Costume Contest/Dance Party on the greatest gay holiday of the year. There was plenty to catch the eye, Jake saw, though he thought the Pillsbury Doughboy edged out a frighteningly accurate Nancy Reagan as Best in Show.

There were a lot of civilians in attendance as well, people Jake hadn’t seen before, for it was the end of the quarter and a celebratory mood was in the air. Jake shotgunned a whiskey-and-coke and then began his pilgrimage to the dance floor. The DJ seemed to sense that this was a straighter crowd than normal and tailored the playlist to feature more radio friendly, Top 40 New Wave hits than the campier R & B grooves that he usually played on weekends. Jake enjoyed dancing to the freakier songs that were brand new to him, but this night he welcomed the opportunity to execute singular flourishes in his steps to songs that were familiar.

When the extended version of “The Safety Dance” began, Jake imagined that he was a twenty-foot tower with blinking lights at the top, that suddenly learned how to move. He pulled his legs thickly, as if they were breaking up concrete, and used his hands to simulate blinking lights that moved in synch with the synthesizer riff. It was an oddball, startling move that he committed to completely, and he was pleased to notice that he attracted other dancers, five or so, who moved into his space and started imitating his movements. At one point, he glanced at the girl next to him, to his right, and saw that she was someone he recognized: a brunette, slightly overweight, who had been in the “Half Acts” revue that they had performed that very night. He broke from his performance and stared at her, and after a moment she looked at him and the dawn of realization broke in her eyes, too. She opened her mouth, startled, and then they engaged in a bit of dumbshow as they continued dancing. She extended her hands, palms up, like: What the hell are you doing here? And he just shrugged: Eh, you know. She executed a spin, then continued the breaking-concrete steps. With her hands she gesticulated, So are you, uh, you know. . . ? and he shook his head. She nodded, Cool, and then he put a quizzical look on his face and touched his chin with his index finger: Well. . . at least I “think” so. . . and she laughed out loud. “Oh, we are going to get along fine,” she said, out loud, and though he couldn’t hear her he could read her lips. He mouthed “I hope so” and they continued dancing.

When “The Safety Dance” ended the other dancers moved on, but she stayed, and they danced the next three songs as a couple. When the galvanic guitar riff of “State of Shock” kicked in, he wasn’t sure if he should try the move that immediately popped into his head, but after a split second he decided to hell with it: the Jacksons’ attempt at a cock-rock anthem deserved a cock-rock response, so he started doing deep pelvic thrusts to the beat, timing them with the “Whoos!” that the singers yelled. She didn’t bat an eye. After just a few beats they were in total synchronization, and the more they moved the giddier they became. By the end of the song, they were virtually face to face, each singing the psycho “Look at me! Look at me!” along with Mick Jagger.

There was a short pause before the next song, and he took the opportunity to gesture toward a nearby table: Do you want to take a break? She nodded her head defiantly: Not a chance.

For the next song the DJ chose a spooky retro pop song, perhaps as a dry run for next week’s blowout, and he changed the lights so the stage was bathed in ghoulish shades of green. Jake couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he quickly identified a beefed up version of Cliff Richard’s 70s pop hit “Devil Woman” rumbling through the sound system. “Wow,” she said, recognizing it too, and they both keyed up to shout the “Uh!” that Richard would grunt before the chorus. The green light was hardly flattering for the dancers, and many of the drag queens huffed off the dance floor in protest, but the couple stayed. Jake knew from theatre experience that green light could be unforgiving, but he couldn’t help noticing that she looked shockingly attractive in the harsh light. She had green eyes, just like the Devil Woman in the song, and freckles, and her complexion was good; she wore little makeup, just a bit of mascara and a touch of light red lipstick. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed how beautiful her face was. During the dress rehearsal he had watched her performance, and he had thought that she was quite good. The play was a sweet, thoughtful number about a wise-cracking girl who was in love with her best friend, a sensitive guy who slowly revealed during the course of the play that he was gay. It was one of the better pieces on the program, along with Jake’s and another funny short about four teenaged guys trying to look macho while desperately trying to avoid fighting at a school dance.

Back on the dance floor Jake turned his back on the brunette during “Devil Woman,” for he had suddenly realized exactly what it was that had kept him from noticing her during the run of the show. She was overweight. That’s why he had never noticed her. She was overweight, and therefore not someone he would even consider thinking about. The enormity of this epiphany—the absolute proof of his shallowness—overwhelmed him on the dance floor, and he was embarrassed, and afraid; he knew that if she looked at his face, she would instantly be able to read his thoughts.

He thought he pulled it off, but when he turned to face her again, he realized she wasn’t dancing. She was standing still. He saw the deep hurt in her eyes, and then, with something close to despair, he could that see that she was rallying herself, trying to regain her composure. It broke his heart when she starting moving again, dancing again, like nothing was wrong. He thought about kissing her wildly, of grabbing her tightly, desperately, but he knew it was too late. She smiled at him, a measured smile, but she was already gone.

The last song they danced to was an extended version of “Hold Me Now,” by the Thompson Twins, and what should have been a slow dance of love and hope instead became a song of loss. They stayed together, throughout the song, committed to seeing it through, as if they had no choice. Each of them plaintively sang “Stay With Me!” to the other, but they knew that those words were just lyrics. When the song ended, she merely said “Bye,” in a hushed voice, and left. He never saw her again.